Treacherous Witch

“Queendom: A land ruled by a female tyrant (a “queen”) where power is passed down through her bloodline. Maskamere was the only known example before being embraced by the Empire.”

Clement Pyridge’s History of Our Glorious Empire, Vol. II

The assassination was Prince Bakra’s idea.

At first, he wanted to do it. “I’ll cut the bastard down myself!”

“How?” she asked.

“I’ll go into the palace—”

A clamour of protests shut him up. It was said that the royals had the countenance of hawks, ever watchful, ever fierce. With his boyish face and weak chin, Bakra reminded her of a juvenile with its feathers fluffed up, squawking and flailing about. Two years of exile and dwindling support outside the north had left him with a palpable sense of desperation.

At least he had surrounded himself with competent advisers for this mission. They were a small group, six of them. The prince’s second-in-command, Quintus Viper, Captain of the Royal Guard, spoke up first.

“Your Highness, you are our leader. We cannot afford to risk you being captured.”

They were hidden in the back room of an apothecary, odd as that might seem, but there were few places in the city for a prince to hide and the owners were sympathetic to their cause. Strange smells drifted here and there. She caught the scent of rosemary and glanced over at her friend Iora, who smiled and held a dried flower to her nose.

“I know the palace better than anyone,” Bakra argued. “I could find the royal chambers in my sleep.”

“So could I,” Quintus countered. “Let me go, Your Highness.”

“And both of you highly recognisable to those in the palace,” said Malkoha, who was another of the survivors from the palace, a Steward who had taught Bakra as a boy. “Half the household remain from our time, Your Highness, and we require someone who can slip in unnoticed...”

“The staff won’t give me away,” said Bakra. “I am their prince; they owe me their loyalty.”

Malkoha shook his head. “It would be dangerous to rely on that.”

The three of them were huddled around the table in the middle of the room, which Iora had cleared of its usual clutter. Markus stood watch by the door to the apothecary in case of intruders. Meanwhile Valerie had perched awkwardly on a cabinet next to Iora, since it seemed that every other available surface was covered in potions, poultices, dried herbs, flowers, mortars and pestles.

Still, this was the first time they’d let her into one of these meetings. She’d take an uncomfortable seat if it meant she was in the room.

She cleared her throat.

The group continued talking.

“Then we must infiltrate the palace without detection,” Bakra was saying.

“Could we find a sympathiser in the palace?”

Markus had heard her; he cocked his head. “What?” he mouthed.

“I could do it,” said Valerie.

“It comes down again to who you can trust,” said Malkoha, “and we can’t know which of the palace staff are trustworthy. All the families in Jairah are pledged to the Empire.”

Malkoha was almost seventy with ears as bushy as his hair, so perhaps he could be forgiven for not hearing. It still rankled.

“I said, I could do it,” she repeated, louder, and stepped into Bakra’s line of sight.

Malkoha frowned at her. “Your magic will aid in the task but for the deed itself we require a professional. Perhaps a mercenary—”

“I know the palace,” said Valerie. “They’ll let me in.”

Finally, she had their attention. The others stared at her. Iora leaned forward, swinging her legs.

“That’s right,” said Bakra. “Of course, and the staff would not suspect you.”

“Forgive me,” said Quintus. “Valerie may practise some petty magic, but she is no assassin.”

There was the faintest note of disapproval in his voice at the words ‘petty magic’. As captain of the guard, he would have dealt with petty sorcerers, hedge witches and the like, those who had escaped the attention of the priesthood. He’d never believed that her blessing was legitimate.

Markus stepped forward and she felt a spark of gratitude when he spoke up. “She doesn’t have to be. We only need someone who can lead us to Avon. I’ll cut the bastard down.”

“Two of us?” said Iora, glancing at the prince. “Is that enough?”

“It’s an assassination, not an invasion,” said Malkoha. “If Valerie can get Markus in...”

“Why risk both of us? Give me a knife and I’ll do it myself.”

Markus shot her a look. “Val, come on. You don’t want blood on your hands. Let me do my job.”

“We shan’t risk you in a fight,” said Bakra. “Markus is our best shot. I only wish I could be there too.”

She bit her tongue. Frankly, she thought she had a better chance than any of them but Bakra still clung to the idea that he and his men were responsible for winning this war.

Valerie nodded. “Yes, Your Highness.”

It would have to do. She might not strike the killing blow herself, but she would be instrumental in taking down Lord Avon and bringing them one step closer to the restoration of Maskamere.

On the eve of the assassination, Valerie boarded a boat to the palace and headed to the servants’ quarters. Here she claimed to be delivering a dress that had been ordered by the dead queen. That much was true: three years ago, Queen Shikra had requested a dress to be made for Maska’s millennium jubilee. But the jubilee celebrations never happened, nor did she ever see the dress, for she had perished at the feast of the harvest along with the rest of the royal family.

When she’d discovered the half-finished dress at the back of her uncle Koel’s workshop—he hadn’t the heart to finish it, he said—she had asked if she could work on it in her spare time. The shape of the gown was there, but it was missing the detail, and embroidery was Valerie’s speciality.

Now she had finished it, and she had poured her heart and soul into this gown, wishing that somehow it could bring the queen back, though of course that was impossible. Made of the finest porcelain silk, it was cut precisely to Queen Shikra’s measurements, with a halterneck that left the midriff bare in the Maskamery style, and an ankle-length skirt with a slit on either side up to the thigh. She’d had half a mind to present it to Prince Bakra when she was done, in memory of his dear sister. Maybe she still could. When Avon was dead, when Bakra had mustered his forces and retaken the capital, then he could hold a proper vigil for his sister. Maskamere had never gotten to truly mourn, not in public.

The palace steward, however, seemed not to care for her efforts. “What are you bringing us this for? The queen is dead. She’s hardly going to need it, is she?”

He glanced over the roses that she had so painstakingly embroidered from collar to hem—her personal signature—and showed not one whit of appreciation for the deep red of the petals studded with real rubies or the golden leaves and stems. Red and gold: the royal colours.

“I know, sir,” she said, “but Master Koel agreed to make the dress and we felt obliged to deliver it to the palace, as requested. I’m very sorry that it’s so late.”

The steward snorted. “Aren’t we all.”

“It’s Crescent-made,” she said. “Look.”

She showed him the crescent moon embroidered in silver thread on the collar. Her family sigil.

“Yes, well, in that case I’ve half a mind to trade it myself. That’s what you should have done.”

“I didn’t think that would be respectful to the queen.” She had to be careful and keep her temper. If she sounded too fond of the Maskamery royal family, he might think her a traitor. “Everything that belonged to the crown now belongs to his Lordship, so... I thought we shouldn’t keep it.”

“I see,” said the steward. “Then I’ll have it delivered. Give Master Koel my regards.”

His eyes softened for only a moment, but she caught it. Valerie bowed her head and retreated. The steward turned away. She was but one girl, a trader like many others who had business at the palace. She walked into the staff quarters and no one stopped her.

This was no accident. Valerie had another trick: invisibility.

Well, not exactly invisibility. Valerie had woven a spell into her own clothes, a spell to go unnoticed, to become so unremarkable that she wouldn’t catch anyone’s attention unless she approached them directly. She had protected Markus with the same magic too.

She passed through the entrance hall and was forced to take a right turn instead of going straight ahead to avoid the guards at the double doors. The spell wasn’t foolproof. She had to be careful of anyone who was especially vigilant, and the guards might question her if she attempted to enter a restricted area.

Instead, she found herself entering the palace temple. Instantly, she felt calmed by the high stone walls and the smell of incense. How long had it been since she had set foot in a place like this? Most were now only rubble. But not here. There were flowers laid at Maska’s altar, and the braziers were lit with a soft golden light.

There were also voices. Two men speaking. Valerie inched her way along one side of the temple, keeping her head bowed, and peeked around from behind a pillar when she got close.

The two men were Drakonian lords, she could tell that from their attire. They were standing at the top of some stone steps that led down she didn’t know where.

“My lord, with a reward like that, we’ll get nothing but beggars and charlatans flocking to our gates. For every hedge witch hiding her potions, there are ten making their coin from smoke and mirrors.”

“Then devise a test.” The second man turned slightly, revealing a hawkish profile, and with a shock she recognised him. Lord Avon. “Punish the charlatans and make it clear that lying won’t be tolerated.”

“With respect, my lord, the true sorcerers will be reluctant to come forward. Since the purge...”

“My father’s purge was a shortsighted folly that has deprived us of half the value of this land,” Avon snapped. “Promise the sorcerers they won’t be harmed. Promise lifelong immunity for them and their families—their entire village if necessary. We only need one on our side.”

During this conversation, Valerie was shaking. Lord Avon, their target, the most hated man in Maskamere, was right there, only feet away. Her knife was hidden beneath her dress. How easy it would be to slit his throat!

And then the other man would catch her, the guards would rush in, and she’d be dead before Avon’s body turned cold. Besides, she was enraptured by their conversation. He was looking for a sorcerer? Why?

The other man bowed. “I’ll see it done, my lord.”

“Good man.”

Valerie shrank back behind her pillar as the two men walked past to exit the temple. Her heart raced. She was half-tempted to go down the steps to see what lay underneath the temple—was that where the two men had come from?—but reminded herself to focus on her mission.

A small side door led out to a different corridor at the back of the temple. She made her way around to the gallery she had been originally trying to get to, then down the back steps and outside towards the river. She had thought that the river was impossible to reach from this side, but Bakra had told her otherwise. There was a rarely used door on the far side of the walled garden, and the key to this door was hidden beneath a stone frog by the pond. The statue by the pond was of a naked young man playing a lute. Water spouted from the end of the lute.

She wondered if one of the royals had been a sculptor, or if the statue was a gift from another family attempting to curry favour. Probably the latter. But she took the key and opened the door. There was a small fishing hut by the river, just as Bakra had said. She hid herself in the reeds next to the hut, watched, and waited.

Night fell and her backside was aching. Her stomach rumbled. She had not, she realised, thought about when and what she was going to eat during this mission. Her thoughts kept returning to the encounter with Lord Avon and the other lord. What did he want with a sorcerer? What more could he do to people like her?

But Markus arrived on cue in a small fishing boat, and the two of them slipped through the garden door and into the palace grounds. They made it all the way to the royal chambers before they were caught. It was quite good really. She’d done her part—she hadn’t screwed up.

Markus had.

She didn’t blame Markus. It was his fault—she’d sneaked away to the south entrance to wait for him when the bell sounded to raise the alarm, and she’d later learned that Markus had been spotted by one of the guards—but there was no point in making a fuss. Markus blamed himself enough for both of them. He stared at Avon with such abject hatred, she wondered that the Chancellor didn’t react. Avon’s gaze swept over each of them in turn, detached, assessing. He turned his eyes on her after regarding Markus, and she shivered.

He was an imposing man, tall, broad-shouldered, straight-backed. His features might best be described as striking, with a strong nose and jutting jaw, the sweep of dark hair throwing his face into sharp relief. But it was his eyes that struck her, blue and piercing. His gaze seemed to pin her where she stood, not cruel or dark, but perceptive, searching, like the beam of a lighthouse over the sea. He saw her. She didn’t know what he made of her, but he saw her.

Then his gaze moved on and she looked down at her feet, heart thundering.

“I’m not surprised,” said Lord Avon, “that you should try to kill me. I don’t blame you for your loyalty to queen and country. Nevertheless, you are traitors. Were Maskamery justice to be delivered, you would both hang. Fortunately, you live under Drakonian rule. For the crime of treason, you will serve for eighteen years as vassals of the Empire, and then you’ll be given another chance to live as free citizens.”

Markus snorted loudly at this, but a single look from Avon quelled him.

“At any time, you may choose to repent and your term may be reduced. You may tell us the location of the prince or any of his accomplices. You may provide the names of others in the resistance. You may tell us of their plans.” There was a pause. “Would anyone like to speak?”

She didn’t need to look at Markus. There was only one answer to that. Valerie stared back at Avon in defiance, and neither of them spoke. After a second or two, Markus spat on the floor.

“You’ll get nothing from us. Don’t waste your time.”

Avon smiled. “Lord Gideon, how have you been getting on?”

“I’m performing the interrogations as you requested, my lord.” Gideon’s voice was very different when addressing Avon. It took on an oily, obsequious tone. She realised suddenly that he had been the other lord talking to Avon in the temple. “It’s only a matter of time before I extract the necessary confessions.”

“Or perhaps we can extract them now,” said Avon. He turned back to Valerie and Markus. “We have one more crime to account for. Which one of you is a witch?”

Valerie suppressed a gasp. He knew! How could he know? She stared at her feet, hoping that she hadn’t given the game away.

“The penalty for witchcraft is to be burned at the stake. Of course, if neither of you come forward, I’ll have to assume that you’re both guilty.”

Markus let out a strangled cry, struggling with his cuffs, but the guards reacted at once. There was a brief scuffle before the dull, heavy sound of fists crunching into flesh. He doubled over.

“If you want to kill us, kill us!” he gasped. “Neither of us are witches.”

“My lord?” Gideon looked at Avon, who nodded.

“Get him up.”

The guards dragged Markus to his feet, a third coming for her, and she thought, no, he’s bluffing, he has to be—

“Wait!” she cried.

They all stopped. Markus was being restrained by Drakonian soldiers. Gideon watched the proceedings with an unpleasant leer. As for Avon, she again felt the intensity of his eyes on her.

She took a deep breath.

“It’s me,” she said. “I’m the witch.”

“Val, don’t—”

Avon approached her. She stood resolute, meeting his gaze. But she couldn’t stop her mouth from trembling.

“Have you interrogated this one?”

He wasn’t talking to her, though he was looking at her. She frowned, unsure of how to respond, and Gideon answered for her.

“I had just begun when you called for us, my lord.”

Avon lifted a lock of her hair and she flinched. Her hair was still damp. She prayed that her shift was not. It felt like it was drying, her clothes no longer stuck to her, but she didn’t dare look down in case she drew his attention. He released the lock of hair and she let out a breath, but he was still inches away from her.

“The girl comes with me,” he said, and she could have sworn that her heart stopped. “Return the boy to his cell.”

She stood frozen in shock.

“No!” Markus started towards her and was yanked back. “You bastard, leave her alone!”

He bellowed as his guard stabbed a blade into his ankle, and then there were two, three of them on him, grabbing his arms, pulling him back.

“My lord, I must protest—” Gideon’s voice was weedy and easily drowned out. Avon ignored him.

“Take him away,” he said.

Markus was bleeding because of her. She found her voice. “Stop! Don’t fight them! I’ll be fine, I promise!”

He stared at her, his cheek bruised, confusion clouding his eyes. “Val?”

“Trust me.”

She tried to convey as much as she could just with her face, silently begging him to believe her. Then Avon waved his hand, and the guards dragged Markus away.