Treacherous Witch

“As I was blessed by the goldentree, so too are my children blessed, and their children, and their children’s children. My descendants shall rule Maskamere in my name. It is a great responsibility to bear. Let no one break this unbroken bloodline, for the future of Maskamere depends on it.”

Maska’s Testimonium, II:XVIII

Lady Flavia had retired for the evening. She had the vapours, or so her maid said, but Valerie was quite firm about visiting.

“I can help,” she said, and perhaps the rumours about her sorcery had spread already because the maid only gave her a terrified nod.

She entered to find the chamber in shadow, Flavia resting in bed. Valerie opened the curtains and replaced a vase of flowers with a fresh bunch.

“That’s better,” she said. “Let’s have some light in here.”

The room was smaller than the royal quarters but still lavish, the ceiling painted with clouds and cherubs. Valerie took a seat on a wicker chair beside the bed.

“Flavia?”

Flavia gave her a tiny smile. Her eyes were wet and smudged, her hair a tangle of curls. “They said he was executed,” she whispered. “They said that you did it.”

Valerie took her hand. “He was cursed. I didn’t do it. The curse took him.”

“Was he really a traitor?”

She exhaled. “Yes. In Enyr, he made a deal with Lord Avon to betray the prince. I witnessed it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to burden you.”

Tears welled up in Flavia’s eyes. “We were a proud family. Now there are none of us left. I tried to keep going... for my mother.”

“Flavia.” She leaned forward. “You have kept going. You’ve done so well. Did you find a new lord? I saw you talking to Lord Litton.”

She didn’t know much about Lord Litton except that he was one of the new arrivals to court. A cad in his younger days, Lady Melody had said, but much improved since marriage.

Flavia nodded. “These are his rooms. He said I can stay.”

“I’m glad. How is he? Is he kind?”

She gave a croaky laugh. “Valerie... You know none of the lords are kind.”

Valerie didn’t know what to say. All the light seemed to have left Flavia’s eyes. How grateful she had been, how optimistic, when Valerie had saved her from Lord Thorne’s wrath. But all I’ve done is put her in another cage.

“Can you do something for me?” Flavia asked. “Maska’s Testimonium... the third drawer. Brown binding.”

Flavia nodded at a chest of drawers. Valerie fetched the book as requested, returning to sit with it open in her lap. The book had been bound with a different cover to disguise it, but the original cover was still there beneath: red leather and the embossed goldentree. The pages were papery thin.

“Can you read for me?”

Valerie nodded. “What would you like me to read?”

“The ninth testimony. The passage of falling rain.”

Her hands stilled on the pages. The passage of falling rain was most commonly spoken as a prayer for those condemned.

“Flavia...”

“I don’t want to face them again,” Flavia whispered. “He died in disgrace. They all died in disgrace. Please.”

She swallowed. The crackling of the pages sounded loud in her ears as she turned to the ninth testimony: On Mortality. She read:

“The rain falls on us all.

“Our souls return to the earth. The rain falls. It nourishes.

“We know we did not always do right by ourselves, by our mothers, by our communities.

“We pray for forgiveness. We ask our mothers to forgive us. We ask our community to make peace. We find peace in self-forgiveness.

“We take comfort knowing that the goldentree welcomes us.

“The rain falls on us all.”

She closed the book, her heart heavy.

“Are you a priestess?” Flavia whispered.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’m a priestess.”

“Please.” Flavia reached up to touch her cheek. “Send me back to the goldentree.”

Her throat was dry. She shook her head, mouth tight. “You said you were going to become a priestess. You still can. I can give you the blessing.”

Something flickered in Flavia’s hollow eyes.

“You just have to hold fast,” Valerie said. “Hold fast and keep the faith. I’ll find a silvertree, and I’ll take you there, I promise. Okay?”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You can. Things will look better tomorrow. Can I help you sleep?”

Flavia frowned, and she clarified:

“With a spell. It might help you feel better.”

She gave a small nod. Valerie laid her hand on Flavia’s forehead to send her into what she hoped would be a healing sleep. She didn’t know how to cure a sickness of the soul. But if Flavia had hoped to become a priestess once, perhaps that possibility would pull her through.

She didn’t want to lose anyone else tonight.

That evening was a larger party than usual with most of the palace visitors still present, and not only did everyone remember that a man had died drinking from a poisoned cup at their last dinner, she was also sure that the news about her had spread like wildfire through the court. Everyone stared at her when she approached the table.

And they stared at Avon. As they’d planned, she and Avon walked into the dining hall together, Valerie on his arm proud and straight-backed, and wearing the golden halterneck dress that Lady Melody had decried her for. She wore it Maskamery-style, no corset, a single flowing garment deeply cut at the back and with slits up to the thighs. For the Drakonian ladies, it was positively scandalous, and in a royal colour to boot.

Avon meanwhile was his traditional imposing self, giving no sign that he was perturbed by the reaction of the guests, and taking the attention as merely his due.

When Avon took his seat at the head of the table and Valerie sat beside him, one could have heard a pin drop.

She wondered if the usual social rules of no politics at dinner would apply tonight. The air brimmed with unasked questions.

“Well,” said Jaxon, the first to break the silence. “I dare to hope for an uneventful dinner. I expect the biggest drama of the night to be Lord Bretton’s pitiful performance on the dance floor.”

A few people tittered. Lord Bretton, the cheerful old Master of Health, had a running joke with his consort Jaxon regarding his dancing ability. He wasn’t half bad for a man his age, but he couldn’t keep up with the nimble courtier.

“I missed the dance at our last gathering,” said Lady Rose. “I’ll look forward to it. Lady Ophelia, what is your favourite dance?”

And with that, they were back to the small talk. Avon shot her a look. She rolled her eyes—yes, it was always like this. He hid a smile behind his fork.

No cups were poisoned. Nor did anyone bring it up, though several guests did opt to have their food and drink tasted before dining. The dinner was as uneventful as Jaxon had hoped, but the evening was far from over.

Last night, the night she had spent in the dungeon, should have been a welcome ball. But the event had been cancelled out of respect for Lord Silver, whose body had been swiftly put to rest. One day’s mourning for the Maskamery nobleman, she thought. How they honour us.

Still, Ophelia had other suitors eager to woo her, and the occasion could not wait. After dinner, the guests headed to the ballroom for their delayed dance. Since Avon was hosting, he stepped onto the floor first, the two of them arm-in-arm. The music began, Avon leaning down to gather her in hold.

“You look stunning,” he murmured.

“Careful, my lord,” she whispered back. “I might think you want something.”

The chords rang out with the same notes that they’d danced to in Enyr. She fell into rhythm, her body remembering the steps. But this felt different, very different to that time in Enyr, even if it wasn’t so long ago. His eyes burned into her. She didn’t recoil.

This time, she had a purpose. The task that Avon had set for her: convince the court that she posed no threat. She was Avon’s puppet, her magic his to control.

She imagined his fingers were strings, his hands guiding her as they glided across the floor. She smiled at him. He smiled back.

Is he being kind because I saved his sister? Because he likes me? Because he needs me?

Is he wondering the same thing about me?

He spun her around and then back into hold, the two of them in perfect sync. His strength felt like support; his will an extension of her own. She felt loose and free. A strange, giddy sensation soared through her stomach. She’d glimpsed this feeling before, the joy of utter clarity. And she found it in Avon’s eyes too; neither could look away.

But the music came to an end, polite applause finishing their dance. Other couples joined the dance floor, including Ophelia and one of her suitors. She looked at Avon, hoping to continue, but he had already turned away.

The rest of the ballroom came into sharp focus and with that, her mission. She followed him to one of the drinks tables where a few lords and ladies were enjoying champagne. Avon took a glass. Valerie composed herself.

She addressed Lady Rose, who had turned to smile at her. “Would you like to see a magic trick?”

“A trick?”

Rose was all eagerness, and she’d caught the attention of the other courtiers. Valerie held out her hand to Lord Merlon, the Treasurer, who was red-faced from drink.

“May I take your glass, my lord?”

His bushy eyebrows drew together, but he handed over the goblet. With a flourish, Valerie passed her hand over the glass and refilled it.

Parlour tricks, Glynda had said. Moonshine. But the courtiers loved it.

“Ha!” said Jaxon. “Refill mine?”

“You, sir, I think you’ve had too much.” She touched a finger to the glass and the champagne vanished. Jaxon turned the goblet upside down in mock bemusement.

“Now, ladies,” Valerie went on, clapping her hands. “You know I’ve some skill as a dressmaker. Do any of you fancy trying out a different colour to your dress this evening?”

“Oh, I do!”

She’d guessed that Rose would volunteer. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that Ophelia had joined her brother, watching their little display with interest.

Rose’s dress was palest pink, one of the more fashionable colours for the summer. Valerie brushed her hand over the sleeve.

“What would you like?” she asked. “Sapphire blue—to bring out your eyes.” The crowd oohed as the fabric shimmered from pink to blue. “Or emerald green—like the gardens in spring.”

“Oh,” said Rose, marvelling at her vivid green skirts. “What a gorgeous trick. Where did you learn such things?”

It was, perhaps, an innocent question, but Valerie paused. Not all the courtiers looked amused. And at the edge of their circle, Lord Thorne had appeared, his whiskery face set in a permanent scowl. Ophelia stepped in, laying a hand on Rose’s arm.

“Haven’t you heard the story? Lady Valerie was educated at a convent.”

“You mean as a priestess.” Lady Melody was one who didn’t look amused. “We had no idea.”

Or did she? The thought struck her. Lord Gideon had known about her from the start, and she wasn’t sure how many others in his inner circle Avon might have confided in. Might Gideon have confided in Melody? Did that explain Melody’s hawk-like attention on her?

“I chose Lady Valerie as a sign of my commitment to Maskamere,” Avon said, instantly commanding attention. “Magic is part of Maskamere’s past and will continue to be part of Maskamere’s future. Please, excuse us.”

He took Valerie’s arm, and they left the courtiers behind, bewildered. No one had spoken up—stifled by their own social customs. Conversation was already erupting behind them, however. The news would travel.

It was news, she was certain of that from the shocked look on some of the courtiers’ faces. For two years, they’d heard only that the Empire was stamping out witchcraft from the face of the earth. Officially, witchcraft was still illegal, although Avon had ignored that law when he’d offered a reward for a sorcerer to come forward to the palace. No one had been persecuted since, not in Jairah that she knew of, but that was because there was no one left to persecute. The hedge witches and petty sorcerers knew better than to practise their craft openly.

Avon led her away from the ballroom, through the entrance hall, and out into the gardens. The fresh night air was pleasantly cool. She shivered as a breeze swept over her, but the goosebumps on her flesh made her feel alive, energised. She warmed the air on her skin.

“Well,” said Avon. They turned a corner past a hedgerow out of sight of the palace entrance. “They’ll chew over that for the rest of the night.”

“I think you surprised them more than I did. Did you see Lord Thorne?”

“With a face like a disapproving aunt, yes. I don’t expect to win his favour. We’ve made a good start with the rest.”

“You’re welcome, my lord.”

He gave her a wry look. “I wish we had more time. Unfortunately, some of them know my father’s orders.”

“Your father’s orders?”

Her stomach dropped. Avon’s hand tightened over hers; his grip seemed more urgent. They passed by a swan-shaped fountain, and he gestured for her to sit with him on the bench behind it.

“My father sent my sister to marry,” said Avon, “and a thousand men to take Bolebund. He believes we must destroy all the silvertrees to ensure our victory.”

Her warming magic faltered. A shiver swept through her. “You just told them the opposite.”

“Not directly. There is a tree in Bolebund...”

Realisation hit her. “You want me to go.”

“I want us to go.”

“It’s a warzone. It’s where the resistance is strongest.”

“Not after we wipe them out.”

She caught her breath. This, then, was the final act of betrayal. If she was to achieve what she wanted— what she hoped to achieve with Bakra and the resistance—she would have to betray Avon. And if she didn’t betray Avon, she would have to betray the resistance. Either way, he was forcing her to choose.

It should have been an obvious choice.

“I can’t...” She stopped.

“You want the silvertree. Don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then join me. Become my queen.”

She swallowed. Of all the offers he had made to her during their various negotiations, this was by far the most tempting. All her life, she’d admired the queen. Thrilled at tales of her heroism, power, and magic. And with the queen dead and the third silvertree within reach...

She looked at him. “What’s the catch?”

He chuckled. “I am. You’re too smart to be my enemy, Valerie. I want you by my side.”

“You’re asking me to betray my people.”

The same thing she’d condemned others for. And she’d never felt more ambivalent about it.

“Run back to Bakra if you must. Will he give you what you want?”

No, she thought, her heart thumping. Bakra was beholden to his aunt Sopphora. If Bakra triumphed, he would become king, and his aunt would become the next queen. The line of succession would continue.

Abbess Sopphora was in Bolebund...

She looked down at her clenched fists, fingernails digging into her palms. Her thoughts weren’t merely treacherous. They were blasphemous. The royal family had ruled Maskamere for over a thousand years.

They don’t rule it now.

The crunch of gravel made her look up. A figure approaching—

She turned back to Avon. “Kiss me.”

His eyes widened. She clutched his shoulders, leaning forward, and he needed no further encouragement. His mouth met hers, and a thrill ran through her, the magical blanket she’d conjured to ward off the cold searing into heat. His hands gripped her waist, warm and firm. She tasted his lips. She found herself wanting.

Somewhere nearby, a throat cleared. “My lord.”

Avon broke off the kiss with a weary exhale, curling one hand around hers. “Lord Dryden. This is an inopportune moment.”

Valerie stared at the other lord too, not bothering to hide her satisfaction. She’d spotted him coming and played her part. What would he think of the wicked little witch now?

“We need to talk,” said Dryden. He glanced at Valerie, mouth twisting. “Alone.”