Page 5 of The Witch Queen

I frown, giving my best impression of a concerned wife. “How disappointing. Perhaps there’s something else you can attempt?”

“We are exploring other options, certainly,” Dr. Locke assures me. “In fact, I’ve heard of a physician in Carrick who may be of assistance. We could solicit his advice if Your Majesty will sanction the request.”

“Send whatever you need to the council,” I reply. “I’ll see that it gets approved. Let no expense be spared.”

“That’s very kind. Your Majesty’s devotion to the king is an example to us all.”

I have about as much devotion to the rotten husk of Callen’s body as Nettle does to the carcasses of the mice she deposits in my chambers.

“Is there anything else?” I ask. “I’m already late.”

“Ah yes, the banquet. Congratulations, Majesty. A well-deserved celebration.”

I grant the doctor a gracious nod. “I’ll have a plate sent up to you.”

“That would be much appreciated,” he replies. “And there’s nothingmore regarding the king. Though I do recommend increasing His Majesty’s bloodletting. I suspect there are ill humors at work.”

“Whatever you deem best,” I agree. “And keep his meals simple. Gruel, perhaps.”

It might be my imagination, but I think I feelragewafting from the mirror’s direction.

The doctor bows again and returns to the others. I remain long enough to watch them remove Callen’s shirt and drape one of his arms over a basin, his white skin sallow. Blood weeps from a small puncture wound on the inside of his elbow and drains into the bowl, stark crimson against the porcelain. Seeing him so small and defenseless makes it easy to forget that Callen was ever the king. To forget the years when this entire court spun around him.Ionce spun around him, too, though more like a mouse fleeing a hawk. Because that’s what I, along with every other woman, was to Riven’s merciless king: prey.

Callen’s head lolls, exposing the angry red scar tracking down the side of his face. For an instant, he stirs. I could swear that his sightless eyes are locked on me. Can almost feel the heat of his fury burning inside him.

Well,I tell him in my mind,who’s the prey now?

—

When I at last reach the Great Hall, the banquet is in full swing.

Every surface glows in the torchlight. Servants scurry back and forth carting enormous plates of food, each dish more sumptuous than the last. Courtiers, dazzling in their silks and jewels, cluster in groups or dance to the tune of the musicians playing in the upper gallery. The air is heavy with the scents of wine, perfume, and roasting meats. Three years ago, I abhorred nights like these. Despised being watched, or even seen, instead preferring to make myself as small and invisible as possible. But Callen isn’t the only one who’s changed since the events that occurred in Ignatius’s lair. And I’ve learned that parties are much more enjoyable when you’re not the unwanted daughter of the High Witch.

You will burn,Mother warned on the night before my coronation.

And yet I’m still here. Andtheyare not.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Joan comments as I take my place at the High Table.

Now a senior-ranking member of court, Joan has occupied the seat next to mine since I appointed her the head of my household. The position suits her. When we met, Joan and her family were barely surviving at court. Now her wardrobe rivals any of the women who used to mock her. The burgundy velvet of her gown brings out the green color of her eyes and complements her complexion, her white skin—dusted with freckles—luminescent in the candlelight. Her auburn hair is swept up in a gold net. Jewels sparkle on her necklace and rings.

“The king had another of his episodes,” I explain.

Joan pauses as she reaches for her glass. “Another?”

“Nothing to worry about. I have it under control.”

She presses her lips together and I sense the questions in her silence. Joan knows more of my secrets than anyone else at court, but not even she is aware of the shadows. Or of the fact that the real Callen is trapped inside my mirror. Joan isn’t a fool. She must guess that there’s more going on with the king than I’ve explained to her. But she’s learned to leave well enough alone. And I’ve tasted the bitter sting of betrayal too many times to let anyone else close enough to hurt me. Ever again.

“Well, you haven’t missed much here,” she continues, changing the subject. “Just Weston and his idiot friends attempting to drown themselves in that contraption.”

She indicates a fountain in the center of the hall. It was a gift from the Dwarves around the time of my coronation. Flawless white marble decorated with sculptures of fish and mythical sea creatures. But instead of water spewing from their mouths, it’s wine. Sir Weston and his cadre are challenging one another to see how long they can drink from it.

“As if we could be so lucky,” I comment dryly.

Joan hums her agreement.

“You’ve also received half a dozen invitations to various otherparties and engagements,” she adds. “One of the Northcutt twins tried to bribe me to make sure you’d make an appearance at their birthday celebration next week. Weston is hosting it.”