Page 1 of The Witch Queen

Prologue

Ayleth

Age of the Witch Queen1

On the night before my coronation, the moon is shrouded in shadow.

I watch from the window of my chamber as the inky tendrils of darkness skim across the skies. The hour is late, but the gardens below teem with courtiers, a few drunk enough from the evening’s entertainments that they’re splashing in a fountain. I should be with them, reveling in the parties being hosted in honor of the new queen. In honor ofme.But my attention is fixed on the horizon, searching for even a hint of beating wings. Straining my ears to detect the shriek of a raven. But there’s only silence, just as there has been every day since I broke the Veil.

What else did you expect?That old voice needles at me.

I bristle against it. Nearly three months have passed since the night in Ignatius’s lair when I destroyed the Bloodstones. After the Veil fell, I expected hordes of ravens to flock to the palace, witches either threatening revenge for what I’d done, or perhaps—if they were smart—attempting to negotiate with Riven’s rising queen. After all, I made no secret about my position. As soon as I was able, I dispatched heralds to every corner of Riven to announce my ascension. Because I wanted the witches to know. Wanted them to crawl here on their knees, begging.But there hasn’t been so much as a whisper from the covens. Such stubborn silence doesn’t surprise me from Mother and the rest of the Heirs. And yet there was one witch who I believed might be different.

The wind picks up, carrying what could be a trace of juniper.

My queen.

A voice rasps through the chamber and I whirl around, anticipating Callen. The imprisoned king has developed a habit of appearing unannounced, simply for the pleasure of scaring me out of my wits. He’s succeeded more often than I care to admit. But the mirror’s glass is vacant, only my own reflection staring out at me from the gnarled-wood frame.

“Did you hear something?” I ask Nettle.

My cat merely continues in her game of pouncing among my shadows. One dissolves beneath her paws and re-forms, tickling her nose. I frown, more than a little jealous that Nettle seems to possess a better understanding of Malum than I do. Since shattering the Veil, I’ve spent most of my nights scouring every book I can find on the subject, including those from Ignatius’s lair. But, try as I might, I haven’t been able to command a single wisp of shadow in the past months. In fact, I can barely sense the subtle hum of Malum between my bones. My lack of control is increasingly worrying. Malum chose me—wantedme. Or so I thought.

I abandon the window and drift over to the slender box next to Callen’s mirror. Firelight shimmers on the jagged jewels within—the Bloodstone crown. Sharp-edged and brutal. A permanent version of the crown that the shadows wove above my head. A reminder of everything I’ve done to get where I am. But even now, with all of Riven at my disposal, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something.

I turn my palm up, tracing the place below my left ring finger where my sister, Rhea, drew her rune what feels a lifetime ago. Though most of the original mark vanished when I accepted Malum, I can still make out the three faint lines crossed in a triangle. A symbol that Rhea promised meant we would always find our way back to each other.

“What am I supposed to do now?” I whisper to the night.

The fire pops, stirred by a breeze too strong to have come from outside. Tapestries knock against the far wall. Nettle arches her back and hisses at a spot in the corner. I stiffen. A servant would use the main doors. Could it be one of the courtiers, drunk enough to wander up here? Perhaps one who doesn’t support my new position—there are certainly no shortage of those.

“Who’s there?” I call.

A cloaked figure materializes from the darkness. A woman, perhaps, about my height. She lowers her hood. Firelight washes over her features: White skin and high cheekbones. Hazel eyes. Recognition hits me in a rush.

“Mother,” I whisper, stunned into stillness.

I haven’t seen her since the night I scried in the palace gardens. Was that just months ago? Mother appears as though she’s aged decades. Her auburn hair is heavily streaked with silver. Unfamiliar lines fan out from the corners of her eyes and bracket her mouth. Still, it’sher.A flood of memories engulfs me: Mother’s fingers carding through my hair while I fell asleep. Her gentle instruction as I helped prepare ingredients in the workroom. But she is not that witch anymore, I remind myself. She hasn’t been for a long time. Anger overtakes my shock and I snatch up a knife from a nearby table, gripping the hilt hard enough that I feel my pulse thudding beneath my skin.

“Ayleth.” Mother’s gaze darts from me to the weapon. “What are you doing? It’sme.”

“Exactly,” I say, raising the blade higher.

Nettle growls, seconding my opinion.

“Please”—she puts up her hands—“I’ve come to help you.”

“Help me?” I bark a rueful laugh. “Like you did at Stonehaven?”

Another memory rears: The burned-out Sanctum. The crimson cloak I discovered when I returned after fleeing the White Court. It should have been my cloak, a symbol of my joining the coven. But Mother stuffed it inside a chest. Abandoned it. Just like she did me.

“I was going to come back for you,” Mother says, flushing.

“Oh, really. Then why not send a raven to tell me that?”

“Because it was too dangerous,” she insists. “I had the entire coven to consider. The Heirs refused to accept us if we didn’t cut ties with—”

“A failure?” I finish for her. “A Wayward? Amonster?”