Epilogue
Six Months Later
“And here we have the library,” Mistress Penelope, a slim woman wearing purple Keepers’ robes, explains as she guides us through the halls.
Stonehaven’s halls.
The Sanctum is nearly unrecognizable from when I lived here, or from the battle with Mother, which seems like it occurred a hundred years ago now.
Most of the damage has been repaired, and with the help of the Dwarves, the building has been upgraded to accommodate additional residents—of which there are many.
Mortals, Dwarves, and witches mill around in the corridors, discussing magic or debating points of history.
Acting on Joan’s plan, Blodwyn ordered that all the Sanctums were to be converted into schools, free to anyone who wishes to attend.
But that’s not why we’re here.
Jacquetta’s theory proved correct. The Sanctums, namely the old coven fires, practically pulsed with magic, which had been trapped beneath the earth for centuries.
One of the many reasons such power didn’t extend beyond Riven’s borders.
With Sindony and the rest of the witches, we’ve been making our way through the realm, repeating the ritual from the night we took the palace in order to release it.
Stonehaven’s took place the previous evening, the witches and Dwarves and even mortals coming together to restore the balance of power.
It had been the first time since my own failed Ascension that I faced those flames.
And I’m not sure that I could have done so without Jacquetta by my side, our heartmate bond beating though my blood.
I half expected to see Mother or Rhea again, but they didn’t appear. I think they’re both finally at peace.
“We’re still sorting the books,” the Keeper says, bringing me back into the library. “Deliveries take time to arrive, as you might imagine.”
“I can,” I say, picking up a volume and sifting through it. “I grew up here.”
“Oh, that’s right,” the Keeper says. “I quite forgot, you must forgive me, Your Grace.”
“Just Ayleth,” I correct her.
Much as I appreciate Blodwyn’s gesture, the title never did stick.
Jacquetta doesn’t use hers, either—except when we’re at court and she forces everyone to bow to her.
She glances over at me and smirks, as if reading my thoughts.
She probably can. Our heartmate bond has made us closer than I ever imagined, which isn’t always a good thing.
Jacquetta’s smirk widens and I resist the urge to throw a book at her.
“Of course,” the Keeper says, notably not using my name. “And I do hope you’ll thank the queen for her generosity. I trust all is well at the palace?”
As far as I’m aware, it is. Blodwyn has her struggles, of course.
As I predicted, Warbeck posed an immediate threat, as did several other members of the nobility.
And the Followers have been less than keen to accept the new queen’s power.
But Blodwyn meant it when she said the throne was not hers alone.
Her council includes a place for everyone.
I’ve heard she hosts public hours every week, allowing the lowliest of peasants to bring her their concerns.
And despite the fact that some of them tried to kill her, Blodwyn permits the Followers to worship in peace.
Even here, we passed a young man wearing Meira’s Eye.
“If I stamp it out, it will only grow back stronger,” she reasoned.
Sometimes, it’s difficult to believe that she’s only sixteen.
“Mistress Penelope.” A breathless servant rushes in. “You’re needed downstairs. There’s a disagreement about how the scrolls from Carrick should be handled.”
The Keeper looks panicked. “I’ll be there at once. Forgive me, Your—Ayleth.”
She hurries off, her purple robes fluttering behind her. Jacquetta watches her go, one eyebrow raised in amusement.
“Do you miss it here?” she asks, thumbing through a text.
I shrug, memories swirling around me. All the hours I spent in this room for lessons. The night I decided to go to the White Palace in search of the Bloodstones. The time we spent here together, two witches who had no idea what lay ahead of them.
“Parts of it,” I admit, dealing her a sly smile.
She instantly catches my meaning. “Oh, really?”
Jacquetta comes closer and the scent of juniper is intoxicating.
Just before our lips brush, the sound of an argument interrupts us.
The squabble is coming from behind the nearest shelf.
Two witches who look to be about Blodwyn’s age are sitting on the other side, piles of books spread between them.
“I’m specializing in Malum,” one says. “It’s far more powerful.”
“It is not,” the other replies, rolling her eyes.
“Yes, it is,” the first insists primly. “Queen Ayleth had the courage to break the Veil. Really change things. That’s what I intend to do.”
When the truth about me finally surfaced, reactions were mixed.
Many in Riven were happy to villainize me—the scheming witch who tricked the king into marriage and loosed Malum on the realm.
It wasn’t until I left court that I learned of those who supported what I’d done.
Appreciated Malum instead of feared it. On a few occasions, I’ve run across a shrine depicting me as a saint.
But I’ve never leaned into that role—it’s not who I want to be.
“And she has a pet Nevenwolf,” the first adds.
Another exaggeration, though Nox does accompany us at times.
“Well, Queen Blodwyn,” the other replies, “brought someone back to life. Hers is the greater power.”
The two continue to bicker back and forth. I probably shouldn’t say anything. But I can’t stand to think of these two young witches becoming obsessed with power the way I was. It starts like this, and then grows until it’s uncontrollable.
“Actually, it’s neither,” I say, stepping out from behind the shelf. Their eyes widen when they register my identity. “No power is greater than the other. And it shouldn’t be. Don’t forget that.”
They nod furiously, mouths open. And then I feel a hand slide into mine. The mark on my palm hums.
“Except love,” Jacquetta says, smiling at me. “Love is the greatest power of all.”
And I’m still not sure how the two of us were lucky enough to find it.
—
“So,” I say, a few hours later. “Where are we headed now?”
Jacquetta consults her map. “The last raven Sindony sent said east. We’re supposed to meet up near the mountain border.”
I frown, not exactly thrilled at joining the others.
I’ve spent some time with the coven witches since the coronation, but things haven’t fully thawed between us.
No surprise there, considering I had hunted them down and taken their power during my short reign.
Jacquetta insists that they’ll eventually learn to trust me, but I’m not so sure.
And they haven’t earned my trust, either.
“And we’d better hurry,” she says, eyeing the angle of the sun, which is swiftly dipping below the tree line. “We’ll want to try to make it a little farther before we camp, seeing as someone refused another night in a warm bed.”
Nettle trills, as if she agrees.
“I’m sorry,” I say, putting my hands up. “I couldn’t stay. There were too many memories in that place.”
Jacquetta reaches for me. I can feel her understanding thrumming through our bond. “Well, it’s not as if we haven’t spent plenty of other nights in the forest. It’ll be like old times.”
Those memories wash over me now. Dances under the stars. Stolen kisses.
“If it’s like old times, then we’ll be drunk,” I remind her.
“You think I haven’t come prepared?”
Jacquetta grins at me and pulls out a bottle of wine.
“Did you steal that?” I ask, incredulous.
“Of course not,” she says, then nods at Nettle. “She did.”
My cat meows and swishes her tail. The two of them, honestly.
“Just open it up,” I say. “This is as good a place to camp as any.”
“We should really—”
Nettle nips my ankle and then bounds off into the trees.
“Hey!” I call after her. “What was that for? And where are you going?”
Frustrated, I pick up my skirts and chase after her. Nettle leaps over a few fallen logs and then settles at the base of a tree up ahead.
“What’s gotten into you?” I ask.
She just flicks her tail. And it’s then that I notice something on the tree’s bark. It’s a carving, one made so long ago that the lines are almost entirely worn away. But I would recognize it anywhere. I trace my fingertips along two initials:
A + J
“Jacquetta,” I call, “come and look!”
Her footsteps crunch through the brush and then stop short.
“Spirits,” she breathes. “Is that—”
“It’s the tree,” I whisper.
The one that died after we carved our name into the trunk.
The one I was certain proved that we were cursed.
Now, though, its once-barren branches are bursting with leaves and blooms. Golden veins track up from its roots and spread through its limbs, the same glittering color as the heartmate line on our palms.
Because after all this time, after everything we did to destroy it, the tree—our tree—is alive and thriving.