Treacherous Witch

“The first domain is mastery over the self. That’s the first thing we teach our acolytes when they accept the blessing.”

Interview with Queen Shikra III, as told to Master Anwen

To her surprise, the dancing lessons continued. Lord Avon wanted her to learn the waltz for their visit to Enyr. She’d had two lessons so far with Jaxon, one of the courtiers, but she had expected her part in the visit to be swiftly curtailed.

“One day off sick, and you think you should give it up altogether?” Jaxon chided her. “The court won’t wait. You must be ready.”

They’d explained away her absence with a mild intemperance, though she had to wonder whether any of the courtiers knew the truth. They were sharp on gossip in the court, and the entire palace guard had no doubt been instructed to keep a close eye on her.

In the palace ballroom, which was the largest hall she had ever set foot in, Jaxon placed a hand on her waist. She assumed the hold he had taught her.

“Now, play.”

Another of the courtiers, Argo, played the opening notes on the grand piano. She had learned that he was not attached to any particular lord and instead enjoyed the patronage of the court thanks to his gifts in music, singing, and poetry.

The waltz began, Jaxon’s hand on her waist guiding her through it. One, two—she tried to remember to hold her arm firm—turning about the ballroom, focusing on the steps.

“You’re looking at your feet,” said Jaxon. “Always look into your lord’s eyes during the dance. Look at him as if there’s no one else.”

She looked up. Jaxon’s eyes were warm. He loved the dance, and he was a patient teacher. But in Enyr, she would be dancing with Avon. Looking into his eyes.

He had broken his promise not to harm her. In that terrifying moment when the blade had plunged into her flesh, she had seen what she had always feared in him. She supposed that she had broken her side of the deal first by trying to run away. Where they stood now, she didn’t know.

What could she do other than try to escape? What could he do other than trap her further?

“Stop,” said Jaxon, and she blinked, stumbling. Wrong step. “You need to focus.”

She grimaced. “I’m not feeling well.”

It wasn’t even a lie. She let go of Jaxon’s hand, flexing her fingers. No sign of her injury remained except for a phantom pain, the memory of violence.

“Are you well enough to walk?”

She nodded.

“Then you’re well enough to try again.”

Try again.

There was a question.

Later that night, Priska delivered another letter from her grandmother.

Valerie,

We are hoping to see you. I’ve written to Captain Doryn who says it should be possible to arrange a supervised visit. Please don’t worry about us. Koel grumbles about his missing work tools, but we are alive and well. The family stays strong.

Hold fast and keep the faith.

Aurelia

PS. Markus sends his love.

She read it twice, then curled up under the bed covers and crumpled the letter against her chest. What awful timing. Any visit that Doryn might have agreed to would no doubt be cancelled. Lord Avon would never approve.

The one saving grace was that Avon didn’t send for her. She buried her head into the pillow as if to drown out any knock at the door, but it never came. She imagined him sulking in there alone, drinking his wine or writing his silly letters.

No, he was a practical man. He was probably scheming. Devising new ways to spy on her and ensure she didn’t get a chance to escape again. Which meant that she ought to scheme too. Think of another way out.

She closed her eyes and set herself the task for her sleeping mind to solve.

Visiting Anwen was a little awkward.

“Are you all right, my dear?” he asked. “I was sorry to hear of your malady the other day.”

“I’m fine,” she said, trying to smile. “It was a long day.”

“Well, sit, sit. You must tell me how your magic is going. Did it work?”

It was raining today, so they sat inside the greenhouse. Valerie listened to the gentle pitter-patter of the rain on the roof. The tomato plants were doing well despite Anwen’s insistence on not killing the beetles. She clasped her hands in her lap.

“Not quite,” she lied. “I, um, I accidentally set off a magical alarm. Do you know about that?”

He peered at her from under his bushy eyebrows. “Alarm? Ah—you mean the bells?”

“There’s more than one?”

“Of course. The queen designed them to protect those of us without magic. Every entrance to the palace has one, so they can alert the guards of any strange sorcery. You were... ah...”

He trailed off, and she quickly clarified. “I was taking a stroll in the garden. I must have passed by one of the gatehouses.”

Anwen frowned. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. I’ll practise indoors next time.”

She smiled, but her mind was racing. Every entrance to the palace had an alarm? She’d guessed that was how they’d been caught on the night of the assassination, but then why hadn’t an alarm set off when she’d entered the servants’ quarters earlier that day? Why only later?

There was a way to find out, but it was risky, especially if Avon guessed what she was up to. An idea occurred to her. She made her excuses to Anwen and returned to her quarters.

In the queen’s chambers, she rang a different, smaller bell. Within minutes, her lady-in-waiting arrived, bobbing her head.

“You called, ma’am?”

“Can I trust you, Priska?”

Priska blinked. “Of course, my lady.”

Valerie perched on the edge of the bed, tracing her fingers over the gold-patterned coverlet. She’d considered this carefully. Priska was Maskamery. A Steward, no less, the right hand of the royal family. She had obeyed all of Valerie’s orders with unfailing discretion. If she had to trust anyone in this Maska forsaken place, she would gamble on Priska.

“I mean it,” she said, sliding off the bed and to her feet. “I need you to do something for me without asking questions or telling anyone. Can you do that?”

“I—I can try.”

“I want you to find out how many magical alarms there are in the palace and tell me where they are. They’re supposed to be at the exits, but I want to confirm that. Can you do that for me?”

Priska nodded. “My lady...”

“What? I’m not like the others, Priska. I want to hear your opinion.”

“It’s true, then? That you’re a witch?”

“A priestess. Don’t use their language. I received the blessing before the war.”

Priska looked abashed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay. The Drakonians think we’re all the same. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“No. No, ma’am. If there’s anything else I can do...”

Valerie set her hand on the other girl’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

The maid departed, and Valerie exhaled. At last she had an ally in this wretched place. Assuming that her instincts were correct. Assuming that Priska succeeded, that Avon didn’t find her out, that she wasn’t betrayed. She’d set things in motion that were beyond her control, and Valerie never liked that.

And still Avon didn’t summon her.

The next time she saw him was at her final dancing lesson before the trip to Enyr. Priska had reported back on two magical alarms so far, but she thought there were more. Meanwhile, Valerie hadn’t visited Avon’s chambers since before her escape attempt. She had no visible progress to report on her magic either, and she’d been worried about that—yet she’d heard nothing.

Meeting him in the ballroom was a surprise she hadn’t prepared for. In retrospect, it made sense: they had to practise the routine together. Jaxon had done all the hard work. Avon was just sweeping in after she had learned all the steps.

“Over here, my lord!” Jaxon called.

Her feet seemed to freeze into place as he approached. He did so in a hurry, his black coat and tails giving him the manner of an ill-tempered crow.

“Music!” said Jaxon, clapping his hands.

Avon took her into hold. She felt his hand on her waist, his long fingers entwining with hers. But the moment she stared into his icy blue eyes instead of Jaxon’s warm brown gaze, she turned to jelly. She started shaking and lost the thread of the dance, stumbling on the first turn.

They stopped.

Avon looked at Jaxon. “Didn’t you teach her the steps?”

“Could you give us a moment, my lord?”

Jaxon pulled her aside. Valerie didn’t dare look at Avon, who had turned away. She couldn’t do it. The routine had fled from her mind the second Avon touched her.

“What’s going on up there?” Jaxon asked gently.

She shook her head, pacing from foot to foot. “It’s different with him. I know the steps, I do, but they just weren’t there. I don’t know.”

“All right,” he said, “all right, stand still. You’re nervous. It’s only natural. How about we do a quick demonstration first to show him you can do it?”

All right, she thought. She could do that. Jaxon took her back to the floor, explaining that Valerie just needed to warm up. As they settled into hold, she thought: familiarity. One of the hallmarks of power. The music began, and her body remembered the routine. She performed it flawlessly.

“You see, my lord,” said Jaxon, bowing. “She’s a natural.” He turned to Valerie. “Now, how do you feel about dancing with his Lordship?”

I don’t want to. I’d rather run away screaming. I’d rather stick hot pokers into his eyes.

All answers she couldn’t give.

“I... I don’t know if I can do it.”

Jaxon put his arm around her shoulder. He pointed at Avon, who looked deeply unimpressed. “Here’s a trick I learned from the theatre. Imagine he’s naked. Does wonders for stage fright.”

Alarm shot through her. “I really don’t think that’ll help.”

“All right. Alternative option. Pretend he’s me. Just do the same thing you did with me, and you’ll be fine. Do you think you can do that?”

“I can try.”

She didn’t have a better idea. Her own reaction had surprised her—not that she hated and feared Lord Avon, that much was a given—but that it had crippled her so. Do better, she told herself. It’s just a dance.

“She’s ready,” Jaxon called, and the pianist began to play the opening notes.

Jaxon stood back as Avon approached. Once again, he took her into hold. She could already feel herself recoiling. She lifted her chin, maintaining her posture. One step. Two—

Pretend he’s Jaxon? He was half the dancer Jaxon was. Jaxon moved with more grace than any man she had ever met, and dancing was his passion. Avon felt different—more controlling, less elegant. He leaned into the turn with more force than necessary.

“You’re being too rough,” she told him. “Let me move with you.”

He frowned but adjusted, easing up so that he was no longer pulling her around the floor. Valerie tensed up anyway, her arm stiff and out of shape. She made a wrong step and winced but quickly corrected it, following his lead.

They made it to the end and that, she thought, was the best she could do. Jaxon would find many more faults, she was sure.

“Very good!” Jaxon said, applauding as Argo played the last few notes. “Shall we go over it again?”

“Must we?”

“I do have a couple of teeny notes...”

Avon sighed. “One more, then.”

Jaxon brought them back together, demonstrating the steps where they had faltered. “Now, a couple of times it looked like you were fighting...”

Avon shot her a wry look. She made a face in response. But the courtier talked them through it, and she was glad to hear that he had notes for Avon as well as for her. Once Jaxon was satisfied that they had corrected their errors, he clicked his fingers for the music to begin.

She settled into hold and looked Avon in the eyes. “I have a request, my lord.”

She let her body move on autopilot. She had to trust that she knew what she was doing. Mastery over the self.

“Speak when you’re spoken to, Valerie,” he said. “Did I give you permission to speak?”

“I had another letter from my grandmother. She was hoping to arrange a visit—”

“Absolutely not.”

“But—”

He spun her around and then caught her, Valerie checking her pace. “You’re in no position to ask for anything.”

“Is there something I can do to change that?”

“You can do as you’re told. You’re lucky I haven’t killed you.”

The shiver that ran through her almost lost her hold. She shut her mouth and focused on the rest of the dance. Jaxon’s verdict: better.

“You could hone a few more steps, my lord,” he said, “if you would like to—”

Avon held up his hand. “I don’t require perfection, Jaxon. I need only fail to make a fool of myself. Have we performed sufficiently for that?”

“I’m most certain you have, my lord.”

“Then thank you for your service. You’ve done a great deal in very little time.”

Jaxon beamed. “A pleasure, sir. As I said, she’s a natural.”

Avon bid them farewell and took his leave. Jaxon looked at her. She knew what he was thinking—Avon hadn’t once initiated a conversation with her, nor praised her for her own efforts in learning the dance—but she made her excuses and departed before he could ask why. If rumours spread that she and Avon were having a tiff, well, she didn’t care.

She’d suffered a setback, not a failure. She was still determined to escape.