Treacherous Witch

“Queen Shikra III, like other Maskamery queens before her, was known for her ageless beauty and corrupt soul. What truly made this queen remarkable was her obstinate refusal to accept any overtures of peace by the Empire even when such arrangements were clearly in her favour.”

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

It was impossible, of course. And yet the face was unmistakable.

Queen Shikra was reaching out to me. She’s here somehow, with the silvertrees. She knew my name!

That was no mere echo. The figure had called her name. Valerie had never met Queen Shikra while she was alive, had never lain eyes on the queen, so this was knowledge the queen could only have obtained after her death.

Does that mean she’s not dead?

“Anwen, can you tell me something? Were you there when the queen died?”

She was taking afternoon tea with him in the garden, a large parasol shielding them from the midday sun.

His face became sombre. “Yes, sadly. What a tragedy that was.”

“What happened? I heard that she was killed at the harvest festival.”

Bakra had never talked about it. All she knew was that he was the only surviving man of the royal family. His aunt, uncle, cousins, their children, and of course his sister had all perished in a day.

“Yes. I wasn’t there in the temple myself when it happened, but I heard the most terrible explosion. There were thousands gathered outside to hear the queen speak—it was chaos. The entire temple collapsed. Every soul in there perished.”

“Then how did the prince survive?”

“The queen saved him at the cost of her own life.”

Interesting. Bakra had never mentioned that. Was it true or only a story that had taken hold after the attack? There were a lot of stories about the queen.

“What happened to the royal family after they died? I mean, where were they buried?”

Anwen blinked. “Their remains were buried in the royal cemetery, as per tradition. The Empire may be brutal, my dear, but we show respect for the dead.”

The royal cemetery was not, in fact, at the palace. Because the royals were the leaders of the priesthood, their burial ground lay in the tomb of the Sacred Temple of Jairah—the same temple that the Empire had blown up. The royal tombs, being deep underground, had survived the explosion, while ironically their living relatives had not. In the two years since the purge and the destruction of the temple, it had been partially rebuilt into only a cemetery. A place for the dead, not the living. She had never visited.

“Then she’s there. Queen Shikra.”

“I believe so, yes.” He peered at her. “Why?”

“Do you believe in spirits?”

“Spirits? The souls of those who have passed? I’m afraid that’s not my purview. Lord Thorne would have much more to say on that subject.”

No doubt he would but not to her. Since the encounter in the chapel, Lord Thorne had been pointedly ignoring her. Frankly, she thought this an improvement on his previous attempts to convince her that she was a heathen in dire need of holy instruction.

Meanwhile, Valerie’s religious education taught her that the spirits of those who passed returned to the earth just as the body did. They did not hang around for a chat. So right now she had two working theories. Either the spirit in the wood was some mystery phantom wearing Queen Shikra’s face, which begged a number of questions about its identity, how it knew her name, and why it would imitate the queen—or it really was the queen. Perhaps the true explanation was the obvious one: Shikra was still alive.

Of course, she couldn’t say that she suspected that. She had to make up some other story.

“The queen created the seal. I’ve been thinking that maybe if I can... I don’t know, connect with her somehow, that could help.”

Anwen looked at her thoughtfully. “Speak with the dead? Do you believe that’s possible?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “but if there’s one other place I might sense her magic, it could be there. It’s all I can think of.”

The scholar spread his hands. “I see no harm in giving it a try.”

But it wasn’t his permission she needed. It was Lord Avon’s.

“And why would I allow that?”

She clasped her hands in front of her, doing her best to appear polite and well-meaning. Avon was watching her from behind his writing desk, his brows drawn in suspicion.

“Master Anwen and I... We know that Queen Shikra created the seal. If I could visit her grave... the place where she was buried... I might be able to sense her magic. We think it could help us open the door.”

“Do you?”

“Or find another silvertree. I don’t know, have you had any luck, my lord?”

His mouth tightened. “You know where I haven’t had any luck? Finding Prince Bakra. He seems to have vanished.”

“That’s unfortunate, my lord.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

He sighed, standing up. “Must I threaten you?”

“I haven’t left your side, my lord. How could I know where he is?”

Silently, he picked up one of the letters from a pile on his desk and walked over to show it to her. She stared at the elegant handwriting, the ink slightly smudged where the page had been folded. It was a petition from her grandmother.

Valerie swallowed.

“She’s persistent,” said Avon. “Writes to me every week. Perhaps you’re looking for a chance to contact her.”

“No,” she said at once. “No, I mean, of course I would love to see my family, but that’s not why I’m asking.”

He stared at her and she returned his gaze, willing him to believe her. Finally, he exhaled.

“Very well. Master Anwen and the palace guards will accompany you to the tomb. They’ll be under orders to kill you if you try to run.”

She nodded. “I understand, my lord.”

It was a test, she thought. He’d been against her going at first, and she couldn’t think of any other reason for him to change his mind. If it was a test, then great. She was going to pass with flying colours.

Before she departed, she wrote another letter to Aurelia. None of her family had been allowed to see her, let alone bail her out, but she was grateful that they could keep in touch.

Thank you, she wrote, for sticking by me. But I’m okay. I’ve decided to stay. It’s better for all of us, and I promise I’ll let you know as soon as we can arrange a visit.

She said nothing of Bakra’s plans or her own status as a spy. She knew the letters weren’t private.

Still, they gave her hope.

Hold fast and keep the faith.

She repeated that mantra in her head as she stepped into the carriage with Master Anwen and two armed guards. She wasn’t sure this trip would be worthwhile, but at least she was getting out of the palace.

Anwen quivered with excitement. “Even I haven’t been able to visit the queen’s tomb! This is a momentous step in my research.”

The carriage trundled its way to the south side of the city. She pressed her face against the window, overwhelmed by nostalgia. The streets of Jairah: always lively, always loud. Traders delivered their wares from door to door or gathered around the fountain in the town square to water their horses. Children played with skipping ropes, while grandmothers watched from balconies or sitting rooms above. And black-clothed guards patrolled the streets, in case any of them forgot that Maskamere was under occupation.

Many things had changed about Jairah since the invasion, from the introduction of money to the transformation of a beautiful community hall into an auction house for trafficking Maskamery prisoners. But one thing remained the same: every Maskamery business was a family business, and every Maskamery family lived and worked in the homes they had built. Lord Turnbull, the previous Chancellor, had attempted to introduce the law of employment, which had been resisted so fiercely by the Maskamery people that he’d given up. Outside the palace, the only people in forced labour were convicts and Drakonian men drafted in from the homeland.

Was that about to change? She thought back to what Lady Flavia had told her. Bringing in more Drakonian nobles, giving them land and servants—Maskamery slaves, she thought. Lord Avon hadn’t said a word of it to her. She would have to ask him.

Anwen, of course, was only interested in the tomb. When they arrived, he jumped out of the carriage with a sprightly energy. Valerie followed more cautiously.

Here was all that remained of the Royal Temple of Jairah. The cast iron gate led to a small building, like a gatehouse—or rather, a charnel house—built from pale stone. Around them was rough ground, with patchy grass and—she saw with a pang—the stump of a dead silvertree. Rows and rows of unmarked graves lined the grounds. Halfway down the path there was a monument made of the same stone as the charnel house. She read the inscription:

Here lie the Fallen of Jairah, 881 Maskamery Souls who lost their Lives in the Drakonian invasion. Their names are unknown, but their Sacrifice was not in vain.

May they find Peace in the Light of the Goldentree. May Maska Weep for them. May we Remember them.

“Half of them were priestesses,” said Anwen, pausing beside her. “The bodies were burned and thus impossible to identify. Below our feet is a mass grave.”

She couldn’t imagine the carnage. The bodies must have been piled up... She cast out with her magical senses but found nothing, not even from the stump of the silvertree. It was truly dead.

Sobered, Valerie entered the charnel house, finding it dry but musty. Light drifted in through thin slits, and the walls were lined with stone coffins. A thin layer of sand roughened the stone floor.

“Is she here?” Valerie asked, her voice sounding hoarse in the dim light.

“No,” said Anwen, “no, these are the bones of old High Priestesses. The royal tombs are deep underground. Follow me.”

Leaving the guards behind at the entrance, they reached a set of stone steps not unlike the steps in the palace temple. Lit braziers showed the way. Anwen picked up one of the torches, indicating for her to do the same, and together they descended into the dark.

“Is it far?”

“Not far,” said Anwen, who was consulting his own scribbled directions.

They were walking through a tunnel that gently and almost imperceptibly declined. One side of the tunnel was set with alcoves—the kings’ tombs, Anwen said—and the other side larger stone chambers for the other members of the royal families. Every so often the tunnel split off. They took two left turns and then a right turn before Anwen indicated the next chamber.

“Over here,” he said, raising his torch to illuminate the inscription above the chamber entrance. “Queen Shikra’s chamber.”

“There’s magic here,” said Valerie, feeling it stir as she approached, little eddies and currents flowing from the entrance. Trepidation filled her. “Wait.”

She paused, the goosebumps prickling her skin giving way to a full sense of looming dread, when a hideous screech cut through the air. A mass of inky darkness reared up from the stone floor before them. Valerie yelped, stumbling back.

“No, we’re not here to steal anything! I promise!”

The shadow seemed to pluck the air from her lungs. It was vaguely human-shaped, if that human were hooded and cloaked, with too-long spindly arms, no legs, and a wide, gaping maw that suggested it was quite eager to swallow them whole.

Next to her, Anwen held his torch steady, waiting.

The shadow flickered, casting from side to side. Then, failing to find any ill intentions, it shrank down and disappeared into the shadows at their feet. Valerie swallowed, looking down.

“We’re cursed. If we try to steal anything, it’ll strip the flesh from our bones.”

“Well, that’s the usual way of things.” Anwen glanced at her. “You haven’t seen a shadow before?”

“No...”

Her heart was thumping. She’d heard of them, a type of magical entity the Abbesses could create. One of them guarded the silvertree at St. Maia, but it had never activated in her presence.

“There used to be one at the palace library,” said Anwen. “Hideous, evil thing. It liked to follow me around, breathing down my neck if I so much as looked at a magical book. You weren’t intending to grave rob, were you?”

She shook her head.

“Then we should be perfectly safe.”

Anwen stepped through first, Valerie conscious of the too-black shadow that followed him. It would stay lurking, ready to pounce the moment a crime occurred. None of the other chambers they’d passed were spelled. It could be that the old curses had faded...

She steeled herself and followed him inside the chamber.

The tomb was perfectly circular. A magical light floated on the ceiling, casting a soft, warm glow. It illuminated several treasures: preserved flowers, a golden cat figurine, works of art, a silver wand. Some of these trinkets were magical. She resisted the urge to touch them. Dominating the centre of the room was the tomb itself: a marble coffin.

“These treasures are offerings,” said Anwen, who had placed his torch in a bracket on the wall. He took out his notebook. “Gifts for the deceased queen. Usually offered by friends and family, but I suppose the servants made do...”

Valerie raised her hand, shifting the globe light and giving it a little more energy to brighten it. The light illuminated the back of the chamber...

She stumbled.

Anwen turned to her in alarm. “Valerie?”

Green eyes burned into her. The portrait that hung in the tomb was the exact likeness of the tiny replica in the locket, but several times the size, so that she truly felt that her queen was gazing at her. The dappled light shining off that flowing black hair, the detail of her hands cradling the cat in her lap, the warmth in her expression... In all those small graces, the artist had captured the essence of a living soul.

He looked where she was looking. “Ah, the queen’s portrait. I remember it well. It hung in the royal gallery before Lord Turnbull had it removed.”

She felt as if the portrait’s eyes followed her no matter where she went. The painting wasn’t magical, but she could understand why Lord Turnbull had been so paranoid.

Taking in a breath, she turned her back on the painting and instead examined the marble coffin. It held a spell, she sensed, one of preservation. If there was a body in there, it should be in the same state it had been when the tomb was sealed.

“Anwen,” she said. “Anwen, do you think you could help me open the coffin?”

The old man exclaimed in surprise. “Open the coffin! No, no, that would be terribly disrespectful.”

“Please,” she said. “I need to see.”

Anwen protested, but she pleaded with him until he gave in. Then, with the portrait’s gaze of disapproval upon them, they shifted the stone lid aside. Foul air escaped the coffin in a hiss. Valerie flinched, dropping the lid. Air wasn’t the only thing that had escaped. The spell had dissolved too; its remnants fluttered around the tomb and the shadow at their feet rushed out like bleeding ink.

“No!” she cried. “No, we’re not going to take anything. We’ll put it back.”

The light globe flickered. The shadow subsided.

Anwen licked his lips nervously. “Valerie?”

She looked at him, then approached the coffin again, hardly daring to breathe. They’d moved the lid just enough to reveal a sliver of the body inside... Black hair straggled over pale flesh and sunken cheeks. The stench of death filled the air.

“They called her the ageless queen,” said Anwen, looking at her. “But all things come to an end...”

“That’s her,” she said. The face was sagging but still recognisable. “She really is dead.”

“Really dead? What do you mean?”

But she shook her head, trying to hide her mounting disappointment. She had hoped to find an empty coffin or someone else’s body, some evidence that Shikra might have escaped her demise. Instead, she’d confirmed it.

But then, what had she seen in the silvertree wood?

“Never mind,” she said. “I’m sorry, Anwen. I’ve wasted our time.”