Treacherous Witch

"There's no such thing as fate or luck. Those with true power define their own future."

Interview with Queen Shikra III, as told to Master Anwen

The dress was complete, and she was confident that the invisibility spell worked. She tested it out first, bidding Priska farewell as usual after breakfast before walking down the staircase past the retinue of ladies she was supposed to join—not a single wave or flicker—and then into the kitchen in the servants' quarters where she nabbed a carving knife without protest.

Success.

She tucked the knife into a small purse which she'd packed with a few trinkets from Queen Shikra's wardrobe. She could barter them for a ride on the ferry, find some better footwear, and flee back to the resistance.

A steward hurried on by; his eyes slid right over her. She continued on her way. Through the laundry room, the stock room... Then the passage she'd sneaked through on her way into the palace on the night of the assassination. Maids and menservants were running back and forth, but no one gave her more than a passing glance.

There were five potential ways to exit the palace. She'd ruled out attempting to swim the river, which was wide and deep. Nor would she take the ferry from the palace to the city harbour: too crowded, too cramped. The south entrance was the wrong direction and almost never used, which left either the main gates to the royal palace or the servants' road. Both were guarded. In the end, she decided that the servants' road was the better choice. It was more likely to have traffic, which meant more chances to slip through.

She was skipping her session with Master Anwen which she was sorry for. If she ever saw him again, she would have to thank him for his help.

Valerie paused in the courtyard, lingering by the door while a group of traders unloaded wine barrels from their wagon. She touched the purse at her hip. The point of the knife pressed lightly against the leather. She was tempted, strongly tempted, to go back to her quarters, hide the knife, and await the night to murder Lord Avon. Finish the job as she'd offered to do in that cramped backroom of the apothecary with her head full of smelling salts.

Wouldn't it be something to stroll back to the resistance and announce to Prince Bakra that the mission was done? She'd accomplished it, alone.

I could do it.

She'd said it as if it was easy. As if she'd ever killed anyone.

But the guards at her door who hadn't batted an eye when she'd left with Priska would certainly question her returning alone. Her magic couldn't stop that. Even if she returned later on, or if Priska accompanied her, Avon was absent during the day and locked the door that joined their quarters at night. She'd checked.

The traders hopped on their empty wagon and drove away. Letting out a breath, Valerie followed. The information she had on Avon and his plans for the temple was too valuable to risk her life for the sake of her pride. Sooner or later, she'd find the prince, tell him all she had learned, and with any luck she'd have Avon's head on a spike within the year.

Well, she was getting ahead of herself. She had to leave the palace first.

The servants' road beckoned, the traders' wagon rolling at a steady pace ahead.

She walked.

As she had predicted on her very first day at the palace, her soft slippers did not hold up well. She'd strolled through the gardens or meadows, but the gravel path cut into her feet. Valerie switched to the grass verge instead.

A horse-driven cart passed by in the other direction. Merchants making their rounds at the palace. Not a word was said.

She was so close. The Drakonians really had no defence against such simple magic. Their own fault, she thought, for murdering the priestesses.

Ahead of her was a bridge and beyond that a gate, the final checkpoint at the edge of the palace grounds. She was sweating, hair sticking to her skin. The day was hot, the noon sun beating down. She crossed the bridge. Four palace guards stood at the gatehouse, checking visitors both in and out of an enclosed archway. Her heart quickened. This was the real test.

She slowed down. The empty wagon had already passed the checkpoint, which meant she had to wait for another vehicle. Sure enough, a few minutes later a tall cart that proudly proclaimed itself a vendor of furniture trundled past. That would do. It was big enough for her to walk along the other side behind the wheels. Then she could slip through the gate as it opened for the traders...

Valerie's hands went to her purse, unclasping it. She reached for the knife, which she held loosely against her side, just in case...

The gate opened. It was narrow for a vehicle, only one able to pass through at a time, but easy for her. She did a little skip forward, hurrying through...

...and set off a ringing alarm bell that made her jump out of her skin.

"Hey! Girl!"

She ran.

Running broke the spell; it caught the eye, but it was too late anyway. She ran, and she was free out in the streets of Jairah for all of three seconds before a heavy gauntlet caught her arm.

"Let me go!"

She lashed out with the knife. The guard swore as he blocked with his other arm, sparks flying off his armour. He grabbed her wrist and twisted until she dropped the blade with a cry, then yanked her back, turning Valerie around. The cart behind her halted, and a second guard rushed over.

"What's all this?"

"One of the palace ladies. She tried to stab me!"

"You attacked me first!"

Her wrist smarted. To add insult to injury, the guard who had caught her was Maskamery. You traitorous dog! I was almost there!

"Now, my lady," said the second guard, who was Drakonian, his clipped accent setting her teeth on edge, "let's not have any misunderstandings. What are you doing out on the servants' road? And what's a lady doing with a dangerous weapon like that?"

"I'm visiting a sick friend," she lied. "She's very ill, so I had to sneak out without permission to see her quickly. The knife is for my protection."

"We're your protection," said the Maskamery guard. "Hey, did you set off the alarm?"

"How should I know?"

On the other side of the tall cart, she could hear a similar argument going on between the driver and another guard. Whether she had caused the alarm to go off, she couldn't be sure. But there was always a chance that they might blame the traders instead of her, or at least that she might be escorted back to the palace without any further consequences.

Unfortunately, the fourth guard then popped his head out of the gatehouse where the alarm bell was still ringing, and he recognised her.

His name was Grenald, and she had stabbed him in the leg on the night of the assassination when she'd tried to free Markus.

Needless to say, she was marched back to the palace in irons.

*

The guards threw her down before Doryn, captain of the guard. Her knees knocked painfully on the floor.

"What is this?"

She got up. Her head ached either from the sun or a blow from the earlier scuffle. They'd brought her to a study, presumably his, and he was looking down at her with a dubious expression. She had seen Doryn before, from a distance, when he'd attended dinner or marched about the place in his armour. He was craggy-faced, with cropped sandy hair that had turned grey at the temples. She had never seen him smile.

She let the guards explain.

"She's one of the rebels!" Grenald said. "We caught her red-handed, and now his Lordship lets her prance about the palace."

"The alarm bell sounded," the Maskamery guard added. "She was trying to curse us!"

"That's impossible," said Doryn. "I know who she is. Leave us."

The guards departed, grumbling under their breath. Valerie swayed on her feet. Doryn stepped forward to remove her irons.

"You understand I must report this to Lord Avon."

"I thought you might."

"Why did you try to run?"

Her mouth twisted. "You know who I am. Isn't it obvious?"

"Did you use magic?"

"No."

"Then why did the alarm sound?"

"I don't know."

The bell, she thought. Avon had told her they had a way of detecting magic within the palace. She must have set it off.

Doryn sighed. "Despite your past crimes, you have been given a respectable position. You would do better to abandon any fantasy of victory by the resistance, and consider your own safety."

"I don't recall asking for your advice."

That was plain insolence. Doryn didn't bother with any more unsolicited advice. He marched her back to her quarters, handcuffed her to the bed, and left.

*

The tears finally started flowing when Priska entered her quarters and refused to release her.

"I can't, my lady," she said. "I'm sorry."

Priska undressed her with some difficulty, leaving Valerie in her corset and underwear. The gown she had spelled was torn, the sleeves ripped in two. The maid put down soup, bread and a goblet of water on a tray before leaving.

By evening she was thoroughly miserable, the irons chafing her wrist. She kept replaying the day's events in her mind. The invisibility spell had never failed her before. And it had been working; it had almost gotten her out.

What had gone wrong? Running broke the spell. So did attracting someone's attention by speaking to them or an unavoidable encounter in an enclosed space. The pinch point of the gatehouse was the most likely place to get caught, to be sure, but slipping by alongside a horse and cart should have worked. It would have worked, she was sure of it, if not for the magical alarm.

She ought to have remembered what Avon had said, ought to have factored it into her plan. But as she thought about it more, something else occurred to her. On the night of the attempted assassination, they had been caught by the same alarm. Which meant that it wasn't Markus's fault after all, nor hers. There was no way they could have avoided such a defence without knowing about it.

But Bakra should have known.

She simmered in frustration. Any of their co-conspirators who had lived at the palace—Bakra, Viper, Malkoha—they should have mapped out the palace's magical defences. Why hadn't they mentioned it? The alarm bell couldn't be new; the Drakonians didn't have the ability to craft it. The only way she would forgive Bakra for this was if they'd relocated the bell from somewhere else.

But as things stood, the prince's failure had not only trapped her in the palace in the first place, it had also ruined her best chance of escape. And with a broken promise shattering whatever trust she had managed to gain from Lord Avon, she awaited his return with an overpowering sense of dread.

The shadows grew longer, and so did the pit in her stomach. When Avon entered, startling her, he did not storm in or shout. He stalked in with a quiet, seething air that had her cowering against the side of the bed.

He stopped in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind his back. "I understand you tried to escape."

She said nothing. She was shaking.

"When did you get this?"

He held out the knife she had stolen. Her heart sank.

"Today," she whispered.

"Really?"

She swallowed. "I didn't try to kill you with it. Doesn't that count for something?"

His lip curled. He moved over to the bed, picking up the dress which Priska had left there. "This is the dress you've been making. Spelled, I assume?" There was a pregnant pause, then his face darkened. "Answer me."

"Yes."

"Spelled with what?"

"A spell of walking unseen."

He threw the dress back down. "Clever. I suppose that's how you infiltrated the palace. It was all a trick, then. I trusted you to practise your magic within these walls and you betrayed me."

She didn't know what to say.

He looked at her, his eyes fathomless. "Have you forgotten your situation? The debt you are repaying? I've been nothing but merciful to you. Truly, I don't know what more I could have done."

She made a small, strangled sound, half suppressing a laugh. Truly, he was the king of benevolence.

He cocked his head. "Do you have something to say?"

"I don't know what you expected. You picked up a girl from the resistance. What did you think would happen?"

Something in his face twisted. He crouched down, set the knife aside on the floorboard, then bent forward and freed her of her irons. For a second she was confused. Then he pinned her hand to the floor, and in a flash he had the knife and slammed it down.

Pain exploded in her hand. A scream tore from her throat. She could hardly process it, the steel blade buried in her flesh, and Avon snarling an inch from her face.

"What did I think would happen? What did you think, Valerie—did you think you wouldn't get caught?"

"Please," she gasped, tears stinging her eyes. "Please—"

He dug in, adding more pressure to the blade that had already sliced through her tendons. Blood seeped around her hand in a crimson pool. She sobbed, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

"I'm sorry!" She couldn't think. "I'm sorry, my lord, I'm sorry, it won't happen again."

"You're babbling. Look at me."

She did so, hating the way she could feel his breath on her face.

"Consider that your actions affect others. Your friends in the resistance. Your family. We've yet to arrest any of the Crescents for collaborating with a traitor."

"No!" she gasped. "They're innocent! My family have nothing to do with this."

"I should be happy to leave them alone if you behave. Do you understand?"

"I understand. I'm sorry, my lord, truly. I won't forget."

"You can heal yourself, can't you?"

Valerie nodded. She had to act—before she passed out.

Avon yanked the blade out, and a fresh wave of pain lanced through her. At once she snatched her hand to her chest and willed it to heal, closing up the wound in seconds. Reverse the damage. Make it whole. Finally, the pain receded. She was a blotchy mess.

He wouldn't let her be. She flinched when he took her hand, examining it from both sides, flexing her fingers. The flesh remained red and sore, her reattached tendons protesting at being made to work so soon.

"The work of a witch," Avon murmured. "You're quick when you need to be. Let's see you apply that vigour to the temple door."

She didn't have the energy to contradict him.

He stood up. "You are not to wear anything you make, nor give it to anyone else."

"I understand."

"I expect progress on the seal. You won't be getting another chance."

He picked up the spelled dress along with the knife, tucked it over his arm, and departed. The queen's chamber loomed around her: all of her work, wasted. Her mouth was dry. Her head pounded. Exhausted, she stared at the deep red stain on the floorboards until the darkness of night swallowed it up. Then she crawled into bed and cried.