Treacherous Witch

“What is the ultimate power? Mercy.”

Interview with Queen Shikra III, as told to Master Anwen

In the moments between the goblet leaving Lady Ophelia’s startled grasp and it crashing to the floor, Valerie reflected that perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. Ophelia squealed. Red wine spilled out like blood. Murmurs and whispers followed as the lords and ladies around them noticed the kerfuffle.

Lord Avon grabbed her shoulder. “Valerie!”

Lord Dryden stood up. “What on earth are you doing?”

“What...”

If Kreios had been about to reprimand her, the impulse soon vanished. He stopped, his hand flying to his throat.

“Valerie?” A tiny crease smudged Ophelia’s brow.

Next to her, Avon stepped forward. “Lord Silver, what’s wrong?”

Kreios was wheezing, his face turning red. His fingers kept clawing at his throat, as if to pull away a cloth that was squeezing his neck.

“He’s poisoned!” said Valerie. “Wait—I can help.”

She started forward, but Avon pulled her back before she could get further than a step. Valerie turned back, furious, but he met her eyes with equal ferocity before shouting out to the crowd:

“Fetch a doctor! Now!”

The servants responded at once. Meanwhile, the lords and ladies crowded around Kreios, who had collapsed into a chair. Dryden helped him sit up; he was now blue in the face. Ophelia clutched at his hand. Valerie looked for Iora, but there was no sign of her in the chaos. Had she seen what had happened?

Avon barked at the crowd: “Ladies and gentlemen, give him space! Step out of the hall, all of you—the doctor needs space to assist Lord Silver.”

The Drakonian doctor had arrived. He rushed over to Kreios while the palace guards ushered the lords and ladies out, Ophelia refusing to leave until her brother snapped at her to go. Avon held her hand tightly. Dryden supported Kreios, the doctor getting ready to administer what looked like a breathing tube.

“I could heal him!” Valerie hissed.

He looked at her. “Are you sure?”

Maybe, maybe not. She’d never healed anyone else before, but she was twice-blessed by the silvertree, and there was a first time for everything.

“At least let me try!”

“Wait!” said Avon. “Step back.”

The doctor stared at him. “My lord—”

“I said step back.”

Avon let go and Valerie rushed forward, kneeling beside Kreios to grab his hand.

Dryden hissed. “You’d let your witch work her evil here in our halls?”

“My lord, I must protest—”

“No, you must not. Let her work.”

Valerie only half-heard them arguing. She was overwhelmed by the poison eating its way through the man’s body and destroying his lungs. It had already spread through his bloodstream.

She’d been healing herself ever since she was first blessed by the silvertree. It was one of the first things she had learned to do. But awareness of one’s own body was quite different from awareness of another, particularly a stranger. And he was dying. Instinctively, she held herself back. The slightest adjustment of her senses would make his pain her own.

That was the answer.

If she drew the poison into herself—

She wouldn’t die. She’d expel it.

Valerie laid her hand on his forehead—and then stopped, gasping, as Kreios convulsed. For a second, she couldn’t breathe—her throat clamped up—then she reeled back as if she’d been struck. The moment her hand lifted from his skin the sensation also lifted.

Kreios slumped to the floor. His skin was grey and twisted, the corners of his mouth a bruised purple. His eyes stared blankly up at the great chandelier hanging above the dinner table.

She was breathing hard and clutched her hand to her chest, controlling herself.

“What are you doing?” the doctor demanded. “Move aside!”

The doctor checked the man’s pulse, but it was clear to everyone watching what had happened.

“He’s dead,” said Dryden. “You...”

“I couldn’t save him.” Valerie looked up at Avon, begging him to believe her. “I ran out of time.”

He stared back at her, and she saw doubt in his eyes.

“James,” said Dryden. “James—I’ll keep your secret. But we should have let the doctor do his job. Putting his life in the hands of an untrained girl—whether malicious or incompetent—”

Anger flared in her. “I could have saved him! You held me back—you wasted our time!”

Avon straightened up. His shadow seemed heavy on the great polished-wood floor. “My secret?” he said. “My secret? Do you think I have anything to hide?”

“I think—”

“You’re missing the point.” Avon cut him off. “There’s no reason the girl wouldn’t want to save one of her own people, and the poison would have killed him whether or not she helped matters along. The more pertinent question is: how did she know there was poison in that goblet in the first place?”

In the silence that followed, all eyes turned on her. Valerie swallowed. Slowly, she stood up, wondering if this was it, the moment he denounced her. Her cover was blown. There was no explaining it.

“Take care of the body,” said Avon quietly. “And have the guests retire. We’ll have no more revelry tonight. Valerie, come with me.”

She blanched. He’d spoken in that same cold tone he’d used the night she had tried to escape. He marched her away, and his silence pressed on her like the force of his grip around her arm.

Think! Fight or flight?

There was always another way. There had to be. Lie? Would he believe her if she claimed that she’d sensed the poison with her magic?

If only Iora had listened to me, she thought. If she had contacted the traitor in the palace, if they’d concocted a scheme together... They could have come up with something better than this.

She’d seen nothing but half-baked plans and failure from the resistance. Valerie had played her part, again, and gotten nothing in return except the anticipation of miserable punishment, again.

The doors to Avon’s quarters flung open and closed again. He pushed her into the middle of the room, in front of the empty fireplace, and then paced a full circle around her as if he couldn’t stand still.

“You knew,” he said finally, stopping in front of her. “You knew the goblet was poisoned.”

“Yes, I knew.” She clasped one hand over her arm, forcing herself to look back at him. “There’s a spy in your household. I watched them pour poison into the goblet.”

“Who?”

“Iora. One of the maidservants.” Her tone was calm, controlled. She couldn’t afford an ounce of emotion. “She’s a member of the resistance.”

“You were working together.”

She said nothing.

“All this talk of trust.” He shook his head. “I assume the poison was meant for me. I was quite merry. If you had offered me a drink, I would have taken it. So... Why did you spill the goblet?”

She felt her mask slip, her mouth trembling, and looked away. “Your sister was about to drink the poison. I couldn’t let her die.”

“Even though you’d give yourself away.”

Had his voice softened? Hope fluttered. Her gambit might just work.

“I should have spoken up earlier. The resistance...” She pressed her lips together. “I’m afraid of what I’m about to tell you.”

He took a step closer, his brow drawn in concern. “Afraid of what?”

“Betraying you. It’s what I’ve been doing all this time. Betraying you.”

“How?”

“Since we returned from Enyr. That’s when Iora contacted me... and gave me an order.” He was close enough to detect the tremor in her voice and body, she thought. And she wasn’t acting; the fear was real. “The prince learned about my situation. He wanted me to act as a spy, to pass information to the resistance. If I didn’t...”

Avon frowned. “What?”

“They wouldn’t risk leaving me in the power of the Empire. They’d have me killed first.”

“They threatened you?” His hands found her waist, and she let him—let him draw her in.

“I know too much. About Bakra, about the resistance. I could give them all away.”

“But you haven’t.” His fingers tightened around her. “Are you not loyal to the resistance?”

“I was—I am. But I wanted to run away—you know that—I tried to escape. Now I’m trapped by both sides. I could put you to sleep.”

She caressed his jaw as she said that. He froze, the two of them caught in a strange embrace. Fear flickered in his eyes. This was what connected them: mutual fear. They were balanced on a knife’s edge.

“I could put you to sleep,” she continued softly, “and run, and escape all of you.”

“I would hunt you down. You’d never know a moment’s peace.”

Valerie shivered, either from fear or from delight. This moment, the delicate dance of words that could mean the difference between life and death, success or failure—this was the turning point. The adrenaline running through her veins magnified her senses: the fall of his hair, the fervour in his eyes, the solid warmth of his hands on her skin, all crystal clear. She drank him in.

She pressed her hand on his chest, against the steady beat of his heart. “What happens if I stay?”

“You’ve given me one name. Give me more, and I’ll consider showing you mercy.”

Still demanding her surrender. He always wanted more.

She pulled away. “I gave you your sister’s life. Isn’t that enough?”

Avon regarded her. One of his hands came to rest on the hilt of the sword at his hip. “Not after a second attempt on my life. For that I must have you thrown in the dungeon until I deal with this spy. But you did save my sister. We’ll speak again.”

It was a chance, she thought. As close to an understanding as they could get, knowing they were enemies, knowing that triumph for one meant suffering for the other.

They would speak again. She believed him on that.