Page 7 of The Witch Queen

Joan flashes me a grateful smile, then hurries down the dais and accepts Anora’s hand. Much as I try to fend it off, I cannot help the prick of jealousy that twinges in my chest as I watch them join the dancers. See their faces light up, like they’re the only two people in the world. Beneath the smell of wine and perfume, I might detect the hint of juniper. I quickly drown it in a swallow of wine.

“Your Majesty.”

I turn at the voice. A man in rippling black robes waits just behind me.

“Master Parnell.”

The High Priest’s former steward is a lithe man, with pale white skin, a long, hooked nose, and beady black eyes. When I served as a maiden in Queen Sybil’s household, I’d been terrified of the slippery,scheming man—especially his talent for sniffing out secrets. But, like everyone else in the White Court, Parnell cares only for his own power and position. When Ignatius was disgraced, the steward stood to lose both. Within a month of my coronation, he scurried to my door, pleading for a place in my household. Though I trust the viperous man about as much as I did the High Priest, I reasoned that it was wiser to keep him closer. So far, I’ve been correct. Parnell’s unique skills have proven invaluable over the years. And given his close call with Ignatius, my steward is keenly aware of the fact that—should I fall—he’ll tumble down with me.

Parnell inclines his chin. “Forgive my interruption, Majesty. There are some matters that require your attention.”

“Can’t they wait?” I gesture to the hall. “Tonight is for celebration.”

“Apologies, Majesty, but I did think you’d want to see these.” He holds up a stack of papers. “Reports of recent disturbances throughout the realm.”

“If you mean blights and plagues, that’s hardly news.”

“Not that,” Parnell says. “I believe these may be related to Follower groups.”

My brow furrows. “Followers? There hasn’t been an uprising in months.”

While most of the White Court was happy to shed the confines of the Order’s strict Illuminations, the rest of Riven wasn’t so quick to follow suit. Especially not after the Veil fell and Malum started wreaking havoc on the realm. The initial months of my reign were riddled with skirmishes between the Hunt and the Order’s acolytes, the frenzied zealots desperate for Meira’s return.

“Indeed,” Parnell agrees. “But my sources indicate that they’ve regrouped. They seem to have rallied around a new leader, one they claim is Meira herself.”

I snort into my glass. I assumed that breaking the Veil would rid me of the false goddess, but she seems to haunt me at every turn.

“Surely the Hunt can settle this.”

“Normally,” Parnell replies. “But we experienced heavy losses in thelast battle with Rycinthia. It would be unwise to overextend ourselves in case of another attack.”

And therewillbe one. The Rycinthian army has been snapping at our borders for the last year, the witches with them. Nearby shadows shimmer, stirring my power.

Destroy them,that old instinct rears up.

I fully intend to. I only need time.

“Then find a solution, Master Parnell,” I say. “That is what you promised me that you could do when I appointed you, is it not?”

“Of course, Majesty.”

“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“There is one more matter”—Parnell rummages through his papers and passes one to me—“a letter from the Mines.”

I note the seal affixed to one edge: crossed pickaxes ringed by a crown, indicating the Head of the Guilds. Roland.

Something you need to see at the Western Mine—if you’re not too busy queening.

—R

The Dwarf has lost none of his charm. Still, it’s unlike him to request my presence. Normally the Dwarves keep to themselves.

“Order a carriage,” I tell the steward. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

“Are you certain, Majesty? It may be too dangerous with the recent disturbances…”

But I’m not listening anymore. The nearby candles flicker. Shadows lengthen from the dark corners of the room, as if reaching for me. Malum hums behind my sternum.