Treacherous Witch

“True magic is performed in a state of flow. The flow-state is known to any master craftswoman or artist. It is a state of pure creation, undistracted by the passage of time.”

Interview with Queen Shikra III, as told to Master Anwen

The next morning, a maid woke her, one of the girls who had helped to prepare her the previous night. The girl introduced herself as Priska, her lady-in-waiting.

She had to ask. “Waiting for what?”

“For you, my lady. Anything you need.”

“What did you do before?”

“Served Lady Rose, ma’am.”

“No... before.”

But Priska looked away. Her hair was pulled into a bun, her hands clasped over the dull grey frock and apron they made all the women servants wear, as if they didn’t deserve nice clothes.

“We’d best get you ready for breakfast, ma’am.”

Breakfast was at eight, and Priska warned her that Lord Avon didn’t like to be late. This didn’t surprise her. Valerie let herself be washed and dressed with a bemused air, caught between the nerves cramping her stomach and the strange, pampered situation she found herself in. Today’s gown was pale as primrose with delicate cross patterning and short ruffled sleeves. The skirt was lovely, but she longed to adjust the too-frilly neckline.

While Priska fussed with her hair, she looked around the bedchamber properly, taking everything in. Like the king’s chamber, the queen’s bed was made of silverwood. And like the king’s bed, it was imbued with a spell. She had slept well thanks to its magic.

“Is there a picture missing?”

One thing she had noticed about the royal palace was that there were paintings everywhere. Most were portraits, presumably of the royal family and their hangers-on, with the occasional landscape of picturesque villages, farms or palm trees dotted around.

“A picture?” Priska asked. “Where, my lady?”

“Above the mantelpiece.”

The bedchamber had a fireplace and above that a mantelpiece, and above that was a space where it looked like a painting should hang. In fact, it looked like a painting had been there. The wallpaper was less faded, and there were holes in the wall for the hooks.

“Oh—I don’t know, ma’am. I haven’t been in the queen’s rooms before.”

“Do you think they removed it?”

“I don’t know, ma’am.”

Odd, when everything else in the queen’s quarters, from individual books down to a gold-lined pad of paper and pens on the writing desk, had been so perfectly preserved. She’d discovered more magical items that the Drakonians had missed. The harp remembered music that it had played before, and there was a golden pen on the desk that would only write the truth.

Had the painting been removed because it contained a curse or some other harmful magic? She couldn’t be sure and so filed that mystery away for later.

At exactly eight o’ clock, she entered the breakfast room (an entire room for breakfast). She settled into the chair that Lord Avon held out for her with what she hoped was a graceful air. It was a small, bright room, the windows opening on to a wide balcony from which she fancied she could catch a hint of the sea breeze. A selection of cold meats, fruit and pastries had already been set out on the table. His manservant poured them tea.

Avon took the seat opposite her. “I imagine this must be quite strange.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said. “I’ve always dressed myself.”

“Introduce yourself to the ladies of the court after breakfast. You’ll learn a great deal.”

The ladies of the court? She hadn’t expected this at all. “I thought I...”

He looked at her. “What did you think?”

“I’m here to perform a spell.”

“Only a few of my most trusted servants know the true reason you’re here. You will say nothing about it, do you understand?”

Interesting. Perhaps even he didn’t dare reveal that he was employing the services of a sorcerer.

But all she said was, “I understand.”

For a few seconds there was nothing but the sound of their knives and forks clattering, while Valerie pondered whether the secret of her abilities might give her any leverage. If she threatened to reveal it... But who would she tell? Most likely she’d get herself killed, which meant she had more to lose than he did.

And she didn’t only have herself to think about. Any outright disobedience could hurt Markus too.

She looked up. Avon had finished his tea. He set aside his napkin and leaned back in his chair, regarding her with undisguised appreciation.

“My friend,” she said carefully, “does he know I’m alive? Can you tell me where he is, my lord?”

“The ladies will be able to teach you the manners of court,” said Avon. “For example, that you do not speak to a lord unless spoken to.”

“What if I have something important to say?”

“Lord Gideon used a version of the test you performed last night to evaluate near fifty would-be sorcerers who have come to our gates in the past few days.” Avon stood up, the manservant pulling back his chair. “We whittled them down to one. I’d like you to meet.”

Everything was happening so quickly. The moment she finished breakfast, she found herself being escorted through the palace, Lord Avon at her side. This was nothing like sneaking around in her unnoticeable garb. Despite being accompanied by servants, she felt seen by everyone. Heads turned. Whispers followed. There wasn’t a single guard, servant, lord or lady they passed who didn’t take notice.

It was because of Lord Avon, she told herself. He was the Chancellor; of course, everyone’s eyes were on him. He must be used to such attention, and he walked at a brisk enough pace that nobody tried approaching him.

Still. She didn’t like it. She felt better when they entered the temple, which was empty, the scent of incense once again soothing her nerves.

Then she realised that they were heading towards the steps, the ones she had wondered about before when eavesdropping on Avon and Gideon. She put one foot on the first step and nearly choked.

This was power. Forget the sword, forget the crown jewels. She was approaching a magical presence the like of which she had never encountered before. She didn’t know whether to reach out in rapture or cower away from its presence. What is it? What’s down there? She breathed it in—the hair on the back of her neck and her arms prickled with every step—a golden haze, the scent of roses, as they descended into the dark.

Her slippers touched the stone floor. It was only a short flight after all, perhaps twelve steps, and the chamber below was lit by two standing braziers. In front of her was a stone door. It was circular, a great heavy block of rock set into the wall. A seashell pattern was carved into the stone surface. But dancing on the rock—or in the rock—was a light show of magic: the azure blue of the sea, the green of a palm tree, the soft yellow of sand and stone, the burnished orange of a kestrel’s wing, the gold of a crown, and every now and then a shimmer of red, pink or purple like roses blooming in the blazing summer heat.

She was mesmerised.

“Lady Valerie, this is Caius. Valerie?”

Avon was talking. She blinked, snapping out of her reverie. “I’m sorry?”

“This is Caius. I understand you claim to be a hedge witch.”

“Yes, my lord,” Caius answered. He looked at Valerie. “I know.”

She stared at him, twisting her mouth. He was an older man, perhaps in his fifties, dressed in rough travelling robes. The magical light danced on his shaved head. If he was what he claimed to be, then he was a vagabond, a thief—one who had stolen the blessing of the silvertree without permission from the priesthood. That his kind still lingered while nearly all the priestesses had perished was a travesty to Maska.

If Caius read any of her feelings on her face, he said nothing.

“We believe this stone wall to carry a magical seal of some sort,” said Avon. “We haven’t been able to open it by any physical means. I’d like to consider a magical solution.”

“You don’t see it?” she said, incredulous. She was fighting the impulse to dash against the stone wall.

He frowned. “See what?”

“It’s pretty bloody obvious,” Caius offered cheerfully.

Avon glanced over at one of his comrades. “Gideon?”

Valerie gave a little start. She’d been so preoccupied by Caius and the magical door that she hadn’t noticed Lord Gideon was also present in the chamber. In fact, as she looked around, it became clear thatno oneelse could see the light show she and Caius were being subjected to. The guards were all milling around oblivious.

Gideon cleared his throat. “Caius claimed to see the seal as well, my lord. But let’s test the girl first before we compare notes.”

Avon beckoned her. “Go ahead.”

She glanced at Caius first, feeling nervous, but he gave her a nod. He must have done this already. The magic in the stone was not welcoming. It wanted her to either bash her head or turn and run. With a deep breath, she controlled herself, reaching out a hand as she stepped towards the door...

Her fingers touched the surface of the rock.

Wind rushed through her, a thrum of magic. It shook back her curls, but the pins held. Other than that, the magic was surprisingly gentle. It wasn’t a curse and so could not hurt her. It was, as Avon had guessed, a magical seal, forbidding access to whatever lay beyond the stone door. Then what would break the seal?

“A woman,” she said, the seal offering the answer even as she posed the question in her mind. “Only a woman can break the seal.”

Gideon grunted. “That’s what the hedge witch said too, my lord.”

“Can you break it?” Avon asked.

Could she? The magic offered no further answers, only a complicated swirl of power. There was something in the pattern—the roses, the palm trees, the sea—she was sure of it, but it was beyond her. She let go of the stone, staggering back.

“Valerie.” Avon was next to her at once, steadying her with a hand on her back. “Can you break it?”

“I—I don’t know.”

His hand on her was disconcerting. She stepped away.

“She’s lying,” said Gideon. “Let me—”

“No,” said Avon. “I don’t think she is.”

Caius spoke. “Do you know who made this seal, my lord?”

Avon shook his head. “Do you?”

“Magic that powerful could only be the work of one person. The queen herself.”

“The queen is dead,” said Gideon. “The bloody seal wouldn’t be there if it was her work.”

“No, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Caius. “Spells can linger after their caster dies. They fade quickly, usually in a few days... but not this one. I reckon this one could take years, maybe even centuries. Just a hunch.”

“The seal can only be broken by a woman,” said Avon thoughtfully. “What would it take for Valerie to break it?”

“I couldn’t say,” said Caius. “But if you don’t mind another hunch... A powerful seal needs a powerful sorcerer to break it. Me, I’m just a hedge witch. I don’t know about your girl there, but she looks a bit wet behind the ears. Shame you murdered all the High Priestesses, eh? They probably could’ve helped.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Avon.

“Can I get my reward now, my lord?”

Gideon snorted. “Insolent wretch! You’ve done nothing for us! We wanted the door open, and neither you nor thisgirlhave managed it.”

“Come now, Gideon,” said Avon. “Clearly Caius is unable to assist us any further, but his information has been useful. Give him half the reward we offered and safe passage out of the city.”

Caius scowled at that, but he was in no position to argue. Gideon escorted him out with his guards, leaving Valerie alone with Avon and one other guard. During the conversation she’d been silent, half stunned by what had happened, half trying to think while the seal’s power pressed at the edge of her vision.

She couldn’t break the seal. She had no clue where to even start—and it wasn’t as if she’d been taught any of this. The night she had been blessed by the silvertree was the same night the Drakonian army invaded her home. The spells she weaved into her work were of her own making, born of wishes and hopes, and the beauty of concentration that came only when completely absorbed in a task.

The real question was, how was she going to explain any of this to Lord Avon?

“I’ll have to think on this,” he said, to her relief. “We’ll talk again tonight.”