Page 8 of The Witch Queen

She nods slowly. “Yes, we have a copy of the book and the drawing. But it’s labeled correctly.” She pulls a large tome from her bag, flicking to a page before handing it over to me. The same crimson and green drawing is depicted, but the label now says, ‘Depiction of the thayar flower found in Thayaria.’

“But…” I prompt her to continue.

“But,” she adds, “his copy is older than our copy. Typically, scholars would assume the oldest copy is the more accurate, as there are less opportunities for translation mistakes. It could just be an error, but we shouldn’t overlook the possibility that it’s correct. If the flower did grow in Velmara, Mazus might’ve found information in Velmara’s archives that explains how it disappeared from Velmara. I’m worried he’s somehow using that information to influence its decline here.”

Silence lingers around us as I process the information. For the last hundred years or so, the magic-enhancing flower has had fewer and fewer blooms. In the last five years, the change has been dramatic. It’s part of the reason the rebels have turned violent and why their recruitment efforts are now more successful. The people are scared what will happen with less access to our most important resource.

“It’s a stretch, but I wouldn’t put it past Mazus. We certainly can’t rule it out,” is all I tell her, not willing to let my own fear show, not even to my closest friend. “We need to see if there are any opportunities to learn more during the Forum. We’ll have to be careful, but I can’t deny this year’s gathering is a good opportunity. You and Admon should see what you can uncover about this while we’re there.” I intentionally leave out my own reasons for suspecting Mazus, as some secrets are too big, even for Nemesia. “And what of the Sons and Daughters of Thayaria?” I ask. “Are you any closer to finding their leaders or intercepting their plans?” Nemesia tenses, avoiding making eye contact. “Neme… tell me,” I command. She sighs, taking another sip of her drink as she returns to her favorite chair.

“They’re growing. This year seems to be a tipping point. People are worried about the declining thayar populations, and the rebels are stoking those fears with claims thatyourmagic is affecting the flowers.” It takes the centuries of practice I’ve had at hiding my emotions to stay silent at that comment, too close to the truth of my own fears. “They’re saying it’s true you practice witchcraft, citing theblood-to-bloodline in the prophecy. There are murmurs that you, and by extension Thayaria, are being punished by the gods.” She pauses, waiting for my reaction. I only nod, my mask of cool indifference firmly in place, gesturing for her to continue. “I had hoped to keep this from you until I found more information, but…” She trails off. I look at her expectantly, tension coiling in my gut. “The Sons and Daughters have been telling new recruits that you used a group of powerful plant channelers to try and help the thayar grow, and that it was unsuccessful.”

I still, the tension in my gut expanding to my shoulders and neck. My mind races, realizing the implications at the same time as Nemesia says, “We have a mole.” Nemesia is tense, eyes staring at mine with fury and fear.

“We were so careful. Only a handful of advisors knew what we were planning, and even they didn’t know the dates or which channelers we used,” I say. My frustration begins to boil over, and I feel the aether building around me. I inhale, locking down the current with practiced control.

“It could have been one of the plant channelers, but they were all loyalists from before the War. Not to mention, I’ve had them all watched by my spies since, and not a single one of them has done anything out of the ordinary. I believe it must be someone on the Council,” she says with grim determination.

“Until we know more, we have to proceed as if the Council is compromised. And wemustensure no one at the Forum knows or finds out about the rebellion or the mole,” I command. Nemesia nods.

“I know you don’t want to consider this, but it might be worth revisiting the rebellion with the Council of Advisors. Even though it’s compromised, the discussion might reveal information about who could be the mole. And not every advisor has betrayed us—there are smart people on the Council who will have good ideas about how to deal with the rebels,” Nemesia suggests, shoulders squared for my reaction to yet another conversation we’ve had many times.

“No. The rebels are after me. This ismyproblem to solve,” I say with no argument in my voice. I won’t ask the Council to fix the results ofmyfailures,myshortcomings as a leader. Not to mention, if there is a mole, I don’t want to give themanyadditional information to pass along to the rebels.

Nemesia looks at me, eyes churning with worry. “I know what you did this morning,” she says softly. “I may not be the Captain of the Royal Guard, but many of them are loyal to me and tell me everything.” When I only give her a challenging look, she sighs. “Did you at least uncover something useful?” My throat tightens, holding back the frustration and pain clawing my insides. I shake my head. Nemesia nods again, standing to leave. She pauses at the door, looking back at me. “I know you blame yourself, El. This isn’t your fault. You are, and have been, a good Queen. The majority of your people know that.”

I say nothing. Guilt and anger surge through me. Regardless of what Nemesia believes, I know that my people wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for me. At the heart of the rebellion’s fears is Thayaria’s isolation from the rest of the world, and that is all on me. I may not have swung the metaphorical blade, but the leader who gives the order is just as culpable.

Laurel

Those who channel the aether through water are considered a lower order of magic users, though this prejudice is unfair to the many practical applications of water channeling. Trade between the four kingdoms would stagnate without their ability to hasten travel by ship or calm raging seas. The strongest of this order can even heal injuries with only the smallest amount of liquid.

The Unabridged History of Magical Orders, Volume I

We make the journey to Delsar for the Forum of Royals in four days—one to travel by horseback from Arberly to the port town of Echosa, and three to travel by sea to the arid and mountainous kingdom of Delsar. The trip would normally take closer to eight days to complete, but with six water channelers, our ship was propelled through the water quickly.

The night we spent at my favorite tavern in Echosa, The Emerald Shell, highlighted for me how much the rebellion has impacted the rural regions of my kingdom. When I’d entered the tavern common room, very few citizens had stood to bow to me—most had instead looked on with skepticism and even loathing. Not that I require my people to fall on their knees in front of me. In fact, I’d prefer they don’t. But this was a reminder that I need to deal with the rebels soon.

Yalla, the shining white capital city of Delsar, gleams as we approach the port. Nemesia sidles up beside me, tension rolling off her body in waves so thick I can sense each time she clenches and unclenches her jaw. Words of comfort won’t help, so I simply point out landmarks I remember from previous visits to help ease her nerves. The white stucco buildings, distinguished by their harsh lines and angular features, are so different from the architecture of Thayaria, where we build into and around the environment. All of Delsar is a desert, and the red cliffs and soil make the city and its white skyline stand out brightly. By the time we dock in the massive port, the smell of fish and brine thick in the air, Nemesia has relaxed and is back to ordering the guards and speaking in hushed murmurs with Admon.

As we disembark from the ship, dock workers all stop and stare. “The Witch Queen,”they whisper as I pass, pointing to me with fear in their gaze. “Stay back.” “Don’t let her look directly in your eyes.” “Hide the children.”I’ve heard them all, and after three hundred years of whispers, I can ignore the barbs, even if they still sting in a place I keep buried beneath my icy exterior.

A tall, bronze woman clad in strips of flowing gossamer fabric in varying shades of pink awaits us. Her eyes are mahogany, with midnight black curly hair framing her face and stopping just above her shoulders. She’s beautiful and severe, the epitome of the fierce warrior the Delsar people are known for. As I approach, she bows respectfully, though her muscles are clenched tightly.

“Welcome, Your Majesty,” she says with forced confidence, “my name is Diaskia. I’m your guide during your stay on Delsar and will do my best to assist you with any requests you may have. Servants are unloading your belongings and will bring them to your rooms in the palace. Your advisors have each been provided with rooms close to yours, and your guards will have sleeping quarters on the same floor. I’ll escort you to the palace.”

“Thank you, Diaskia,” I say, and she stiffens, eyes unable to hide her fear of me. Nemesia takes over the coordination with her. Whether to protect Diaskia or to protect me, I’m unsure.

Diaskia turns to a large cart, carved with colorful depictions of the Delsar landscape and topped by a delicate silk sail. She gestures for us to sit with stiff movements, her fear still written clearly in her body language. When we’re all settled, she raises her hands and channels aether through the air to create a wind that fills the sails and slowly moves the cart along the dusty streets toward the palace. As we travel, she points out architecture or notable buildings. Nemesia’s eyes widen at the training yard and officer’s quarters for the all-female army Delsar is known for. Despite swearing off fighting and military leadership, Nemesia’s a warrior at heart.

When we reach the bleached white palace, massive and embellished with gold and silver accents that top its many towers and spires, Diaskia escorts us through a wing on the western side. Inside, it’s bright and airy, sparsely decorated except for the detailing carved directly on the stone. Battles are depicted alongside festivals and even births, marking a tapestry of Delsarian life. Servants pass us, their eyes widening in shock and then fear when they see me. Some bow before moving away, while others simply keep their head down and walk as quickly away from me as they can.

We reach a massive marble staircase, white but glittering when sunlight from the skylights above hit it. On the fifth floor, we turn left, walking toward a set of double doors inlaid with gold and silver. Diaskia opens them, walking through with my party of advisors and guards following closely behind.

“You should recognize these rooms, Your Majesty,” Diaskia says. “You were given them the last time the Forum of Royals was held in Delsar.”

“I’m sure they’ll be as comfortable this time as they were before,” I say with a smile, hoping to put the warrior at ease. But a few smiles and kind gestures won’t undo centuries of propaganda about the Witch Queen and her dark magic, especially because of my own decision to lean into the persona when it serves me. Diaskia tenses, her desire to leave apparent in the tight posture and darting eyes.

“If your guards and advisors will follow me, I’ll escort them to their rooms and sleeping quarters,” Diaskia says in clipped tones.

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