Page 9 of The Witch Queen

My entourage follows her out, leaving me alone for the first time in days, and I can’t help the sigh of relief that escapes me. Weary from travel and little sleep, I make quick work of cleaning myself and return to the bedroom. Pouring myself a glass of Delsarian wine, I curl up on the bed. Despite my nerves for the next day, the wine and exhaustion lull me into a light doze.

The sleep doesn’t last. The usual nightmares I face in the lead up to seeing King Mazus again wake me before the sun rises. Those haunting green eyes replay in my mind, making me shiver. Even three hundred years later, I still viscerally remember the utter feeling of desperation, fear, and lack of agency as Mazus’s guards pinned me down while he ordered me to slit my own wrists. Still remember the panic of not being in control of my own magic—of knowing that there was no one coming to save me. I take a few deep breaths, taking time to remember that I savedmyself, saved my entire kingdom, all alone. I let that thought bolster me like it always does and whisper affirmations that have become routine.

You are the last defense against Mazus. No one is coming to save you. You must save yourself.

Once the fear and panic pass, I use the extra time to take detailed care of my appearance, braiding my hair into a complex weave that circles the top of my head and doing my makeup with expert precision. The deep emerald dress I select looks almost black until the light hits it just right. It brings out the color of my eyes and pays homage to the verdant landscape of my kingdom. Embroidered with thayar flowers, the flowing layers are designed to keep me cool in the warm climate of Delsar.

I inspect my appearance in the mirror, my bright green eyes staring back at me. Ivory skin stands out starkly against the dark dress and makeup, and I adjust a few auburn coils of hair before delicately placing the crown of gilded laurel and thayar flowers atop the intricate coif.

I can’t keep my mind from wandering to one of my earliest memories. Seated in front of my mother at her own vanity, she had delicately combed the knots out of my hair before braiding it away from my face. Then she placed a real laurel wreath atop my head.

“My sweet Laurel,” she said as she adjusted the wreath. “You’re named after the Thayarian crown. It’s made of gilded laurel as an homage to the foliage that grows so abundantly here. I wanted to give you a name that was worthy of the beautiful and magical life I knew you would live.” Her soft fingers brushed against my cheeks, and she smelled like lavender and sea salt as she leaned down to kiss the top of my head.

The fresh laurel wreath, a Thayarian symbol of spring and the innocence of childhood, felt so light that day. I had worn it proudly, head floating in the clouds with dreams of one day wearing the real thing as I skipped around the palace, showing off my wreath to anyone who passed me by. Now, the crown is yet another reminder of the loss of parents who should have lived another thousand years, a constant sign that I haven’t lived up to their legacy.

Taking several deep breaths, I look at myself in the mirror until I see a queen staring back, fearless and ready to play the role of the terrifying and mad Witch Queen. A role that has kept my people safe from interest in the shrouded, misty kingdom these last centuries.

A knock at the door pulls me out of my deep focus. Nemesia and Admon enter, both dressed in emerald green pant suits that compliment my dress. We make an imposing triad clad in dark clothing and stacked with weapons. Diaskia appears at the door, shoulders tense, and we follow her into the western wing of the palace, the four guards following closely behind.

The hallway is lined with open alcoves overlooking the sea, the blue sparkling against the white framing arches. The chambers the Forum will be held in are on the first level, and soon we enter a large room with a massive circular table in the middle. There are four equally impressive chairs spaced evenly around the table, with smaller chairs on either side for the advisors.

“It appears you’re the first to arrive,” Diaskia says, and she gestures to the closest set of chairs. “You may take a seat when you’re ready. Your guards are to stand against the wall or in the hallway beyond.” With that, Diaskia leaves us.

Nemesia immediately takes charge, ordering two guards to stay in the room and the other two to remain outside and on alert. Admon looks my way and gives me an encouraging smile, his blue eyes twinkling.

“Here we go, Your Majesty,” he jests, and I return the smile, though I imagine it doesn’t reach my eyes. The wounds of the war have scabbed over, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy being forced to make nice with the male who invaded my kingdom and the leaders who did nothing to stop him. Admon’s eyes suddenly harden, and I know who’s entered behind my back. I steel myself, turning cold eyes upon Mazus Vicant.

He hasn’t aged a day since the Battle of Moormyr, that perfectly crafted appearance still as flawless as ever. None but his closest circle know his true age. He was born centuries before even my parents, potentially even before Admon. And yet—he looks as if he could be just out of his adolescence. Yet another mystery of the Golden King.

“Laurel, it is always such a rarepleasureto see you,” he says with a plastered-on smile. I tense for an instant before recovering, noticing his use of my given name and not my title.

Not allowing him to get under my skin, I respond smoothly and cooly. “I wish I could say the same,Mazus.”Now he stills, clearly irked by my own lack of formality and groveling. One of his advisors, an ancient graying male who looks as old as the Four Kingdoms, glances between us, then quickly looks to Admon, before returning his gaze to his King.

“How is Thayaria?” Mazus asks with fake interest. “Still shrouded in mist? Are you ever going to let anyone in or do you intend to isolate yourself for the rest of your long life?”

I bare my teeth in a contemptuous smile. “Why don’t you try to cross the barrier and find out?”

Mazus eyes me coldly, tension roiling in the air between us. Before it can snap, the Queen of Delsar enters, chortling at the scene before her and cutting through the strain instantly. Lobelia Bantsum’s tall frame matches those of the Delsarian warrior women. Her hair is fully gray, though the rest of her bronze body remains strong and toned, the muscles of her arms and abdomen on display in the turquoise cropped, sleeveless top she wears with matching flowing pants. “It’s only been five minutes, and the Witch Queen and Golden King are already at odds. What a surprise,” she says with a twinkle in her eye.

I’ve never known what to think of the Delsarian Queen. She always has an air of knowing more than everyone else in the room, and she probably does, considering she too is over one thousand years old. Age is a closely guarded secret amongst fae. It’s difficult to know which leaders knew one another as adolescents, and Mazus and Lobelia are no different. It’s well known that she loathes the Velmaran King, and the two are always renegotiating trade agreements between their nations, each attempting to get the upper hand on the other. She did not come to Thayaria’s aid during the war, but neither did she aid Velmara.

From my perspective, she’s as culpable as the rest of them. The centuries-long alliance Thayaria once had with Delsar ended the day she decided not to get involved when Mazus invaded my kingdom unprovoked.

I settle into the role she and everyone else expects of me, adding sarcastically, “Your Majesty, you know I can’t resist ruffling Mazus’s feathers a little. Since I can’t practice mydark magichere, I must resort to cheap insults and petty gestures.” Lobelia grins, that knowing look in her eyes once again.

“Ah yes, the dark magic of the Witch Queen, seen by Mazus himself and proclaimed by his messengers across the Four Kingdoms. Too powerful to be left unchecked, he claimed. The reason for his so-called war. How do your witchly pursuits go, Queen Laurel?”

“A witch never reveals her secrets,” I add cheekily before taking my seat, ignoring Mazus’s cold gaze.

Mazus stalks to his chair, taking the one across from me and staring me down with a smug look, and I resist the urge to unleash my actual power on him. I will the room to shake for just a moment to taunt him, and he sends a quick burst of air at my face in response. My eyes narrow and I bare my teeth.

Before things can escalate more with Mazus, the Reshnar leader enters, and all eyes quickly turn to him. Clem Carther is the first human to attend a Forum of Royals. He was elected to the highest leadership position by the Reshnar people three years ago. Mazus glares at him with unguarded contempt, while Lobelia looks at him like she wants to devour him, though in what way I’m unsure. He bows to each of us, before saying, “Your Majesties, it’s my honor to be here for thishistoricalForum ofLeaders.” My eyebrow quirks up.

Clem walks to the open chair to my left and sits, his two advisors—one human, one fae—sitting beside him. All three of them give me a wide berth. The Reshnar human pulls out several rolls of parchment, quills, and even a few books. He’s short and wide, his belly bulging out from his waist-length tunic. The loose trousers and riding boots he wears look like they were purchased just today, the sheen of the boots so bright I can see Admon’s reflection in them. His brown hair is kept short, and he looks to be in his late fifties. While he appears at first glance to be laid back, his brown eyes are sharp and focused. He looks at the three royals around him, then says, “Well, shall we begin? I for one have an unending list of topics to discuss.”

I groan internally. The next three days are going to be dreadfully dull.

“Queen Laurel, if you want to continue receiving grain from Delsar with such low taxes, I’m sorry to say you’re going to need to offer us more shipments of the thayar flower,” Queen Lobelia tells me, the irreverent and mischievous persona from before replaced with a no-nonsense negotiator.

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