Empress Crowned in Red

Ciannon Smart

• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Year: 2022
• eBook ISBN:
  9780062946034
• Print ISBN:
  9780062946010

Perfect for fans of Sabaa Tahir and Roseanne A. Brown, this highly anticipated YA fantasy sequel to Witches Steeped in Gold finds rival witches Jaz and Iraya in an alliance that hangs by a thread, with a brand-new enemy on the horizon.

The Doyenne is dead, and the throne is empty.

Iraya, her revenge taken and magic unfettered, turns her sights on a bigger goal in this gripping political fantasy: freeing Aiyca for the Obeah. But first she must shed the guise of the rogue warrior and become the Lost Empress her people need.

Jazmyne's mother has been overthrown, but her people aren't ready to call her doyenne. She's no stranger to a fight, though, and she's prepared to go to extreme lengths—and court ruthless danger—to secure her title.

But a new threat is awakening—an enemy with vicious intent and an army of nightmares from beyond the veil. An enemy who has waited a decade to strike, who would claim both Iraya's birth right and Jazmyne's bloody crown.

In a world of Black girl magic, trust is scarce, and betrayal a breath away. And Iraya and Jazmine must once again turn to each other—after all, better the witch you know than the nightmare you don't.

The war has just begun.

• Rival Witches: Iraya, the prophesied Lost Empress, and Jazmyne, the ambitious doyenne-in-waiting, must navigate a fragile truce to secure their respective crowns.
• Enemies to Allies: Their uneasy alliance is the only thing standing between the island of Aiyca and a terrifying new army of nightmares from beyond the veil.
• Jamaican-Inspired Fantasy: Immerse yourself in a richly imagined world of magic and political intrigue, drawing on the vibrant history and mythology of Jamaica.
• High-Stakes Fantasy: With betrayal lurking around every corner and a vicious new enemy threatening both their claims to power, the fight for the throne has never been more deadly.

Part I

Every Unfair Game Is Played Twice

1

JAZMYNE

Knowing how heavy the crown would feel still doesn’t prepare me for its weight.

“On tonight’s coronation eve, we bestow this cradle of riches upon your head,” the Alumbrar Seer before me intones, setting the gold circlet atop my curls, “to represent Aiyca’s greatest treasure you will serve and protect: its people.” Her movements are unsteady, bafan; withdrawing clawed hands, the witch steps aside as she says her next words. “Never forget that they, and they alone, are between you and the Supreme Being.”

Beyond the Seer, on the dais steps below the throne, stand her fellow witches, the cabinet of fourteen who have served the crown for a decade. The wall of windows in the throne room behind them showcases cold teal light from a steepening dawn. As it bleeds through the vestiges of the rising sun, it stains the Alumbrar faces in the crowd gathered to witness my ascension, casting their wariness, their fear, in a lattice of shadows. Not even twenty-four hours earlier, their last doyenne fell—was felled by an axe that may swing at my neck too, yet.

Swallowing, I focus on the Seer, who steps back into my line of sight.

“All decisions henceforth must respect your people them, you understand?”

An internal war is fought. Fear versus fervor. The former cannot have an inch.

“I understand.”

If the warning of the Seer’s words isn’t enough of a reminder about how my past decisions have impacted my order’s present, or the tried prescience of her métier reflected in her milky eyes as the spirits of the long dead commune through her, the scarlet kaftan she wears is more than sufficient. Last night, before the events of the Sole, that color mirrored fire; my plans were set to purify an inflicted isle. Now it slinks down the dais steps like blood—in addition to mine, my order’s is in danger of being spilled if I make the mistake of faltering for even a second.

“We place this scepter in your hands,” the Seer goes on to cantillate, her salt-and-pepper twists quivering with her intensity, “to remind you that your reach alone is limited; seek out additional hands in your plight to keep Aiyca, its people them, hale and protected.” She places the baton of gold into my waiting palm. “Never forget to pursue those hands should you need them.”

A shadow catches my eye beneath the east mezzanine. Anya, dressed for Stealth in obsidian silk, is ever stalwart, like the pillars to her left and right. Her silver ponytail bobs in a proud flag of victory; light catches the unspent tears in her eyes as the intention we set for me to take the throne, so long ago now, comes true.

“Upon this night,” the Seer continues, the rhythmic cadence of her voice a lullaby to soothe the roiling unease in my belly, “we pronounce you, Jazmyne Amancia Cariot, former emissary to the crown and second-born pickney of the late Doyenne Judair Cariot, Regent of Aiyca and all its territories.”

A bolt of shock electrifies my insides—disbelief.

Regent?

Stunned, I look up into the white eyes of the witch leading the coronation. In the polished mahogany of her face, they are consuming. Doyenne. My frown castigates where my words cannot. Not before an audience of Alumbrar, including what remains of the Witches Council, who stand vigil close to Anya. I told you to crown me doyenne, not a glorified babysitter.

“Until such a time as when you inherit your magic,” the witch continues, “meeting the eligibility to become doyenne of this great and noble land.” She pauses as though in explanation, in a face-slapping reminder that I am still not enough. “Do you accept?”

Even as my cheeks burn at the slight, how public it is, my world narrows down to those three words in the Seer’s question. With Iraya out there somewhere, allied with Kirdan, the rebels, pride would be a fool’s error.

“Yes.” A gelid determination replaces the hot flare of my embarrassment. I draw myself up taller in the throne. “I accept.”

“And do you promise to protect this island, its territories, and its people to the best of your ability, even if it means giving your life to do so?”

That determination morphs from ice to steel around my bones, and something more intrinsic—my will.

“I do.”

The witch retreats down the dais steps to join her sistren; they stand in a line, arms aloft before them. “And so it is promised,” the cabinet says in unison, “so things do. Long live Aiyca’s regent, Jazmyne Amancia Cariot, Favored by the Supreme Being, Healing Hands of Aiyca, Watchful Eye of Carne Sea, first of her name, and sole living heir of Doyenne Cariot.”

Though the Sibyls and I crafted them together, with Anya’s aid, hearing them called by my order transcends me from myself, from emissary to the crown.

“Long live Aiyca’s regent” is returned by a crowd that isn’t as sure as I need them to be, yet; my titles follow.

Standing, I allow myself one shallow breath, one moment to mentally savor the bittersweet paean of a title I never wanted, knowing it’s the final hurdle before the one I’ve fought for and sacrificed in the name of. As my order will soon learn. A declaration of gold, my kaftan glows in the growing dark. More of the conduit metal graces my feet, neck, fingers, and finally crowns my head in an obscene finale of power and wealth. Word will spread, and my enemies won’t remember that I cannot summon, that as regent I have yet to inherit my ancestors’ magic, this morning.

“Wahan, Alumbrar,” I call. “From light we are born.”

“And to light we cleave.”

“Yesterday eve was one of loss,” I begin, aware of the mount I need to overcome. “But we are no strangers to dark skies. It is the time our naysayers see how incandescent our shine truly is.” Dawn blooms outside, a flare of a triumphing sun. My chin rises in acknowledgment of the Supreme Being’s blessing, Their support as I attempt to shift the winds in this throne room from hesitant to confident. “While this morning we usher in a new era for Aiyca, it does not negate who we have been in the past: leaders, healers, protectors.” Some in the crowd nod. Others only stare with hard expressions, doubt. “We walk into a future shadowed by our past. To that end, it is incumbent on us to be a shining light, to expose our enemies who would rather rely on that darkness, hide in it. Can I place my faith in you, Alumbrar? Can I, in doing all that I can, trust you to do the same? Not only for your families, for our rule, but for Aiyca?” The angle, the threat, is a gamble, one Anya didn’t wish for me to make when I scrambled to formulate something inspiring for this moment. There will be no reward, I told Anya, without showing them they are at risk too. There is no time to earn my order’s admiration, and hereafter, the island’s. I must incite their fear instead. I’ll show them that while I am their sole option, standing alone does not lessen my suitability for this position. “Will you stand with me, for our home?”

I’m met with silence. One so deep that, for a moment, I wonder if I might drown in it.

Was Anya right? My titles, my clothing, everything crafted to cast a greater shadow than I can at this time, after being swallowed by the late doyenne’s, aren’t enough to intimidate them into taking the knee. They won’t follow me. They don’t—

“In your words, Regent” is called from the crowd. “We do not fear dark skies!”

One. Thank the gods.

“It’s true that we own the night, Alumbrar.” There are more cries of affirmation, but they’re hollow. I need more. “However much our enemies may think themselves comfortable there. Which is why we will defeat them! We will defeat them as we have done for the past decade. As we will do for decades more!” The cries of the crowd finally reach a pitch that makes me feel shot as high as the stars I can no longer see, thanks to the dawn. Is this how the late doyenne felt? Despite the pounds of gold around her neck, her wrists?

The thought of her, Mama, encases my ankles, drags me back down to earth in a breath-stealing jerk. She had the jéges. Magic. None of which saved her, in the end. Six phases stand between me and my inheritance. Compared to eternity, it is but a blink. This I tell myself as the crowd continues to holler and bellow. A time Aiyca will survive, with the aid of Roje, standing guard in the palace grounds with the rest of the pirates.

But we cannot grow complacent.

I cannot.

My left hand is held aloft; the crowd cows before it, row by row. “Victory, Alumbrar, may not look to you as it always has done, but while I sit on this throne, in Aiyca’s Golden Seat, I assure you death’s shroud will not find its resting place here again. Tonight, we mourn the late doyenne, as we will for the next nine. Thereafter, we live, Alumbrar.” I look to Anya, still crying silent tears. “We do more than survive. We triumph. We thrive.”

My sistren sinks into a curtsy first, and though the movement brings her forward, the action travels back. Warmth spreads from my chest and through my limbs as, row by row, Alumbrar in the throne room sink into a sign of estimation, with the exception of the Sibyls, who are too old to lower more than their chins, which they do. The three remaining Witches Council presiders also remain standing, their faces tight. We four will need to talk, later. For now, I open my arms to my kneeling order. The line has been cast, the bait taken.

“Rise, Alumbrar. Rise and honor me by honoring the late doyenne.”

To their riotous applause, I pick my way down the steps with care, kaftan in hand. Anya meets me at the dais base.

“Regent,” she says with a bow.

For all my earlier bravado, the title rips through my belly like a hot knife.

Catching my reaction, of course, Anya edges closer, lowers her voice. “I’m sorry, Jaz. I didn’t know.”

“Not now,” I murmur. Alumbrar edge close, waiting to address their new leader. “Sister Grenich, how lovely to see you.” Anya falls to my side as I approach the Alumbrar Healer I remember well from my time training at Sanar, Aiyca’s Al...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• The Orders of Xaymaca
• Part I: Every Unfair Game Is Played Twice
• Part II: Do Not Let Your Left Hand Know What Your Right Hand a Do
• Part III: Don’t Wait Till Drums Beat to Grind Your Axe
• Part IV: But a Little Axe
• Métiers
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• Books by Ciannon Smart
• Back Ad
• Copyright
• About the Publisher