Crown of Darkness

by Bec McMaster

  A little pit of terror curdles in my veins as she catches my gaze.

  And then she leans back, and she’s merely a hooded woman with dangerously red lips and a smile that knows the fate of the world.

  “We are all capable of becoming monsters for the ones we love, little queen. Even you.”

  “I am no monster.”

  “If you want to destroy your mother, then you must become the thing she fears,” she says in a merciless voice.

  I rub my hands over my arms. “My mother fears nothing.”

  “Your mother fears many things. Think, Iskvien.”

  I open my mouth to say my husband’s name, but it’s not fear she feels for him so much as hatred.

  So I think of everything my mother has ever done. The books she has burned, the border lords she has crushed, the way she stole the children of all those who opposed her and “raised” them safely within her court.

  “She fears the power of men,” I whisper. “She fears the past.”

  A slight nod.

  But it’s not enough.

  I am not my mother’s past, I am….

  It strikes me then, what my mother is most afraid of.

  Her future.

  Her downfall.

  Her ruin.

  “She fears… herself,” I whisper. “A young, ambitious princess with the power to overthrow her.” The shock of it lances through me. The way my mother loved me once. The way her heart grew colder with every passing year, until she was favoring my sister over me and pitting us against each other….

  She loved me and then she didn’t anymore, and I never knew why.

  I never knew what I had done to displease her so.

  And it all began in my eleventh year, when my magic first came in.

  “Your mother fears a younger, more powerful queen,” the Mother of Night says with knowing eyes.

  “But I wasn’t powerful! My fae magic is weak, and—”

  “You made yourself weak,” she says coldly, “to appease a woman who would never love you. And while she may not have known what sort of changeling was placed in her womb, she knew enough to fear you. Power stirs within you, little queen. The kind of power that can make the ground tremble beneath your feet and the oceans writhe. And every time your mother looks at you, she sees a hint of it, although she doesn’t quite know why you make her uneasy or why she should fear you.”

  It’s one revelation after another.

  And it feels like she stabbed me through the heart and my body is only just starting to realize the injury it took.

  “If you wish to destroy your mother,” the Mother continues, “then you must become the future she fears. You must become a dark queen full of ambition and power. You must rise. And you must crush the little girl inside you who still calls for her mother.”

  I press the heels of my hands to my brow. It’s too much to consider. I breathe a wretched laugh. “I came here to find answers, and you leave me with this?”

  “You came here because you know the answers, but you don’t want to face them.”

  I lower my hands. “I wish I’d never made that bargain with you.”

  “Do you?” She arches a brow. “Never regret, Iskvien. Regret is the weakness that chokes the mighty. Your husband was fated to die three months ago. Your mother would be settling his crown on her head as we speak, as her armies sweep through the southern kingdoms. One thing averted fate. You. Your choice. Your bargain. You are the child of destiny, Iskvien. No fate can ever be set in stone with you walking through the world.”

  “I will not free you and your kind!”

  “Come,” she says, pushing to her feet. “I think you need to see something.”

  I stare at her back as she walks away from me. Did she even hear me? Or does she simply not care what I said?

  The island reaches a precipice, and it’s there at the top that we find an enormous well, filled with fog and glistening lights. It’s even colder up here, and I swear some of those lights pause in their slow circling of the misty waters as if they sense they’ve caught my attention.

  I remember everything my childhood nurse, Nanny Redwyne, told me.

  Don’t look to the lights.

  Don’t let them know you can see them.

  Don’t listen to their whispers.

  “Let me show you who the monsters truly are,” the Mother of Night says, holding out her hand.

  I eye it like she’s gifting me with a snake. “No. A thousand times no. I’m not entering that water.”

  “You want to know the truth about me and my kind? These are the waters of the past. And they will show you what you wish to see. You want to know me and my kind, Iskvien? Then open your eyes.”

  I steel myself.

  On one hand: Don’t look to the lights. On the other: Know thy enemy.

  I stare at her hand for a long time.

  “Promise me thrice that no harm will befall me and that you will lead me out of those waters safely within the hour. And then you will release me back into my own world.”

  The Mother smiles.

  And then she promises.

  Thrice.

  The second the fog closes over our heads, the darkness of the cave vanishes. Every step makes that chill water creep higher, until my lungs clench in shock and I can’t quite get my breath.

  A hand closes over my head, and then the Mother shoves me under, and just before I open my mouth to scream, I stagger into a new world.

  A figure sits by the fire, wearing a crown woven of iron thorns and little daggers. He’s playing a woodland flute, and in front of him, dozens of dancers leap and twirl. I see the little horns in their hair and the cloven feet on some of them. Otherkin. Worshipping in a Hallow somewhere.

  “When the fae arrived in Arcaedia, they named us monsters,” the Mother of Night muses as she stares at her kind, “and our words and customs were twisted until we became monsters who deserved to be slaughtered. But these were my children, little queen. They knew love. They knew kindness. They knew peace and happiness. Until your forebears arrived.”

  I swallow hard. “There were blood sacrifices—”

  “There were.” Her eyes darken. “The land requires blood to power the Hallows. Have you not felt them weakening?”

  A queasy feeling fills me. “That is wrong.”

  “Is it? Some were chosen by their people,” she continues. “And some volunteered, seeking a better life for their loved ones.”

  “Volunteered?” It sounds like a cleaner way of saying “were manipulated.”

  “Tell me,” she says coldly, “is it any cleaner a death when your mother sends prisoners to the Abyss? Can you vouch for all of her victims? Are they all evil? Are they all guilty? Are none of them mere victims of happenstance—or worse, your mother’s whim?” She leans forward. “Innocents die, Iskvien, and they die at your mother’s hand. Is that any better than a sacrifice made to still the lands? You know not of what you speak.

  “The seelie cut down our forests. They murdered my children and took their sacred Hallows from them. They bred them and forced them into mines to work, and still it wasn’t enough.” The Mother towers over me. “Was it wrong of me to demand vengeance? Was it wrong of me to risk everything I had—all my power, all my lands—to go to war against your filthy brethren?”

  She shakes her head and laughs, a hollow, echoing sound. “History belongs to the victor, and what is truth when lies serve your purpose so much better? Have you ever read a book that was written before the wars? I can answer that for you—no. Because your mother’s ancestors burned everything they could get their hands on that countered the lies they told, and then your mother finished the job. Do you know why they call me the Mother of Night?”

  I can’t speak.

  “Who do you think my children turned to when their babies lay weakened and barely breathing in their arms? Who do you think midwives and mothers begged for mercy when their children struggled to be born? Who do you think breathed a single pr
ecious mouthful of power into weakened lungs so their children would survive?” She bows her head and stares at her hands. “When I was mortal, I was the one they turned to when children struggled to be born. I was life incarnate. I was the spark of light in the darkness of the night.”

  “When you were mortal?”

  There’s another dangerous smile. “I was born into this world as you were, little queen. My heart beat and I felt blood rush through my veins, just as you do. But there was Old Blood in my veins, and my father’s seed bled power. For every whispered thanks, I grew in strength. For every prayer that begged for mercy, I could feel the earth starting to stir beneath my feet. You speak of sacrifice? When I made that long, slow walk down to the Hallow in what you now call Mistmere, I could feel the cold stone beneath my feet and my people’s eyes upon me as they begged the old gods to accept my sacrifice and restore the lands. I can still feel the kiss of the knife across my throat.” Her fingertips brush the hollow of her collarbone as if she senses it now. “The Hallow took my mortality, but it gave me something so much more. My blood and my life bound me to the lands, and I finally realized what I was destined to be. I was no longer leanabh an dàn, I was immortal and the champion of my people.”

  She lifts her head proudly. “You and I are not so different. All we want to do is protect our own. That’s all I want. And I cannot protect them from here.”

  “You’re lying.”

  She would say anything to get me to free her kind.

  “Free me,” she says, “and I will protect those of my people who are scattered across the continent. Free me, and I will stand at your side when you go to war against your mother. Free me, and I will not falter. I will be the ally you need to stand against the darkness that is coming.”

  “Free you and start a war? There has been peace for five hundred years!”

  “Peace for whom?” she demands. “Your kind? Or mine?”

  I swallow.

  There are otherkin out there still, hidden in the forests. We rarely see them—they stick to the north, to unseelie, where they are safe—but I know they still exist.

  Sometimes my mother displays their heads on pikes along the castle walls, though it’s rare to see one in Asturia.

  And my stomach twists, because the only otherkin I have ever seen were murdered by my mother.

  “We are as much a part of you as the fae are,” she says coldly. “You disappoint me, Iskvien. Your people need you, and yet you turn your back.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You are.”

  I shake my head. I can’t trust her. I can’t. She would say anything to be free of this prison world.

  But what if she’s telling the truth?

  What do I do?

  If I free her, then everything that the Seelie Alliance fought so hard for five hundred years ago will be undone. I need to talk to Thiago. He was there. He faced their armies. He faced the Old Ones and the otherkin and the unseelie.

  “Take me back,” I tell her.

  “Not yet.”

  I turn to go. I can feel the power of the Hallow. This isn’t her prison world, though she can clearly access the Hallow. She has no power over me here.

  “You wanted to know who your father was?” she calls, and despite myself, my steps slow. “Then I will give you a gift. He was once called Arion, many a moon ago, when he was still mortal. And he too yearns to be freed for more than two nights a year. You could know him, Iskvien. Your mother may have turned from you, but she’s not the only line you come from.”

  I can’t let her keep speaking.

  This is only manipulation.

  She’s been in my head; she knows what lies in my heart.

  “Wake up,” I whisper, closing my eyes and drawing on my power. “Wake up.”

  And then the shock of feeling like my head is being forced underwater makes me gasp. I see a Hallow emblazoned with torches. I feel a hand pressing me to my knees as the crowd writhes and chants. And I see the priest come forward with a knife in his hand and a bowl of polished stone to catch my blood.

  I barely have time to realize I’m not in my head—I’m in hers—and then I lift my chin and stare proudly at the priest.

  “Make it swift,” I whisper. “Let me see my family again.”

  And the priest nods behind his feathered mask and steps behind me.

  I don’t see the knife.

  But I feel it as it slashes across my throat and spills my lifeblood to the ground of the Hallow.

  I sit up with a gasp, palms slapping against the cold stone floor of the Hallow in Ceres, even as the Mother of Night’s laughter echoes in my ears.

  You could know him, Iskvien….

  A line of fire burns across my throat, but when I clamp my hand there, there’s no blood. Merely the ghostly sensation of a knife being drawn across my skin, and a part of me realizes she gave me one last gift: The gift of her final mortal memory.

  Every inch of me shakes, and I can’t hide the tremble in my hands.

  My mother, the otherkin, my father….

  I don’t even know what to believe anymore.

  Except that I am dripping wet and my clammy nightgown clings to my skin. “Definitely not imagining it,” I whisper to myself.

  “Not imagining what?”

  Soft footsteps echo up the last few stairs of the stairwell as I shove to my feet, and then Thiago slinks into the light, his eyes watchful and a frown on his brow as he watches the last of the Hallow’s glyphs fade.

  “Vi?” There’s a wealth of questions in that one word. “What are you doing down here? Why are you wet?” The muscle in his jaw throbs. “Where have you been?”

  “I was trying to find answers.”

  “Answers to what?” he snaps, gesturing me to step free of the Hallow, as if he’s afraid to step over the lines marked in the floor. “You went to her, didn’t you?”

  “I need to know how to defeat my mother,” I whisper. “And I thought… the crown—”

  “Forget the fucking crown,” he explodes. “What in the Underworld were you thinking? The Mother of Night has trapped you once. You don’t have the power in her world. If she locks you away down there….”

  I push past him, my bare feet slapping on the cold stone and my heart racing in my ears. “Something is happening to me and I don’t understand it. You can’t explain it to me. But she can. And maybe, just maybe, if I learn to control these new gifts, I might be able to save Lysander.”

  Thundering down the stairs I head toward our rooms, hearing his feet behind me.

  “I said Lysander will wait,” he calls. “Hexes take time to unravel.”

  I spin on him. “Do you not think I know that? Me? I feel like I fight for every memory I unearth. It’s been months and I’m still unravelling myself, Thiago. What if he never recovers?”

  He pauses in front of me. “He will recover. It took him years to break free of the Grimm’s hold over him. He can break through your mother’s twisted little games.”

  I lean my back against the wall. “I hate seeing Baylor like this.”

  “Promise me you will be patient,” he says. “Promise me you won’t go to see her again.”

  Our eyes meet.

  “I can’t make that promise.”

  “Vi, she can trap you there forever.”

  I press the heels of my palms to my eyes. “She doesn’t want to trap me. She wants to be free. She said—”

  “She’s a monster!”

  We are all capable of becoming monsters for the ones we love….

  “And so am I.” I wrap my arms around myself.

  Heat flares in his eyes. “Is that what this is about? You’re not a monster. You’re—”

  “Half Old One,” I point out. “If you think her a monster, then what does that make me?”

  The muscle in his jaw flexes. “It makes you my wife. And it’s not her power and heritage that makes her dangerous. You’re nothing like her, Vi.”

  He doesn’t understan
d. Not truly.

  “Promise me you will tell me before you contact her again. So I can get you out, if she won’t let go of you.”

  It’s a reasonable deal, and if I wasn’t so tired I wouldn’t have pushed him so far. “I promise,” I whisper, reaching up to kiss his cheek.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Come,” Thiago says, three days later, lifting his hand to mine.

  I glance up from the candle flame I’ve been making dance over the tabletop. He insists I learn to control my newfound powers. “Where are we going?”

  “I want to show you something,” he says.

  “What?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Can I not have one surprise?”

  Lights suddenly shatter in the night sky, painting the world through the window in a kaleidoscope of color. My heart kicks faster, but there’s no alarm on his face, only a smile.

  “What’s going on?” I rush to the window, leaning closer to the glass.

  Another night-blooming flower blossoms in the sky above us, hissing sparks crackling down over Ceres’s harbor. The city below us is fall of people. All the squares writhe with banners and colored ribbons. Market stalls seem to have flourished from nowhere.

  I’m not aware of any major holidays. Imbolc is behind us, and the next equinox is weeks away.

  A warm presence encircles me from behind, Thiago’s lips brushing against the back of my neck. “They’re celebrating their queen.”

  My head turns to his, but there’s a quiet sort of joy in his eyes.

  “Want to join them?”

  I’ve been locked away for days. “Please.”

  He tugs a mask from within his shirt. “Then you’ll need to wear this.”

  Masked dancers fill the streets.

  I’ve never seen anything like it. The people of Hawthorne Castle don’t celebrate like this, as though they’re sharing our joy.