Fifteen

Fifteen

I was not surprised when Adrian did not visit my bed for the second night in a row. I spent most of the evening turning his words over and over.

Ravena might be building an army to come after me, but her target is you.

I did not like admitting to fear, but those words had an effect on me, and I wanted to know more about Dragos’s witch. Why, after all this time, was this woman coming out of hiding to create an army, and did it really have anything to do with me?

Your father told you to find my weakness. Little did he know…it is you.

How was I Adrian’s weakness? He had known me for days, and yet even I could not explain our connection. Sometimes, it was like our bodies knew each other and our minds hadn’t caught up, and I was left reeling in the aftermath.

The night continued like that until I rose the next morning, exhausted with a headache. It was made worse as I headed into Cel Ceredi with Violeta and Vesna, while Isac and Miha followed behind. Vesna had broken out into song. I did not recognize the lyrics, but they were fun, and the beat was a steady thrum.

And when the snow falls on the ground,

I’ll come, my love, I’ll come on down.

Down from the mountains and into the town,

The town where our love was found.

At first, it was a contained affair, with Miha singing along and Isac clapping, but as we reached the village, others joined in, and Vesna became the center of attention as she skipped and clapped and sang. When she finished, it was to a round of applause.

I liked seeing her smile, and I hoped she would grow happier the longer she stayed. I imagined relocating her mother and sisters here to Cel Ceredi would help, though I had yet to hear confirmation of the move from Adrian.

“You have a lovely voice, Vesna,” Miha said as the girl fell into step beside me and Violeta.

“Thank you,” she said, blushing, and then sighed. “Cel Ceredi is so much nicer than Jovea.”

I wonder if she meant the people or our surroundings. I liked the uniqueness of the village, to be sure. Parts of the town were far older than others. I could tell because the homes and shops were all constructed differently—some had pine walls and clay roofs, others were made of woven twigs with thatched roofs, others were covered in plaster. We walked along a cobble road, past carts of vegetables, fresh meat, linen, and wool while the smell of roasted pork and mutton, evergreen and tobacco permeated the air. They were scents that also reminded me of winter in Lara, which carried a nostalgia that suddenly made me homesick.

Despite this, the markets here were far less exciting than those in Lara. Perhaps it was because Lara’s market came once a month while Cel Ceredi’s was weekly, but the villagers always used it as an excuse to celebrate. Jugglers and dancers would entertain while other shop owners would host games and contests. It was festive, colorful, and fun, but here, there was a strange melancholy in the air that I did not understand until I spotted several people stacking wood into perfect squares.

“Are those…pyres?” I asked, the thought making me uneasy.

“Yes,” Violeta replied. “We are a week out from the Burning Rites.”

“The…Burning Rites?”

“It is the anniversary of the night High Coven was executed. King Adrian orders every village to burn bright for a week to memorialize their deaths. The fires begin tonight, and there are events every night. The most anticipated is the Great Hunt.”

“What is the Great Hunt?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” she said. “It is the night we hunt monsters.”

“What is the purpose?”

Many of us did not hunt monsters by choice, it was necessity, survival, though I supposed vampires were different.

She shrugged. “It is a sport,” she said. “And there is a prize.”

“What is the prize?” I asked.

“A place beside the king at the feast on the last night of the Rites.”

I wasn’t sure what I was most uncomfortable about—the celebration of witches or the fires—but I could acknowledge the horror of the Burning and the need to memorialize the innocent people who had died during Dragos’s hunts.

“What do your people think of High Coven?” I asked, uncertain of how those who resided in Revekka felt about vampires or witches or anything that had to do with King Dragos’s reign. Did Revekkians view him like the Nine Houses did? As a hero who had been murdered by a monster? Did they believe witches to be cruel and corrupt? Or did they believe as Adrian believed? That the witches were innocent?

“You will find that most of us think very differently about High Coven than you, my queen.” Violeta spoke carefully, but I sensed an edge to her voice that she could not hide.

“How so?” I asked.

Violeta hesitated, so I spoke.

“Never fear to speak your truth, Violeta.”

She pressed her lips together and then took a breath, explaining, “Some of us are the sons and daughters of those who died during the Burning, and the stories that survive within our families tell a very different tale than what is shared outside Revekka.”

“Tell me of your ancestor then,” I said. “Who was she?”

She offered a small smile but did not look at me as she spoke, choosing instead to watch the cobbles at her feet as we walked.

“Her name was Evanora. She was a member of High Coven, and she was sent from her home to Keziah to serve King Jirecek. She wrote home often. Her letters were beautiful. Even when I read them now, I can feel her hope. I do not know if she truly believed in the future she thought she was cultivating or if she was only trying to protect her mother from the truth. Either way, the night of the Burning, she was pulled from her bed along with twelve other members of High Coven across Cordova and burned.”

I shivered. I could not imagine a worse death.

Violeta met my gaze when she said, “Do you know the way my family was informed of her death? They woke to discover their house burning. King Dragos had declared that the relatives of every witch should be hunted and murdered. It was a relief when King Adrian came to power. It meant we no longer had to hide.”

I had never heard this side before, and I had to admit I was stunned. “I’m so sorry.”

They were the only words I could find to speak. Inside, I felt a mix of emotions—I was confused and ashamed and angry, and there was a part of me that could not completely disregard what I’d been taught. I could feel myself hanging on to the stories and the fear of magic. It was not as if I hadn’t seen it firsthand—the villages of Vaida and Sadovea remained as horrors in my mind.

Still, there were monsters among us all. Now, I wondered how many had stories like Violeta’s.

“Do not be sorry,” she said. “You are here now and our queen. You can learn.”

We visited several vendors at the market, many greeting Violeta and even Isac and Miha by name. It was then I learned that Violeta had worked in the kitchens at the Red Palace before becoming my lady-in-waiting. It explained why she’d known exactly what was in the breakfast stew and why she insisted I try every Revekkian delicacy offered in the market.

“You never know what you might like,” she said, and despite her enthusiasm, I could tell that the vendors, shopkeepers, and farmers were not so keen to serve me. They were polite, they curtsied and bowed and called me “Your Majesty,” but they were guarded, and some gave me sharp looks. I wondered if it was because I wasn’t Revekkian, because they knew my beliefs conflicted with their own. In the end, I tipped everyone who gave me samples of their treats and drinks, and we managed to find fabric for Vesna’s clothes.

We returned to the castle, and Violeta took Vesna with her for more training while I headed to the library. I was excited at the idea of having so much history at my fingertips. Lara’s library was minimal—some large tomes that had been scripted by our local historians and a book that offered a few details about my mother’s home. Even so, it felt like such a small sampling of a world with hundreds of years of history. If I was going to be queen of Cordova, I wanted to know more. I had to know more.

Miha escorted me to the library, for which I was thankful, as it kept me from being waylaid by any noblesse.

“How are you liking the palace?” she asked. “Cel Ceredi?”

“The palace is beautiful,” I said. “Cel Ceredi is quaint. I only fear these people will never truly see me as queen.”

“They will,” Miha said. “Though you can begin by calling them your people.”

I had the urge to fight her comment, but I knew she was right. I was trying to keep everyone at a distance, too afraid I might find something I liked.

Miha’s remark made me pay closer attention to my surroundings, and I found myself appreciating the palace activity rather than avoiding it. Servants carried heavy, silver trays stacked high with plates and metal chalices while others lit multitiered candelabras and hung garlands that smelled of rosemary and sage. It was preparation for the Burning Rites, I realized.

“My queen,” servant after servant said, offering a bow or a curtsy.

I acknowledged each, nodding or smiling as I passed, though I found myself more than eager to escape the scrutiny, and felt a rush of relief as we turned down an empty carpeted hallway. At the end was the library, which lay beyond two large ebony doors, each inlaid with colorful stained glass. Miha did not follow me beyond them as I stepped into a room full of black shelves lined with embossed books. I tilted my head back to observe a glass ceiling through which the red skylight filtered, illuminating floor after floor of overflowing shelves.

A large circular desk at the center of the library was vacant, and the first floor appeared to be void of people. I walked along the first few stacks, trying to decipher the language written on the spines of each book. Some were in Old Revekkian, which I did not know how to read but could identify by the older characters and accents over certain letters. I spent a while looking for familiar words among the titles and gathered that many of these books were myths and history.

A noise suddenly drew my attention upward. It sounded like a book had fallen to the floor, or several. I followed it up a crescent of stairs that wound to the second floor.

“Lothian?” I called.

Different noises followed my ascent to the second floor—groaning and moaning and a steady thud. As I came around a corner, I found the source. A man had Lothian pinned against the shelves and was moving inside him, their moans echoing throughout the library. For a moment, I was too stunned to move, watching as the man, who was only slightly taller and just as thin as Lothian, pounded into him. Then he took a tuft of Lothian’s dark hair into his hand, pulled back his head, and bit down on his neck.

I fled to the first floor, unsure of what to do. I didn’t want to leave, so I continued my exploration, endeavoring to ignore the sounds from above. I discovered a line of glass cases amid the stacks, each displaying a different artifact. One held two different knives, one white and one black, each engraved with the phases of the moon. Another held a gold chalice inlaid with fine filigree and small rubies. A third box contained a stave, which looked more like a weapon with a piece of pointed bone bound to its tip. The final case held a book so worn, the letters were barely readable, but as I shifted, a faint silver sheen spelled the title—The Book of Dis.

It was a spell book.

I wasn’t sure what it was about being so close to one that made my heart beat out of my chest, but I was suddenly frightened. I thought of the crimson mist and Ravena. Why would we so publicly display a book from which evil might spread?

“What do you think of my library?” Lothian asked.

I looked up, watching him approach. He was surprisingly composed after what I had witnessed in the stacks upstairs. His dark hair was smoothed back, and the high collar of his black and silver tunic hid the bite I knew he had sustained.

“It is very beautiful,” I said.

“I see you have found a few of our relics,” he said.

“These all belonged to witches?” I asked.

“They belonged to members of High Coven,” he said and nodded to the spell book. “We believe The Book of Dis belonged to Karmina, their leader. It’s blank.”

“Blank?”

He nodded. “We believe it is either a replica or a book of spells she intended to write.”

“Even blank, do you not think it is dangerous to display such items?”

Lothian hesitated, but he was saved from answering as another man approached—the vampire who had fed from him. He was dressed similarly, in black. His hair was curly and stuck to his forehead, and his thin, pale face made his cheekbones look hollow and his eyes dark.

“These relics give us access to our history,” the man said. “We display them so that we—and others—might learn from them.”

Still, I wondered if magic was the type of thing we wanted people to learn about.

As if he could read my mind, he added, “Secrets only make the world curious. Better to display than to hide.”

“Your Majesty,” Lothian said. “Allow me to introduce you to Zann.”

The vampire swept into a graceful bow. As he straightened, his cheeks flushed.

“A pleasure,” I said.

“Zann is an archivist,” Lothian explained. “Recently, he has been busy overseeing the collection and maintenance of items sourced from the ruins of Jola and Siva.”

I flinched. “What will you do with those materials?” I asked.

“King Adrian is in talks with ambassadors from each House. He would prefer preserving the history, of course, unlike previous kings.”

I knew he spoke of Dragos, but I also knew he was referring to what he saw as the inaccurate history of the Nine Houses.

“And what of the old history remains?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Lothian said. “All we have is what has been written within the last two hundred years. Anything that came before that was burned with the witches, including spell books…minus, of course, this book, which can hardly be called a spell book but more of a…journal.”

“A travesty,” Zann said, and I looked at him questioningly.

“Why a travesty? Are those not dangerous in the wrong hands?”

I thought of the attacks on the villages, the way average mortals were turned into killers with a string of words that had some kind of power behind them. It was frightening.

“Of course,” he said. “But anything can become a weapon in the wrong hands, even people. The truth remains that our world suffered far less when magic was present. There were fewer droughts, less hunger, and more peace.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Were you alive then? When the High Coven oversaw magic?”

“No,” Zann replied. “I was born much later, but I am an archivist, which means I have read many accounts of that era.”

“Could I read those accounts?”

“Of course,” Zann said.

“While you find those volumes, I will take the queen on a tour,” Lothian said.

“Perfect. I will meet you in the great room,” Zann said, and we watched his lithe form retreat into the back of the stacks.

Once he was gone, I looked at Lothian. “Are you…his vassal?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. We are…a new pairing. I think it’s going well.”

I resisted the urge to smile as he began his tour on the first floor.

“This is the original library. The first king of Revekka only had a few dusty volumes that amounted to a work journal and ledger. It was his brother who began the first collection.”

“Who expanded the library beyond the first floor?”

“King Adrian,” Lothian replied.

“To make room for his spoils?” I asked.

“If that is how you choose to see it,” Lothian said. “But we have been tasked with preserving them, and when the countries rebuild, we will go in and craft their libraries.”

Well, that was something.

The second floor was dedicated to biographies, poems, plays, and fictional stories gathered from countries across Cordova and the islands.

“Do you have anything from the Atoll of Nalani?” I asked, hopeful.

I knew very little of my mother’s home country, only that when people saw the color of my skin, they knew I was part islander. One of the things I mourned along with her was the loss of her culture. I resented knowing nothing of their traditions and always wondered if my love for the sun came from her. My father refused to discuss it with me, saying it was too painful for him.

“I will look for you,” Lothian promised. “And if not, I will secure as many items as possible.”

It was the third floor that held most of my interest as it was dedicated to the history of Revekka.

There were rows of black-bound books and rows of red ones.

“The black are histories from the Dark Era, the red are from other countries.”

Lothian led me to the great room. The far wall was made up of floor-to-ceiling windows; the ceilings were high and crowned with carved crossbeams, and lit sconces ran the length of the room on either side. A large rectangular table took up most of the space, and it was there that Zann stood with a series of stacked books and loose papers.

“Much of what you will find here are personal journals of common folk who lived during the Burning,” Zann explained. “It is a unique perspective. One, I imagine, many who live south of us are not aware of.”

“How did you come by these?” I asked, pulling a loose piece of parchment toward me. The writing was spidery—long loops and pointed lines.

“When the Burning began, items that professed criticism of Dragos were considered propaganda. Anyone caught with such items was accused of sorcery and killed, so the people of Revekka began to hide their journals however they could—within the brick of their fireplaces, buried in their gardens.”

“Dragos’s campaign against witches was mostly just an excuse to murder his enemies,” said Lothian.

It took me a moment to make out the letters on the page I’d pulled toward me, but soon my eyes adjusted and I read:

Dragos’s witch held another Reaping today. She claims to possess no magic and yet professes to sense it in others. Today, she pointed to anyone who accused her of witchcraft, and they were all burned in the square. These are dark times.

I looked at Lothian and Zann.

“Dragos’s witch?” I asked. “Ravena?”

“Yes,” said Zann. “She was excommunicated from High Coven for her support of Dragos’s agenda. Of course, when it came to the Burning, he protected her.”

I was not so surprised now that Adrian had made it his mission to find her.

Zann took me through a stack of items he’d pulled from his archives, organizing information by type. Most of them were journal entries and letters, and some were sketches depicting momentous events like the first night of the Burning. I found it horrific, maybe because I feared fire so much, but the series of images before me were ones from which I could feel the terror, woman after woman bound and burned at the stake. I knew from what I had already learned that there were thirteen members of High Coven, but here there were only twelve drawings.

“Someone is missing,” I said.

Lothian looked over my shoulder. “Ah, yes. Yesenia of Aroth. Dragos blamed her for the High Coven’s insubordination, so he forced her to watch each member of her coven die. She was last.”

“Was she their leader?” I asked.

“No, but she was appointed by High Coven as his court advisor,” said Lothian.

“I thought Ravena was,” I said, confused.

“She came after Yesenia was imprisoned. To the public, she claimed to have the ability to identify witches by sight, which meant she condemned anyone she did not like. She was truly evil.”

“Why was Yesenia imprisoned?” I asked.

“She was also said to be a powerful seer, though Dragos did not like what she foretold.”

“What did she foretell?”

“His downfall,” he answered. “Here she is.”

Lothian handed me another sketch, and I was startled both by this woman’s beauty and the lifelike way she was portrayed. She appeared to have dark features and darker skin. Her hair was long and black and her eyes matched, though they gleamed with a liveliness that felt a little unsettling given that this was a drawing made in charcoal.

She did not look evil, and as my eyes shifted back to the depiction of the first night of the Burning, I could only think about the terror she must have felt, watching twelve of her own perish and knowing that was her fate.

I learned more about High Coven. In particular, the names of the other twelve members. Each of them had a strength ranging from Yesenia’s gift of prophecy to manifestation, mediumship, healing, or shapeshifting. There were others too, powers I’d never heard of, like binding, which was the ability to take away someone’s magic, and bilocation, the ability to be in two places at once, and portal magic, the ability to create gateways to other places out of objects or from thin air. In addition to their specialization, each member of High Coven was responsible for their own minor covens.

Among the items Zann had brought were detailed notes from High Coven’s meetings, which itemized the issues they were presented with. In one instance, a terrible plague hit the northern part of Revekka. Ginerva, the healer, put forth a proposal to send her covens into the territory to perform spells to prevent the spread and heal those affected, but before it could even be considered, Yesenia was made to read the timelines and determine if High Coven could even interfere. Some things, it said, were by divine order. After Yesenia approved the measure, the coven set about establishing rules, namely that Odessa, the necromancer, was not allowed to reawaken any of those who had already passed, and Ginerva would be prevented from healing anyone who was fated to die, which required the skills of Yesenia’s coven.

I was beginning to see how they worked to care for their people, and I stayed, continuing to read until my eyes grew weary.

“How often may I return to read?” I asked before departing.

“As often as you wish, my queen,” said Lothian. “This is your library, and I am your librarian.”

“I knew I would not regret dancing with you,” I said, grinning.

“That makes one of us,” Lothian said.

We laughed, and I realized it was one of the few times I’d done so since I’d arrived at the Red Palace.

* * *

I could not sleep.

As tired as my eyes had been when leaving the library, I was now wide awake—or rather, my body was. I wasn’t sure what it was about this room or this bed or the person I’d become since I’d met Adrian, but I could hardly think about anything other than him. And this time, it wasn’t just thoughts of his body against mine that kept my mind going—it was every subtle nuance of our time together. It was the way he’d said my name, that he’d said my name at all, desperate for me to hear whatever he wasn’t saying. It was the way he trusted me to take on my role as queen without really knowing who I was as a princess or a person.

It was how he kissed me.

Like he possessed a true, unnatural passion for me that I could somehow match, and I did not know why. I reasoned that I felt this way because of all that had transpired since leaving Lara. My people had betrayed me and attempted to overthrow my father, and despite once understanding their fear and anger, the more I learned about the Burning, the less I could excuse their behavior. Not that I’d been able to really forgive them before; they had reduced my sacrifice down to nothing, just as Killian had. Did he fuck you the way you wanted? he’d asked.

Once, I’d felt such shame, but no longer.

I’d made my sacrifice, and now my people would live in a world ruled both by me and Adrian, and I was not sorry for it.

I kicked off the blankets and pulled on my robe. If I couldn’t sleep, I’d return to the library. I cracked the door and peeked into the hallway. The corridor was empty, except for shadows that danced in tandem with the candle flame. After a few seconds passed with no sign of activity, I slipped out the door, tying off my robe.

I paused at the top of the stairs as the sound of revelry reached me. There was singing, strange growls, and moans. The Burning Rites had begun, and it seemed the celebration continued even into the early morning. I took a few steps down and halted, ducking so that I could assess the risk. Below, the tall windows were full of flickering fire that looked more red than orange as it was filtered through the glass. The doors to the front of the castle were wide open, giving me a view of the courtyard where a fire raged and people danced. The air was heavy with the scent of flesh and blood and smoke, tinged with spice and resin.

Even from this distance, I could see bodies before the fire—a woman taking a man into her mouth, a man taking another into his. There were others too, engaging in various sexual acts, and some who embraced in the same manner I’d watched Adrian hold Safira, and I knew they were drinking each other’s blood.

If the act was so sacred, why was it being performed in public, I wondered. Then again, I’d always thought of sex as a private act, and yet among these people, it seemed to be a form of entertainment.

Then I caught sight of Adrian, who stood with Safira on his arm.

A rush of jealousy thickened the blood in my veins. Had he sought his vassal since I’d sent him away? Had he partaken of her blood against my wishes? There was an undercurrent to my jealousy, a strange feeling that held on to my heart. I did not want to put a name to it, because acknowledging that this…hurt…was ridiculous. How could I, a human princess of the Nine Houses, feel hurt that a vampire would betray me?

I ground my teeth and tamped down the pain. I would not let him have that kind of control over me. I rose to my feet, renewed in my mission to explore the library and discover more from Adrian’s past. I descended the stairs, racing into the adjoining corridor before anyone spotted me from the open doors, except that just as I was about to round the corner, I caught sight of Daroc and Sorin. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but neither one of them looked pleased. Daroc leaned close, a finger pointed in Sorin’s face, whose jaw was set so tight, I could see it popping. Whatever words were being exchanged, I could not hear them, but I sensed I had stumbled into a fight.

I took my chance and darted across the hall as I tried to retrace the path I’d taken with Miha earlier, but the hallways branched off in so many directions, I was not exactly sure I’d taken the right way. I got halfway down one hall and turned around, feeling as though I’d gone the wrong direction.

The next route I took seemed even more wrong. The walls were intermittently recessed, and while I’d originally thought I was alone, I soon found out I was not and that some of the alcoves were occupied. A man had a woman pressed against the wall. His hand was around her neck, his mouth there too. Blood dripped down her skin. I watched her for a moment—eyes closed, lips parted, body arched into his—she was lost. Farther down, a woman openly fucked another with her fingers. I was not appalled so much as uncomfortable. What was the purpose of this exhibitionism? Were others meant to watch or mind their business?

I chose the latter, quickly turning another corner only to pause and stare at a series of portraits. They were paintings of beautiful women dressed in black. There was an insignia on their breasts, a twelve-spoked wheel, crowned with a different image. As I studied each portrait, I noticed the wheel turned, which meant a different symbol crowned each wheel.

This was High Coven, I realized, and the symbols communicated their power.

I lingered before each picture longer than I should have, given that Adrian had advised me not to leave my rooms, but they made me curious. Some were young, others were old, and most were in-between. Some looked like me, and I wondered if their ancestors were islanders. Others were pale, like mountain folk, but the woman who drew my gaze was the one whose portrait hung at the very end of the hallway where the corridor split in two. I recognized her because of her eyes—Yesenia.

She had strange-colored eyes, a shade that appeared both violet and blue. They were fringed with thick lashes that cast a shadow upon her cheekbones. Her hair was thick and dark, pinned back, which only served to sharpen the structure of her face. Her lips hinted at a smile, and her skin was a warm brown that made me think she’d lived beneath the sun. She was beautiful, her expression peaceful. It was a feeling I could relate to, a feeling I wanted to recapture—one that I had known before I’d discovered this world was so harsh.

Again, my eyes fell to the symbol on her robes. The symbol that topped her wheel was an eye, the symbol for prophecy. Had she known her life would end in smoke and flame? What a horrible gift, to know one’s death.

I turned, eyes sweeping the walls again, recalling the names I’d learned earlier. I had never truly seen the members of High Coven as people, but here they were—beautiful and serene and real, not at all violent or wild as I had imagined. They were…like me.

“I see you have found the portraits of High Coven,” a voice said.

I pivoted to find Gesalac watching from a distance, and I shuddered, wondering how long he had been there before he’d spoken. I turned fully, staring, hoping he would not linger. Had he hoped to corner me?

After a moment, he bowed his head.

“Queen Isolde,” he said, dark eyes meeting mine once again. “It is late to be outside your chamber.”

“And yet the halls are full of people,” I said.

“Vampires,” he corrected. Predators, I thought he might be saying.

“Who have learned the consequences of not leaving me alone.”

I expected Gesalac to show his anger, but his expression remained the same, though that wasn’t much better.

“Perhaps I can help you find what you are looking for,” he offered, and I hesitated, unsure of his motives.

“I can find my own way.”

“I understand your fear—”

“I am not afraid of you,” I said. “But I do not trust you.”

“Likewise, and yet my king killed one of his own for you, a mortal woman he met a week ago. It is any wonder I am angry that my son is dead?”

“Perhaps you should have taught him no means no, but I see where he inherited his inability to listen.”

Gesalac’s mouth hardened into a thin line.

“I do not wish to be enemies, Queen Isolde,” he said. “I rather hoped we could be allies.”

“If you are allied with my husband, you are allied with me.”

Though I was not so certain he was.

He raised his brow and spoke slowly, deliberately. “Are you allied with your husband, Queen Isolde?”

“What are you suggesting?”

He shrugged. “It is no secret you two are enemies. Unless, of course, you have developed a fondness toward him.”

“Do you have a purpose, Noblesse?” I asked, growing impatient and far too uncomfortable.

“I merely wish to caution you about the crimson mist,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

He stared, pointedly, and said, “Curious that the mist came so shortly after your marriage. If I were you, I would be wary. Perhaps it is Adrian’s way of endearing himself to you.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Well, what better to gain the trust of your enemy than saving her people?”

I started to protest that the crimson mist would only result in my greater hatred for him, but I considered that Gesalac was right. The mist had endeared Adrian to me because of his actions following the discovery at Vaida. He had sent Gavriel, Yeva, and Ciprian to Castle Fiora, and after my people had attempted their revolt, he sent even more soldiers. Still, I did not wish for Gesalac to know that I was considering his words.

“You make a bold claim, Noblesse,” I said.

He shrugged. “We are not aware of the breadth of Adrian’s powers. Who is to say he is not responsible?”

I stared at the man, and though I did not trust him, I wondered if what he was saying had some truth.

“There you are,” Sorin said. “I thought I saw you sneaking around.”

Gesalac turned, stepping out of my path as Sorin approached. His handsome face was alight with amusement, but I sensed tension in the air between us.

“Noblesse Gesalac, I’ll take it from here.”

Gesalac looked from Sorin to me as if he wished to protest, but at last, he bowed, adding before he left, “Careful of where you wander, my queen.”

I watched until he had disappeared around the corner.

“By the goddess, I hate that man,” Sorin said.

I looked at the vampire. “Where have you been?”

He held up as hands as if to ward off my demand.

“Easy,” he said. “I’ve been busy. Adrian has me on the hunt.”

On the hunt?

“Have you been searching for Ravena?”

“I have, but I lose every trail,” he said. “It’s like she’s disappearing into thin air.”

I raised a brow. “Is that your special power? Tracking?”

“Something like that,” he said with a chuckle. “What are you doing out of your rooms?”

“I was heading to the library,” I said. “I guess I got lost.”

“Did you ever,” he said, grinning, his dimples deepening. I liked Sorin’s smile. “Come. I’ll take you.”

I felt far more comfortable with Sorin and accepted his escort.

“How did you know where to find me?” I asked.

“Does the word tracker mean nothing to you?”

I glared at him, and he grinned.

“I saw you sprint down the hall,” he said. “You’re lucky I distracted Daroc, or you’d be back in your rooms right now.”

“Were you…in trouble?” I asked.

“Yes, and not in the good way.” As he spoke, his tone shifted, and I heard a note of frustration in his voice.

“What did you do?” I asked as we turned a corner, finding the familiar ebony doors of the library at the end of the hallway.

“It’s what I didn’t do,” Sorin said, coming to a stop. “Or rather that I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.”

Sorin did not offer any more of an explanation than that, and I thought perhaps it was because he was embarrassed.

I looked at the doors.

“Do you…want to come inside?”

He grinned. “No thanks, my queen. I don’t read.”

I raised a brow.

“Kidding,” he said. “I have a witch to hunt.”

Before he left, I called to him. “Sorin.”

He halted and faced me.

“If you find anything on Ravena, I want to know.”

“I’m sure Adrian will tell you.”

“I asked you,” I said.

He bowed his head. “Of course, my queen.”

I slipped inside the library, lit with low, amber flame.

I was not completely ready to return to the great room where most of my research still waited. Instead, I made my way to the third floor where the histories of the world were shelved. I touched the spines of embossed books, reading the carefully painted titles. There were several volumes of The History of Cordova, one for each year since its incarnation by the goddess Asha.

I was about to choose a book on the Burning when I noticed a symbol on the spine of a different book. It was the same twelve-spoked wheel I’d spotted in the paintings of the witches, and it was titled High Coven. I took the book from the shelf, and when I opened it, I found that the middle had been carved out, and inside was a knife.

Strange, I thought, taking the blade in hand. There was nothing extraordinary about it. In fact, it seemed crudely made; the blade itself was crooked, the handle too small, and yet it was heavy. It would make for an awkward weapon, and I wondered why it was hidden here.

Then my body went rigid, and I spun as two hands landed on either side of my face. A man blocked me with his large body. He seemed familiar somehow, with short, dark hair and a well-trimmed beard and mustache. He did not have any astounding features, but his clothes seemed to make up for that. He wore rich, fur-lined velvet with gold clasps and a crown upon his head that was heavily embellished with jewels.

“Shh,” he said and gripped my chin, two ring-encrusted fingers covering my mouth so I could not speak. “You will listen. Your coven will follow my commands, and you will be the one to change their minds, understand?”

I did not know what he was talking about—my coven? Even so, I could feel myself glaring at him.

“And if you do not, I will kill every last one of you. Do you understand? Not just your coven but every witch in this land.”

There was silence as the man studied me, and after a moment, he leaned closer, his lips hovering near mine.

“But for you, it will be a different end.” His fingers moved from my mouth, and then his lips closed over mine. His kiss was bitter and rough, and as he pushed into my body and his tongue attempted to pry my mouth open with his, I fought him, lashing out with my blade. He staggered back. Pressing a palm to his chest, it came away bloody.

“You little bitch!”

He reached for me and yanked my hair.

“I will kill you,” he threatened.

“Kill me then,” I said. I spoke the words and felt the relief of them—if he killed me, I would not have to betray myself or my coven, but even he saw the truth of that within my eyes, and his hold relaxed on my hair.

“No,” he said. “I think life is a greater punishment for you.”

He released me with a jerk, and I fell against the shelf, still clutching my bloodied blade. He glanced at it and laughed.

“Remember what I said.”

In the next second, he vanished. I blinked and realized I was alone, standing with the book and knife in my hand, unbloodied. I turned in a circle, my heart still racing from the encounter with the man, but saw no one.

I was truly alone.

I curled my fingers around the knife, wondering if it possessed some kind of enchantment, but if so, what was its purpose? I could not be certain whose mind I’d inhabited, but something inside me knew it was Yesenia. It was the same knowing I’d felt when I’d looked upon Adrian—a strange connection that I could not deny. And I’d just witnessed Dragos, the deceased king of Revekka, threaten her life.

I would have thought I was imagining things if my heart wasn’t still racing from the encounter and my hand still shaking.

Suddenly, I questioned just how much knowledge I wanted about the past, because it was turning out that I knew nothing about the world I lived in, and I was angry. Angry because I had not known and angry because the one person who was telling me the truth happened to be my greatest enemy.