Treacherous Witch

—she struggles to imagine how she might kill him and get out alive. His troops surround them. Perhaps she could weave a spell, but that would take time and she doesn't have her tools.

She sleeps fitfully.

*

The noise startled them both, an awful crack that reverberated through her spine. It came from downstairs. Valerie sat up, adrenaline rushing through her veins. Avon had already sprung into action; he pulled on his breeches and shirt before grabbing Maska's sword.

"Get Edrick and Ophelia," he told her. "Keep them safe."

She nodded. In the event of discovery, they had a contingency plan. Avon had gone to deal with the intruder; it was his job to cover her escape. Doryn's instructions came back to her now, and she leapt up, ignoring her gown—too complicated to put on—in favour of her night dress, stockings and boots. The cotton felt thin against her skin, but it didn't matter. She had already wasted a precious minute getting dressed.

She dashed into the empty hallway. Edrick's room was at the very end, at the back of the house, and the door to the chamber was open. Had he already fled? Where were the guards? She made for the door, but before she reached it, her magical senses extended and she let out an involuntary gasp.

Downstairs, almost directly below her, she sensed an unmistakable aura of power. She recognised it from the Patriarch's palace, that cruel, cold presence, the smell of rotting meat. She felt sick from the mere memory of it. Mithras was here. The Patriarch had found them, and he had come to collect his prize.

Which meant that Avon was in terrible danger. They all were.

She would have gone down to confront the Patriarch right then and there if not for a second presence above.

The wyvern.

Its magical field had settled over the embassy; that was why she could now sense magic throughout the building. If it was above her, that meant it was on the roof. Right by Edrick's room. Avon had told her to fetch Edrick and Ophelia. That was her job, to escape with them.

Valerie steeled herself and headed for Edrick's bed chamber.

The room was small, with a sloping ceiling and an attic window. Bookcases crowded in; Titus had used this room as a study. The bed was empty, the covers left askew. Two men—Doryn and one of his guards—faced the window, and she realised a split second later that the glass had been smashed.

She didn't have time to take in any more. Two gunshots rang out in quick succession—she clapped her hands over her ears and ducked—then the guard dropped like a stone, and a dark shape came crashing in through the window and straight into Doryn. They wrestled, rolling around on the floor, and Valerie realised belatedly that the dark shape was another man, an intruder.

She saw all of this only by the moonlight that shone down through the window. As Doryn let out a guttural cry and snapped his opponent's neck, a shadow blacked out the moon. She sensed its presence before she saw it. The wyvern shoved forward, trying to get in through the window, its claws scrabbling around the ledge.

"Doryn!" Valerie kept her eyes on where she knew the wyvern to be. "Be careful! The wyvern is right above you."

The wyvern lunged, its teeth snapping only inches away from the captain. But it had gotten itself stuck, a small sliver of moonlight revealing the arch of its neck and its folded wings now firmly wedged in the open window.

Doryn scrabbled away, and Valerie cast a small globe of light, launching it at the ceiling to illuminate them both. The wyvern's eyes gleamed like a cat's. Doryn drew his sword. Glass crunched beneath his boots.

The wyvern's claws shredded the wooden window frame; bits of stone and dust fell into the chamber. It snapped at Doryn again, leaving its neck open and exposed. Doryn took full advantage: he sidestepped and decapitated the creature in a single decisive blow. The wyvern's stone body crumbled, pieces of gleaming black mercurite scattering on the wooden floorboards. For a moment, Doryn stood there, breathing heavily, his hair matted with dust.

Valerie started forward.

"Stay back, my lady."

He held up his hand, then kicked at the body of his enemy, rolling it over. Next to it lay the body of the guard, his clothes stained with blood. Doryn knelt down and checked his comrade's pulse.

"Is he…?"

She made her light hover over them so that Doryn could more easily see. He shook his head and stood up.

"Where's Edrick? And Ophelia?"

The captain trudged over to the wardrobe where Edrick had hidden in their game of hide and seek earlier. He opened it, and Valerie's light shone on the terrified faces of Ophelia and Edrick, the pair of them huddled together.

"Get up." Doryn held out his hand. "We must go."

While he helped Ophelia and Edrick out of the wardrobe, taking care to avoid the bits of broken glass, Valerie picked her way over to the pile of rocks that used to be the wyvern. She found the largest, sharpest rock in the pile—a talon—and grabbed it.

When she turned back to join the others, Edrick was already peering around the door, his eyes big and frightened. Ophelia took the little boy's hand. Doryn stepped into the hallway first, gesturing for them to follow. Somewhere below, she heard raised voices and her stomach clenched.

She was supposed to flee with Doryn and Ophelia and Edrick. The Patriarch could not get his hands on her again. Nothing was more important than that.

But Mithras was here. Her mind raced furiously. He was here, and that changed the equation; it meant both danger and opportunity…

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She slipped past the captain, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

"Doryn!" She tried to shake him off. "The Patriarch is downstairs. He's come for me. Avon can't face him alone, I have to—"

"My orders are to save you." He was steadfastly looking away from her, gaze fixed on the staircase. "Not his Lordship. You."

"You don't understand. I can't hide from him. He can sense my presence like I can sense his."

Doryn's grip on her arm only tightened. "He knows where you are?"

"Yes—"

"You know where he is?"

"In the drawing room." She was fairly certain of that, based on the direction from which she could sense the Patriarch's power. "You can escape. But if I go with you, he'll catch me."

Doubt flickered across Doryn's craggy features. Then his face hardened. "Not if we get you away. When I say run, you run. All of you follow me."

She looked back at Ophelia and Edrick who had been shadowing them down the hallway. Ophelia's hand gripped the little boy's so tight, her knuckles had turned white. Neither of them had spoken. They were following orders exactly, as they had been taught to do in emergencies.

Doryn gave her no time to ponder. "Run!"

As one, they dashed for the spiral staircase. Going down the rickety staircase wasn't exactly quick; they had to go single file. But they made it to the entrance hall, and Valerie's eyes widened.

A man lay dead face down on the floor, blood pooling around his skull. She could tell by the uniform that he was one of their guards, though she couldn't identify which one. Bloody footsteps led to the drawing room. The door was ajar. Two more bodies were piled haphazardly in the doorway: another of Avon's men and one of the intruders, dressed in black imperial gear.

Three of theirs dead. By her count, that meant they only had two guards left, not including Doryn, Avon or Rufus. And she had no idea how many men the Patriarch had brought with him.

But their escape route, the front entrance, was clear. Doryn increased his pace, dragging Valerie with him, and she knew Avon would want her to flee, but what if the Patriarch killed him? Hadn't they just promised to stand united? Together, they stood a chance. Alone—

"Stop right there!"

A gunshot blasted in her ears, so loud that it blocked out everything else. Doryn let go of her. He collapsed on the floor, and Valerie stood frozen in shock, staring down at the man who seconds ago had been her shield. After a moment, she realised that the ringing in her ears had stopped, but Ophelia was screaming.

She dropped down by Doryn's side and shook him, feeling the life in him draining away. No!

"You can't die! Come on, Doryn, you can't die, I'm going to heal you—"

She set her hands on his chest and felt the wound, a mortal blow. He had been shot in the heart. Her healing magic faded away into useless wisps.

No, no, no, no…

He was already gone.

Tears sprang to her eyes. She wiped them with bloody hands. Valerie looked up and realised that she had lost precious seconds she could have used to get away. Or maybe not. The Patriarch was blocking her way along with four imperial guards, their muskets raised.

They weren't alone. On the other side of the entrance hall, Avon brandished his glowing white sword. Two guards flanked him. Rufus was there too, his pistol trained on the Patriarch.

"One false move," said Rufus, "and I blast your brains out, Your Eminence."

"Get behind me," Valerie muttered, using herself as a shield for the trembling Ophelia and Edrick.

She caught her breath as the Patriarch's gaze turned on her.

"Speak of the devil," he intoned, "and the devil shall appear. Come, little witch. Come back to your master."

"She's not yours to take," Avon snarled. "Valerie, go."

Slowly, Valerie raised her hands, facing the Patriarch. She was conscious that at any moment the tension could break. A gunfight would end with most of them dead.

"I'm flattered, Mithras. You didn't have to come here yourself."

"Little witch," he said. "I'll make this simple for you. Come along now or I shall kill all your friends."

"Valerie," said Avon. "I said go. That's an order."

She didn't obey. "We can talk about this, Mithras. Avon and I only wanted to win the election. You can still get what you want too."

The Patriarch tucked his hands in his sleeves. "Five."

"Is a bloodbath going to get you what you want? Really?"

The Patriarch only smiled. "Four."

"You can go to Maskamere right now, Mithras," she urged him. "Right now. No one else has to die."

"Three."

Ophelia and Edrick trembled behind her. The men around Avon shifted. Rufus cursed under his breath. They would not wait until the Patriarch finished his countdown, she thought. Someone would snap first.

"All right!" she said. "You've made your point. I'll come with you. But tell your men to lower their guns."

"Property doesn't negotiate. Property obeys."

It took a great deal of restraint on Valerie's part to not respond to that statement with the contempt it deserved.

"All right. I understand. Tell me what to do."

She met Avon's eyes as she said it, and he gave an imperceptible nod. The Patriarch opened his mouth, but Valerie didn't intend to listen. She had noticed something quite particular about the situation they were in now.

It was dark.

Not totally black. A shred of light filtered in from the drawing room, where someone must have lit a lamp. But the curtains were drawn, and the rest of the house provided no light at all. Except for the one thing that she and the Patriarch could both see: Avon's glowing white sword. She and Mithras could see more than anyone else in the room. And everyone else in the room had adjusted to the deep gloom.

So Valerie conjured a light.

She made it as big and bright as she could, a globe the size of her head, radiating with intense fury, and she flung it at the Patriarch and his men.

The outcry was immediate. Men cried out in confusion. Ophelia gasped, but Valerie didn't wait; she grabbed the other girl by the arm, hard, and dragged her across the hall past the blinded guards, Edrick following in their wake.

Her light vanished, leaving a bright afterimage in her eyes. She could see Avon—his sword calling to her like a beacon—casting around in confusion. Somewhere to her right, she was vaguely conscious of Rufus grappling with one of the Patriarch's men. She was still holding the wyvern's talon in her other hand in case she needed it to defend herself.

"Avon!" she gasped. "Come on, run!"

They nearly collided. At the last second, Avon seemed to hear or see her; he sidestepped into the path of one of the Patriarch's men, knocking the musket out of his hands, and she was about to dash into the drawing room and onwards to flee through the back entrance, but she looked back, just for a second.

The Patriarch was staring right at her. No, not the Patriarch. Mithras, his eyes an endless well of cold.

He'd grabbed a musket from one of his guards. It made for a peculiar sight: the holy man in his white robes carrying a firearm. The barrel pointed at her. In the split second before it fired, she thought: he can't shoot me. He needs me.

The gun went off.

"No!"

A small body flung itself at her, knocking her out of the way. Avon caught her. Then she heard a bellow, a horrible sound, like a wounded animal. In the next moment, Avon shoved her away and she fell, gasping, against the wall. In a daze, Valerie watched as Avon's sword flashed and he cut down one, two, three men in volcanic fury. Rufus had dispatched his man. Edrick cowered by the spiral staircase, transfixed in horror.

There were bodies everywhere she looked, but Valerie only saw one: a small, crumpled body in a soft pale night dress, her eyes blank and staring, her flaxen curls limp, a bloody hole where her heart should have been. Avon's beloved sister, her only friend in Drakon, who had thrown herself in front of Valerie without hesitation, and now…

"Ophelia," she whispered.

It was too late to save her. She could tell that already.

Ophelia was dead.

The Patriarch had backed away as his men died defending him. Through the tears splintering her eyes, through the dancing light of Avon's deadly blade, Valerie saw his face. Like the grin of a skull, cold and empty and unfeeling, the Patriarch was smiling.

He did not care that his men had perished. He did not care that he was alone. Because even if he died, she knew, that would not be his end. This body of his was only a puppet.

But that wasn't his only reason to smile.

Avon raised his sword, ready to charge.

And Mithras held up his hand. "My boy. Don't you want to bring her back?"