The Crimson Crown

The Crimson Crown

Part I

Witchcraft is hereby abolished in the Kingdom of Riven. All Sanctums and property are forfeit to the Crown. Any persons found practicing witchcraft, or abetting witches, shall be burned, their souls returned to the forces of Malum.

—Edict of King Reginald, Age of the Light 1

Chapter One

Ten Years Later

A shadow skims across the courtyard.

I glance up just in time to watch a crow land on the statue in front of the Sanctum.

“Portent,” I hear someone murmur nearby, probably one of the Diviners. “Ill luck.”

“Malum.”

The word carries with a bite colder than the autumn wind. Mother heard it too. I can tell from the way she pretends she hasn’t, her jaw set as she watches the portcullis. The crow ruffles its inky feathers. If I didn’t know better, I’d say its beady, obsidian eyes were fixed on me.

One crow for sorrow.

An old rhyme dredges up from my memory. As if in reply, the crow calls, short and staccato. Like laughter.

“They’re coming!” a witch in the sentry tower calls, startling the bird so that it squawks and flaps away.

Excitement catches like dry kindling amongst the rest of the witches.

“At last!” someone exclaims.

“I was worried they wouldn’t make it.”

And I was hoping that they wouldn’t, today—or ever. On instinct, I touch the place below my left ring finger, where three crossed lines form a triangle on my skin. Rhea’s mark. Our mark. Three faintly pink scars drifting apart and then coming back together. I press down on the triangle so hard that I feel the thrum of my pulse beneath my skin.

There’s no need to worry, I imagine my sister saying to me. Hundreds of witches have done this before.

Maybe. But I was never supposed to be one of them—not like this.

A familiar meow interrupts my thoughts, coupled with the pressure of a lithe body rubbing against my ankles.

“Hello, you.” I bend to scratch between Nettle’s ears, grateful to have at least one friend this morning. Autumn sunlight shines against her dark calico fur.

“I told you to keep that cat away today.” Mother throws Nettle a sharp glance. “I won’t have her causing any trouble. And fix your cloak.”

I’m not a witchling anymore, I almost snap back. But an argument will only worsen my headache. Nettle grumbles as I shoo her away, her tail twitching as she trots back toward the Sanctum. Maybe she’ll hunt down a mouse and leave the carcass in Mother’s rooms, a habit of hers that I’ve been encouraging of late.

“I shouldn’t even be wearing this.” I pull on the clasp of my cloak, which keeps riding up next to my throat like it’s trying to strangle me. It probably is. Everything about this garment is uncomfortable, especially its crimson color, one reserved for witches only after they Ascend.

“I want them to see you in it,” Mother replies smoothly. “You’re my Second.”

“Not yet,” I mutter under my breath. Not for three more days anyway. I can feel the time slipping away from me, only hours now. Would that it could be years—forever.

The portcullis jolts, my nerves clattering along with the rising of the huge metal gate. The other witches press closer, nudging one another. The last time Stonehaven received visitors as important as these—the other Heirs and their Seconds—was at Rhea’s Ascension. The mood was different then, though. Even with the war waging around us, it had been a joyous occasion, like one of the large coven gatherings that the older witches describe. Now there is only the rustle of dry leaves and an air of desperation. Because it’s not Rhea this time. Rhea is gone.

I clench my left hand again, my sister’s words floating on the breeze.

No matter how far apart we drift, we always come back.

But there are some places, I’ve learned, that no one can come back from. The clasp of my cloak digs into my throat.

“After this, I’ll expect you to see to the Seconds,” Mother says. “You remember where they’ll be housed?”

No, I’ve forgotten after the first hundred times she’s reminded me. “Living quarters—third door on the left.”

I thought I’d kept my tone neutral, but Mother detects my exasperation. Her face turns to mine. She’s beautiful, in a cold, imposing sort of way. Gray streaks her auburn hair and fine lines crease her white skin, bracketing her eyes and mouth. Some of those lines came from laughter, if that can be believed. These days, it seems impossible that Mother even knows how to laugh.

“This is important, Ayleth,” she says, her hazel gaze pinning me in place. “The most important time of your life. Do not disappoint the coven.”

Again.

Her implication hangs between us, resurrecting the memory of my mistake: A pair of cobalt-blue eyes and the smell of juniper. Promises made . . . ​and then broken. Much as I try to beat it back, a name extracts itself from the bramble and thorn of my past.

Jacquetta.

I hate myself for the way my next breath hitches.

Let her go, a voice in my mind urges. She means nothing.

How many more times do I have to say that until it’s true?

The portcullis shudders to a halt and hooves clop on the flagstones as the party lumbers through the open gate and into the courtyard. Mother exhales, pulling herself up straighter. The black and green embroidered runes on her own crimson cloak, along with the symbol that marks her as High Witch, glimmer in the late-morning sunlight.

“Selene.” Mother greets the witch—another Heir—who steps down from her seat on a small wagon.

Descendant of Aphelia, my years of training provide. The first Diviner.

Selene resembles her ancestress as well, at least from the illustrations I’ve studied in our books. Though it’s difficult to determine the exact age of a witch—our latent magic helps us heal and keeps us youthful until it weakens—Selene appears to be about as old as Mother. Middle-aged by human standards, but likely well past her hundredth year. She pulls down her hood, freeing her cloud of dark hair. Her green eyes, stark against the rich black of her skin, travel over the courtyard. Like all Diviners, there’s something ethereal about her. The last time she visited, I got the unsettling impression that she could glimpse inside my mind. Given her gift, she probably can.

“Was it a difficult journey?” Mother releases Selene from a noticeably stiff embrace.

“No more than we expected, considering current circumstances.” Selene pulls off her green leather gloves.

The other witches, another Heir and the two Seconds, dismount or step down from their own wagon. The younger pair, the Seconds, I recognize—Della and Sindony.

I tug at the clasp of my cloak again. At Rhea’s Ascension, Della, Sindony, and I had run wild around the Sanctum together, slipping toads in other witches’ boots and sneaking treats from the kitchens. Now it’s as if those days—those witchlings—never existed. Even with the strain of the journey, the two Seconds stand tall and poised. They’re my age, but they seem so much older—so much more important. Their attention falls on me and the brief shot of recognition in their expressions softens to . . . ​disappointment, perhaps. Like I’ve failed to live up to a test.

They see right through you, that voice whispers.

“Where are the rest?” Mother asks, gesturing toward the open portcullis. I don’t hear anyone else coming. “Elain, Lettice, and their Seconds?”

Five witches formed the first coven, becoming the Ancients who uphold the pillars of our craft. As such, there should be five Heirs here, descendant of each of those great witches, with their next-in-line in tow.

“Delayed,” Selene explains. “The Hunt has been spotted, I’m afraid. Precautions were necessary. I’m sure they’ll arrive in time.”

The Hunt. A tremble of uneasiness ripples through the courtyard, witches probably fighting down the same memories that I am—the smell of burning flesh and the echo of piercing screams. It was seven years ago that the Hunt found Stonehaven. Thanks to Mother’s cunning, we did not lose our home, as most witches do when the Hunt raids their coven. But I would gladly trade Stonehaven, or anything else, for what I lost that horrible night—my sister.

I clench my fist against our rune, wishing I could pull Rhea back.

“Ah—here she is.” Selene’s steady footsteps approach, her keen Diviner gaze sizing me up. “And she’s already wearing her cloak? Isn’t that a bit presumptuous, Cassandra?”

I’d told Mother the cloak was a bad idea.

“Not at all,” Mother replies coolly. “Ayleth is a true daughter of Millicent. She’s shown immense potential.”

That is a lie. I clench my back teeth against the urge to correct her just for the pleasure of spoiling the morning.