Treacherous Witch

“My mission is to leave Maskamere a better place than I found it. If I can do that, I can die in peace.”

Interview with Queen Shikra III, as told to Master Anwen

The girl in the scarlet gown lay in an open casket. The blood had been sponged away, though it was hard to tell with the deep red of the dress, and her hands were clasped over her chest, holding a bouquet of red roses. Her hair was pinned up as it had been that night, a pile of dark curls. Her skin was smooth, her eyelids burnished with kohl, her cheeks rosy, her full lips painted in red.

She looked like a painting. She looked almost alive.

To those paying their respects in the temple, she elicited mixed reactions. Some of the ladies, like Flavia, openly wept. Others, like Lady Mona, were solemn but unmoved. Some were surprised that Captain Doryn lingered. He said nothing but bowed his head over the casket for longer than most.

There were notable absences too, including Lady Melody, who was in mourning for Lord Gideon and refused to enter a heathen temple.

But Lord Avon did attend. He had struck the killing blow, the end of this foolish mission to discover the last of Maskamere’s secrets. Isaac, Lord Dryden, had warned him of the follies of pursuing Maskamery magic. It had cost him Valerie’s life and almost his own.

“I’m sorry, James.” Ophelia looked at him with teary blue eyes from the other side of the casket. “I think she was good for you.”

He returned his sister’s gaze. “Was she?”

She’d brought out every impulse in him, the good and the bad. He’d wanted to control her, to please her, to claim her, to subdue her. Above all else he’d wanted to make her sorcery his own, to prove that magic could be harnessed for the good of the Empire.

And now, thanks to his mistakes, she was dead.

She looked like a painting. A flat, frozen canvas, a moment in time. Serene, cold. The mortician had tried to preserve her beauty but had captured only the likeness, not the spirit. Her spirit lived in the way her eyes flashed, her mouth moved, her sharp words, and the arch of her neck and shoulders...

He’d never said that. Never told her the true strength of his feelings.

She had known it anyway, he thought. Always seemed to guess at what he was thinking, anticipated him before he anticipated himself...

Ah. He was getting sentimental.

He put his hand into his pocket and drew out a piece of gold-lined paper. Unfolded it to reread the words written there in her hand, as he had done several times already since discovering the letter in her chambers.

James—For the avoidance of doubt, you should know that I didn’t want to betray you. Gideon might have me killed. If I’ve played our game wisely, he ought to lose, but if not, I’d hate to have my reputation ruined posthumously.

I’ve been thinking of all the things I haven’t said to you. And in case I don’t get to say it: you’ve been a worthy opponent. I hope we get to fight again.

With all due respect,

Valerie

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. She was an enigma. And despite opening the letter with the words for the avoidance of doubt, he felt that she hadn’t given him any answers. He kept trying to read some emotion into her words, some affection, awe, or even, heaven forbid, love.

A worthy opponent!

Was that the highest praise he could expect to receive from someone of her temperament? A girl of high ambition, whose many admirable qualities were the exact opposite of the ideal Drakonian woman: bold, impatient, proud, outspoken. Yet they’d formed a connection—despite?—because of?—his status as Chancellor. He had transformed Maskamere, held her in the palace for months against her will, and for that she called him worthy.

His thoughts were spiralling. It was pointless to speculate. He ought to be pleased at how events had turned out. Maskamere under the Empire’s control, the prince dead, the last of the Abbesses dead, the rebels captured. By any reasonable measure, this was a victory.

As for the girl... She was dead by his own hand, and he could only hope that whatever malevolent spirit had possessed her had perished too. If it was Shikra—as Bakra had called out to her—then this foolish quest had achieved one thing: they’d destroyed the royal family for good. Maskamere could finally move on from the tyranny of their rule and build a new way of life enlightened by the Empire.

His fingers brushed the rim of the coffin, then tightened before he turned away. He could not bear to touch her.

Behind him, Ophelia gasped. He turned back.

“James!” she squeaked.

And Valerie woke up.