Page 126 of Cursed Crowns

They both wore Wren’s face, and so she knew them at once: Ortha and Oonagh Starcrest, the first twin queens of Eana. Somehow, when she placed her hand against the ice that held the frozen body of Oonagh Starcrest, Wren had shattered a wall between them, and fallen into her ancestor’s memory. She was a ghost here, in this long-ago place. Watching history unfold before her eyes.

Ortha and Oonagh circled each other, like wild animals, twin crowns of golden filigree resting on their heads.

“Your actions have brought shame on yourself, Oonagh,” shouted Ortha. “You have brought shame on our family. Our ancestors. On all the witches of Eana.” She flung her arms wide, a gust of wind rising with her anger. “For the good of our noble country, I cast you out. Fromthe throne. From the palace. From this kingdom.” Her voice broke, pain shining in her emerald eyes. “Don’t you see, Oonagh? You’ve given me no choice. You cannot come back from this.”

Wren moved around the twins until she could make out Oonagh’s face. It was twisted in hatred.

“Go now before the soldiers come,” said Ortha. “Don’t make this any harder than it already is, sister.”

“Sister!” Oonagh recoiled from the word. “You are no sister of mine, Ortha,” she sneered. “You have stolen my crown and my kingdom! I curse you for your disloyalty. For your cowardice.” She pointed a finger at her sister as she backed toward the river and began to mutter under her breath. Even in memory, Wren felt the wrongness of the spell. It swelled between them, like a cloud of ash.

“With my blood and these words spoken, let Eana’s magic now be broken!”

Ortha’s hands came around her middle. “Stop,” she heaved, but it was already too late. The wind died as her magic splintered. The tempest strand was leaving her. “Oonagh,no. Don’t dothis!”

Oonagh smiled as she teetered on the edge of the river. Blood poured from her mouth, her nose... and then her eyes. She had used it all to curse her sister; the spell so powerful it was killing her. “If I can’t have the throne, then neither can you.”

“NO!” Ortha lunged at her sister.

Oonagh’s eyes went wide as Ortha slammed into her, her arms pinwheeling as she fought for balance on the edge of the Silvertongue.

“Oonagh!” Ortha reached for her sister’s skirts, but she was too weak to pull her back.

Wren lunged for Oonagh at the same moment, but she was just a ghost here, her hands passing through her ancestor like the wind. Shecould only watch in horror as Oonagh fell into the Silvertongue River, her teeth bared in a dying scream, blood still glistening on her teeth.

The memory changed, then—rushing, moving like the river, and Wren went with it. Below her, she watched Oonagh’s body sink down into the Silvertongue. And then, suddenly, it changed. One minute, she was a young woman, flailing—drowning—and the next, she was disappearing, one more drop of blood magic twisting her into a writhing merrow, six gaping gills slashed into the column of her neck.

Oonagh Starcrest stopped drowning and began to swim. The vision got farther and farther away, Wren floating into the sky like a cloud. She looked down on the world and saw her ancestor like a streak of silver arcing across the map.

And then Wren was standing on the shores of Gevra, watching Oonagh emerge from the icy water as a woman once more, with frost in her hair and icicles dangling from her sleeves. She walked on bare feet, the shape of her getting smaller as she passed into the snow-swept mountains. Wren tried to follow her, but the vision faded, until all she could hear was Oonagh’s ancient voice ringing in the wind.

“I bind the witches’ curse inside me until my bones are free. As long as my blood is frozen, so too will it be.”

Wren woke with a gasp. She was lying on the dungeon floor, in a freezing pool of water. A blade flashed above her. Alarik’s sword was drawn, the king standing over Wren’s body as he pointed it at Oonagh Starcrest.

The block of ice had melted. Oonagh stood—alive—in the space where it had just been, baring her bloodstained teeth. Wren’s mind reeled, as the threads of the past came apart around her. Oonagh Starcrest wasn’t dead. Although Ortha had pushed her sister into theSilvertongue River, she had not drowned. Instead, Oonagh had fled to Gevra, where she had been all along, not dead but frozen deep in the Fovarr Mountains, sustained by blood magic.

“Get back, you cursed creature!” shouted Banba. “You have no power here!”

Oonagh flexed her fingers. “Move or die, witch.”

Banba didn’t flinch. “This is a new world, Oonagh. You are not welcome here.”

Oonagh threw her head back and laughed. “I am power incarnate, old woman. All these years, my curse has slumbered inside me. But now it is broken. The five strands of magic, once frozen, are now whole again. And I will use them to take revenge on Eana. To tear your new world apart and remake it as my own. With magic the likes of which you’ve never seen.”

Alarik raised his sword. “You will not leave this room alive.”

Oonagh smiled as she took a step toward him.

Banba turned on the king. “Free me,” she hissed. “Quickly!”

Wren scrambled to her feet, as Alarik brought his sword down, slashing the binds around Banba’s wrists in one clean swipe. Her grandmother flung her arms out and fired a sharp gust at Oonagh’s chest. “I said, get back!”

Oonagh slammed into the wall, cracking her head against the stone. Banba gritted her teeth, using every ounce of her magic to keep her pinned there. Her knees began to tremble. Wren could tell her time in the dungeons had weakened her magic.

Blood streamed from the fresh wound in Oonagh’s head. She turned her cheek to the wall and tasted it, her skin glowing as she swallowed.

A rush of panic coursed through Wren. She lunged for the door andwrenched it open. “Alarik, call your soldiers! Now!”

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