Treacherous Witch

—as the last of the villagers hurry through.

“No one can get in,” she tells them. “We sit tight until the queen sends aid.”

When the Drakonians break through anyway and her mother cowers beneath the broken stained glass window and begs—

*

Avon stepped down from the podium, and, mouth dry, Valerie made her way towards him. Their eyes met. His gaze was stern, serious, but with a flicker of worry. She hoped she didn’t look completely terrified.

Then he disappeared behind her, and Valerie continued the last few steps to the podium alone. There she stood before this sea of old white-haired men and found not one sympathetic face among them. Her chest constricted.

The Patriarch held up his hand to quieten the murmuring senators. As he did so, a ring on his middle finger flashed in the light coming from the glass window above. It was quite distracting, she thought dimly. Ornate and oversized, like the man who wore it, and set with a stone that resembled a swirl of liquid silver.

The Patriarch addressed her. “Your name, girl.”

She focused. “Valerie Crescent.”

“Are you a witch?”

“I’m a priestess, Your Eminence.”

“How did you come to be with Lord Avon?”

“I… I was a member of the resistance in Maskamere. I got caught breaking into the palace.”

“Well, that’s an understatement.” One of the senators handed the Patriarch a leather-bound file, from which he glanced over a sheaf of paper. “You were charged with the crimes of treason and attempted murder. An assassination attempt on Lord Avon’s life, no less. You’re currently serving an eighteen-year repentance, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And how are you serving that repentance?”

“I… With Lord Avon. Serving Lord Avon.”

“Serving him how?”

She flushed. “As his consort.”

“I see. And you were happy to play the whore, were you? Or was your seduction a trap for the Chancellor you had already tried to kill?”

One or two senators coughed. Others smirked. Valerie imagined setting the entire place on fire. Why should only her own people burn? She’d melt the smile off the Patriarch’s face like wax from the world’s ugliest candle.

Focus. Don’t let them get to you.

She controlled herself. “I didn’t seduce him. I had to serve him, as part of my repentance.”

“Did Lord Avon know you were a witch when he selected you as his companion?”

“Yes.”

“And did he expect you to perform your witchcraft as part of your service to him?”

“Yes.”

The Patriarch waved a hand. “Do tell.”

Every question was a trap. Every second she’d minded her words in the palace, every dinner, every nightcap, had prepared her for this moment. She’d navigated that snake pit. She would survive this one.

Valerie took a breath. “My magic was part of my service to Lord Avon. There was a chamber underneath the palace temple that was locked by a spell. He wanted me to open it.”

“Why?”

“He thought it contained some kind of treasure.”

“And did you open it?”

“I tried,” she said. “But Lord Gideon came to me first. He told me that he wanted the treasure for himself. He said that if I worked with him, he’d help the resistance and restore the prince to the throne. I—”

The Patriarch’s voice became dangerous. “You’re saying Lord Gideon was a traitor? You’re accusing my son?”

“No, Your Eminence. I thought it might be a trap—”

The Patriarch snorted.

She went on gamely: “So I went back to Lord Avon. I told him that Lord Gideon planned to meet me in the temple. Captain Doryn told you what happened then.”

Avon had warned her not to directly accuse Gideon. A softer approach would be more palatable, he’d said, and make her story easier to believe. Looking around this chamber, she didn’t think it was working. These men had already made up their minds.

The Patriarch drew out another paper from his file. “Do you recognise this?”

She squinted at it. Gold-lined paper…

“I…”

“It’s a letter. One written by you to Lord Avon before that night in the temple.”

Her mouth fell open. The letter! How could it have fallen into the Patriarch’s hands? Around her, the senators murmured, some craning their heads to get a closer look.

She glanced up at Avon, half-hidden in the box. He was leaning forward, hands gripping the railing, knuckles white. He looked as shocked as she felt.

“Let’s see…” The Patriarch’s lip curled. “James,” he read, then looked up. “Rather familiar, referring to your master by his first name.”

She flushed again. Was he really going to read it out in front of the entire Senate?

“For the avoidance of doubt,” the Patriarch continued, “you should know that I didn’t want to betray you. Gideon might have me killed.” He paused. “What is this betrayal you refer to?”

They hadn’t practised this. She had no prepared answer. Of course she didn’t. How could she have known? How could the Patriarch stand there speaking the words that she had so carefully penned for Avon’s eyes only? He had taken something precious, something private, and exposed it like a bloody heart for the entire Senate to see.

She felt sick.

“I…” Valerie swayed on her feet, the chamber blurring around her. It took a moment to steady herself. “I thought that Lord Gideon might force my hand. I had to pretend to work with him to lure him into the temple. But if he killed me first, I didn’t want Lord Avon to think that I’d betrayed him. That wasn’t—”

“That sounds like you were covering your tracks,” the Patriarch interrupted. “As does this.” He read on: “If I’ve played our game wisely, he ought to lose, but if not I’d hate to have my reputation ruined posthumously.”

Murmurs from the lords in the Senate. She said nothing. In the box above, Avon whispered to Captain Doryn.

“Our game,” the Patriarch repeated. “Our game. Sharp words, clever words, from a conniving witch. What fun you were having, conspiring to murder my son.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill anyone. He tried to—”

“I’ve been thinking of all the things I haven’t said to you,” the Patriarch continued. Each word pierced her like a dagger in the heart. “And in case I don’t get to say it: you’ve been a worthy opponent. I hope we get to fight again.” He shook his head. “How sweet,” he sneered. “Is that a witch’s twisted declaration of love? Or more poisonous words to cloud the Chancellor’s mind and turn him against my son?”

“No! No, that’s not—”

She couldn’t get a word in. He talked over her.

“How does she sign off this exchange, the Chancellor’s tame and obedient witch? Does she declare her love? Her fealty? No. The letter ends thus: With all due respect, Valerie.” The Patriarch waved the letter aloft, addressing the entire Senate. “A convicted criminal addressing her master as an equal. Astonishing.”

“It was honest!” said Valerie. “Because I do respect him. And not because he has a fancy title. I respect him because he earned it.”

She realised her mistake as soon as she said it. Every one of these senators had a fancy title, and every one of them expected to be respected for it. They glowered at her, and Valerie wished that she could snatch up these accidents of birth and toss them into the lake.

“You see,” said the Patriarch, “this letter is proof of what I’ve suspected since the news of my son’s death reached Drakon. Lord Avon is not to blame. He was deceived. He is still being deceived—by this duplicitous witch.”

“No—”

“And that, dear gentlemen, is why I’m afraid Lord Avon is not fit to be Chancellor of Maskamere. He is bewitched.”

Avon leapt to his feet. “I am not bewitched! This is an attack on my character, Your Eminence. I will not stand for that.”

The Patriarch leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Then kill her. Put her to the pyre as she and her kind deserves.”

She couldn’t stop trembling, hot and cold shivers running through her body. This man, this Patriarch, the sway he had over the Senate was clear to see. The men looked at her with murder in their eyes.

“No,” said Avon. “Her punishment was decided in Maskamere. I signed a contract; I won’t break it.”

“Well, then,” said the Patriarch. “Eminent gentlemen, I put it to you that Lord Avon’s judgement has been clouded by this witch, whose own crimes are both abundant and evident. While there remains any doubt whatsoever over his soundness of mind, he cannot be fit to hold office, nor to represent the will of the Drakonian people, nor to serve for the good of the Empire. I therefore raise a motion of no confidence against Lord Avon as Chancellor of Maskamere. Let us vote.”

Valerie was ushered off the floor and back to their corral for guests. Meanwhile, attendants in red uniforms rolled out a strange contraption into the middle of the floor: a trolley table with two shelves. Two giant hourglasses were fixed to the bottom shelf, each of which connected to a glass tube that poked out of the top shelf. This contraption was wheeled around in a full circle while the senators watched, then the attendants threw a velvet cloth over the table, covering it completely.

She collapsed in her seat. “What are they doing?”

“Voting,” Avon said. “Each senator has a chip. The tube on the left says aye. The tube on the right says nay.”

As she watched, the senators lined up to place their votes. Each of them carried a block of wood about the length of her palm—the chip—and dropped it into one of the tubes. The cloth covered the process in such a way that no one could see which tube each senator selected.

With three hundred senators, it took a horribly long time to get through them all. After that, the attendants removed the cloth and counted every chip out loud, removing them from the hourglasses one by one, but it was already obvious who had won.

Valerie’s heart sank.

The verdict came in: the motion had passed by a vote of 192 to 108. The Patriarch declared the result with an air of finality.

“The motion is passed,” he said. “We reconvene in thirty days. Dismissed.”