Treacherous Witch

“To kill a silvertree is to commit murder. The penalty for this crime shall be death.”

Maska’s Testimonium, VI:II

The crescent moon rose over the peaceful village of Drymuir, nestled in a valley between the foothills of the Ridgemont. Ten dozen people were feasting that night, and Valerie was at the centre of it all.

She danced with her favourite cousin in the village square. Aster, twenty-two and handsome, with thick black hair and ruddy cheeks, teased her mercilessly.

“Look at these. You should become a gardener with all these flowers.”

The bouquets were tributes, along with silks, jewels, chocolates, and other gifts from families up and down the borderlands. She noted with satisfaction that her gift pile was larger than any she’d seen in six years at the convent. At last, people were taking notice.

The Carpenters played a merry tune with banjo and flute. Girls ran shrieking around the bonfire, waving streamers that fluttered behind them. Her mother danced with Julius Carpenter, an old flame, while several visitors from out of town had caught the attention of her aunts.

Aster spun her around the fire and she laughed. “You’re just jealous that I have more suitors tonight than you’ll ever have.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I hope to bask in your reflected glory.”

She hopped and skipped away as the dance moved into the switch and called out to Aster’s younger brother. “Lukas! Come on!”

Lukas was thirteen and unimpressed, but she made him go twice around the bonfire until his face was flushed and he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t having fun. She stepped out at the next switch and weaved through the crowd, ignoring the boys trying to offer her drinks.

At the wine barrel, she paused behind a man who was filling up his cup. He turned around, then started.

“Oh! Valerie, excuse me.”

He wasn’t much older than her, tall and lanky, with a thatch of straw-coloured hair falling over his forehead. His jacket looked rather moth-eaten, and his boots had seen better days.

“You look like you’re in need of a tailor,” she said, stepping forward to refill her own drink.

“Yes, well, I shouldn’t bother you about that tonight.”

“Bother us tomorrow,” she said easily. “My grandmother Luciana can help. What’s your name?”

“Markus.” He nodded. “I’ll try to stop by. I can’t stay long.”

She frowned. “How come?”

“I’m from Iska. They need me on patrol. We only have a few men to keep watch.”

She knew it. Iska was a tiny village at the very edge of the border with Carthal, a protectorate of the Drakonian Empire. Since Carthal had fallen, tensions had risen, and they were strongly discouraged from crossing the border. But people did it anyway, and some of the borderlands families in particular were struggling with losing their men, lured over by the promise of wealth and status.

All lies, of course. What the Drakonians really wanted were soldiers, fodder for their war machine.

“The Drakonians are sniffing around the border again,” Markus continued, “so we’re on high alert.”

“Aren’t they just military exercises?”

“That’s what they claim.”

She’d heard about these military exercises for months, on and off. Aster had patrolled the border several times, and someday, she thought with a pang, Lukas would have to do the same.

Before she could respond, her mother Kira came bouncing over, flowers in her hair. “Val, it’s time! High Priestess Glynda is waiting!”

By the bonfire, Aster and one of her uncles beckoned her to take the silverwood chair. She climbed onto the litter, which the two men hauled on to their shoulders. Then, with the crowd whooping and cheering behind her, the procession began.

The convent of St. Maia was nestled on a hill overlooking the village. The path to get there followed a bubbling stream. She loved taking that walk in the morning, when the dawn light dappled through the trees and birdsong joined the gentle sound of the water. It was even prettier at night, the lamp posts that lit their way creating the ambience of a magical garden.

Perched on the silverwood litter, a flower crown in her hair, Valerie was borne through the gates of the convent and to the circular lawn in the central courtyard. The entire convent was built around it: the classrooms where the acolytes took their lessons over here, the living quarters of the priestesses over there, the stables, the garden, the bathhouse, all arranged in concentric circles around this sacred place.

The crowd that had been so raucous at the start of the procession fell silent as they passed through the gates. Her heart started to beat fast. Valerie caught the eye of her mother, who gave her an encouraging smile.

On the lawn, Aster and her uncle lowered the litter and she stepped down to the grass. The villagers joined the priestesses and acolytes who were already gathered, the priestesses standing out in their pale grey robes amongst the acolytes’ brown.

Aster squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t forget me.”

But she barely heard him. For the centre point of this gathering, the reason they were here, stood in the very middle of the grass court: the silvertree. As tall as a great pine and wide as an oak, it shone with its own light. The pointed silver leaves rustled in the night breeze. Below the tree, High Priestess Glynda awaited.

“Come forward,” she called.

Valerie approached, bursting with excitement. As she took her place by Glynda’s side and bowed her head, the High Priestess addressed the crowd.

“Friends, sisters, acolytes: we are gathered here today to witness the blessing of Valerie Crescent, daughter of Kira Crescent. A girl asks for the blessing of the silvertree. A woman receives it. Recognise you all the great responsibility that she will bear, and honour her for it.”

Respectful silence. Only the murmur of the silvertree seemed to answer Glynda, beckoning them to its call. Valerie looked again to her mother, beaming with pride. And her family... They’d supported her on every step of this journey. She felt a rush of love for all of them.

Glynda turned to Valerie, taking her hands, and Valerie gazed into the High Priestess’s deep brown eyes.

“Valerie Crescent, do you request the blessing of the silvertree?”

Her response was clear and strong. “I do.”

“Do you promise to use this gift wisely and with restraint, for the betterment of Maskamere?”

“I do.”

“Then I grant your wish.”

Glynda pressed her hands to the tree, and its light flooded into her.

Valerie opened her eyes.

She was in the silvertree graveyard again, surrounded by blackened stumps. The light of the surviving silvertrees hardly pierced the encroaching darkness. And her tree, the tree at St. Maia, flickered and dimmed like a fading star.

Panic set in. She whirled around. The trees were all fading. Dying. If the last silvertree died, there would be nothing but darkness, nothing but...

Death.