Page 4 of The Witch Queen

Theirqueen. That’s what I am. What I became the moment the shadows crafted the Bloodstone crown. They were crowning me.Anointingme. Gifting me their power. And now I know what I am meant to do with that gift.

“Go back to the Heirs,” I say to Mother. “Tell them that the queen from their prophecy has indeed come. And if they want this crown, they’re going to have to wrest it from my own hands.”

“Ayleth, no!” Mother pleads, desperate. “Don’t—”

It’s too late. On my command, shadows wrap around the orb ofMother’s magic and carry it to the Bloodstones. She screams and lunges, trying to stop them, but ropes of shadow spring up to restrain her. In the next instant, the orb of Mother’s power vanishes into one of the Bloodstones. The whole crown blazes a blinding red, absorbing her magic, and then dims and goes cold. Mother sags in the shadows’ grip, not dead. But completely and utterly powerless. Just like she taught me I was for so long.

Shade lifts the Bloodstone crown and settles it on my head.

Fairest,the shadows whisper.Fairest of them all.

The words fill me up, stirring the Malum between my bones. A power I have waited my whole life to wield. And I’m not going to waste another second.

“You will be my Huntsman,” I tell Shade. “Together we’re going to track down every drop of coven magic and remove it from this realm. Until there’s nothing left but us.”

Shade’s eyes glitter with malice.Yes, my queen.

Part I

Five witches traipsed into the palace this morning, road-weary and half starved. They claim to be the lost Heirs of Riven, though they have no remarkable power to display. A power lost, they say, due to the fall of the Veil and the commoner queen now occupying Riven’s throne. Such was only the beginning of their tale. They spoke of a prophecy and a crown—one that could banish Malum forever, should I lend my army to their cause.

Nonsense, my councilors claim. The witches cannot be trusted. And yet, if what they say is true, it could mean the return of the lands that were stolen from us by the usurper White Kings. The glory of a new empire, one steeped in magic. Tempting thoughts, indeed.

For now, we shall keep the witches here and see what comes of it. If nothing, they will be easy enough to dispose of.

—From the personal writings of King Frances, Rycinthia

Chapter One

Ayleth

Three Years Later

The king’s screams echo down the corridors of the White Palace.

By the time I arrive in Callen’s bedchamber, he’s shattered at least a dozen vials and jars, their bright-colored powders and liquids leaking over the rugs.

“I won’t have it!” he bellows, knocking a few more medicines off the shelf with a wide sweep of his arm. “Poison! It’s all poison!”

“Your Majesty, I assure you, there is no poison here.” One of the physicians grunts as he, along with a handful of servants, struggles to wrangle the king back into bed. “Please, Sire. Let us assist you.”

“No!” Callen flails blindly against them. His eyes, which have taken on a cloudy, filmed color after theunfortunatejousting accident he suffered shortly after our marriage, rove wildly. “Let me go! Let me—”

“Callen,” I interrupt, stepping farther into the chamber.

The king’s head whips in my direction. “No. Not you. Get her away from me! She’s a—”

At my command, one of my shadows darts toward Callen. The physician, like the servants and all mortals, is oblivious as it wriggles past the king’s lips, stilling his tongue. Callen’s raving instantly devolves to garbled nonsense. His muscles slacken, and he slumps over as mypower regains control over his body. The servants, visibly relieved that the king has ceased chucking bottles at them, guide him back to bed.

“My deepest apologies, Majesty.”

The head physician, Dr. Locke, smooths his robes and joins me. He’s an older man with a portly build and graying hair tucked beneath his cap. Light brown skin is creased around his eyes and mouth.

“The king was resting peacefully this morning,” he goes on. “I can’t imagine what came over him.”

I certainly can. Much like the version of Callen that dwells inside my mirror, the king’s shell of a body has proven irritatingly unpredictable. These episodes are infrequent—and more annoyance than anything else—but my gaze twitches to the nearest mirror, where I expect the real Callen is lurking within his glass prison. Smirking, probably. I’ll deal with him later.

“Though His Majesty’s outburst may have been related to his new treatment,” Locke suggests. “As you can see, it doesn’t appear that the king is responding very well to our efforts.”