Catherine leaned back in her chair, avoiding her maids’ eyes, afraid that they would see through her carefully-cultivated mask to the hope and despair beneath. Her head maid’s fingers were tangled in her hair, deftly braiding the golden strands. Catherine winced as she pulled a little too sharply, causing a twinge of pain in her scalp. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” the woman said, sounding altogether unapologetic. 

It’s okay, Catherine told herself, and it was because she and her mother had made plans to flee the castle that very night. She had spoken to the butler, the only servant she was certain was loyal to them, and he had agreed to disguise himself as a merchant and bring a horse-drawn carriage to sneak them out of the city. It pained her to leave her father, but he was a liability—in a bout of dementia he could easily cry out and reveal where they were hiding. The choice was simple: leave him or die themselves.

That morning, Catherine had sent a letter to her illegitimate sister, Rosalind, by crow. She had explained the threat of Bishop Matthias and her plan to flee to Nekimir, but most importantly, she had apologized for valuing societal expectations over their relationship and vowed to continue her correspondence. ‘At this moment,’ she had written, ‘I now see that all of the fuss over one’s manner of birth is meaningless.’

She had watched as the black wings disappeared over the horizon with a sense of relief. She had disguised the letter well, and the crow was a dependable messenger that her family had raised from a hatchling. She only hoped that her sister, whom she had not spoken to in many years, could come to forgive her.

“Margaret,” she said, “can you bring me a cup of chamomile tea?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” the girl said, but something in her voice sounded off—sinister, almost—and Catherine turned to face her with her eyebrows raised.

Suddenly, the nimble fingers in her hair tightened, yanking her head back, and something hard and cold was sliding between her ribs, penetrating deep into the flesh. Catherine screamed, her gaze falling, unseeing, on the dagger protruding from her body. And the blood, so much blood, staining the beautiful white lace of her gown. 

She swayed, toppling from the chair and onto the wooden floor. The ground was unyielding against her cheek, and she stretched one arm out for something—anything—the other clutching at the wound. Blood pooled at her lips, and she sputtered thickly. 

There was noise above her: female voices, quick and cruel, having a conversation she was no longer part of. She opened her mouth, choked, and then tried again. “Mar…garet? Em…ily? W-why?”

The tip of a heel nudged her painfully, turning her over. The face that looked down at her was unrecognizable, impassive with a slight hint of distaste. “You have been a dead woman for a long time, Catherine. We only needed to deliver you to the devil.”

Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. “And… my mother?”

The maid shook her head. “Gone.”

Catherine let out a wail. “Hush,” another maid said, not unkindly. “We—no, he—was watching you. He knew everything from the beginning.”

The implication was slow to reach Catherine through her pain-addled brain. The bishop had known: he had let her sneak out unmolested; had allowed her to speak with the archbishop; and had observed everything that she had considered terribly clever. 

Catherine lay bleeding out on the marbled floor of her bed-chamber, feeling shame beneath her sadness and pain. She had fumbled around, been too slow to act, and underestimated her enemy; in the end, she had saved neither her country nor her mother.

Her dying wish was that the bishop had overlooked the letter.

***

Bishop Matthias’s steps were quiet but assured as he walked down the aisle. His robes billowed behind him, and his shadow marched across the marble walls in parallel, distorted at the ends by the torchlight. A gleaming silver pendant, a pair of wings, hung low around his neck. It was raining outside, and the fat droplets drummed on the panes of stained glass. The terrible cold seeped through the building at the seams. 

The congregation waited with bated breath as he took to the pulpit. He cleared his throat, opened the Book of the Divine Goddess, and then turned his dark eyes to the pews.

In the first rows sat the most influential people: the generals, priests, and politicians, their metals clattering every time they shifted like a herald announcing their status. At the rear was a smattering of carefully selected upper and middle-class civilians, the latter piled on top of one another in a contest for space. 

The listeners were breathless with anticipation, not unlike children waiting for their matron to read from a storybook. Matthias knew this, and he relished how they fidgeted; how they stared at him with eyes filled with admiration and a hint of fear. 

“Today,” he said heavily, “has been a tragic day.” He spoke in an even voice, neither loud nor softly, so that even the most important members of the congregation had to lean forward to hear him. “We had long suspected that the royal family was being tempted by the devil, but after the events of the winter solstice, I—by the order of the archbishop, of course—carried out an investigation. The results revealed the royal’s gluttony and sloth, along with their unwillingness to face the growing shadow in the south. When confronted, they fled in the night.”

There were shocked murmurs amongst the commoners, who had heard nothing of the royals’ disappearance,  but they quickly quieted, knowing that their attendance was contingent on their good behavior. The time to speak would come later, from the safety of the local pub or their own four walls. 

“With the help of the butler,” Matthias elaborated, “the youngest royal, Catherine, conspired to sneak her parents from the castle in a merchant’s cart. In preparation, she pillaged the palace’s stores like a common thief, taking all a manner of valuables: documents, gold, and national treasures.” The corner of his mouth twitched downward, as if he was unable to contain his disgust. “This we discovered in the morning, but their intended trajectory is not known—perhaps they have gone north, where it is unlikely that they will survive the wrath of the Hecatomb Mountain Range in winter; or perhaps they have fled into the arms of the beasts they so wished to protect.”

He let the implication lay in the air. His eyes probed the front row of generals, searching for any indication that they may not be loyal, but he found no animosity in their expressions. As he had expected, the reaction to the royals’ supposed cowardice was more potent than the reaction to their deaths would have been, and he had already ensured that the circumstances of the royals’ murder would not be revealed: the palace maids had been dispatched that same morning, and their killers had been ordered to commit suicide in the name of the Divine Goddess under the bishop’s own watchful eye. 

Once a suitably uncomfortable amount of time had passed, Matthias raised his voice again. “Unfortunately, this is not the only tragedy to befall us today,” he said, looking somber. A lonely tear detached itself from his eye and plopped onto the pulpit. “Last night, my colleague and old friend the archbishop lost his long battle with the Winter Fever.”

The uninformed attendees gasped, some going as far as to wail. Matthias let the theatrics go on for some time before pulling a scroll from his robes, which he unrolled with bony fingers. “It is with a heavy heart that I must turn to political matters. As you know, I am next in line for succession. I will now hear objections if anyone should have them.”

There was silence. He made a show of looking around the room. No one would dare to object, of course—not when the news was too fresh to know the others’ opinions, and speaking out could risk one’s position, especially when the issue in question involved a man appointed by the Goddess herself. 

“I have long been discontent with the state of our nation,” Archbishop Matthias said, now pacing along the front of the cathedral, eyes suddenly dry. “Our own sins give rise to Linnaeans among us, and in a backward sequence of events, we hand-deliver them to their cursed city.”

A draft blew out the candle nearest to his side, and half of his face fell into shadow, obscuring the madness beneath. He raised his arms to the sky, and his voice boomed loud and fearsome. “A message has come to me from the Goddess herself. She will lend us her strength if only we will accept it. She will give us the power to wage war—the power to vanquish the demons for once and for all!”