Treacherous Witch

They shove her in a wagon full of hay with her hands tied behind her back. After an hour's bumpy, uncomfortable ride, they reach a camp. She guesses this from the noise—men shouting, dogs barking—and the flicker of firelight through the leather canvas.

A guard climbs in. He blindfolds her, drags her through mud and grass, then the next thing she sees is the inside of a tent and a frowning face.

A familiar face. It's—

*

The next few days were among the most stressful of Valerie's life.

She almost preferred being in immediate danger. At least then she could react. But this waiting, knowing the consequences if she'd misjudged, knowing that whatever happened she could not control—it was killing her.

She told herself that the chances of the silvertree at St. Maia perishing were astronomically low. No one else knew its location. Her spell protected it. The Emperor had no reason to go there.

Still, the worry gnawed at her. And very quickly, that worry was compounded by another.

Avon reconvened the four of them—Valerie, Ophelia, Rufus, and himself—the next morning to report back on events in the capital. Rufus shared promising news of his meetings with the senators. He'd tallied up the numbers of all those they'd convinced vs those against. Their prospects looked good, but victory was by no means guaranteed. Too many undecided votes.

"Some are waiting to hear the Emperor's opinion before they cast their vote," Rufus explained. "I'm sorry to say it, but I don't fancy our chances without him."

"Blast it," Avon muttered.

"We know he's not going to support us," said Valerie. "That's why we need to take down the Patriarch. Ophelia, did you learn anything from Lady Melody?"

But Ophelia shook her head, looking distressed. "I'm sorry. I tried, but she won't talk to me. Every time we met to plan the wedding, she and Mother would go off whispering—"

"Melody and Lady Juliana?" Valerie said sharply. "Whispering what?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe they're planning a surprise for your wedding," Rufus suggested.

Valerie shot him a look. "She's a Gideon. They're plotting something, I know it. We should never have let the Gideons get their claws in her. Avon, we have to give her something. Anything to get her on our side—"

"Agreed," said Avon. "Offer her whatever you must. You have my blessing."

She swallowed in relief. "Okay. When's the next wedding planning session?"

"There isn't one," said Ophelia. "Everything's been approved. But Lady Melody did say she was looking forward to seeing us at the summer ball…"

"Which will also be the next time we see Father… and the Patriarch," said Avon. "Well, then. Let's talk strategy."

*

Later, after Avon and Rufus had departed, Valerie collapsed into the couch and buried her head in the gold-tasselled cushion. Her throat had gone raspy from so much talking. But though her limbs were heavy with fatigue, she couldn't relax. Her mind retreated into an exhausted fog.

Their information was still incomplete, and she felt a familiar stab of frustration at all the unknown factors that could impact their plan. Despite everything they had learned, they had no real evidence to pin on the Patriarch and no idea how he knew about Maska's sword. She felt that they were missing the killer blow, something that would force the Patriarch's hand.

Thoughts buzzed around her mind in circles. She'd spent too long arguing with Avon over who would get to confront the Patriarch. Valerie wanted to do it. He'd insisted that it must be him. And that tension had itched between them again, the yawning chasm of their goals diverging…

"Valerie?"

She looked up, blinking. Ophelia's anxious face peered at her.

"I know this isn't important," the other girl said in a small voice, "but my wedding dress arrived. I wondered if you might like to see it?"

Valerie perked up at once. "Of course!"

The moment Ophelia opened the wardrobe and Valerie caught sight of the gown, the fog in her head cleared. Hanging sleeves complemented the lace-covered bodice. The gown had a high waist, flaring out into a sweep of white silk that wouldn't overwhelm Ophelia's petite frame and finishing in a fan tail that would act as a train. A short veil would cover her face and hair. It was elegant without being fussy, eye-catching without being vulgar.

Valerie silently congratulated her past self for having such good taste.

"So?" Ophelia passed the dress to her, lip trembling, and stepped back. "What do you think?"

She smiled. "I think you should try it on."

Valerie took the place of her lady's maid, who had been banished for the evening to prevent the servants from eavesdropping, and helped a beaming Ophelia to change. This was a delicate process involving a dismantling of hoops and corset, pins and fabric, and then a reassembling of the wedding dress and its fine, fragile architecture. The silk whispered through her fingers. She fastened the lacing at the back, tightened the waist, and lifted the veil over Ophelia's blonde curls.

Then she presented the final result in front of the standing mirror, the other girl gazing timidly at her reflection. Without shoes, the gown trailed around her feet. But the dress itself fit like a glove. Ophelia looked innocent, girlish, the clean white and soft lines like freshly fallen snow. The veil obscuring her face suggested modesty but also hinted at intrigue. It drew in the eye, while the elegant lines of the dress flowed from the exquisite detail of the lace bodice to the swish of the skirt.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"It's perfect," Valerie declared, and she thought that Ophelia might burst into tears.

"You think so? Oh, I'm so happy! I was worried that I might have lost weight—or grown fatter, more like, but I think they made the right adjustments…" She pushed back the veil and chewed her lip. "Do you… Do you think Rufus will like it?"

Right. She'd forgotten that part. This dress was not a dress. It was a gift—pretty, shiny wrapping in which to deliver Rufus's pretty, shiny bride. Granted, the two of them had grown closer over the past few weeks. Perhaps she didn't hate the idea of Ophelia marrying Rufus as much as she had previously.

"He'll love it," Valerie reassured her. "He adores you. I bet he'll make a better husband than any Drakonian."

Ophelia smiled. "He's incredibly sweet. He really has been so kind and supportive, you know, when you and James weren't here." She glanced down at the dress. "Might I…?"

"What?" Valerie asked.

"There's just one thing—well, a silly thing…" Ophelia lifted her skirts and padded over to the dressing table. "We have a tradition at weddings that the bride wears a symbol of her family heraldry."

She opened her jewellery box and took out a small pin. Then she showed it to Valerie, who peered at it curiously. It was made of silver and shaped like a bird—no, a crow.

"It's meant to symbolise the passing of the bride from one family to another," Ophelia explained. "My wedding day will be my last day as an Avon. I could wear the pin, but I thought it might be nice if the design could be worked into the dress somehow…"

Valerie raised her eyebrows. "You want me to do it?"

"Only if you have the time!" Ophelia added hastily. "I know you'll be so busy with the preparations for the ball, so I really don't mind if you—"

Valerie laid a hand on the other girl's arm, her voice warm. "Of course I'll do it. I'll make your dress magical. Promise."

*

Yes, she meant that literally.

With Ophelia's grateful smile lingering in her mind's eye, Valerie set to work at once. She immersed herself in needle and thread, spending all her waking hours on not one but three separate garments. The first was her own, a golden ballgown that she transformed to gleaming black. The second belonged to Avon, a tail coat that she decorated with silver crow's wings. Finally, she turned her attention to the white wedding gown, carefully reshaping the lace in the back into another set of wings, then studding the waist at the front with tiny diamonds in a crow's silhouette. As a final flourish, she added a blooming rose to each garment—on the collar and nape of the gowns—her personal signature.

She poured all of her stress, all of her fear and uncertainty into her work, and her magic flowed as it had never flowed in Drakardia before. The fabric came alive, rich and vibrant in her hands. The air crackled with power. Her knuckles ached; she wished the strain away. Her fingers turned red-raw; she made them soft and smooth. Her throat turned dry and her eyes drooped with fatigue; she gulped down coffee and forced her head to clear.

She stopped to eat only in the evening, when her magic was spent. She hardly slept. The urge to get it right compelled her on. She did not want a repeat of that night in the hunting lodge, when her spell had failed to draw out the full truth from the Emperor.

They would only get one shot at this.

The night before the ball, after Valerie had completed the final touches to the wedding gown, she felt the walls closing in. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and headed out. The night air greeted her, fresh and bracing.

So did the guardsman at the porch. "Lady Valerie! It's late, ma'am. You should return to your quarters."

She squinted at him. "I'm going for a walk."

"Do you have a chaperone?"

"Are you serious?"

Apparently he was. She cursed him, then demanded that he accompany her. When the guard refused, Valerie rolled her eyes and stomped back inside.

"Avon!" she called, not caring who heard her. "Avon!"

She startled the butler, Moss, in the entrance hall, and felt sure she'd annoyed several other servants, but he went off to fetch Avon, and a few minutes later, the man himself arrived, looking slightly irritated but mostly concerned.

"Go," he said, dismissing the butler. Then to her: "What is it?"

She sniffed. "They won't let me outside without a chaperone."

"Ah."

She held out her arm. He took it. Together, they stepped out of the villa and into the garden, passing the guard at the door. It was some time after dusk, but a bright full moon lit the grounds in a pale ambience. The air smelled damp and fresh; it had recently rained.

"Did you tell them to make sure I don't leave?" she asked, glancing back at the guard.

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time you've sneaked off." He tucked his hands in his coat pockets. "It's a little late for an evening stroll."

"I needed some air. I finished the dress."

"Good," he said. "Then we're as ready as we can be."

They passed the clipped hedgerow that marked the garden boundary and crossed into the gravel path that led to the gatehouse. Imperial guards manned the gate at all hours. But her gaze found the other guardian that watched over them from the roof: the wyvern.

Avon followed where she was looking. "It hasn't moved," he said. "But rumours of its presence have already spread. I'd wager my father knows by now."

They'd heard that the Emperor and his brother were on their way home. That news had eased the pressure on her, a little. But her heart raced again, thinking of the coming encounter with the Emperor and the Patriarch… Both of them in the same place…

"What are they saying?" she asked. "About the wyvern."

"Witchcraft." Avon's mouth twitched. "A miracle. Disbelief. You never fail to impress."

"Is that your opinion or someone else's?" she teased him.

"There's merit in all perspectives."

She wondered what the guards made of it. The wyvern perched still and silent on the gatehouse. Right now, she couldn't approach it. The locket at her neck prevented her from moving any closer.

"I'll make sure the wyvern is close by tomorrow," she said. "So we can run if we have to."

"We won't."

She looked at him. "How can you be sure? Aren't you nervous about what's going to happen?"

"Yes," he said, "but what happens tomorrow depends on us. If we stand together, I believe we will succeed."

He seemed, as he so often did, immovable, a solitary island in tumultuous water. She felt the weight of his words, a reminder if she needed one that he was counting on her loyalty.

"Avon…" She shifted on her feet. "About what I said before… I didn't mean to make it sound like I was using you."

"I know."

She paused, nonplussed. "Do you hate that you fell in love with me before?"

"No," he answered. "I hate that I don't remember."

He said it as a matter of fact, but her heart warmed anyway. Then he sighed, his breath a chilly puff in the night air, and she reached out to brush his sleeve.

"I can tell you," she said. "If you want."

His eyes met hers. She caught the hint of a smile. "How about after the ball?"

"Right. We shouldn't get distracted. Big plans tomorrow."

She took in a breath, trying to clear her head. Avon moved like a shadow behind her, then wrapped his arms around her waist. He leaned in, and she let herself relax into him, the comforting warmth of his presence.

"How do you feel?" he murmured.

"Scared," she admitted. "How many senators will be there?"

"A good number. Not all."

"I think we should do something else to impress them, in case this plan with your father doesn't work out."

After his trip to Enyr and the wanton destruction of yet another silvertree, she doubted that anything could change the Emperor's mind. Avon could present the Patriarch's head on a spike and tell his father that the Gideon family no longer posed any threat, and she still didn't think he would support his son. Avon might believe otherwise, and that was his prerogative, but she wasn't willing to rely on that.

"Oh?" he said.

"I have an idea…"

He laughed when he heard it. "That's outrageous. Let's do it."

She tilted her head up at him, a grin playing on her lips. "You're being so permissive tonight."

He kissed her hair. "You're welcome."

Her heart soared. Because the wait was almost over. Because she had a plan, and a back-up, and maybe a third tucked away that she wasn't going to mention. Because Avon was gazing at her with a glint in his eyes that shot straight to her belly.

The Patriarch had no idea what was about to hit him.