The Crimson Crown, page 8
“No,” I insist, refusing to believe it. “It was Rhea.”
“And do you not believe that a force fueled by Malum could disguise itself?” Mother asks. “That it could use your own memories against you?”
Like the village that was driven mad and walked into the sea. The old tale slinks through my mind. Had the figure been Rhea? Or something more sinister? The shadows of the night swirl and thicken.
“This is why you’re marked.” Mother gestures at my hands, disgusted. “You meddled with the Veil. You could have brought something out. It could have touched you.”
Cold rain seeps through the thin fabric of my shift. And I’m not entirely sure, but I think I might feel a nudge against the inner side of my left ribs—like something is there. No—I’m imagining things. Letting Mother dictate my thoughts.
“And what was I supposed to do?” I demand. “Leave her? You wouldn’t have. If you’d seen Rhea, you would have reached for her, no matter what she might have been.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s the truth,” I barrel on. “I remember the night she died. You said you lost everything. Would you have said the same if I was the one who was struck by the Hunt’s arrow? If you could have traded us that night, would you have?”
Lightning flashes.
Heavy silence follows, broken only by the falling rain. Oily despair settles in my stomach like silt, thicker with each moment that Mother fails to answer. The truth shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it hollows me out all the same.
“Go to your chamber,” Mother says at last. “I will deal with this. The blood moon lasts another night. There’s nothing that says you can’t make your offering tomorrow, or at the next rising. And you will, Ayleth. You will fix this.”
With that, she turns and stalks off. I watch her go, wishing that Rhea had pulled me into the coven fire with her, even if it would have burned me to ash.
Fix this. Mother’s words resonate in my ears.
For a brief, shining moment, I thought I could. If I’d managed to drag Rhea out of the fire, no one would—
An idea hits with the next clap of thunder: Rhea came to me once. Perhaps she’ll do so again.
She must reach, the mirror said.
And that’s precisely what I’m going to do.
Lightning glazes the shelves of the library in white. Nettle pads silently along beside me, the glow of my candle cutting through the gloom. As a witchling, I spent hours in this chamber. It was here that I learned about the Ancients, like Millicent, and how they’d sacrificed their latent magic to forge the Bloodstones and the Veil. Here where I memorized spells and rituals until my brain couldn’t hold any more. It’s time to make that knowledge count for something.
Nettle keeps close as I make my way toward the section in the back, an area I’ve visited only once before.
Like summons like, Mother warned when she showed me the ancient books. Dark intents reap dark rewards.
A caution against carelessness with our magic. A hex or curse returns to a Caster threefold. A storm conjured in rage falls worst upon the Elemental. A poison brewed for vengeance sickens the Potioner’s soul.
Tonight, I don’t care what price I pay. I just want Rhea back.
As thunder crashes against the Sanctum, I pull out one of the heavy grimoires, my eyes hungrily scanning through spells that call for ingredients such as nightshade and mandrake picked under the light of a full moon. Grave dirt and shards of bone. Lightning illuminates a rendering of a bloody heart, and I shiver. What am I even looking for? A spell to pull a Spirit from the Veil? To resurrect the dead? Even if I did find something, could I manage to cast such a spell? I’ve never—
Nettle trills a warning, her golden gaze pinned on a spot in the shadows. Shadows that, to my horror, appear to be creeping closer, like a sinister tide.
It could have touched you, Mother’s words replay in my mind.
Again, I sense a nudge—a slight pressure against the inner side of my left ribs. It’s your imagination, I repeat. Or I’m losing my sanity. But…what if I’m not? I study the triangles on my hands, Rhea’s marks. They have to mean something. And I’ve always wondered if we were connected through the Veil. Could the feeling inside me be…
“Rhea?” I call, hesitant. “Is that you?”
The shadows slink nearer. A figure emerges from the darkness. I swear I detect a hint of honeysuckle wafting around me.
“Rhea?”
“Afraid not.”
A pair of rheumy eyes shine like polished stones in the light of my candle. Mathilde. I let out a short breath, disappointed and suddenly irritated—but more at myself than at the other witch. “What are you doing in here?”
“Am I not allowed to visit the library?” she asks archly. “I assume that’s where we are. I smell books…and a wet cat.”
Nettle meows, offended.
“Sorry,” I say, chiding myself for being rude again. “I assumed everyone was in the dining hall after the feast got rained out.”
“I went there, but it didn’t strike me as much of a party. Not with all the muttering and whispering. Did something happen?”
Something. I could almost laugh. “Were you not at the Ascension?”
She cackles. “A Wayward witch attending an Ascension? I’d rather not. Don’t take it personally, mind.”
That’s right. I forgot that Mathilde wouldn’t have been invited—and that she wouldn’t have even wanted to join us. At first, I shy away from confessing the truth of what occurred. But what’s the point of keeping it back? Everyone is talking about it—my second failure.
“Here.” I nudge Mathilde’s hand with my own. “I’m sure you can see for yourself.”
Mathilde grips my palm the way she did in the garden, her strong fingers kneading along my knuckles. When she finds the spot below my ring finger, she pauses. “Well, well. That is interesting. Do you know where it came from?”
My dead sister. Thunder rolls through the room. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Yes, you’re right.” She shrugs. “I’m three hundred years old, and a Wayward witch. There’s a narrow limit to my sphere of belief.”
I scowl at her, the stubborn witch. Still, a thought itches in my mind. Mathilde isn’t bound by the same rules as the covens. Much as I’m suspicious of her magic, her reading in the garden was eerily accurate. Lightning flares, shining white against the string of teeth hanging from her belt—a row of macabre pearls.
“Do you really want to know?” I ask.
“I’m still here, aren’t I?”
Nettle winds herself around Mathilde’s ankles, which I take to mean that my cat trusts her. That settles it, I suppose. In any case, I’m tired of holding back secrets. Tired, and cold. I haven’t changed from my rain-soaked shift. There’s mud drying on my feet and my braids are plastered to my head. I find a chair and Nettle leaps into my lap.
“I saw my sister,” I begin at last. “In the flames.”
Mathilde absorbs that information, but she doesn’t seem suspicious or repulsed, as the rest of the coven had been. “Her Spirit appeared to you?”
“It was more than that.” I hold Nettle tighter. “I reached for her. I felt her. I started pulling her out of the fire, but—”
Thunder cracks again, cutting me off.
“You…reached beyond the Veil?” Mathilde asks, her expression unreadable.
“I don’t know what I did,” I admit. “Mother said it wasn’t Rhea. That the vision was a manifestation of Malum. But I know it was my sister.”
Wood creaks as Mathilde feels her way to a chair and sits down. “It might have been. Spirits can be lured to the border of our world, given the proper motivation.”
It must be undone.
What did Rhea mean by that? I turn my palms up and trace the three crossed lines below my ring fingers. They’re not glowing anymore—just creases, like my Fate and Life lines. Was Rhea trying to tell me that her own death must be undone?
“I think she wanted me to bring her back.”
“Ayleth.” Mathilde fusses with her strand of teeth. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain how dangerous it is to meddle with what lies beyond the Veil, Spirits or otherwise.”
Malum. Wind whistles outside.
“But you’re Wayward,” I argue. “That means you don’t care about the Veil.”
“Oh, are you an expert on Wayward witches now?” she asks, crossing her arms. “Just because I didn’t make a vow to one of your Ancients doesn’t mean I don’t respect the craft. I didn’t live to see three centuries by being reckless, and neither will you.”
Thunder rattles the window casements.
“I don’t care what happens to me. I have to get Rhea back. Do you know how?”
“I can see where your cat gets her stubbornness.”
Nettle twitches her tail, proud. I wait. Either Mathilde will tell me how to summon Rhea, or she won’t. And if she doesn’t, I’m no worse off than I was before.
Eventually, the elder witch sighs. “I don’t know any more than you do. Witch souls need anchors. We carry that anchor with us in life in the form of our latent magic. Rhea’s magic is expended. End of story.”
The wheels of my mind work. “It’s not the end, though. Not if she had another anchor.”
“Theoretically,” Mathilde allows. “But you would need an enormous amount of power to hold her here. And your mother is right. You don’t know that what you saw in the flames was your sister. It could just as well have been Malum, taking advantage of the thinning of the Veil. It could have been seeking its own source of power—you.”
It might have touched you. Mother’s words skim the curves of my skull.
The shadows of the room swell and lengthen. Again, I might feel a tremble behind my left ribs. I ignore it. “No. It was Rhea.”
Mathilde grumbles under her breath. “All right, fine. It was your sister. Like I said, if you want to keep her here, you’d have to find the proper anchor.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t ask me.” Mathilde shrugs. “I’m just a Wayward witch—not an Ancient.”
And it would require a power like an Ancient’s. My attention travels to a portrait above the hearth, one depicting Millicent in all her glory. This is the only image of our ancestress that Mother didn’t order removed when we adopted our disguise. I must have studied it a thousand times over the years, tracing the constellations on her starry robes and wondering how I could possibly be related to such a witch.
Another flare of lightning washes the room, catching on the red jewel of Millicent’s Bloodstone, glimmering on her first finger. The stone itself is a unique, roughhewn oval, flecked with bits of green and black. Our cloaks are designed to match the color, in honor of the Ancients. Millicent died for that stone—drained every drop of her latent magic. And a rush of anger bubbles up inside me. If the Spirits saw fit to bring her back from the dead, why not Rhea? Why can’t my sister have her latent magic restored when—
A thought lands in my mind with the next boom of thunder.
“The Bloodstones,” I whisper.
“What about them?” Mathilde asks.
“They’re living vessels. And they contain the latent magic of the Ancients. One of them would be enough to anchor Rhea, wouldn’t it?”
Mathilde hesitates, rubbing the strand of teeth hanging from her waist. “Probably. But last I checked, those stones were stolen at the start of the war. Also, they’re a bit busy holding the Veil, are they not? How exactly do you plan to use one for your sister?”
I frown at her point. But if the Bloodstones are as powerful as they’re said to be, they could hold Rhea and the Veil. Couldn’t they? I stare at the portrait, at the Bloodstone, like a tiny beating heart in and of itself. A heart Rhea needs.
Nettle complains as I rise and cross to the shelves, hunting for another book, one that contains dozens of maps of Riven. I used to explore them for hours, curious as to what lay beyond our walls. The well-worn volume practically falls open to the section I need. The White City sprawls across two full pages, streets webbing like veins through the labyrinth of buildings and homes. And there, on a mountain overlooking it all, is the palace itself. Home of the mad king, where the Bloodstones were taken.
Wind whistles through the cracks in the Sanctum.
“I could go to the palace,” I say.
“And do what?” Mathilde asks, gesturing vaguely. “Stroll into the throne room and request those stones back? Have you lost your mind, young witch?”
Probably. “The stones are there. They have to be. The Veil would have fallen if they were destroyed.”
“Perhaps,” Mathilde allows. “But the White City is littered with the bones of witches far more powerful than you.”
She’s right. I don’t possess any ability beyond my latent magic, and even that is less than inspiring. I frown, thumbing the edge of the map. My attention falls on a bright silver patch nestled inside the city—the Sanctum.
“Longest Night,” I mutter, the meager threads of a plan weaving themselves together. “The High Priest sent an invitation for Sisters to receive his blessing at the royal Sanctum. It won’t get me into the palace, but it will get me into the city.”
“Oh, yes, that sounds like fun,” Mathilde replies dryly. “What about the fact that you don’t have the faintest idea where those stones might be hidden? And you don’t even know if the stones would anchor your sister.”
A hundred other similar doubts and questions churn in my mind. This plan is reckless, and I’ll almost certainly die in the attempt. But insane determination is all I have left.
“I have to try.”
“And if you never come back?” Mathilde presses. “This is your home.”
Home. Pain knocks against my sternum. The last years here have been difficult, but I don’t hate Stonehaven. I love Eden and Willa and all the rest. I’d even love Mother, if she’d let me. But they’d all seen what happened tonight. More important, I’d seen them, the horror and suspicion etched on their faces at my Ascension. Covens hold long memories, Mother warned. They won’t forget my failed ceremony—and they haven’t forgotten Rhea. She’s the Second and Heir this coven needs. This isn’t my home anymore, not without my sister. If I bring her back, I can finally set things right. Prove that I’m worth more than my poor decisions.
“I’m going,” I say. “There’s nothing else for me here. Not after tonight.”
Mathilde sighs, exasperated. “Fine. Get yourself killed if it suits you. But take Cornelius, at least.”
“You want me to take your crow?”
“He knows the way to the White City—unless a guide doesn’t interest you.”
Her lips quirk up at my silence. Crow or not, I’d be daft to refuse the help. Even so, I can’t help but recall the line of crows from the south tower. Seven of them, all watching me.
A curse, that voice whispers. I shove it down.
“How will I find him?”
“I’ll tell him to find you.” Mathilde waves me off. “And he’ll be able to bring you back along the way—should you come to your senses.”
But I won’t be coming back. Not alone, anyway. I stare out the window, just able to glimpse my own distorted reflection in the sheets of rain sluicing down the glass. For an instant, it’s as though Rhea herself is looking back at me. I hope she is—that my sister knows that I’m coming for her.
I’ll either drag her through the Veil, or I’ll burn trying.
Rain soaks me in seconds as I sprint across the courtyard and into the small stable. Nettle yowls her displeasure, shaking her wet paws and sulking.
“You’d best get used to it,” I tell her. “It’s a long way to the White Palace.”
She ignores me, grooming herself. The fury of the storm roused the horses, their eyes huge and watchful as I take stock of the array of weapons hanging on the far wall. It’s been years since I’ve hunted, but I have to take something to keep me from starving. I select the lightest bow and strap it to my back. My satchel is already bulging with as much food and as many spare clothes as I could fit. The knife Mother gifted me, however, I’ve left behind. The open box is sitting on my bed, the only message I’ve left for her. Let her interpret it as she will.
A squawk startles me out of my thoughts. I glance up to discover a black bird perched in the eaves, one I recognize from the cloister.
“Cornelius?” I venture.
The creature flaps lower, settling on a stall door and earning an irritated chuff from the horse inside. But Cornelius isn’t bothered. He tilts his head at me, obsidian eyes expectant. Had Mathilde already communicated with him?
“You’re…coming with us?” Another squawk, sharp enough to pass for impatience. Wonderful—it’s a crow and it has opinions. “All right, then. Let’s go.”
Nettle meows at Cornelius as the bird follows us to the door. He’ll be wise to stay out of my cat’s reach. I pull up my hood, planning my escape route. There’s no hope of raising the portcullis, so the side entrance is my best bet. Through the sheets of rain, I’m barely able to discern the shapes of the witches in the guard towers. If they catch me, they’ll march me straight to Mother. But I don’t let myself think about that.
After the next flash of lightning dims, I make a break for it, skirting the walls and ducking behind whatever shelter I find. By the time I reach the door, my heart is pounding, and I’m certain that the sentries have spotted me. But aside from the howling wind, the night is quiet—no bells or shouting from the guard towers. Water drips from the edge of my hood. I lift the bolt on the side door and hurry through it, fumbling my way toward the forest.
The woods at night are transformed into a scene from Willa’s stories. The trees are like towering trolls, bending and reaching for me in the raging storm. Silver eyes seem to leer at me in the black. Rain lashes against my face, blinding me to the point that I’m tripping over roots and stumbling over fallen logs. Low-hanging branches claw at my skin and snag my cloak. I’m scratched and sore and terrified by the time I reach the stream, its current rushing in a frenzy.
