Page 39 of The Faceless Queen

“Am I sure?” she asked, her voice low and calm. Too calm. “Am I sure? Do you think I would bring you here, that I would entertain even a minute of your presence, if I were not sure?” She took a breath. “How dare you question me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Your Majesty.” I shook my head. “I just—it’s a lot to take in. I’m doing my best to understand it all. But please, may I ask, who is the author of this prophecy?”

Prophecies in Azeal were extremely common and could be received by any witch at any time. Except me. Someone could be walking down the road and stop suddenly, their body stilling, their eyes rolling back as a prophecy was received. Those were often small in nature. A warning that someone might trip on a rock lodged in the path. Or that rain was coming and they ought to return home to close their windows. Often the smaller prophecies were interpreted incorrectly. The symbols and visions could be misconstrued by the witch who received it. They could be off by a month or have named the wrong witch at the center of it. Sometimes a good omen was perceived as bad.

All prophecies, even those as small as a warning that someone might trip on a rock lodged in their path, were recorded in the Book of Orsete. Whenever a witch had seven prophecies come to pass, their prestige raised, and their words given more weight at council meetings. They may have even been elevated to a title within House Zakros, the ruling bloodline of Azeal. A red jewel would be imbued in their stave after seven correct prophecies. An orange for the second set of seven. Then yellow, green, blue, indigo, and finally violet. It was quite rare for a witch to have more than three jewels awarded. There had only been a handful of times in our history when one received a blue sapphire.

And only one witch in Azeal had seven jewels on their stave.

The Hermit.

He stepped forward. “I am the author of the prophecy,” he said. “And what I know is this. Evil from the Doom, evil we thought was long gone and buried, destroyed—has found a way to survive. It has not only resurfaced but is slowly beginning to wake. It cannot yet, and it will not be able to do so until the birth of a child. One who will be born with powers we have yet to see, powers we do not yet know. It is the kind of power that will bring all of Eley to its knees. The child,” his eyes narrowed on mine, indigo light flashing within them, “will be born of House Lafir, born to the crown prince of the realm.”

My throat went dry, my hands shaking. The crown prince of the realm. Jaron.

“When?” I asked. “When will the child be born?”

“Soon. Though the child has not yet been conceived, the path to their birth is already in motion. The contracts just recently signed. Princess Olivay of House Kanos in Spartva has just been betrothed to Eskalon’s crown prince. Once the bride and groom wed and consummate their marriage before witnesses, she will conceive.”

“The child of the prophecy will be born,” I said.

My aunt nodded. “We must act now to prevent it.”

“You want me to do it,” I said quietly. It was the only reason I was here, the only reason I hadn’t been tossed in the dungeon or sealed into a box. Only someone with my unique power could find a way to infiltrate the castle’s defenses. “So I am to change my face, enter the castle, and …” I shook my head, throwing my hands up in confusion. “You want me to kill the prince.”

“Kill the prince?” The Hermit shook his head. “No. It is not as simple as that. If it were, I would have made the kill myself.”

The rainbow hues of the Hermit’s stave turned. Seven jewels. Seven times seven prophecies that were recorded in the Book of Orsete, and more than one hundred prophecies that he had lived to see come to pass.

Including one I hadn’t thought about until now.

The queen will be betrayed by her blood. Her blood will kill her.

I still didn’t know when that prophecy had been received. Was it the one the Hermit gave my mother that day at court when I was five? But he had been right. Her blood had killed her. Me.

“Killing the prince will not stop it. Killing the tyrant’s many bastards will not either. Nor will killing the king himself. Much as I wish to see that man dead.” My aunt steepled her hands beneath her chin. “The Hermit and I have been pouring over the prophecies in the Book of Orsete for years. Looking at it from every angle, every possibility. Every killing leads to another birth. Every fall from power brings about another rise. Every action taken has a consequence. And the evil that is waiting for the right moment to awaken, is patient. The threads of fate are more delicate than you think. It has taken us years to understand that there is only one way to save our people.” Her eyes darkened on me before she nodded at the Hermit.

His jaw tightened. “We must allow the prophecy to run its course.”

“What?” I balked.

The Hermit’s eyes flashed. “I have seen a thousand outcomes. A child born of the blood of Eskalon and Spartva, or any other country King Tirian binds himself to, will bring about our Doom. With only one exception.”

My stomach sank.

“If the child is born of Azeal, their entire fate shifts. If they are born with the blood of House Zakros, they no longer come to bring about the destruction of our people, to act upon the sleeping evil. They come to be our savior, to banish what seeks to destroy us. And with their conception, will bring about the end of the crown’s tyranny.”

I swallowed roughly, trying to digest his words. It was what my mother had wanted to do for years, what she had died attempting to accomplish. She’d wanted to liberate us, to bring us more freedom to roam the lands, to access resources, and trade. She wanted us to be free to visit the water, to touch the source of our magic, and to gain the strength needed to destroy the threat of the chimera. To regain the power we once possessed before the Doom, before we were cut off.

And she wanted to help Eskalon, too. To make reforms. To end the boxings of innocent women. To improve the plight of all women and witches alike.

“Despite what justice demands, there is another way,” my aunt said. “A way for you to make amends. To use the vile nature of your powers for good. For only you, only an Azete, has the ability to do this. Only you can change the prophecy as it unfolds.”

“Me? Change the prophecy?” I asked, my mind slowly starting to catch up. To process what she’d said. What it all meant.

A child born of Azeal. And Eskalon.

My chest tightened so quickly I could barely breathe. They wanted me to do it? To become someone else, to marry him, to conceive his child?