Treacherous Witch

—he doesn't raise any further objections.

They travel south. At first, he says little. He keeps his distance. Then, on the road to the Sungrove, they're—

*

On the morning of the fourth day, when the storm had cleared and they approached Maskamere's sparkling shores, Valerie watched the sea spray blowing off the bow of the ship.

She'd missed three days of merriment, or so she'd heard. The wedding guests had drank and danced and gossiped their way through the voyage. She, however, had remained confined to her cabin with an increasingly irate Lady Melody. Threatening her life during the storm had not subdued her; if anything, the other lady had become more demanding.

"Who is Mithras? Is he the person you're trying to kill? And what did Lord Avon mean about killing the queen?"

"He meant me. My resurrection."

"Are you truly the queen? How can that possibly be? Is it some trick? Is Lord Avon bewitched?"

Nothing she said could satisfy Melody. Every answer led to a dozen more questions. Exasperated, she had shaken her head.

"How many times do I have to tell you people that I never bewitched Lord Avon? Can you please shut up about it?"

"Or what? You're going to throw me overboard?"

Today, when the questions had started again over breakfast, she could no longer stand it. At this point, she didn't care about getting caught. She just needed some air. Out on the deck, she strained her eyes against the blue of the sea and the sky, looking for the telltale sign of land cutting between the two. The air was hazy at first, but after a few minutes she made out a distant blur of green.

Home.

"The captain has informed the guests to prepare for arrival." Avon joined her, shielding his eyes against the sun. "Are you ready?"

Valerie looked down at the mercurite ring on her finger. She could not enter Maskamere with it, just as the Patriarch couldn't. Nor could she keep it on the ship. The barrier between stone and tree prevented that.

"Almost," she said.

She slipped the ring from her finger and tossed it into the sea. The black glint of the mercurite vanished quickly beneath the waves.

If only getting rid of the Patriarch were that easy.

"Who do you think he'll be? Mithras?"

Avon gazed over the horizon, his expression distant. "You thought the Duke of Hennich, didn't you? The Patriarch's son."

She nodded. "I think he's got the locket. That means he can get into Maskamere. How quickly could he follow us?"

"The fastest route is by train, then ship. He may only be hours behind."

"Unless he's someone else." She leaned over the bow. "If he's already here…"

A familiar anxiety bubbled in her stomach, the anticipation of something she longed for mixed with the dread of the threat that loomed over them. When the ship passed into the domain of the silvertrees, she would be able to sense magic around her once more. Then she would know if Mithras was close by, no matter which body he chose to inhabit. Until then, she would have to wait.

"Lord Avon!" Lord Rutherford, the Archbishop of Arden, shuffled over to join them. "Lady Ophelia, my dear. I do hope I'm not interrupting?"

Valerie shrank back by Avon's shoulder, conscious that she couldn't cast any magic at all right now. She hoped Rutherford's eyesight wasn't too good behind those glasses, and that he was too old or too inattentive to notice her lack of resemblance to the real Ophelia. The veil covered her face, but if he looked closely enough…

"Lord Rutherford." Beneath his veneer of politeness, Avon sounded a little strained. "What can I do for you today?"

"Well, since you ask, I hoped to go over my introductory sermon with you. Given the circumstances, I thought it might be appropriate to acknowledge the recent tragedy that has befallen us—pay tribute to our dear friend, the Patriarch, so to speak."

"Archbishop," said Avon, "there is nothing I wish for less than to pay tribute to the Patriarch at my sister's wedding. His death has nothing to do with it."

Rutherford flushed bright pink. "Ah, my apologies, my lord. Of course I didn't mean to imply that you had anything to do with…"

"No. Of course."

"And what of your loss, my lord? Really, I am so sorry—"

"You will make no mention of Lady Valerie either. It'll only upset Lady Ophelia."

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The Archbishop blinked. "Forgive me. Am I right in surmising that you wish for a clean slate?"

"Yes."

"No references to recent events?"

"No."

"Right. Understood." Rutherford bowed, his glasses slipping to the end of his nose. "My apologies for bothering you."

The Archbishop retreated and Avon sighed, but he wasn't about to get much peace. The wedding guests had already spilled out onto the deck with their luggage, eager to be the first to disembark. Their chatter drifted along with the wind in the ship's sails. Several of the lords stole side glances at the pair of them, no doubt considering how to approach.

Which meant she would need to beat a hasty retreat.

As Valerie plotted her best route back to the cabin and Lady Melody, something in the air shifted. The wind changed direction. And all the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

She had reentered a magical field.

No one else knew it, of course. The landmass was a little closer, but for the ship's crew and the passengers, they were simply continuing their way south through the Triatic Sea. They had no idea that they had entered Maskamery territory.

With the mercurite ring, her magical senses had been limited. They couldn't extend beyond the field of its influence. She had been a bird in a cage, and now that cage had been opened and the entire range of the sky fell within her domain. Her heart soared. She sensed magic: Avon's, of course—Maska's sword at his hip. He no longer went anywhere without it. But something else too. A powerful signature lurking in the bowels of the ship.

Her breath caught.

"Avon," she whispered, tugging at his sleeve. One of the noblemen was already trying to get his attention. "There's a presence here, I can sense it! We have to go."

"Where?" he muttered.

"Below deck."

"Lead the way."

Avon made his excuses to the guests calling out to him. Her heart thumped painfully as they passed by the cabins. Whatever this presence was, it hadn't moved. Perhaps they were sleeping? It was strong, pulsing like Maska's sword, but she couldn't yet tell if it held the same terrible power she had sensed in the Patriarch.

Was it Mithras? Or something else?

To her consternation, she realised that the magical signature was coming from Avon's cabin.

"Is it him?"

Avon looked at her, hand already on the hilt of his sword. She shook her head. "I'm not sure. It's in your room, Avon, how…?"

He raised his eyebrows, but he didn't look anywhere near as wary as she thought he should be when he opened the door and strode into his quarters. Chewing the inside of her lip, Valerie followed, casting her eyes over the map of the world on the large wooden table that dominated the room, the bed, the wardrobe, the drinks cabinet…

There.

"I don't understand." She removed her veil, frowning. His quarters were empty. And surely a person couldn't fit into this cabinet… "It's in here."

"Ah," said Avon. "So I thought."

She stared at him, puzzled, as Avon opened the cabinet. She saw bottles of wine, whisky, gin. Avon removed a square-shaped decanter from the top shelf, took off the lid, turned it upside down and caught a silver key that fell out of the empty bottle. Then he reached in the cabinet again and drew out a small wooden chest, which he unlocked with the key.

"What is it?"

Clearly, it was a magical artefact of some kind. She sensed magic inside the chest, like something glowing.

"A gift," said Avon, offering it to her. "For you."

A powerful anticipation tingled through her. Valerie lifted the lid of the chest. Then she saw it, nestled on a silk cushion: a slim golden circlet festooned with rubies. The Masked Crown.

She looked up at Avon, hardly able to believe it. "You brought it here?"

"Yes," he said. "After that trick you pulled in the temple, I didn't intend to let you or anyone else possess all three of the crown jewels again. So I separated them."

"What did you do with the other two?"

They needed the crown jewels to reopen the door beneath the temple and visit the goldentree again. Having one of them gave her a powerful advantage—she felt a flicker of excitement at the thought of what she could do with it—but it also gave Mithras yet another reason to hunt her down.

Avon opened his mouth, but before he could answer, someone rapped at the door.

"My lord!"

It was the ship's captain. Avon bade him enter. Valerie hurriedly pulled on her veil.

The man bowed. "Begging your pardon, my lord, but we're about to make landfall. I've received a message from your uncle. He awaits you at the harbour."

Avon frowned. "How did you receive this message?"

"Bird, my lord." The captain held out a thin scrap of paper. "Some sort of tame falcon."

Valerie and Avon looked at each other. Then, as if by silent consensus, they acted in unison. Valerie snapped the lid of the wooden chest shut and held it close to her chest. Avon returned the key to the bottle and the bottle to the drinks cabinet, then together they strode out of the cabin and back up to the deck to see this falcon.

She found it quickly, since several passengers were cooing up at the trim, elegant bird perched on a mast. Greyish blue hooded its head and fan-shaped tail, while its wings of burnished orange were tipped with dark brown. Its claws were bright yellow, its beak curved and sharp.

"It's a kestrel," she said. "The royal bird."

As she spoke, the kestrel launched into the air and she spotted the hunting jesses on its legs. These birds were kept at the royal palace. She had watched a falconer training one before, a male named Sirius. It might be the same bird.

Meanwhile, Avon had unfolded the note that the ship's captain had given him. He frowned as he read it. "This is a message from my uncle. But it's not written in my uncle's hand."

The kestrel flew back to the coast. Now the wedding guests were oohing and aahing at the sight of Jairah, Maskamere's capital city, coming up before them. The crew were preparing the ship to dock. And Valerie sensed a power, faint at first, but more and more unmistakable, awaiting them at the harbour.

She had the wild thought that the queen had returned, that Maska had returned, and that she had sent her kestrel as a messenger to welcome Valerie back home.

The darker truth became clear very soon.

The Stormdrake sailed into the harbour. Its sister ship, the Sunsnake, followed. Crowds cheered their arrival in Jairah just as crowds had cheered their departure from Drakardia.

Avon's uncle, the Admiral, Rhys Avon, awaited them at the harbour, just as the message had promised.

But it wasn't the Admiral who waved at them, who set his gaze upon them and smiled a vicious smile. Power clung to him like flies around rotting meat. His presence had been twisted, warped, by the ancient being lurking inside him.

The Admiral was dead. Mithras welcomed her home.

Valerie's mouth turned dry. "Avon. It's him. Your uncle, he's…"

Avon's hand tightened into a fist around the note. "He's gone."

The ship docked at the port, sailors scurrying around to make ready for disembarking. The Admiral leaned on what at first glance appeared to be a cane, except for its golden glow…

Three crown jewels opened the way to the secret chamber beneath the palace temple. The Masked Crown held the power of creation. With it, she could bring to life any idea. The Kestrel's Eye contained the power of restoration. With it, she could heal any wound. The Golden Sceptre wielded the power of destruction. With it, she could smite anything standing in her way.

"Avon," she whispered. "He has the Sceptre."