Page 9 of The Witch Queen

Shade glides across the room and draws back the curtain shielding my mirror. A wisp of shadow curls from his form and snakes into the mirror’s surface. As the darkness spreads, a scene arises: A clearing in aforest, where a woman—a witch—is crouched low. I step closer, anticipation building as I imagine who it might be. Not Mother. From what I gathered through my mirror,shemet up with the Heirs shortly after she left the palace and retreated with them to Rycinthia. But the witch I see now could be someone else. Someone with blue eyes who tasted like roses and smelled like juniper.

Jacquetta,a traitorous part of my heart whispers.

The witch at last turns, sunlight illuminating her white skin and green eyes. Not blue. Not Jacquetta’s. Disappointment swoops through my belly and I curse myself for it. Even if the witchwereJacquetta, what difference would it make? She’s made her position perfectly clear.

She was not alone,Shade goes on, gesturing to the mirror.But the others escaped me.

Others. That’s unusual. It’s my understanding that most of the remaining witches in Riven are alone. And it’s been months since Shade found anyone.

“Where was this?” I ask.

The northwest forest,Shade replies.Near Rycinthia.

That piques my interest. I consult a map on a nearby table. It’s a Dwarvian piece, like the one housed in the library, enchanted so that its various landmarks reflect the state of the realm. Miniature trees rustle in an invisible wind, and vein-like rivers rush with currents. Ant-sized citizens trek along the roads mapping the cities and towns. But Riven is much changed from the version on the map I discovered years ago. Now the realm is a patchwork of charred forests and barren fields, where Malum has sunk its teeth into the land. Interestingly, the devastation ends at the border between our realm and Rycinthia. Yet another reason the covens fled: My shadows, including Shade himself, are inexplicably confined to the boundaries of Riven. So what was this witch doing so close to the border? Were she and her coven heading to the relative safety of Rycinthia? Or did they come from there?

“Keep close to that area,” I say to Shade. “See if they return.”

Yes, my queen,he replies.And her?

In the mirror, the witch is still huddled beneath her cloak. She’s older than I am, perhaps around the same age Rhea would have been if my sister were still alive. Out of habit, I rub the place below my left ring finger where Rhea’s faint mark rests. The glowing heart of magic pulses in my grasp. Rhea possessed a heart like this once, before it was poisoned by the Hunt’s arrow.

“Did you ask her?”

Yes, my queen. She refused.

Of course she did. They all refuse.

When I first decided on my path, I instructed Shade to offer the witches a chance to join me. Accept Malum, as I did. Foolishly, I thought that they might. I even envisioned an army of shadow-wielding witches. A family. But they’ve all stubbornly turned their noses up at my generosity. And that’s the glaring difference between Rhea and these witches: My sister didn’t have a choice in her fate. These witches did—and they didn’t choose me.

And why would they?the echo of the old voice goads.

Even now, I still cannot find a way to be rid of it.

But Icanbe rid of this witch. Or at least her power. Malum swells inside my chest. At my command, my shadows coil around the orb of the witch’s latent magic. The remnants of the Bloodstones pulse red, their glow intensifying as the heart draws nearer. In the next instant, the orb of magic vanishes into the crown, which flares a blinding crimson. In the mirror, the witch jerks upright, clutching at her chest. She emits a single, piercing cry, then folds in on herself and crumples to a heap on the ground. The warped echo of her sobs carries through the chamber. And then the scene in the mirror dims to nothing but silver glass.

“Let me know what you discover,” I say to Shade, ignoring the prick in my own heart. One that feels too much like regret. Like another piece of me has withered and died.

Yes, my queen,my Huntsman replies.

He bows again, then signals to Nox. The Nevenwolf chuffs hisfarewell, then pads alongside Shade as they’re swallowed by the darkness. Nettle meows, disappointed at losing her playmate, and pounces among the remaining shadows. But I cannot stop thinking of the witch. What was she doing here? And where are the rest of them? Perhaps someone else might know.

“Callen,” I call, returning to my mirror.

The glass ripples and then the imprisoned king’s face rises out of its depths.

“Yes,my queen?” He asks in an irritatingly perfect imitation of Shade’s voice.

Due to the mirror’s magic, Callen’s appearance hasn’t altered at all since I carved out his heart. He still looks to be about forty years old, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. His white skin—cast in a bluish glow within the glass—is unlined and his black hair doesn’t betray a hint of silver. But Callen’s eyes are his most familiar feature: They’re the color of quicksilver. Even now, that phantom tether attached to my left ribs tugs, pulling on that invisible connection between us.

I ignore the sensation and pour myself a glass of wine from a nearby sideboard. When I bound the king’s heart to the mirror, I assumed that Callen would behave like Mother’s servant did. That he would be obedient andsilent,save for when I summon him. I was frustratingly mistaken. Though the mirror’s magic prevents Callen from deceiving me, his unflinching honesty is somehow worse than his lies ever were. The mirror’s spell has stripped him down to his barest form, one that delights in sharing his every needling thought and opinion. One that contorts into knots simply for the pleasure of defying me.

“Send the crows with Shade to the border,” I instruct.

“Must I?” Callen complains. “Those filthy birds are worse than your beast.”

Nettle trots over to the mirror, hops up onto a pedestal, and starts swatting at the imprisoned king.

“Stop that, you mangy animal,” he commands. Nettle merely swishes her tail and continues. I make no move to correct her.