The Beginning of Everything by Kristen Ashley Page 0,4
quirking.
“Perhaps The Crystal will be more disposed to his charms if she knows mating with him will save the land,” Lena rejoined swiftly before Rebecca could.
“I hear she’s quite feisty, so even that might not work,” Fern murmured while leaning toward Rebecca.
“Bring forth the tiles,” Ophelia bid on a sigh.
Rebecca dug into the pocket of her skirts to find her tiles, her gaze on Ophelia, her tone again gentle.
“Would you wish to go first, my sister?” she offered.
“My daughter’s match will be the last,” Ophelia declined. “She will take what is left.”
They all felt that was wise. If Ophelia tossed the tiles, the magic would make the selection, but it would be direct from her hand where the fates aimed her Elena.
However, before they could decide who would go first—Wodell, Firenze or Airen—Rebecca bumbled the tiles in her hand.
Or…
She did not.
Either way, they burst from her hold and clattered on the slab.
Rebecca and Fern gasped.
Nandra’s eyes grew wide.
Lena smiled.
Ophelia watched intently.
Sparks of cool marine, bright vermillion, leaf green, striking white and deep coral danced as the rectangular cream tiles danced.
The one with the crossed bow and arrow imprinted in black on two sides.
The Warrior.
Signifying Elena of the Nadirii. Princess of the Sisterhood. Daughter of Ophelia.
The one with the diamond shape.
The Crystal.
Ha-Lah of the Mar-el. New queen to King Aramus of the island nation of pirates.
The one with the shroud.
The Shadow.
Silence of the Dellish. Countess of the Arbor. Niece of the king.
The one with the hand with the eye in the palm.
The Sage.
Farah of the Firenze. Daughter to a traitor. Stripped of status and possessions. Living in the desert in exile.
Then there was the one with the upside-down triangle in the circle to which at two sides there were wings.
The Head.
Aramus. King of the Mar-el. Pirate. Protector of the Seas.
And the one with one triangle over the other in a circle, around which there was a flower.
The Heart.
True. Prince of the Dellish. Heir to the throne.
And the one with the crescent moon at the top, surrounded by two circles, which was surrounded by lotus petals.
The Cock.
Mars. King of Firenze. Ascended the throne after his father’s assassination. Ruled now beloved by his people.
And the last, another upside-down triangle in which was a flame over a lamp, boxed in a square, surrounded by a circle, out of which, north, south, east, west, sprung lotus petals.
The Balls.
Cassius. The Second Son. Prince of Airen. Born but a soldier and now heir to the throne.
With a clatter, The Crystal and The Head shot together, clacked loudly, sparked marine fire and dropped as one tile with now the crystal in the center of the insignia.
The others snapped and rattled.
And with a strike of vermillion, The Sage mated with The Heart and fell to the altar, the wise hand now embedded in the center of the triangle on the sign.
And then there was a flash of green, The Shadow united with The Cock and fell to the alter, the shroud gone, a face with eyes wide open, lips curved into a small smile where the crescent moon had been.
It was that which made Ophelia emit a hushed whine she could not control before the blaze of coral took The Warrior tile straight to The Balls, and with a muted explosion, they dropped to the slab, the candle gone, a unicorn now standing proud in the center of the symbol.
The magic receded, and the altar was lit only by moonlight as the witches stared down.
They knew Aramus and Ha-Lah.
But now it was Farah and True.
Silence and Mars.
And Elena and Cassius.
There could be no worse coupling for Ophelia.
For Elena.
It was her deepest fear.
Realized.
Rebecca spoke first.
“I am sorry, my sister.”
“As am I.”
“As am I.”
“As am I.”
Ophelia gazed at the unicorn on the final tile for long moments, hoping its magic and abundance signified something promising, before she lifted her eyes to her sistren.
“It is done,” she announced.
It was not.
Not yet.
But it would be.
By every goddess and all things holy.
Ophelia just yearned deep into the core of her heart that none of those daughters suffered.
Overly much.
Especially her own.
But alas, for her own daughter she feared she would not be there to see.
3
The Second Son
Prince Cassius Laird
Crown Prince’s Bedchamber, Sky Citadel, Sky Bay
AIREN
Cassius held his hand over the maid’s mouth as he thrust inside her, his other hand tucked between her legs, his middle finger busy.
And effective, if the difficulty he was having containing her moans and whimpers and muted “Pleases” and “Mores” and “Harders” could be credited.