Page 22 of The Witch Queen

A Brief History of Modern Thayaria

What an insufferable prick, I think as I throw my magic against the wall of mist off the northern coast.A lazy, entitled drunk. Everything I’ve heard about him is true.

I was seated at my desk, reading the morning missives, when a servant knocked on the door. Hands trembling, she handed me a folded piece of parchment withHer Majesty Queen Laurelwritten across the front in small, blocky script.

“Who is this from?” I demanded. “Why was it not delivered with the regular post?” I immediately regretted my harshness when the woman stuttered out her apologies. It isn’t her fault that when I go too long without letting out my magic, I get a little testy. And I was beyondtestythis morning, sitting there running my mind over everything I needed to fix. Alone.

“It’s from the Velmaran Court, Your Majesty. I found it on their table when I delivered the breakfast tray to them this morning. I showed it to Sir Admon, and he requested I bring it to you straight away. I don’t know which of the three wrote it, ma’am,” the poor girl had barely whispered out.

“Thank you, you were right to bring this to me. Forgive me, I was unfamiliar with the handwriting.” She left, and I ripped the letter open, unable to contain my curiosity.

Prince Hawthorne had written me a letter, demanding that I extendcommon courtesyand meet with him and his court. He’d also written several thinly veiled threats, hinting that if he continued to be pushed aside to advisors, he would write to his father, requesting to leave and citingThayaria’s unwillingness to take any steps toward reconciliation.He had concluded the missive with,After yesterday’s upsetting events, I would hate for news of Thayaria’s internal struggles to cause my father to doubt the value in paying increased prices for thayar imports.

I would never allow a letter like that to leave the kingdom, and I have of course been monitoring his correspondence… But there’s always the possibility that Mazus has other ways of communicating with his son, and I certainly don’t want the King of Velmara finding out about the political tension in Thayaria.

As soon as I read the letter, I aerstepped to the northern coast of Thayaria, generally known as The Spined Moors. It’s the only place safe enough for me to practice my magic, especially when I’m this riled up from both the missive and yesterday’s attack. Massive, jagged bluffs dot the landscape, the pointed peaks so unlike the soft rolling hills near Arberly, though they’re hard to see this close to the coast and the mist barrier. Everything is hazy here, giving it an ominous look. With very few inhabitants, the region is wild, but something about it always feels like home.

The isolated and inaccessible region has been my magical refuge since I was nine years old and started displaying magic never seen before. My parents had lectured me relentlessly about keeping the true depth of my magic a secret, requiring that if I were to truly practice with my leymaster, Admon, we travel here. Admon and I spent countless hours out here, away from civilized society and keeping the secret my parents were so afraid to reveal to anyone.

With an exhale, I dig my feet into the soil beneath me and force myself to home in on the magical current of aether I feel coursing all around me. Most of that magic is concentrated in the leylines that cross the world, thoughIcan sense aether in everything. It’s why I can tell that the magic of Thayaria is declining along with the thayar. The decreasing blooms of the flower that defines my kingdom is the symptom of a much larger problem that I haven’t told anyone about, not even Nemesia. I’m probably the only fae alive who can sense that less and less aether now rolls across Thayaria, and it terrifies me. I don’t know what’s caused it, but I fear it’s my fault. The mist barrier I erectedmusttake massive amounts of aether to sustain itself, and I worry it’s slowly draining Thayaria of its magic. It’s the most logical explanation.

I draw in as much as I can bear to hold, even though I fear that any massive expenditures of magic will further exacerbate the decline. Then I focus my intentions on the misty barrier a dozen yards away off the coast. With a shrill shriek, I hurl magic at the murky wall like I’ve done countless other times, my thoughts concentrated on permanently lifting its protection. The air around me crackles, the sky illuminating with streaks of lightning. The mist shimmers like I’ve never seen before, and for a wonderful, exhilarating moment, I think I’ve finally done it, finally lifted the curse of the mist off the backs of the Thayarian people.

And then the current settles, the magic returns to the leylines of aether running through Thayaria, and my hope is crushed again. I sigh, knowing I should have known better. It’s been three hundred years since that fateful day in the war with Velmara, and despite all my efforts, I still cannot lift the mist that may be leeching my kingdom dry of its magic.

I want to sag in defeat and let my body crumple with the shame I feel. Instead, I go through my usual exercises, mostly ones I developed with Admon to help me with control. I gather aether again, my skin humming with the buzz of power, then force myself to release it without expending any of it, directing it back into the leylines around me. Then I focus on leylines as far away as I can sense, forcing myself to ignore the thrum of energy from the nearby threads. I wrench aether across thousands and thousands of miles into my body. With that magic, I call the tiniest spark of fire into my palm and maintain it, only allowing the smallest drip of magic to seep into its blaze. Without training, my magic is like a battering ram or a dam lifted for the first time in decades. On instinct, aether wants to pour out of me in massive amounts, more than most fae can evenfathom, much less survive channeling. Practicing control and releasing small amounts of aether ensures that when it really matters, when my emotions are heightened and I’m reacting on instinct, I don’t blow a massive hole in whatever structure surrounds me, or worse. I train to make absolutely certain that I don’t have another incident like the one that erected the mist ever again.

I repeat these exercises, among others, for hours, careful that I limit the aether I let pour into me. I’m afraid that if I go too far, I’ll topple whatever delicate balance still exists in the magic around me. I practice until I’m shaking with exhaustion and an icy sweat coats my brow, a punishment for what I’ve forced my people to endure. Most fae eventually tire when using large amounts of magic—the ability to channel aether is not limitless, even for me. I just have a much higher tolerance than others, able to go hours without tiring. But that’s not what makes me so exhausted today. My magic is getting harder to use and even harder to control. Something about it isheavyafter training all morning. The feeling isn’t new—for the last several decades, I’ve felt the burden of my magic physically, and it’s been progressively getting worse. I have this burningneedinside of me to exert my magic, to take it to its limits and then keep pushing. Yet when I do that, like today, I feel completely broken afterward—like I’m made up of a series of pieces delicately stitched together, and the seams are fraying. Whether that’s because something is happening to my magic, or I’m just incredibly stressed and my magic is reacting, I cannot say. But I worry what will happen when those threads that keep me contained burst open.

Drinking deeply from a water skin before sitting down, I pull the letter out of my bag and read it again, trying to parse real threats from grandstanding. What I know of the Prince’s rash and raffish personality don’t align with the carefully crafted intimidation in this letter. They certainly don’t align to the display of power I saw from him during the court session. He’s supposed to be uninterested in anything other than drinking and meeting his next conquest, incapable of this level of political maneuvering.

I need to meet him.I huff out a dry laugh. If he wants to meet theWitch Queen, then he shall meet her. I gather my things and aerstep myself back to my room, limbs heavy and body aching all over. Sitting down at my desk, I pen a reply to the Prince.

Your Royal Highness, Prince Hawthorne, Ambassador of Velmara,

Allow me to extend my deepest condolences for not meeting your expectations of diplomatic propriety. I fear I have never been exposed to Velmaran customs on the matter of emissaries, as my last and only meaningful encounter with your kingdom was the war between our two peoples. While I do meet with your father the King on occasion as required by the Forum of Royals, I confess those to be unhappy affairs in which the conventions of ambassador relations have never been discussed. When I agreed to this arrangement with His Majesty King Mazus, there were no terms set out regarding my attentiveness. I am highly doubtful that your father meets regularly with my emissary in Velmara. Nevertheless, I will agree to a meeting with you, if only to demonstrate to you my commitment to upholding the spirit of this agreement. When you write to your father, I expect I will see assurances of your happiness in Thayaria when I review such correspondence. My advisors will arrange our audience. In the meantime, please do feel free to alert me if the tediousness of ambassador work proves to be too much for you, and I shall direct my advisors to keep you entertained with more pleasurable activities.

Yours truly,

Her Majesty, Queen Laurel of Thayaria

I fold the parchment, address it to theVelmaran Ambassador—not the Prince—then seal it with my signet. I place the envelope in the bin reserved for outgoing messages and push the haughty prince from my mind.

Two days later, I’ve selected a black flowing dress that dips low between my breasts, revealing cleavage and the soft skin of my stomach. It’s low in the back as well, gathering at my waist with a velvet sash that lays delicately over the semi-transparent black gossamer that trails the floor. My thick thighs are on full display through the gauzy material, and I’ve sheathed a ceremonial dagger on my thigh, visible through the dress. The velvet bodice is embroidered with thayar flowers in deep mahogany, and the thin straps that go over my shoulders resemble twisting black vines. It borders on improper, and I’d never wear something like this to hold court, but for an appearance as the Witch Queen, it will do nicely. TheShining Princewill learn he should be careful what he asks for.

I’ve even allowed attendants to do my hair, and the auburn locks flow in waves down my back under the laurel and thayar crown. My eyes are lined in thick kohl, and I wear maroon lip paint. The female staring back at me in the mirror looks feral, and my lips turn up in a simpering smirk.I even wear a ring that is sharp enough to pierce skin, hoping his eyes are keen enough to see it and assume I use it to draw blood for myspells.

Let him think me the Witch Queen, blood mage and terrifying sorceress.

Lunaria stalks over to me, nuzzling her head against my leg. “Want to go with me to terrify some Velmarans?” I ask. Her eyes glow with understanding, as eager as I am to don this mask.

Instead of walking down the endless stairs that I absolutely loathe to reach the throne room, I aerstep myself and Lunaria to the small chamber behind the hulking mass of vines and flowers that make up the Thayarian throne. It’s rarely used, as I hate the formality and imposing feel of the space. I hold court days in smaller, less formal receiving chambers. But for this meeting, I’ll make an exception. Lunaria stretches her front legs, then her back legs, before turning to me, eyes bright and menacing. Just before I enter, an idea strikes, and I will the massive space beyond to fill with an eerie mist. I dim the lights as well, then enter the throne room.

The magical adjustments have worked, and the space is ominous. Dark green marble floors line the room, glittering in the dim and misty light. The stone walls are covered in ivy, and several potted plants line the walls. I coax the ivy to slither across the floor and will the metal ivy on the throne to do the same. Admon catches my eye from the chairs that have been set up for a handful of advisors and gives me a twinkling look as I prowl toward the throne, Lunaria at my side. She looks terrifying in this environment, her sleek black coat and golden yellow eyes a warning to any who might cross me. I sit on the cold throne, and she stands at attention by my feet, gazing out at the room.

“Bring them in,” I order, waving my hand in a dismissive fashion. Two guards open the massive, gilded doors that swing outward to reveal the three Velmarans, who walk in and bow deeply. The Prince stands in front, his onyx hair swept back from his face and perfectly messy. I tense at the sight of his familiar eyes, the same green-brown color that haunts my dreams even still. Searching his face for other similarities to the King of Velmara, I realize he’s remarkably handsome, just like his father. He has a strong jawline and full lips, though the effect is alluring rather than off-putting like Mazus. He’s tanned, like most Velmarans, and keeps his dark beard trimmed short.

Wearing a fitted suit of deep red, the gold accents shining in the light with what I suspect is his doing, he cuts a striking figure. Tall, muscular, and confident, I understand why he has a reputation for charming females and males—women and men—alike. His posture is effortless, like he belongs in any room he walks into, and something about his presence… energizes me. I shift in my seat slightly at the feeling. His eyes widen in surprise for only a moment before recovering.

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