Treacherous Witch

The shadow of war still hangs over them when Valerie finally receives her delayed blessing.

As the trees shed their leaves and the borderlands communities brace themselves for the chilliest winter in years, she studies with feverish intensity. High Priestess Glynda gives her a book bound in thick red leather and embossed with her name.

The Book of Shadows.

She touches it and—

*

Valerie slept fitfully that night and awoke the next morning with a distinct sense of unease and the lingering image of a book she had never read.

She felt as if Shikra was tormenting her from afar, plaguing her with visions of what might have been. None of it made sense. If the Empire hadn’t invaded and Valerie had gone on to study magic at the convent, then why hadn’t that timeline continued? And why was she still having these dreams, even here in Drakon?

“Are you all right, my lady?” Priska asked.

Valerie folded her hands in her lap. She was seated at the dressing table, Priska braiding her hair. The room felt cramped and stuffy. She wished she’d had the foresight to open the window.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Bad dreams. How about you?”

“Okay.” The girl lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I stayed with Cilla. She promised not to tell.”

“Cilla?”

“Lady Ophelia’s maid. Should we go up for breakfast now, my lady? I mean, before the others see us.”

Valerie opened her mouth to ask why, then stopped. Priska was right. As Lord Avon’s favoured companion, she shouldn’t have spent the night in the servants’ quarters. Whether she liked it or not, they had to maintain appearances.

So, for the next five minutes or so, they played an ungainly and slightly ridiculous game of hide and escape. Priska signalled to Valerie to make a dash for it along the corridor. Then they tiptoed up the stairs and into the drawing room where they ran into the butler, who promptly turned his nose up at Valerie and walked away.

No one said a word of it at breakfast. Then again, no one said a word to her at all.

Valerie couldn’t wait to leave. Finally, with their bags packed and their bellies full, the party spilled out into the manor grounds where Baron Foxley wished them a fond farewell. A group of three carriages awaited them. Avon threw an arm around the Baron’s shoulder and whispered something in his ear that made the Baron turn pale.

Her skin prickled. The Baron turned to her, his watery eyes meeting hers for the first time, and gave a stiff nod.

“A pleasure to meet you, my lady,” he said. “Have a safe onward journey.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, swallowing her surprise. “I’m grateful for your hospitality.”

“There,” said Avon. “No one exploded. Let’s be off, shall we?”

Valerie hid a smile.

The next and final stage of their journey began at the town’s edge. Valerie stepped out of the carriage, brimming with curiosity. They’d arrived in the yard of a low building—she might have guessed a farmhouse—except for the glimpse of strange machinery beyond its walls. A man in uniform bowed and showed them through a gate to a raised stone platform.

“Is that a…?”

“Train,” Avon finished for her. “I’d hoped to take you on your first trip in Maskamere, but consider this a preview of our work.”

She’d seen a railway under construction once, during her travels with Avon. Men laying out the tracks, the metal glinting in the Maskamery sun. But this was different. The train resembled an elongated carriage—several carriages, in fact—joined together by interlocking metal hooks. It sat fat and gleaming upon the track, steam rising from its nose.

On the far end of the platform, servants hauled their luggage into one of the carriages along with a wooden box that had to be a coffin—Lord Gideon’s coffin. Lord Thorne was looking at it too. As he turned back, he caught her gaze, and Valerie felt a stab of unease. Thorne’s eyes were cold.

Rufus whistled. “What a marvellous contraption.”

“A private convoy,” said Avon. “Ladies first.”

“This way!” Lady Ophelia gestured excitedly.

One of the porters held the carriage door open for them. Lady Melody stepped in first, dressed in black and holding hands with her two boys. Valerie hadn’t quite worked out whether her continued silence was a Drakonian tradition or Melody was just being petulant.

Valerie followed next, Priska right behind her, and found herself in a narrow carpeted corridor. Windows set at regular intervals let in plenty of light from one side, while three enclosed booths faced her from the other. Melody and her children had already disappeared into one. Valerie hesitated. She didn’t particularly want to be stuck in a booth with two rowdy children and a mute parent.

Then Ophelia tapped her shoulder. “Here. Ladies, you take that one.”

The maidservants bobbed their heads and disappeared into the first booth. Valerie and Ophelia took the second.

The seats were made of fine leather, the table sturdy polished oak. Bookshelves were set into the walls, filled with leather bound volumes, as well as a shelf of board games and a wooden cabinet upon which sat a silver tea tray and several glass tumblers. Even the windows were dressed with velvet curtains, tied with golden tassels.

Ophelia noticed her staring and giggled. “It’s cosy, isn’t it? We’ve several hours to Drakardia, so it’s a good time to curl up with a good book.”

“Do you have any books about Drakon?”

“Histories? Oh, but they’re so dull…”

Still, Ophelia pointed at one of the shelves. Valerie bent down to look when the train rumbled into life. She jumped up to peer through the window instead, and her mouth fell open. How quickly the land sped past! The closest objects were merely a blur, her eyes settling on this post or that tree for only a moment before it disappeared out of sight. The rattling of the wheels vibrated through her bones.

“How fast does it go?” she asked.

“Twice as fast as a galloping horse,” Ophelia replied. “It would have taken us days to reach the capital by coach.”

In Maskamere, before the war, the queen’s Messengers travelled at great speeds using seven-league boots. Valerie had always wanted to get hold of a pair to replicate the spell. Her best effort resulted in what Markus had jokingly called seven-yard socks, which had allowed him to race around the Crescent store for the better part of a day before the socks had worn out.

But the Drakonian invention was better. This train could move hundreds of people together. Even armies, she thought. What an advantage that must have given them during the war.

Speaking of…

She returned to the bookcase. Going into enemy territory, she needed to arm herself with all the knowledge she could find. She grabbed a volume that looked fat and promising.

And so, for the next couple of hours, Valerie devoured several hundred pages of History of Our Glorious Empire, a book that in turns enthralled and appalled her.

She started with the final chapter concerning the conquest of Maskamere, which painted such a peculiar picture of the war that Valerie felt as if she’d stumbled into some strange alternate world. The author made no effort to hide his bias against the queen, whom he described variously as corrupt, wicked and capricious. He took it for granted that witchcraft was evil, that the silvertrees had to be destroyed, and that the embrace of the Empire was something to be desired.

However, the account gave little insight into Drakonian military strategy beyond the destruction of the silvertrees. The attack had been two-pronged: the navy had invaded Jairah in the south and wiped out the royal family while the purge had begun in the north, with Lord Avon leading the army’s swift advance over land. All of that she already knew.

If Queen Shikra had known all this too, then why hadn’t she been able to stop it? In the dream, there had been a warning—the queen had sent word to the north. Something must have gone wrong, but what?

She flipped back to the earlier chapters which gave an exhaustive account of the Empire’s growth and expansion in the last century. One phrase in particular made her frown.

“Ophelia,” she said, “what is the doctrine of exceptionalism?”

Ophelia looked up from her romance novel. “Exceptionalism? It’s how we describe what makes Drakon special. We are the most enlightened nation in the world.”

That sounded like a line she had learned, Valerie thought. What nonsense the Drakonians taught their children.

“I see,” she said. “You know, we have a name for that in Maskamere too. We call it Drakonian arrogance.”

“Arrogance?” Ophelia’s brow creased. “Oh, I didn’t mean to sound… I mean, have I offended you?”

“No,” said Valerie quickly. She couldn’t argue with Ophelia. It was like kicking a puppy. “No, of course not. Actually, that reminds me. Why was Lord Thorne being so funny about that flag in the Baron’s house?”

“The flag of Yirona?”

“Yeah.”

“I suppose it was a little cheeky of the Baron to display it. Like Lord Thorne said, it’s obsolete. It’s nothing, really.”

Ophelia was a terrible liar. Her cheeks had flushed, and she wouldn’t meet Valerie’s eyes.

Valerie persisted. “It’s your flag, isn’t it? Is that why Thorne didn’t like it?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s the flag of the old Republic. Did you read about it? The founding of Drakon?”

“No…”

“Yirona used to be an independent republic. And Drakon, I mean the old Drakon, used to be a monarchy. Then the union happened. Yirona and the old Drakon joined together, and that’s how the new Republic of Drakon was formed.”

“So Yirona was conquered by Drakon?”

The thought unsettled her. Had some ancestor of the Avon family experienced the same thing she had—subjugation by a foreign power? Had the Empire completely absorbed them?

Not completely, she thought, if Avon’s countryman still displays the old flag when he visits.

But Ophelia shook her head. “It was a mutual arrangement. I think that’s my favourite part of the story—how we came together peacefully. I wish it could always be that way.”

“Hmm…”

Valerie’s thoughts had strayed. She went back to the first chapter of the book about the Empire, only to discover that it was volume two and the missing story of Drakon’s founding was presumably in the first book. She snapped it shut.

“Do you mind if I get some air?”

“Of course,” said Ophelia peaceably.

Valerie gave her a quick smile, then rose and exited the booth. Back in the corridor, she pressed her face up close to the window and watched the Drakonian countryside go by. Fields of cattle and sheep, interspersed with hedgerows and woodland. Had they left Yirona behind? She wondered what place Avon called home. A grand manor? A castle?

Perhaps he would say he belonged to the capital. And perhaps she was grasping at nothing. But if the Drakonian Empire was after all a collection of disparate parts, it made sense that not all those parts might be fully united. The book had spoken of the challenges of ruling over such vast and distant territories.

She didn’t know if that would help her. But she had to look for the fault lines. Two years ago, according to Avon, the Drakonian Council had been united in their decision to invade Maskamere. She needed to know what would divide them.

Behind her, a child’s laughter drifted over the rattling of the train.

Valerie turned around. She’d taken the measure of everyone on this journey. Everyone, that is, except Lady Melody. And she didn’t want to let this chance pass her by.

She tapped on the door of the third booth before entering.

“Lady Melody?”

Melody gazed out of the window from a corner of the booth, her face and hair uncovered. Her two boys played with puzzle blocks on the carpet. At Valerie’s intrusion, Melody rested her hand on her chin, her expression the definition of Drakonian haughtiness.

“I’m in mourning,” she said acidly.

“Does that mean we can’t talk?”

“Well, you’ve already barged in…” Melody shrugged. “Sit.”

She took the invitation gladly. And then hesitated. Where to begin…?

“How are you doing?”

“Quite badly. You needn’t have asked.”

“I know it’s been hard.” Valerie reached out across the table, but Melody didn’t take her hand. “A lot has happened, but… I hope we can stay friends. And if you’re mad at me… Well, I’m hoping you’ll forgive me.”

Melody stared at her. “Forgive you? For murdering my consort, you mean.”

She flushed. “Yes.”

“I’d expect an apology to come before forgiveness. But you’re not sorry, are you?”

“I…” Of course she wasn’t sorry. Gideon deserved to rot. “He was a cruel man. He hurt my people. He tortured me.”

“Would that I could simply murder everyone who hurt me.” Melody shook her head. “What’s done is done. The rest of us can’t come back from the dead.”

There was a hardness in Melody’s tone whenever she spoke of magic. She wondered, had Melody…?

“Did you know?” Valerie asked. “That I was a witch, before Lord Avon revealed it?”

“No. I knew that you came from the resistance—that was an open secret. But not about your witchcraft. Lord Gideon didn’t share all his secrets with me.”

“But you helped me,” said Valerie. “You took me to see my family…”

Melody sniffed. “I did as I was told. And I’ve been questioned enough already, so I don’t care to repeat myself.”

“What do you mean?” The answer came to her as soon as the question left her mouth. Melody would have been suspected of conspiring with Lord Gideon after his betrayal. She must have convinced them that she was innocent, but the interrogation wouldn’t have been pleasant. “They let you go, didn’t they? And you’re going back to Drakardia, to your husband?”

Melody gave a short laugh, an odd, bitter sound. “No, darling. I’m going back to beg for mercy from my benefactor.”

Valerie frowned. “Benefactor?”

“It’s a long story. And it’s my problem, not yours.”

“But I could help.” Melody’s eyes turned to flint. Valerie continued gamely on: “Let me make it up to you. We’re going to need allies in Drakardia, both of us.”

“Oh, darling. You have no idea what you’ve done. Has anyone told you what to expect?”

She didn’t know what to say. “Not really.”

“The same as the rest of us.” Melody spoke with calm finality. “Consequences.”