Treacherous Witch

“The thrice-blessed are the most powerful priestesses in Maskamere. They have absolute authority over the land where their silvertrees grow. That’s why I order them out of their abbeys and into Jairah every year. They need to remember that they answer to me.”

Interview with Queen Shikra III, as told to Master Anwen

Lord Avon was true to his word. Not half an hour after they’d arrived in the palace harbour, he escorted her back to the basement of the temple with a contingent of his men including Captain Doryn and Master Anwen, the only person who showed any delight at seeing her.

“How was your trip, my dear?” he asked. “Did you see the Glasshouse? The Serpent’s Crest bridge?”

For her part, Valerie was distracted by the intensity of the magic in the chamber which had taken on a different quality. Her memory of it seemed blurry, unfocused. This time the colours were more intense, and she had a sense of the magic in the seal, the way it flowed over the door in three distinct layers...

“A moment,” said Avon. “Let the girl do her work.”

She stepped forward and pressed her hand against the stone.

The seal can only be broken by a woman.

A feminine silhouette treading delicately through shifting yellow sands, azure blue waves rolling into the shore behind her...

The seal can only be broken by a sorcerer thrice-blessed.

The figure stepped onto firm ground, green palm trees rising before her. Three trees. They turned silver as she passed her hand over each trunk in turn, glowing under the blazing sun...

The seal can only be broken by...

A falcon plummeted out of the sky and transformed into a golden crown which the woman placed on her head... The smell of roses... The figure reached out, blurring in the summer haze...

Valerie opened her eyes, frustrated. She’d lost it. She couldn’t quite grasp the end of the vision. Thrice-blessed, she thought. I was so worried about finding an excuse not to open the seal, and it turns out I can’t do it anyway. She was still only partway there.

An impulse to dash herself against the rock darted into her mind. She pushed it away in annoyance, stepping away from the stone door.

“What did you find?” Avon asked at once.

They were all looking at her, Valerie realised wearily, eight Drakonian men, guards and lords, and all of them helpless and ignorant in the face of Queen Shikra’s magic.

She cleared her throat. “I could see more clearly, my lord. The seal has three locks. I have to fulfil all three before I can open it. The seal can only be broken by a woman. It can only be broken by a sorcerer thrice-blessed. And...” She shook her head. “I couldn’t tell what the last one was. It was buried too deep.”

A murmur had broken out as soon as she mentioned the term thrice-blessed. She could feel Avon’s eyes boring into her. Anwen was already muttering excitedly and scribbling notes.

“Thrice-blessed,” said Avon. “You mean you still cannot open it.”

She looked back at him steadily. “I’m afraid not, my lord.”

Avon turned away. “Master Anwen, I would speak with you.” Then to her: “Go back to your quarters.”

The next morning, Lord Avon took her out into a secluded spot by the river where dragonflies danced over the water’s haze. Servants provided them with a picnic: a chequered blanket and a wicker basket full of sweet-smelling bread and fruit, ice-cold water, and mint tea. Valerie tucked her skirt beneath her and waited for Avon to say something. He was staring across the river, knees drawn up, arms crossed—a brooding look if she ever saw one.

She ventured to open the basket and take out a pastry.

Avon looked at her. “I’ll be disappointed if you’re lying to me, Valerie.”

The pastry turned to dry flakes in her mouth. She swallowed. “It’s all true. Everything I said about the seal...”

Last night, he’d disappeared to consult with Master Anwen about it. He hadn’t summoned her to his quarters, for which she was grateful. She needed that time to think.

“I allowed you the gift of a second blessing,” said Avon, “and you immediately demand more. You understand how that looks.”

“I know.”

“I asked Anwen what it means to be thrice-blessed. It’s a privilege reserved only for the Abbesses, the leaders of the priesthood.”

She nodded. “That’s right, my lord.”

“You don’t lack for ambition.”

“You’re the one who wants to break the seal. It’s your ambition, not mine... my lord.”

“Or perhaps,” he said, “you’re buying time. Wasn’t that your first strategy? Bold of you to repeat the same trick twice.”

“What if I could prove that I’m telling the truth?”

He stared at her. “How?”

This was what she’d thought about during the night, knowing that the seal was still beyond her reach, knowing that Avon would be reluctant to believe her. If she had been able to break the spell, she would have had to come up with something else, a lie, a promise, anything to delay the inevitable.

But she was telling the truth.

Valerie got to her feet, holding out her hand. “Come with me.”

She took him back to her quarters and over to the queen’s writing desk which she had repurposed as her work table. Clearing a space, she picked up a gold-lined notebook and opened it to a blank page, keeping it there with a paperweight.

“Here,” she said, handing Lord Avon a golden pen. “Can you write something down?”

“Why?”

“I’ll show you. Write down: I don’t know what’s behind the temple door.”

He stared at her for a long moment, no doubt wondering what sorcery she was working here, but Valerie’s expression remained bland.

Avon shook his head and wrote: I don’t know what’s behind the temple door.

“Perfect. Now write: I know exactly what’s behind the temple door.”

“I hope you’re going to explain this,” he said.

“It’ll make sense, I promise.”

The golden ink of his first sentence gleamed in the morning light, the curved handwriting pleasingly clear. He must have a lot of practice, she thought, with all those documents he signed. Avon hesitated, then bent down to scratch another line.

He frowned. The pen nib scraped against the paper but produced no ink.

“Out of ink,” he said. “Do you have another?”

“I don’t think so, my lord. Try writing the first sentence again.”

He did, and there it was in gold: I don’t know what’s behind the temple door.

“And the second sentence?”

“This is like writing lines in school,” he grumbled, and shook the pen in frustration when again it didn’t work. “All right. Explain.”

Valerie couldn’t help but smile. She was enjoying knowing something he didn’t know.

“This pen only writes the truth. Look.”

She held out her hand. Avon gave her the pen, raising his eyebrows. Valerie wrote: The door in the temple has three locks. 1) It can only be opened by a woman. 2) It can only be opened by a sorcerer thrice-blessed. 3) I don’t know what the third lock is.

“I see,” he said.

“Try it.” She gave it back. “Try writing any lie you can think of.”

She let him experiment, scribbling over half the page with inkless letters and words, interspersed with lines of truth: Cats are mammals. Black is a colour. Valerie is twice-blessed.

“And this,” he said, “this is the absolute truth?”

“Oh,” she said, “no, if you mean does it only write facts, then no, I don’t think so. It writes what people believe to be true. So, it could be wrong, but at least you know I’m not lying.”

“Interesting. Write this for me, then: I’m not planning to run away again.”

She took the pen, her stomach dropping. Of course, she’d guessed that he would use the instrument in this way. That was why she hadn’t shown it to him before.

Valerie wrote: I’m not planning to run away again.

Then, as Avon peered over her shoulder at the ink drying on the page, she put the pen down on the desk and smashed it as hard as she could with the paperweight. Avon flinched, his hands gripping her shoulders.

“Valerie!”

She let go of the paperweight as he pulled her back, but he was too late. The pen was in bits, gold ink splattered across the table. She felt the magic dissolve. A shame; it was a beautiful spell, but it was the safest option.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, “but you would have used it against me. I’m telling you the truth about the temple. You don’t get to know more than that.”

Avon turned her roughly to face him, pinning her arms to her sides. His glare was almost like a physical blow.

“You kept that quiet. What else have you been hiding from me?”

“Nothing, my lord.”

His fingers pressed against her skin. “You don’t intend to run. Why not?”

“I want the third blessing.”

“Why?”

“It’s what I’ve always wanted. It’s what I studied for. I want there to be magic in Maskamere again. I want the silvertrees to be restored.”

“Or you want to kill me.”

She swallowed. “I already told you that.”

He let go. Valerie took a moment to breathe. She’d meant to gain his trust by proving that she was telling the truth, but instead she’d reminded him that he had to watch his back.

No, she thought, this is better. He’d trust her less if she pretended she’d had a change of heart.

He looked at her. “You want to restore the silvertrees? Killing me won’t achieve that.”

“Bakra would restore the silvertrees.”

“So will I.”

She said nothing.

“This third blessing... Is there no other way?”

She shook her head. “No, my lord. If you’re not willing to let me receive another blessing, the only other option would be to find someone else.”

“I didn’t say I would be unwilling to grant you a third blessing,” said Avon, and her heart skipped a beat, “but it won’t be done overnight. I would have to find another silvertree still standing, if there are any left.”

“There are,” she said. “A few.”

His gaze sharpened. “Oh? Do you know where?”

“No...” She paused, trying to think how to explain. “I... sensed the presence of other trees when I accepted the blessing. Most of them are dead but not all. There must be a few still standing in Maskamere.”

None in Jairah, she knew that. And she wasn’t about to offer him help.

“Most likely in the north, where we have the least control,” said Avon. “Not an easy place to get to. Return to your studies with Master Anwen. I’ll let you know when I have a lead.”

She’d bought herself some time, that was all. She had to use it wisely. No half-decent spy would stick around a place without an exit plan.

First of all, she learned from Priska the locations of all the magical alarms and with that finally understood what had gone wrong in their mission to kill Lord Avon. There were three alarms: one at the gatehouse to the servants’ road where she’d been caught by the guards, one at the royal entrance, and one at the south gate.

“What about the river?” she asked.

“There used to be a bell on the ferry too, ma’am,” said Priska, who was flushed with excitement. “But the Drakonians destroyed it during the invasion.”

That explained it. The skiff that crossed the river was a Drakonian boat. She’d used it to reach the palace on the day of the assassination, which was why no bell had sounded then. Of course, they had no way of making another alarm, and so they’d inadvertently given themselves a weak point.

If she was to ever try escaping again, the river was her best bet. Good to know.

Secondly, she tested her magic with Master Anwen. The same five objects he’d tested her with before in his study: the glass of water, the copper coin, slipper, scrap of cloth, and the dead beetle pinned to a sheet of paper. In all previous attempts, her magic hadn’t stuck—that is, the effect hadn’t lasted more than a few seconds. After a while, her results had flattened out: around eighteen seconds for the water, six seconds for the copper, one minute for the slipper, and up to three minutes for the cloth.

The old scholar rubbed his hands in glee.

“Twice-blessed! Now this is the real test, my dear—let’s see what difference a second blessing makes...”

She turned the water into wine and the copper into gold. She altered the size of the slipper, changed the colour of the cloth, and to her great frustration she still couldn’t do anything with the beetle.

Anwen timed it all, raising his eyebrows.

“Hmm,” he said. “Mmm, well, that is interesting...”

“What?” she demanded. “Show me.”

He stepped aside, showing her the results he’d scrawled on the blackboard. Her heart sank.

“It’s the same. How can it be the same?”

“You said you did notice a difference in yourself, yes?”

“Yes. I can sense more magic. Like having better eyesight.”

“Well, then, let me consult my notes...”

She paced back and forth while he shuffled through his papers. “What did the queen say about the blessings? The first blessing grants power over the self. The second blessing grants power over others.”

“Yes, that’s right—well remembered.”

She’d practically memorised the queen’s transcripts. “That’s it, then. You’re testing the wrong things. What if I...” She paused. “Anwen, can I try something?”

He looked up at her. “Something?”

The most notorious power that the priestesses possessed was the ability to curse someone. Whenever the courtiers discussed magic, they would speak in hushed whispers of cursed rings, poisoned apples, and wicked witches turning men into toads. Much as she would like to try any of those things on Avon, she had sworn under the light of the silvertree not to harm him. But if she could do something more defensive, like a shock or a temporary shield... She might be able to hold off an attacker or give herself a chance to flee.

“Trust me,” she said. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

Anwen raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s not very reassuring. But I do trust you. What is it?”

“Let me take your hand.”

He offered it readily, and Valerie took it. She’d performed a spell like this before, when she’d brought in new sheets for the queen’s bed. Sleep, she thought, focusing her mind on sending waves of soothing magic through her fingertips and into Anwen. At first, he simply gave her a quizzical look. Then she sensed the magic reach his temples and the effect was instant: he blinked once or twice, then slumped into her arms. Valerie nearly buckled over with the dead weight.

She managed to lay him down with his head resting on a book, then knelt beside him, trembling. That had been so easy. Of course, Anwen trusted her and hadn’t resisted. She also noted the time it had taken for the magic to flow into his head. It would have been better to touch his temples. Sleep resided behind the eyes.

It was the perfect weapon. It did no harm, so she wouldn’t be breaking her oath by using it on any Drakonian. And even if it only lasted a short time, it would give her a chance to get away—or, she thought, with a dark thrill—to kill.

“Anwen?” she whispered. “Anwen, are you awake?”

She gave it a few more seconds, then gently poked his shoulder until the scholar’s eyes fluttered open.

Anwen blinked at her. “Oh... I’m so sorry, did I doze off?”

She helped him stand up. “No, no, you’re fine. Why don’t you take a break? I’ll tell Lord Avon about our progress.”

“Yes, good. Quite extraordinary...”