Chapter Two Ayleth
Chapter Two
Ayleth
The clamor of the banquet dulls behind me as I return to my chambers.
Though I’ve lived in the palace for the last three years, I still haven’t grown accustomed to its staggering display of wealth.
Stonehaven was drafty and austere. Due to our remote location, and the fact that we were witches pretending to be Sisters of the Order, deliveries from the outside world were all but impossible.
Everything we owned was functional and usually constructed by our own hands.
Here, functionality trails a distant second to ornamentation.
The halls are lined with stone columns fashioned to appear as towering trees, their branches arching in an intricate lattice above my head.
Gilt-framed paintings and expensive tapestries take up most of the walls, their rich colors bathed in the amber glow emanating from the Dwarvian, apple-shaped light fixtures.
But my favorite adornments in the palace are its scars.
Pale places in the wood or stone where Meira’s Eyes or Illuminations were pried out and burned on a pyre like those that were built to burn witches.
The carpenters and stonemasons repeatedly offered to correct the spots, likely concerned that they would be accused of shoddy craftsmanship if they left such unsightly patches behind.
But I never allowed them to change a thing.
I wanted to be reminded every day of how I was the one to tear down the Order.
That this is my realm. Now, instead of the Order’s Eyes or Illuminations, my own crest watches me from the eaves and alcoves.
A single strong A encircled by a crown. Shadows swirl around the letter in a pattern of movement I’ve come to interpret as affection.
Fairest, I hear them murmur, the sound like rushing water. Fairest of them all.
—
A low growl greets me when I enter my rooms.
Claws click on the floor as Nox prowls out of the darkness.
The Nevenwolf spends most of his time with Shade, the two of them traversing the realm in search of witches.
But Nox and I have shared a bond since I shattered the Bloodstones and released him from Ignatius’s thrall.
Sometimes, I sense the Nevenwolf’s presence in the empty corridors, or glimpse the sheen of his single crimson eye in the dimness of my chamber, and know that he’s still here, protecting me.
“Hello,” I say as the Nevenwolf approaches, his ears pricked in interest. “I didn’t forget.”
I unwrap the cut of venison I’d taken from the banquet and toss it to him. Nox devours it in two snaps of his jaws, then licks his chops and sits before me, expectant.
“That’s all I have,” I tell him with a laugh, showing him my empty hands.
Nox snorts, petulant. But he nudges his head against my torso and allows me to scratch between his ears. The massive beast’s paws are the size of my face, his teeth sharp enough to rend my flesh to ribbons, but his tail swishes in unmistakable pleasure.
“You know,” I tease, “sometimes I think you’re more cat than Nevenwolf.”
On cue, Nettle lopes out from another room. She trills her greeting, then trots over to swat playfully at Nox’s snout.
“Be careful,” I warn her. “He’s bigger than you are.”
Nettle just meows dismissively, as if to argue that she and the Nevenwolf are exactly the same size. Nox paws at my cat and Nettle pounces, then darts out of his way, promptly careening into a table.
“Watch that,” I scold, catching the pile of books before they topple over. “These are—”
The fire gutters. Shadows slither from the fringes of the room, stitching themselves together into a figure that has become as familiar to me as my own reflection.
“Shade.”
My queen, he rasps, pressing his fist to his chest as he bows.
Malum expands behind my sternum at my Huntsman’s nearness, like calling to like.
Since he first appeared to me, Shade has become the most valuable member of this court.
It’s through Shade that I learned that Malum is a living force, the shadows as alive as Nettle—which is precisely the reason I initially struggled to harness my abilities.
I was attempting to treat my newfound power the way the covens use magic.
To bend the shadows to my will. But Malum is different.
Intuitive. I don’t require spells or rituals to control that dark force.
In fact, I can’t control it at all. Malum chooses to serve me.
Because on the night I broke the Veil, it sensed the desire in my heart, one twin to its own: to create a world comprised of solely Malum.
And to do that, there cannot be a drop of coven power remaining in Riven.
Malum rumbles behind my sternum.
“Did you find another?” I ask Shade.
In answer, my Huntsman reaches into the shadowy folds of his body and withdraws a crimson orb.
He passes it to me, and the Bloodstone crown begins to hum softly on my head, just like it did with Mother’s magic on the eve of my coronation.
Just like it does for every other heart my Huntsman fetches me.
“Whose is it?” I ask.
Shade glides across the room and draws back the curtain shielding my mirror.
A wisp of shadow curls from his form and snakes into the mirror’s surface.
As the darkness spreads, a scene arises: A clearing in a forest, where a woman—a witch—is crouched low.
I step closer, anticipation building as I imagine who it might be.
Not Mother. From what I gathered through my mirror, she met up with the Heirs shortly after she left the palace and retreated with them to Rycinthia.
But the witch I see now could be someone else.
Someone with blue eyes who tasted like roses and smelled like juniper.
Jacquetta, a traitorous part of my heart whispers.
The witch at last turns, sunlight illuminating her white skin and green eyes. Not blue. Not Jacquetta’s. Disappointment swoops through my belly and I curse myself for it. Even if the witch were Jacquetta, what difference would it make? She’s made her position perfectly clear.
She was not alone, Shade goes on, gesturing to the mirror. But the others escaped me.
Others. That’s unusual. It’s my understanding that most of the remaining witches in Riven are alone. And it’s been months since Shade found anyone.
“Where was this?” I ask.
The northwest forest, Shade replies. Near Rycinthia.
That piques my interest. I consult a map on a nearby table.
It’s a Dwarvian piece, like the one housed in the library, enchanted so that its various landmarks reflect the state of the realm.
Miniature trees rustle in an invisible wind, and vein-like rivers rush with currents.
Ant-sized citizens trek along the roads mapping the cities and towns.
But Riven is much changed from the version on the map I discovered years ago.
Now the realm is a patchwork of charred forests and barren fields, where Malum has sunk its teeth into the land.
Interestingly, the devastation ends at the border between our realm and Rycinthia.
Yet another reason the covens fled: My shadows, including Shade himself, are inexplicably confined to the boundaries of Riven.
So what was this witch doing so close to the border?
Were she and her coven heading to the relative safety of Rycinthia? Or did they come from there?
“Keep close to that area,” I say to Shade. “See if they return.”
Yes, my queen, he replies. And her?
In the mirror, the witch is still huddled beneath her cloak.
She’s older than I am, perhaps around the same age Rhea would have been if my sister were still alive.
Out of habit, I rub the place below my left ring finger where Rhea’s faint mark rests.
The glowing heart of magic pulses in my grasp.
Rhea possessed a heart like this once, before it was poisoned by the Hunt’s arrow.
“Did you ask her?”
Yes, my queen. She refused.
Of course she did. They all refuse.
When I first decided on my path, I instructed Shade to offer the witches a chance to join me.
Accept Malum, as I did. Foolishly, I thought that they might.
I even envisioned an army of shadow-wielding witches.
A family. But they’ve all stubbornly turned their noses up at my generosity.
And that’s the glaring difference between Rhea and these witches: My sister didn’t have a choice in her fate.
These witches did—and they didn’t choose me.
And why would they? the echo of the old voice goads.
Even now, I still cannot find a way to be rid of it.
But I can be rid of this witch. Or at least her power.
Malum swells inside my chest. At my command, my shadows coil around the orb of the witch’s latent magic.
The remnants of the Bloodstones pulse red, their glow intensifying as the heart draws nearer.
In the next instant, the orb of magic vanishes into the crown, which flares a blinding crimson.
In the mirror, the witch jerks upright, clutching at her chest. She emits a single, piercing cry, then folds in on herself and crumples to a heap on the ground.
The warped echo of her sobs carries through the chamber.
And then the scene in the mirror dims to nothing but silver glass.
“Let me know what you discover,” I say to Shade, ignoring the prick in my own heart. One that feels too much like regret. Like another piece of me has withered and died.
Yes, my queen, my Huntsman replies.
He bows again, then signals to Nox. The Nevenwolf chuffs his farewell, then pads alongside Shade as they’re swallowed by the darkness.
Nettle meows, disappointed at losing her playmate, and pounces among the remaining shadows.
But I cannot stop thinking of the witch.
What was she doing here? And where are the rest of them? Perhaps someone else might know.
“Callen,” I call, returning to my mirror.
The glass ripples and then the imprisoned king’s face rises out of its depths.
“Yes, my queen?” He asks in an irritatingly perfect imitation of Shade’s voice.
Due to the mirror’s magic, Callen’s appearance hasn’t altered at all since I carved out his heart.
He still looks to be about forty years old, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw.
His white skin—cast in a bluish glow within the glass—is unlined and his black hair doesn’t betray a hint of silver.
But Callen’s eyes are his most familiar feature: They’re the color of quicksilver.
Even now, that phantom tether attached to my left ribs tugs, pulling on that invisible connection between us.
I ignore the sensation and pour myself a glass of wine from a nearby sideboard.
When I bound the king’s heart to the mirror, I assumed that Callen would behave like Mother’s servant did.
That he would be obedient and silent, save for when I summon him.
I was frustratingly mistaken. Though the mirror’s magic prevents Callen from deceiving me, his unflinching honesty is somehow worse than his lies ever were.
The mirror’s spell has stripped him down to his barest form, one that delights in sharing his every needling thought and opinion.
One that contorts into knots simply for the pleasure of defying me.
“Send the crows with Shade to the border,” I instruct.
“Must I?” Callen complains. “Those filthy birds are worse than your beast.”
Nettle trots over to the mirror, hops up onto a pedestal, and starts swatting at the imprisoned king.
“Stop that, you mangy animal,” he commands. Nettle merely swishes her tail and continues. I make no move to correct her.
“I don’t recall requesting your opinions.”
“Yes, and I don’t recall requesting to be trapped inside a mirror. Yet here we are.”
“Speaking of that,” I say. “I hope you enjoyed your little stunt earlier with the physicians. It will be your last.”
He sneers. “I suppose we’ll see about that, wife.”
I flinch at the word, even though I was the one to arrange our sham of a marriage. A quick, secretive affair conducted before his privy council could raise enough resistance against it.
“I’m as much your wife as your wasted shell of a body is my husband.”
“That crown on your head suggests otherwise,” Callen replies archly. “Tell yourself what you like, but you owe me. A little gratitude now and again wouldn’t kill you.”
Not for the first time, I wonder if taking Callen’s heart was more trouble than it was worth. Nettle meows, evidently agreeing. But if Callen has spent his imprisonment learning how to irritate me, I’ve done the same with him.
“You know,” I comment, “there was a time when half the court would have been waiting outside your chambers after one of your episodes, desperate for word of your condition. Tonight, no one mentioned it. Not even Weston. Aren’t the two of you supposed to be friends?”
Callen glowers and I know I’ve hit my mark.
“In fact, I don’t recall anyone even speaking of you this evening,” I press, swirling my wineglass. “Soon enough, I wonder if anyone will remember that you exist at all.”
“Oh, really?” Callen asks. “And what about you? You can wear that eyesore of a crown and sit on the throne, but someone is going to figure out what you’ve done. That you’re a—”
“Climber?” I ask, tilting my head. “A whore? A witch? Please, tell me something I haven’t heard a hundred times before.”
Callen’s jaw works, but he remains silent.
“Go on,” I prompt him. “Tell me what I am.”
He battles to keep the words behind his teeth. But the shadows slink toward the glass. My power hums inside me, drawing on the connection between us. Forcing him to obey.
“Tell me,” I repeat.
I step near enough to the glass that I can glimpse my own reflection. My dark, nearly black eyes stark against my white skin. The shards of my Bloodstone crown glittering in the firelight.
“You, my queen,” he spits, “are fairest of them all.”