The Crimson Crown, page 9
Was it just a few days ago that Eden and I raced here? It feels like a hundred years have passed since then. Lightning forks a jagged spear across the sky. For what might be the last time, I turn in the direction of the Sanctum. What will happen in the morning, when everyone discovers that Mother’s only surviving Second has vanished—again?
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself, swallowing the lump in throat. They never wanted me anyway. Not really. They want Rhea. And I’m going to bring my sister home. Then everything will be fixed, the gaping holes of my failures knitted together as if they’d never been.
It must be undone. Rhea’s words from the flames loop through my mind, and I clench my fists against the triangles stamped into my palms. Rhea’s marks. Our marks.
“I’m coming for you,” I whisper, my voice buried under the storm.
Thunder booms, and Cornelius squawks, annoyed. There’s no turning back now. Shutting down every screaming instinct, I inhale a breath and leap over the stream. The cold shock of breaking through the wards hits me like shards of glass. But I don’t let myself stop, or even think about what I’ve done. Cornelius’s cry resonates beneath the wrath of the storm, and I follow after the barely perceptible blur of his body, leaving Stonehaven and the witch I used to be behind me.
* * *
—
Two days later, I realize what a fool I am.
Everything hurts. Even the heightened healing ability of my latent magic fails to ease the strain of our endless hours of travel. Sleeping on cold, wet ground is far more uncomfortable than I ever imagined it would be. My muscles throb and complain at every slight movement. My feet ache and my stomach is continually growling, demanding more food to keep up with the physical exertion of the journey.
Cornelius caws from where he perches on a nearby branch, as if to herd me along.
“You have wings. I don’t,” I grouse back at him.
He doesn’t have to slog through freezing river crossings or sink ankle-deep in mud on impassible roads. In fact, sometimes I suspect that damn bird is routing the most difficult course, just to spite me.
The crow clacks his beak in what is unmistakably amusement. I’m starting to despise that creature. Nettle trills, evidently agreeing. My stomach rumbles again and I dig through my satchel for what’s left of my rations. I’m already down to my final crusts of bread.
“We’re stopping here,” I announce. “I have to hunt. And it will be dark soon.”
I’m still not sure how much the bird can understand me, but he ruffles his wings and turns his back, unimpressed.
“Were you this rude to Mathilde?”
Cornelius declines to reply.
Feckless creature. I dump my satchel, unstrap my bow from my back, and set off into the trees, Nettle loping alongside me. My last hunt was before Rhea died, when I still enjoyed the freedom of traipsing after the Elementals on their excursions. Back then, I was a decent enough shot to nab a few grouse or other small game. My stomach groans at the prospect of a real dinner. Perhaps I’ll be lucky enough to flush out a rabbit or even—
Wind pushes through the trees. The bare branches clack together, the hollow sound like fragile bones creaking. Nettle’s hackles raise, and she drops into a predatory crouch, her golden eyes trained on a spot behind me.
Someone’s there.
Every muscle in my body tenses. Too many witches arrived at Stonehaven with stories about what can happen to women alone in the woods. My lessons with the Elementals come crashing back to me. Gripping my bow, I slowly turn, so as not to startle the threat. At first, I don’t see anything—just trees and brush. Still, I sense an otherness.
The sun is setting, lengthening the shadows of the forest. A cold breeze gusts through the clearing, stirring my skirts and carrying the faint scent of…honeysuckle?
Ayleth, I swear I hear. Ayleth.
“Rhea?” I whisper.
Is it my sister? Or is it…something else? That faint pressure nudges behind my left ribs. It’s not real, I tell myself. It can’t be.
A dark shape springs out of the trees. I shriek, scrabbling for an arrow. Nettle hisses and pounces, but the intruder isn’t a manifestation released from beyond the Veil. Instead, a Spirits-damned raven lands nearby. It tosses its head up and emits a clicking sound through its beak, thoroughly pleased with itself for causing such disruption.
“Wretched animal,” I mutter, snatching up a stone to scare the bird off.
Dying sunlight flashes in its eyes. Eyes, I register, that aren’t black, but silver. Like twin mirrors. Unwelcome recognition ripples down my spine. This isn’t an ordinary raven. It’s Mother’s creature.
“Shit.”
The bird squawks, as if in confirmation. It’s carrying some message, no doubt. All ravens can be used for such communication between witches. Our magic makes certain that they always locate their intended recipient. Well—I have no interest in hearing whatever Mother has to say. I shoulder my bow and stalk down the path. The raven follows, flitting from branch to branch. I glare at it and quicken my pace, but the raven zigzags in front of me, forcing me to pull up short.
“For Spirits’ sake.”
Maybe I should just shoot it. Then again, I doubt I’d be lucky enough that it would die—which means the bird would simply keep following me. Given what I know of its mistress, the silver-eyed menace will probably start harassing me in my sleep.
“Fine,” I snap, yanking my knife from my belt and pricking my finger. Blood wells and I extend my hand. The raven flaps to my wrist and pecks at the wound. An instant later, those unsettling eyes glow crimson, like embers. When the raven opens its beak again, a too-familiar voice fills the clearing.
Scry. Immediately.
Mother.
* * *
—
If I were a braver witch, I would simply send the raven on its way. Better yet, send it back with a reply so scathing that Mother would never dispatch another. But I know Mother. She’ll keep sending her minion after me, then enlist another if I ignore it. Soon, I’ll have a whole conspiracy tailing me before I reach the White City, and then what? I roll my shoulders back. Better to get this conversation over with.
We passed a stream a short while ago, and I trudge in that direction. Ravens can only carry one-sided messages, so enchanted mirrors are the preferred method of direct communication between witches. In the absence of a mirror, water will achieve a similar end. It’s a small kind of magic, one even a witch like me can accomplish. Nettle trots ahead as I locate the stream and kneel at its edge. My cat grumbles, twitching her tail.
“I’m not thrilled about it either,” I tell her, unsheathing my knife and slicing the skin of my palm. “Departed sisters, hear my plea. Let this stream a vessel be. Water churn and current flow, the will of my Mother I would know.”
My blood drips into the silver ribbon of the water, blooming like roses before the current ferries my summons away. For a few moments, I let myself hope that it won’t work. Perhaps I’m even less gifted than I assumed, or Mother is busy, or—
The air begins to hum with the metallic charge of magic. Wonderful. Wind moans through the trees, low and sinister. Wisps of scarlet steam curl from the surface of the water. When it clears, Mother’s face stares back at me.
“Where are you?” she demands. Even through the watery barrier, I sense her fury.
That part of me that has always folded beneath Mother’s anger shrinks. But I force myself to sit up straighter, ignoring how hungry I am, or how much I miss my warm bed at Stonehaven. “I’m not coming back. Not yet.”
After my botched Ascension, I assume it’s better not to tell her where I’m going or what I plan to do. She’d probably send a party of witches to drag me home.
Just like last time, that voice reminds me.
“This is ridiculous,” Mother snaps. “The entire coven is in an uproar. You can’t just leave, Ayleth. You’re—”
“What am I?” I all but shout. “I’m not your Second. I’m not even Ascended. I’m—”
Nothing.
The word rips a hole through me. Even more painful is Mother’s answering silence.
“We will mend this,” she continues at last. “There’s still time for you to Ascend. Whether it’s now, or even in a few more years. There’s nothing wrong with a delayed Ascension. Selene and the other Heirs believe—”
The mention of Selene only kindles fresh fire in my blood. “Why do you care what the other Heirs believe? They don’t respect your opinion. I know about the spell to forge new Bloodstones. They decided to attempt it without even consulting you.”
I can likely count on a single hand the number of times I’ve witnessed genuine surprise in Mother’s expression. This is one of them. A strange sense of power builds at having caught her off guard. Wind rattles the branches, carrying the call of a crow.
“Then you understand,” Mother says, regaining her composure, “how important it is for you to return.”
“So I can participate in a spell that will kill me?”
“You don’t know that it will,” Mother argues, but she sounds like she’s attempting to convince herself as well as me. “The Spirits—”
“Have shown no interest in me at all,” I interrupt. “Why should they gift me with power in death, if they won’t when I’m alive?”
“Your power will come,” she insists, a refrain that gets feebler every time I hear it. “But not if you’re off—wherever you are. You belong here.”
No, I don’t. Not like this. I clench my fists against Rhea’s marks and a question rises up, thorny and unwelcome. But I need to hear the answer.
“If I were any other witch, would you be scrying with me right now?” I ask. “Would you even care that I left?”
Mother huffs. “Must everything be such a production? Your sister never—”
I am so tired of this.
“No, Rhea never made any mistakes, did she? But I’m not her.” I hardly know where the words come from, but I don’t fight them down. “Say that you want me to come home for me, not because of my position, and I will. Tell me that you forgive me for leaving after the raid—that you’ll never mention it again—and I’ll start back right now.”
Silence again. An owl hoots in the distance, low and knowing.
“You are a descendant of Millicent,” Mother replies. I wait, expecting more, but that’s apparently all the answer I’ll receive.
Emotion tightens in my chest, and I hate myself for feeling it. Haven’t I learned Mother’s priorities by now? “That’s what I thought.”
“Ayleth—”
But I’m done with her. Done with all of it. “Don’t worry, Mother. Soon enough, I won’t be your problem anymore. You’ll have everything you wanted.”
And after tonight, I know it isn’t me.
The realm of Riven upholds its name. Blight poisons the land and petty squabbles splinter the ranks of the nobility. War remains a constant threat. And then there is Malum. Shadow creatures stalk the night. Plague sweeps through our borders. Some even claim that Malum is what dried up the former royal line—that the old king was driven mad by it. It is a curse, they say, one that will gnaw at our realm until there is nothing left.
But if there is a curse, I intend to break it. And it might be the unlikeliest of allies who can help me do so—the witches.
My council will not hear of it. Witches are evil. They’re responsible for Malum. But I am not so certain. And if the witches could banish that malevolent force, this realm would at last be healed.
But could the people look past their fear and understand the benefits of such an alliance? Today, perhaps not. But if Malum were to recede…If witches and mortals could achieve such a miracle together…
Riven could be reborn—a new world. One that would never be torn apart.
—From the private writings of Braxos, White King,
date unknown
The White City glows gold in the dawn.
The sprawling ramble of roofs and streets and buildings spreads below me, the scene like someone breathed life into the ink and paper of the map at Stonehaven. It all seems too huge to be real, like I’m standing in front of Mother’s mirror and glimpsing another world. Even the White Palace itself, perched on its mountain above the main city, appears as a dragon from one of Willa’s stories, guarding its treasure.
The entire journey has seemed spun from Willa’s tales. Over the span of a couple of weeks, Cornelius has guided us along the shores of mirrorlike lakes and around craggy mountain ranges. Given that I’ve spent my entire life within Stonehaven’s borders, such sights were as terrifying as they were wondrous. Was one of the lakes, with its sapphire-blue water, the same place where Isolde, the first Elemental, forged enchanted glass? Did Sorcha, the first Blessed, work her magic on a grove of trees so enormous that they could have swallowed half of Stonehaven? Did Millicent journey along these paths, our footsteps crossing through the centuries? What would she think of her descendant?
It’s no mystery what Mother thinks. I expected her to dispatch that silver-eyed fiend again, or perhaps a party of Elementals to drag me home, like last time. But the miles and days stretched on and, aside from Nettle and that obstinate crow, I remained alone. After the years I endured suffocating under Mother’s demands, I assumed her absence would come as a breath of fresh air. Instead, I feel…hollow. Unmoored, without the tether of my coven.
None of the others at Stonehaven have attempted to make contact with me—not even Eden. Perhaps, given the disaster of my Ascension, she doesn’t want to be associated with a witch like me. A failure. Or perhaps Mother told the coven that I’m dead. Did they already burn my cloak in a Ceremony of Blood and Ashes? Or have they merely swept me away, erased all trace of my existence, like Mother did with Rhea’s room? Am I no more than the furniture and books and clothes, packed up and stored in a drafty attic because they’re no longer wanted?
Cornelius caws, bringing me back into the present. A breeze wafts around me, one distinctly colder than those at Stonehaven. It’s no surprise, given that we’ve traveled so far north. Frost glazes the trees, the ice sparkling in the sunlight.
“I suppose this is where I leave you?” I ask the crow, rubbing my arms for warmth.
He flares his wings in what I interpret as confirmation. Unexpected sadness balloons in my chest. The crow was a stubborn creature—and rude—but I’m accustomed to his company.
“Well,” I say, adjusting my satchel, “give my thanks to Mathilde.”
Cornelius chuffs and clacks his beak. Nettle meows, watching him hungrily. The bird takes the hint. He lifts into the air, circles once, and then soars off in the other direction.
As I watch the black splotch of his body disappear over the trees, I realize just how alone I am now. Cornelius was my last link to Stonehaven. My final bit of help before facing the rest of this mad plan on my own. On the side of the mountain above the city, I can just discern a path, like a dark vein through the woods, tracking all the way up to where the palace waits. Its dozens of turrets glint like spears in the rising sun.
Mathilde’s words resurface beneath the whistle of the wind: The streets of the White City are littered with the bones of witches.
My bones will likely soon join them. Fear licks at my insides and I turn my palms up, studying the faint triangles etched below my ring fingers. Rhea’s runes—ours.
No matter how distant we may become, we’ll always find our way back to each other, she’d said.
It’s true—I know that now. Not even the Veil can keep us apart.
Even so, that same premonition from the night of my Ascension tugs at me. There’s a rip in the fabric of my world. A line approaching, one that cannot be uncrossed. A single question pulses alongside the thrumming anxiety in my chest.
What will be left of me on the other side of it?
* * *
—
Just keep your eyes down, I instruct myself as the gates to the White City loom ahead. Don’t give them any reason to suspect you.
Easier said than done. But I’ve journeyed too far to give up. Shaking out my nerves, I file in with the line of people heading toward the entrance, repeating my scraps of a plan under my breath like a spell.
“Get through the gates. Hide. Find a way into the White Palace. Don’t die.”
Someone jostles my shoulder and I flinch. Cornelius had been careful to steer us around any towns or villages, so I’m still unaccustomed to mortals. Especially the men, who are almost shockingly large and intimidating. Male witches exist, of course, but they’re exceedingly rare. I’ve never heard of one living in Stonehaven, even before the war. Witches usually visit mortal lovers who reside outside the coven, or they cast a glamour to disguise themselves and attract a coupling partner, which is how most witchlings are conceived these days. Apparently, I’ve inadvertently cast such an attraction spell, for a man leers down at me from where he drives his wagon. Nettle hisses in return. I tug my hood down and navigate deeper into the crowd.
At long last, the gates are within reach. My hands tremble as I approach one of the armored guards. He’s a smaller man, with light-brown skin and a rounded face. His thick eyebrows draw together beneath his helmet as he looks me up and down. I shrink against the weight of his attention, reminding myself that I appear just like the other mortal women. There’s no reason for him to assume I’m anything else.
“Present your business.” He sighs and holds out his hand, clearly expecting me to place something in it. But what?
