Page 110 of The Flame King's Queen

The warlock seizes my hands, excitement glowing in his face. “Queen Isavelle, I have been hearing the most wonderful and extraordinary rumors. You andMa’lenvanquished the lich?”

“It’s gone forever, thanks to your lead vessel with the binding runes and the word that Mistress Hawthorne spoke with her dying breath.”

“Caraxmorenas?” Master Gaun asks eagerly. “It is a spell?”

I shake my head, smiling so much because I am able to tell this news to people who will truly understand what my crone did for us. “Caraxmorenas was the lich’s name. Mistress Hawthorne discovered it while she was possessed.”

Masters Gaun and Artor look overwhelmed with happiness, and hug both me and each other. “It is thanks to your spellcasting that it was vanquished, Queen Isavelle.”

“It is thanks toallof us,” I tell him.

Master Artor’s expression sobers. “We laid out your crone in her bed, and informed your father of her passing before we left the village.”

Tears fill my eyes, but I smile through them, imagining the ex-witchfinders being so tender and thoughtful to my crone. “Thank you, Master Artor, Master Gaun. I’m so grateful for your kindness to my crone. Where is Master Simpkin? I must thank him as well.”

I look around, but Master Gaun shakes his head sadly. “I’m afraid our dear friend perished in the flames trying to save the archive.”

For a moment, the shock is almost too much for me. Of all people, I expected the warlocks to be safe. “He’s gone, and so is the archive?”

“The archive is not gone, thanks to Master Simpkin. He used a water spell to great effect, and much of the archive still stands, but the spell weakened him so greatly that he could not save himself.”

“I’m so very sorry for your loss,” I tell them sadly. We return to our work.

Any moments of happiness I have on this day must be tempered by sadness and loss, but my heart still bursts with joy when I spot a familiar figure working among the wounded. Her red curls are burnished by lamplight. I wait for her to finish casting a healing spell on a child’s burns, and then reach for her hand.

“Ravenna, what are you doing here? How did you know to come to us?”

My fellow witch smiles when she sees me, and she’s opening her mouth to answer, but then she stares at my clothes. “Isavelle, you’re not hurt, are you?”

I stare down at myself and realize that I’m still covered in blood. Hours and hours have passed, but I still wear the evidence of Biddy’s murder. “It’s not mine. It’s Mistress Hawthorne’s. She was the first to die by the lich’s hand in this battle.”

Ravenna’s eyes fill with tears, and she wraps both her arms around me and holds me close. She whispers fiercely, “I’m so sorry, sister. The loss of another of our kind is devastating to bear.”

I fight against my emotions for a moment, but then I lean into her embrace and allow myself to cry for a short moment, knowing I’m safe with Ravenna. I’ll never drink tea in Mistress Hawthorne’s little cottage again, or work quietly in her garden under her keen-eyed supervision.

“She is a great loss to us. I mourn for all the witches who will never meet her,” Ravenna whispers.

“Will you stay?” I ask her, pulling away and wiping the tears from my face.

She hesitates. “As long as I can.”

I nod, but I can see from her face that as soon as the city has ceased burning and the wounded no longer need healing, she will be gone. As she presses a kiss to my cheek and pulls away, I seize her hand, fearing that I may never see her again.

“But where can I find you?”

Strong emotions flicker in Ravenna’s eyes. Worry. Fear. Hope. Finally she says, “If you have need of me, ask for me in the village of Frome to the east. The villagers will tell you where to find my cottage. If you have need of me for any reason at all.”

Frome, I repeat to myself, as Ravenna’s fingers slip from mine, and she returns to tending to the wounded. I’ve never heard of the place, but no doubt there is someone among the dragonriders and wingrunners who has.

I keep working through the long afternoon, taking breaks to feed Sylvi, change her clouts, and then settle her back in her bindings with the help of one or other of the city mothers. My daughter is comfortable sleeping on my back while I work. The elderly and children—those who are not strong enough to move rubble—put out fires and carry drinking water and food to distribute among the workers.

At dusk, Zabriel approaches me with a sweaty brow and his clothes smeared with dust and ash. His long hair is in snarls, but there’s a fierce determination blazing from his red eyes. Hard work always could put him in a better, more hopeful mood, and I can see how the people of Lenhale are drawing strength from him. Still, we haven’t slept, and we will need to rest soon.

“I have heard from the wingrunner scouts that the battle raged only in the capital. The other regions of Maledin are safe, and relief is already pouring into the city. Food. Medical supplies. People who wish to help their fellow Maledinni.”

“That is the best news I’ve heard all day,” I tell my mate. With my heart lightened, I’m able to smile up at Zabriel. “You look just like you did the day you first declared you wanted me as a mate.”

He draws his forearm across his sweaty brow and smiles. “I was this much of a mess? When was that?”

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