Treacherous Witch

—the stranger.

"You're Maskamery, aren't you?" he says. "What were you doing out there?"

She's looking around, getting her bearings. It's a nice tent, as far as tents go. Big enough to hold a wooden table and map, several locked chests and a camp bed. There's even a privacy screen to change behind.

"Where are we?" she asks. "Are we near the border?"

"What's your name?"

"What's yours?"

He frowns. "Don't answer a question with a question."

"Why not? You did."

His eyebrows raise. He takes a step forward and she—

*

Bird shit spattered the tallest spire of the Cathedral of All Eternity. Below, the city spread out like a patchwork: grand buildings of state, the townhouses of the wealthy and the filthy terraces of the poor, a ramshackle sprawl. The ships on the river looked like toys.

The sight was exhilarating.

Who else could enjoy a sight like this? Who else could fly—fly!—astride a great magical beast, make the sky her own?

If this was a taste of real power, Valerie wanted more.

The wyvern responded to her every touch. She didn't need to possess it; she steered it like an extension of her own limbs. They soared around the spire before beginning the slow gliding descent to their destination.

"That's it!" Avon pointed. "The old palace."

He was sitting behind her, arms wrapped tight around her waist, while Valerie clung to the wyvern's feathery neck. She'd created a bubble of still air so that the hours Cilla had spent sculpting her hair wouldn't go to waste, but her stomach still swooped in delight.

A glorious sunset illuminated the city in streaks of pink and gold. On the other side of the river, a strange chimera of a building came into view. To the west, a maze of towers and battlements, ivy-covered stone and an ancient oak tree stood in the middle of a grassy courtyard. To the east, the pale stone was much whiter—younger, she thought—a great square building of clean lines and arched glass windows. Stone dragon heads protruded from the western battlements. They were large, snarling, ugly. Some sculptor or other had imitated these statues on the eastern archways, but toned them down. They were smaller, sleeker, elegant but bereft of personality.

Avon leaned in to her ear. "It was burned down during the revolution. The Church claimed the land and rebuilt it into the Holy Palace. The Patriarch's private residence."

"So he lives like a queen."

She wasn't surprised.

"Like a king," said Avon.

Outside, a velvety lawn created a landing strip between the palace and the river. As she nudged the wyvern towards it, Valerie caught sight of the ladies in ballgowns and gentlemen in their suit jackets and tails already milling about by the marquee. Laughter drifted up towards them.

Someone in the crowd spotted the incoming wyvern first. She didn't see who it was, but within seconds, people were pointing and screaming, several stumbling back over the grass or beneath the cover of the marquee. Valerie grinned.

"Hold on!" she called behind her.

The wyvern screeched, a piercing call that reverberated over the water. It banked, wings flapping hard, and Valerie and Avon held on tight as the wyvern's talons hit the ground. The jolt shook her arms, but Avon's weight helped to absorb the shock. The wyvern lowered its head to the grass, and Valerie breathed a sigh of relief. Falling off would have been quite embarrassing.

Instead, she slipped off the creature's back and Avon followed. Together, they faced the stunned guests. A hush descended. All eyes turned towards them. She did not immediately recognise anyone, however, for one simple reason: this was a masquerade ball. All the guests wore masks.

She wished she could see their expressions. Were they shocked? Afraid? Awestruck? They ought to be. Avon stood tall and lean beside her, his height accentuated by the raven feathers on his sleek black mask. Coming down from the sky, he might have been a dark-haired prince from another land, a harbinger of death in the guise of a man.

As for Valerie, she matched and surpassed him. Her ballgown swished around her ankles in a flare of shimmering black fabric. The corset pinched in her waist and flattered her bust, while sheer black chiffon covered her neck, shoulders and arms. She wore long black velvet gloves, each of the fingers tipped with silver claws. Her lips were painted red, her cheeks rosy with a natural blush. And unlike the curved beak of Avon's mask, hers had the snout of a dragon. Finally, she had transformed her hair into a mane of charcoal feathers held in a net studded with iridescent black opals.

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She was a wyvern. Fearsome, elegant, proud. And Drakonian.

Perhaps tonight's guests wouldn't grasp the symbolism of the wyvern—a creature of Drakon, a creature of magic—but she was sure the Patriarch would.

As the crowd looked on, she and Avon bowed.

Someone whooped. Then the applause broke out: one or two hesitant claps at first, followed by more and more. As other guests emerged to get a look at them, as the wyvern beat its wings and took off, Valerie and Avon crossed the lawn to join the throng, and she felt a rush of triumph.

She'd wanted to make an entrance. Let the Patriarch chew on that.

"Val!"

Two familiar figures pushed through the crowd to join them. Ophelia glowed like a butterfly in pink, white and green. Blossoms brightened her hair, matched by the peach tint of her cheeks. And the man accompanying her…

"You're mad, you know that, right?" Rufus fastened the queen's locket around her neck. He had chosen to blend in rather than stand out, the peregrine mask and slate grey shirt the only nod to his heritage.

"Have you spotted anyone we need to know?"

Rufus nodded. "Titus. Wolf-man over there."

He jerked his thumb at a tall dark figure in a wolf mask. Valerie recognised the curly brown hair.

"Couple of Gideons over yonder. Duke of Hennich and wife."

Grimmauld Gideon, she thought, the older Gideon brother and Juliana's father. He hadn't bothered with an elaborate mask, only matching it to the green silk of his waistcoat.

"Any sign of my father?" Avon asked. "Or Mother?"

"Not yet."

She looked around, getting her bearings, but she hadn't even grabbed a drink before a butler announced that they should go into the main ballroom for the grand opening.

Valerie shivered. Despite her exultation, despite the dress she wore like armour, they were going into the lion's den. Avon took her arm. Ophelia and Rufus followed behind. They drifted along with the other guests into the entrance hall of the old wing of the palace, and then to the ballroom.

Whispers followed them. Not all the guests inside had witnessed their spectacular arrival. But she caught it being mentioned—"flew in on a wyvern!"—and she caught the other excited murmurs, those of young ladies identifying Lord Avon, the most eligible bachelor in the room. She tightened her hold on his arm and glared daggers at her rivals.

"She's the witch!" one girl whispered, then covered her mouth with her hand as if she'd said a dreadful insult.

Avon leaned in to murmur in her ear. "We'll have to separate after the opening. Mingle."

"Don't get distracted, all right?" she whispered back.

He didn't reply. They'd entered the ballroom, and Valerie blinked, overwhelmed by the sight. She had never seen so many people gathered like this. Dozens and dozens of chattering ladies transformed the floor into a mosaic of dizzying colour. Some of the gentlemen stood off to the side with their drinks, while others were already mingling. At the far end of the room, a group of musicians tuned up their instruments on a stage.

She and Avon weaved through the crowd, passing buffet tables already heaving with food—duck and pheasant terrine, honey-glazed vegetables, cured meats, cheese, olives and other delicacies. Her stomach rumbled. She took a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and gulped down a mouthful.

Then Avon stopped. Tensed. And she followed his gaze to the man stepping up to the stage.

The Patriarch.

He moved slowly, a white-clad mountain with golden thread embroidering his collar and sleeves. No mask. The musicians set down their instruments. The chatter in the ballroom was already dying down, heads turning to their host.

"Welcome, friends."

The Patriarch's pale gaze swept over his audience, tongue swiping over his lips, and Valerie felt a familiar stab of unease.

"Unity," the Patriarch intoned, "is divine. Unity is what brings us together tonight, as my family is honoured to host the first ball of the season. Do excuse me if my opening speech sounds like a sermon… Force of habit."

His mouth stretched into a smile, and laughter murmured across the ballroom. Valerie resisted a shudder. Everything about this man disgusted her.

The Patriarch continued: "As each of us strives for oneness with the Divine, we must seek unity within and without. Without is our Empire. We bring together humanity under one glorious banner, united by a single glorious purpose. We welcome guests from all corners of our great realm. Within is each of you. United by blood. United by faith. And united by the backbone of society, the holy union at the heart of every Drakonian family. Marriage."

Stirrings in the crowd. The hairs on the back of Valerie's arms stood on end.

"We have among us a gathering of most delightful young ladies…" The Patriarch indicated a gaggle of blushing young women. "And a host of most eligible bachelors. I expect tonight will see the start of many a suitable match. Tonight the ball. Tomorrow the joy of holy matrimony in our most blessed church. Remember, your union is the future of Drakon. Let no man—or woman—stand in your way."

She could have sworn he was looking at her. Those pale watery eyes seeped into her like the rising tide, and she thanked Maska that he couldn't see her expression behind the mask. She was sweating.

Then, as the Patriarch swept his arm to address the audience, the light from the chandelier reflected off his finger. He was wearing an ornate silver ring, a ring set with a shining black stone…

Her sweat turned cold.

"May the Divine purify us all," the Patriarch concluded. "Ladies and gentlemen, have a wonderful evening."

He gave a short bow and in return received a smattering of applause. Valerie's heart raced. The ring! She remembered it now. He had been wearing it at the Senate House when she'd stood up on that podium to be interrogated… And at the funeral, had he worn it then? She didn't know.

She nudged Avon. "Look!" she hissed. "The Patriarch, look at his ring!"

Avon frowned. "What?"

The Patriarch was already shuffling off the stage, the players striking up their music. Chatter broke out amongst the guests. She leaned up to whisper in Avon's ear.

"It's mercurite!"

He glanced sharply at her. "Are you sure?"

"I…" She stopped. No, she wasn't sure. "We can test it. Approach him. Act natural."

He didn't need telling twice. Arm-in-arm, Valerie and Avon strolled towards the stage. He nodded at one or two of the guests they passed. The scene felt surreal—she passed a fox mask, a jester, a goat… The Patriarch had descended the steps to the ballroom floor and was now deep in conversation with his son, the Duke of Hennich, and his wife, and another man in a dull red mask she didn't recognise.

She stopped.

She felt it. The barrier. They were barely ten feet away from the Patriarch and his ring, and she remembered Anwen chortling as he measured the bubble of her magical field on a different stage in front of another audience…

"Avon," she whispered, clutching his arm.

He glanced at her. "You…"

She nodded.

This almost silent exchange only took a couple of seconds, but she watched the Patriarch anxiously, praying they wouldn't be spotted.

Avon straightened up. "Got him," he muttered, and he strode off towards the little group, leaving Valerie behind.

"Avon!"

She called after him, but she didn't want to make herself too obvious. Ugh. Didn't he realise how dangerous this was? The Patriarch was wearing mercurite. He knew about Maska's sword. He had somehow survived a massacre in the monastery in Arden. She could only think of one explanation for all of these things.

The Patriarch was a sorcerer.

And they had walked straight into his domain.