Seven Sinful Crowns

Pria

Pria was in her bed, in the highest room of the tallest tower of Castle Harmon. The fire was warm and smelled of pine and earth. Pria turned to her side and faced the flames, the heat warming her cheeks, and closed her eyes. She was tired, the stress of the plague and all that came after had taken their toll on the young queen, but she was proud, too proud, sometimes. Tonight she breathed easier than she had in a long time, with the illness contained to the southern villages and the weepers close to a cure, but there was still much to do. The southern villages held most of the laborers of the land, and their crops were wilting away unplucked and unwatered. The Garden witches had been working hard to call forth the fruits of a long harvest, but there were simply not enough of them to feed the entirety of the kingdom. She would have to do something soon...perhaps even call upon her sister for aid, she thought, her stomach curdling at the thought. Her sisters knew her need, and they would take advantage of that. What must she trade for food?

Just as the words formed in her head, a cry rang out through her bedchamber, her eyes opening with a start, just in time to see the smoking raven combust above her bed. It smelled of soot and sea, and from the smoke the parchment fell, yellowed and glowing along its edges. Greisha.

Pria, she read.

There has been an attack of the most curious kind tonight, and I am in need of your services. The prisoners from the fleet have been bewitched, and it is like nothing I have ever witnessed. They are dead...I think. One cannot know for sure, as I do not know what incantations have been placed upon them, or for what purpose. I do not believe it to be the work of any of our sisters, but I urge you to act with haste. I will keep the fire burning, in hopes of your immediate arrival.

Your sister,

Greisha

Well, well, how the tables might turn, Pria thought, rising from her bed and pulling the silken robe around her frame, tying it tight. Her people needed food, and Greisha needed her, and Evaline needed ships. The web began to form, weaving in and out between her sisters and into an intricate plan. Pria stepped from her room and made a left, then a right, then a left again. The took the stairs down to her great hall and demanded a guard to bring her a fire witch, and then she waited, pacing back and forth, thoughts running rampant through her mind. She did not know which of her sisters might have bewitched these people, or for what purpose, but she was glad they did, for Greisha had ships of treasures, and Evaline needed ships, and Gillin gold, and she food, and as she thought this through, fitting these pieces together in an elaborate scheme, the weight lifted from her shoulders, and the air tasted sweet on her tongue, as if she had not been truly breathing for the months since the illness had creeped along her shore, plaguing her people. Tonight, she would put an end to their troubles. Tonight, it would all be over.

"Your Majesty" the guard said from the doorway, a young woman shivering in her bedclothes beside him.

"You are a fire mage?" The queen asked.

"Yes, your majesty," she said, her voice trembling.

"Come, stand by the fire dear girl. There is a frost in the air. I need passage to Tareen. Now, if you will." It was hardly a request, as she made her way to stand beside the flame, expectantly.

As the girl approached, Pria's heart beat in anticipation at how close the answer to all her problems rested. And then the young woman knelt at the queens feet, placing her palms into the flames, and spoke.

"Flicker, flame, I command,

A footpath through the shadow land.

Weave my path within the fire,

To the place which I desire."

And the flame died, settling to a low burn before erupting into violent, violet flames.

Pria stepped forth, the letter still clutched in her palm, voice unwavering.

"Castle Tareen."

And stepped in, the flames engulfing her before she vanished, like the raven's ghost, in a combustion of smoke and soot.