Treacherous Witch

"—nice and warm."

The comment draws laughter and crude jokes. One man wolf whistles. They drag her over to one of the wagons where more soldiers leer at her, and the unease in her body freezes into terror. She's never been surrounded like this. Stared at like this, like meat.

A clear, clipped voice cuts through the night air. "You there! You're delaying the convoy. What—"

She twists, her back against the wagon, and her eyes meet the stranger's as the words die on his lips. He's on horseback, dressed in Drakonian black, but he doesn't carry himself like the other men. He sits up tall, commanding. His face is harsh.

And he looks furious.

*

"Gone?" Valerie repeated.

"I'm afraid so," said Avon. "Clearly, Father intends to send a message."

She felt the tension radiating off them, pale, serious faces lit by a serene golden glow. Ophelia's quarters invited one to lie down and read a book, to watch the birds in the garden, to paint in watercolour. The pillows were impossibly soft, the cushions improbably plump.

The four of them had turned this place into a war room.

The churning in her stomach worsened. Bolebund's tree had already been destroyed. If the silvertree in Enyr was gone too, then only the tree at St. Maia remained. Three possible routes into the past had dwindled to one.

That sense of safety she'd entered the villa with dissolved away.

"But…" She swallowed. They had agreed not to reveal Avon's heritage to anyone; they could not fully discuss the implications in front of Ophelia and Rufus. "What about Enyr? The Duke? Wouldn't they see it as an act of war?"

"Oh, it certainly caused a diplomatic furore." Avon waved his letter in frustration. "Lord Dryden is attempting to calm the storm. But the Enyrns won't dare to do more than complain. No one was harmed, and the Drakonian contingent swiftly retreated. There's little else they can do."

She felt sick. "What if he goes after Maskamere next? If he destroys all the silvertrees, that's it. Everything we're trying to do here… it's over."

Rufus shook his head. "Do we know how many are left?"

"At least one," she said, shooting Avon a significant look.

He must realise this too, she thought. This was her last chance. Her only chance to change history, to make things right.

"But he can't, can he?" Ophelia's voice trembled. "I mean, could Father really destroy all of them?"

"It doesn't matter," said Avon. "Even if he burned every last silvertree, magic won't disappear. We have it right here."

"You mean in Arden?" Rufus glanced between them. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Avon explained. While he told the story of their trip to Arden, Valerie stared down at her clenched fists, the knuckles bone-white. Anger streaked through her, bringing her emotions back to boiling point, and it took her a few seconds to figure out why. Avon's response had been dismissive at best. She didn't like the way he had immediately moved on to this new source of magic, as if the silvertrees didn't matter at all.

Did he still not understand that the silvertrees were sacred? He'd read Maska's Testimonium; he knew that killing a silvertree was an act of murder. He was supposed to be better than his father.

But now she'd shown him a taste of something different, another kind of sorcery. She'd told him herself that pursuing the wyverns might be more viable than the decades-long project of replanting the silvertrees. I shouldn't have done that, she thought. I should have insisted on going back.

She glanced at the book of fables on her bed, and her insides twisted.

"The mountains are an untapped source of magic," Avon finished. "Now that the wyverns are no longer a threat, I'll propose that we mine this black stone—"

"Mercurite," she corrected him wearily.

He glanced at her. "What?"

"Anwen's done his research. The black stone is called mercurite."

"That's all well and good for the future," said Rufus, "but what about now? Could we pin the monks' deaths on the Patriarch?"

"Unlikely," said Avon. "Our evidence is circumstantial. It'd be my word against his."

"Then what do we do?" Ophelia asked.

"We have to go," said Valerie. "Tonight."

The room went silent. Ophelia's mouth fell open. Rufus opened his mouth, then closed it.

Avon frowned at her. "Excuse me?"

"Avon," she said pointedly, "can we speak in private?"

Avon looked at her, then sighed and nodded at the other pair. "Rufus, I want a full report first thing tomorrow. Ophelia, excuse us."

Rufus nodded. "Aye, my lord. Good night, ladies."

He kissed Ophelia's hand, then gave Valerie a perturbed look before leaving them. Ophelia clasped her hands, her brow drawn in worry.

"Don't leave without saying goodbye!" she called after them.

Avon beckoned her outside. Valerie followed him to his chamber where he closed the door behind them. She let out a breath. Now, here was a den made for plotting and scheming. The light was dim, the corners dark. Avon liked his books and his letters and the flickering embers of fire in the grate, which he stoked before turning to face her, the firelight casting his features in sharp relief.

"Go where?" he asked.

"St. Maia."

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"Why?"

She frowned. "To protect the silvertree. It's the last one, Avon. Your father could be heading there right now."

"Is he?"

She didn't understand this line of questioning. "I don't know! But we have to go. That tree is our last chance to go back."

He held up his hand. Then, slowly, he returned the poker to the grate and circled around her. Shadows danced over him, a complicated interplay of light and dark.

"Am I understanding you correctly?" he asked. "You wish to return to your silvertree at St. Maia, tonight, on the off-chance that my father intends to destroy it?"

She held out her hand. "We can fly most of the way. We'll have to do the last part on foot, but I know the borderlands—"

"Valerie," he said. "Think about what you're saying. Yes, my father burned the silvertree in Enyr. But that tree was already known to us. The silvertree at your home—St. Maia—we never found it. It's stayed hidden for two years. Do you really think my father knows where it is? Does he even know it exists?"

He hadn't taken her hand. She dropped it back to her side. "I don't know." True, she'd protected the silvertree at St. Maia. A spell of camouflage hid it from the enemy's eyes. "But you don't either."

"Nothing is certain in this world. We've taken far bigger risks. Why are you so insistent on this one?"

"Why?" Was he being deliberately obtuse? "You know why! I told you, that tree is our last chance to go back. We can't lose it."

There was a pause.

"I see," said Avon. "You still have your heart set on returning to the past."

"And you don't?"

"I never said I did."

"You said you regretted it! The war, destroying the silvertrees. You're just going to let your father finish them off?"

She couldn't believe him. He'd expressed remorse, and yet when the time came to do something about it, he showed no interest. Did he even care? Did he want her to get stuck here?

"Of course not," he said. "Listen to me. If you disappear now, you're putting the silvertree in more danger than if you left it alone. You could be followed."

Her breath caught. He had a point. She couldn't weigh up the risk of leaving the silvertree vulnerable without considering the opposite risk of leading her enemies straight to it. Maybe she could weave a cloak of invisibility… but that would take time, and a human riding a wyvern was bound to attract attention…

"Dammit," she muttered. "I hate when you're right."

For the first time, his eyes twinkled with something like amusement. "My apologies."

"Fine," she huffed. "We won't go tonight, but I can't wait much longer, you know that, right? Every day I stay here is another day I could be killed or—or something could happen to the silvertree…"

"Yes," he said. "That is reality for most of us."

"But we can change reality." She stopped to take a breath. Looked up at him. "After everything we've been through, everything you've learned about yourself… If you had a choice… Would you choose to win the election here and keep ruling Maskamere? Or would you go back to before the war and save everyone?"

Silence fell. That pain flickered in his eyes again, some vulnerability she couldn't quite pin down. He was still wrestling with his new sense of identity, she thought. He didn't know what it meant, and if she didn't take this opportunity to steer him now, he might double down on the old one.

Then he looked down at the floor, and her certainty wavered. He wasn't answering.

"Avon?" she said.

He straightened. His jaw set. "You know my answer. You chose it too."

"What do you…?" She trailed off as his meaning struck. "It's not like that! Shikra wanted me to blindly follow her. I'm not asking that."

"You're asking exactly that!" he snapped. "The past you want to go back to is a version of me who doesn't know you. I wouldn't save anyone. I would destroy Maskamere all over again because that is what I was ordered to do. I'd kill you without blinking."

"I'll convince you not to!" Her tone was earnest. "I know we can change things. We already met, Avon. You've fallen in love with me before. You'll do it again."

He stared at her. "What did you say?"

"You…" She swallowed, realising that she'd said too much. "I remember my past lives. I met you in one of them."

Another pause. She didn't like this one. The silence stretched between them, taut and uncomfortable.

"How certain you are." His voice was cool, glassy. "Do you know how often I've asked myself if you feel anything for me in return? If all of this is a manipulation? You're like a fire I can't touch. You twist and turn and then…" He raised his hand. "You slip away."

She stared back at him, pursing her lips. It felt strange to see herself through his eyes. If he wanted certainty, he only had to ask. She was bound to tell him the truth.

But he hadn't asked.

"I like to be chased," she said. "I don't like to be caught."

He hadn't moved, but it felt like he had, like they were looking at each other from a great distance. Hunter and hunted. The scorpion and the bird of prey. He gave a small nod, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. She sensed that they had reached an impasse.

Valerie turned on her heel and left his chamber without another word.

She hurried down the hallway, her heels clacking on the polished floor. Her heart was racing. She'd done it again: opened up a fissure between them. He wanted the future; she wanted the past. How many times had she asked him to take her side? He'd refused every time, but she had really thought he would change his mind tonight. He'd told her that he regretted the war. She'd told him he had a place with her people. None of it was enough.

What more could she do?

Lost in her frustration, she almost collided with Cilla outside the door to Ophelia's quarters.

"Begging your pardon, ma'am!" Cilla's cheeks flushed. She was holding Edrick's hand; the little boy looked up at them curiously. "Forgive me, my lady, but your bath isn't ready—you see, the matron came over sick, and I—"

"Don't worry about it." She looked between them. "Why don't you prepare my bath now? I'll take care of Edrick."

"You will?" Cilla blinked. "That's usually a task for the maids, ma'am. The ladies don't—"

"I have three cousins under the age of five," Valerie interrupted her. "I know how to put a child to bed. Go."

The maid hurried off. Meanwhile, Valerie knelt down in front of Edrick. The boy regarded her solemnly.

"You ready for bed?" she asked. "Come on, take my hand."

Edrick obeyed her without question. If only his father were that easy to command. She took him back to his room and sighed at the mess that greeted her. Puzzle blocks all over the floor. Books, pencils and paper strewn about. He was an industrious child, but she wished he had Avon's obsessive urge for order.

"Tell you what," she said, "you clear away this clutter in under five minutes and I'll tell you a bedtime story. Deal?"

Edrick grinned. "Deal!"

He was industrious and fast. They cleared everything in record time, then Valerie got him ready for bed. He probably had some fancy evening routine that she didn't know about, but she made sure he washed, cleaned his teeth and changed into his night clothes. She put away the last scattered toys, snuffed out all but one oil lamp, and tucked him into bed.

"Does your father ever put you to bed?"

Edrick gazed up at her with those bright blue eyes. "No. Only Matron."

"Does he ever say good night?"

Edrick shook his head.

"Well, he should. What's the point of having fathers if they won't even take care of you?"

"Do you have a father?"

"No. But I had uncles and nephews and cousins. Everyone looked after me. And I looked after them." She stopped, surprised to find tears in her eyes. "He won't let me see them. But that's okay. I'll find my own way."

"Find your way how?"

He looked so small nestled into the pillow. She fluffed it up for him, then stopped. How? The wyvern? She could try to escape. Maybe she was wasting her time trying to convince Avon of anything. He was a Drakonian, he would always be Drakonian, no matter what blood ran in his veins. He'd only ever acted in the interest of the Empire.

She thought again of Maska's sword. The image it had given to her of a protector. Maybe it saw something in him that she couldn't.

Maybe she was deluding herself.

She looked again at the pillow, then at Edrick. Her hand lingered there, the clean cotton brushing against her skin.

I could do something that can't be undone.

"Val'rie?"

She blinked. Edrick stared up at her with wide, half-fearful eyes, small hands clutching at the blankets tucked around him.

She couldn't. It was monstrous. Even to think it was monstrous.

Avon would never forgive her.

Avon would never have to know.

A strange bubbling feeling welled up in her chest like a rising tide. She might rise with it, or it might drown her. To think like this was to think like the queen—to act like the queen—who had snuffed out Markus's life merely as another form of extortion.

Maska, give me strength.

She forced the tide back down.

"Hey." She smiled. "I promised you a bedtime story, didn't I?"

Edrick nodded and smiled back.

"Do you know The Wyvern's Tail?"

Another nod.

"Well, I didn't read the ending yet, so you'll have to finish it for me, all right? Once upon a time…"

The words wouldn't come. She remembered the story, but she felt no enthusiasm for it. She couldn't bring herself to tell it.

Edrick wrinkled his brow. "What? Did you already forget?"

"No, I…" She shook her head. "Never mind. Let me tell you something new. Once upon a time, there lived a woman called Maska…"