Page 18 of The Witch Queen

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” the fae baker says, bowing to me, eyes filled with tears of joy. Today I’m holding court, a monthly open-door session where citizens can petition me or my advisors on any topic. The male currently walking away came because the price of flour has risen significantly, cutting his margins in half. I assured him I would instruct the Chancellor of the food imports sub-committee to look into procuring more grain to increase supply and thus decrease prices for the goods. It should be easy enough to do after the recent Forum negotiations.

The next petitioner is called forward, and I struggle to remain upright and listening. After five hours of this, with another hour to go, my mind wanders often. My parents used to trade off when they held these sessions so that they remained sharp and alert, able to respond to the people with empathy and attentiveness. I don’t have the luxury of a partner, so I acutely feel my aching back and foggy attention.

I take a cursory glance over the crowd. The audience is settled on benches in a half-moon shape that take up most of the chamber floor, and a large walkway splits the room in two. At the beginning of the day, the seats were nearly at capacity, filled with companions of the petitioners, guards, and curious onlookers. However, as the day droned on, and the list of scheduled citizens dwindled, so had the crowd. I start to turn my head back to the center of the room, when a silver glint catches my eye. I do a double take, concerned a weapon has been brought into the room. But I find nothing—it must have been the buckle of a belt.I’m getting tired.

“Your Majesty, thank you for seeing me,” a petite woman I recognize as a seamstress from Arberly says. She looks nervous, hands clasped in front of her and shoulders hunched. “I’m afraid I bring upsetting news. My shop burned down in a fire two weeks ago after my apprentice left a candle burning. Many water channelers aided me in putting out the flames, but all of my fabrics and works in progress were burned. I have no means of procuring additional fabrics to fulfill my current orders, nor can I take any new clients. I am, as they say, destitute. I’ve come today to ask for a small business loan to purchase new materials. I will of course pay it back. You may not remember, but I’ve made several gowns for you. I hope the quality of my work shows that I’m fully capable of getting my business back on track.” When she finishes, she bows again.

“Of course, I remember your dresses, and your shop, Alyss,” I say, smiling at her. Her eyes widen in surprise when I use her name, but I make it a point to remember every single person who has ever worked for me, even if it takes me hours and hours of studying briefs made for me by advisors and servants. After I watched a guard of mine die during the war, and couldn’t recall her name, I vowed that I would never forget a name again, and I haven’t. “We have the small business fund for situations just like these. If the loan is paid back within three months, we charge no interest. The Chancellor who oversees the program, Aria, will walk you through the terms and assist you through the process. Please, follow her to one of the meeting rooms in the back.”

“Oh, thank you, Your Majesty,” Alyss says, tears building in her eyes. She wipes them away, then bows again before following Aria. I stretch my neck, then motion for the next petitioner.

While the next person pleads their case, my eyes wander to the specter who has sat in the back of the chambers all day, barely moving, his presence putting me on edge as I wait for him to make a move. While most wouldn’t see him due to the light bending around him, the focused and sustained current of aether pooling in one place makes him light up like a beacon in the night to my trained eyes. And once I notice the massive gathering of magic, it’s easy for me to peer through it at the person standing within its blaze.

It’s been two weeks since the three ambassadors arrived in Thayaria. By all accounts, they’ve been kept busy by my advisors. And relegating the Thayarian ambassadors to the Council has also kept the advisors busy, giving me more time to search for the mole’s identity. So far, I’ve had no luck, but I’m not giving up. I’ll find that mole, even without Nemesia’s help.

The specter stretches his arms above his head, bored by the daily workings of my kingdom. Interestingly, it’s not the Shining Prince, or at least I don’t think it is. The massive male who stands there has bronze eyes and blonde hair, and descriptions of Prince Hawthorne mention the olive, mossy green eyes that match his father’s. This must be one of the courtiers the Prince brought with him—Fionn, if I remember the name correctly. I’m reluctantly impressed with Prince Hawthorne’s ability to not only light bend around someone other than himself—from another room, no less—but to sustain it for this long. Rumors of his power appear to be true.

The jolt of energy that surged back through me as the Velmaran group entered Thayaria crosses my mind for the hundredth time this week. I don’t often part the mist for those entering Thayaria, and I’ve never done it for outsiders, but I’ve never felt anything like that. It was as if the magic that makes up the mist wasexcitedbut also settled and content. I could swear it had whispered to me, words that I don’t want to examine too closely.

Admon coughs, drawing my attention back to the petitioner in front of me. This time it’s a burly human, stocky, and covered in tattoos. Humans are welcome to attend, and I have several human advisors, but they aren’t frequent visitors of these particular court days. Because they often have very different issues than the fae, and because despite all of our efforts, humans and fae have a strained relationship at times, we offer separate court days for humans.

The man recounts the story of a human village fifty miles from here called Rusthelm that has fallen victim to an illness. Almost all the villagers are sick. They’re desperate, explaining the human’s willingness to appear during the fae court day. As he pleads, I once again notice a shining glint out of the corner of my eye, but when I turn my head in that direction, there’s nothing there. My legs grow restless, and I struggle to pay attention to the man, mind wandering and body aching where it meets the hard and cold chair I sit upon.

“Your Majesty, we’d be so grateful if you could send healers to our village. We need to be able to take care of the children, and almost everyone is too sick,” he says. “I’m one of the only adults who has not fallen ill.”

“Of course,” I respond. “Healers will be sent immediately.” He bows low, thanking me profusely as I scan the room for the next petitioner.

There’s no one left, and my stomach coils with uneasiness. While I’m grateful to finish early, we rarely do. Most court days we have to turn the people away and tell them to come back again later, even after we go hours past the scheduled end time. The lack of citizens gives me pause. Perhaps the Velmaran in the back of the room is planning something, hoping to catch me off guard. Unfortunately for him, I don’t plan to wait around and find out.

“And what about you, Velmaran? Do you have anything to petition me for?” I ask as I obliterate the light surrounding Fionn so that he’s visible to the whole room. He freezes, eyes locked on me in fear and panic. The warrior clearly did not expect to be seen or have the magic hiding him removed. The room around him is just as surprised, judging by the gasps and murmurs that echo through the space.

I wrap Fionn in vines, pinning him to the wall as I study the crowd’s reaction, looking for any threat in the room. Almost everyone has stilled, unsure how to react. A group of several fae males have their shoulders squared off, gazes locked on me with what looks like a predatory gleam. My eyes return to Fionn, sure I’ll find him eyeing that group with a knowing look. But he only stares at me in shock, nothing else—not even a glimmer of annoyance or frustration that a plan has gone awry. Another glint of metal catches my attention from behind me, and when I turn this time four fae males stand there with swords and daggers.

How did they get past the guards? Weapons aren’t allowed in the palace by citizens, and every person is supposed to be thoroughly checked by the Royal Guard before they are let into these chambers. I’m furious, ready to demand they be removed and the guards be punished for their lapse in protocol, when the ground shakes beneath me. The room goes deathly silent. Even Fionn freezes in his trap of vines.

I scan the room closely, not sure what has caused the shaking. Fionn looks confused, but the fae with weapons only grin. The shaking intensifies as my eyes find Admon’s across the room, his own expression furrowed. All the other advisors look concerned and afraid, not a single one of them giving away their own potential involvement.

I barely have time to shield my advisors and myself before the room explodes in bright light and a roaring boom. Despite the magical shield, I’m knocked to the ground, banging my head against the sharp corner of my chair. Ears ringing, I struggle to focus my eyes. Admon slumps in his chair, and at least three other advisors are catatonic next to him. I stumble as I attempt to stand, but a second blast knocks me back down. Unsure what’s happened and head throbbing, I can’t concentrate on the scene around me. Shapes and bodies blur across my vision while I fight the fogginess of my mind to make sense of them.

High pitched screams finally pierce through the haze of my confusion, and it brings me out of my stupor. I clear away the thick smoke that has gathered in the hall with my magic. Unconscious bodies cover the floor, dark crimson blood sprayed across the walls and ceiling. The sharp metallic scent of blood fills my nostrils as I inhale. Limbs have been severed, and those still conscious moan or scream their pain. Velmara—or whoever is responsible—will pay for their deaths. The combination of sounds and smells transports me back to the war, to the endless bodies that fell and the blood that constantly lingered around the war camp. But I don’t crumple in fear—not this time.

Instead, I stand and gather magic around me as I seek out the source of the chaos, sure it’s the Velmaran. But he remains immobilized in the back, pinned by vines and fighting to get out of their grip. With a roar, he breaks through the vise of ivy binding him with sheer strength and immediately begins helping people get out of the room. I’m about to kill him, slice through his neck with whatever weapon I can summon, when I notice him pick up a limp Alyss and carry her to safety. Were the Velmarans involved in this attack at all, or is it just a coincidence the warrior was here today? The frustration of not being able to act, unable to identify who to rage against for this violence, nearly tears me apart. My ire builds and builds, until the room shakes with my own magic. A gathering group in the center of the room catches my attention, distracting me from my anger for a brief moment.

A dozen Thayarian citizens, humans and fae alike, march toward me, all armed. The fae gather their magic to them. They’ve detonated some kind of magical bomb and are preparing to launch another. Before I can confront them, Royal Guards have surrounded the group of rebels with a windy spray of water. Two fae raise their hands and aerstep the guards to the other side of the room. They slam into the stone wall with a crack that makes me nauseous, bodies slumping to the ground. Swords that litter the ground lift and hurl toward the unconscious guards. They’re impaled as I scream for healers to help them. Despite my frustration with the Royal Guard’s failure today, the guilt of their deaths will haunt me. The blonde Velmaran runs into the fray, fighting the Thayarian attackers with the practiced ease of a well-trained warrior and saving several citizens from their blows.That’s interesting.

Suddenly, a dagger flies toward me, the hum of the aether-directed blade unmistakable even in the noisy room. I shatter it into hundreds of pieces that fly in all directions. The eyes of a red-haired assailant widen in shock. He’s tall, his red hair shoulder-length and framing dark blue eyes. I force the air from his lungs, choking him just long enough to send a message before I release him and leave him panting on the ground.

Using my magic to summon a sword into my hand, I stalk toward the group of assailants. Dewy mist collects around me and a strong wind whips my hair out of its braid. With each step, I pull more magic to me, careful that I only use magic connected to a conduit affinity. Water and light churn in a cyclone that I hurl at the group of fae, trapping them behind a wall of elemental magic.

Pointing the sword at the closest fae to me, I demand, aether barely lacing my voice, “Who sent you?” When they don’t answer, I repeat myself, this time with so much magic in my voice that they’re forced to their knees, my hesitation to use the aether-voice gone in my fury that they would attack me. Everyone in the room cowers from the commanding magic, and as the terrified expressions of my people reach me, a pang of guilt and shame washes over me. I push it down, determined to deal with my emotionsafterthis attack is stopped. “Who sent you? Was it Velmara? Answer me, or I’ll kill you where you stand.” The room shakes with my power not my voice echoing with an other-worldly reverberation. My eyes cut back to the Velmaran, who has halted in his tracks and gone to his own knees, staring me down with a mixture of fear and awe.

The red-haired male looks at me, hatred burning in his eyes. “No one sent us,” he spits out. “We’re here for ourselves.” He stands and spreads his arms wide. “We’re the Sons and Daughters of Thayaria, and we won’t be stopped. Your reign of witchcraft is over!” Dozens of swords and daggers rise up around me, the sharp blades cutting through the air with a zing. He’s a strong metal channeler. Probably one of the strongest in Thayaria, since the trait isn’t commonly found here. The weapons point toward my heart, but I only smile, vicious and feral.Let him try and touch me.

The moment the weapons move, I obliterate them with a single thought. No shards are even left behind, a light dust falling to the ground the only evidence they ever existed. I sigh inwardly at the slip in my cover, but move forward, hoping to distract the room from the magic I just displayed with more conduit-based magic. Vines creep through the windows and wrap themselves around the group of rebels, pinning them down in a drapery of green. The tendrils wrap several times around the head of the man who spoke, covering his mouth so he cannot speak.

“Guards,” I command the group of Royal Guards who have arrived, Carex at their head. “First, bring all the palace healers in here and help those who are injured. These vines will hold the rebels, so take your time.” I smirk. “Then, escort thesetraitorsto the dungeon and chain them up. I’ll take care of them, in due time. Carex—I expect a full investigation report from you on why the Royal Guards allowedarmedcivilians into this chamber.” Carex blanches, but nods as he and his soldiers begin to act on my orders.

I stalk up to the rebel group and lower my voice, so only a few of them sitting closest to me can hear. “You’re going to see just what mywitchcraftcan do.” With one final pulse of magic, I squeeze the plants harder around them before turning away and pinning the Velmaran spy in place with another web of vines.

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