Treacherous Witch

—ambushed by Maskamery rebels. Six men drop dead before the garrison musters its forces, and then their attackers melt away into the forest.

She doesn't see much, hiding in one of the wagons. Mostly she hears it: grunts and screams, boots thudding on the ground, the sharp crack of gunshots. Smells it too: the sharp tang of blood, gunpowder, sweat.

When the forest goes quiet, Valerie crawls out of her hiding spot and looks for Lord Avon. What she finds fills her heart with dread—

*

Valerie had imagined many versions of her triumphant return to Maskamere. She had imagined the sea salt on her tongue, the olive trees swaying in the breeze, the whitewashed stone and winding cobblestone streets of Jairah welcoming her home. She had thought of the palace: the rose gardens, the soft silk beds and the quiet solitude of the temple. She had dreamed too of its magic, the vivid colours and brighter scents, the power rising within and around her, especially on those lonely nights in Drakardia when the world had seemed so gloomy and small.

The ache of being cut off from her power and the ache of being far from home ate at her in similar ways. She had been worn down, exhausted. But she had fought, and she had survived, and now as the Stormdrake's sails glowed in the light of the morning sun, she finally set foot on the shores of her homeland.

She had not imagined facing an enemy like this one.

Mithras called to them with the Admiral's mouth. "Lord Avon! My boy, come here."

"Don't," she whispered, clutching at Avon's arm with one hand and the wooden chest containing the Masked Crown with the other.

"Stay close," he muttered back.

They crossed the gangway together, and the cheering of the crowd washed over her like the sound of the ocean. Even the sun seemed pale in comparison to the power that illuminated the Admiral's body. She could hardly focus on anything else.

They were supposed to kill him—kill Mithras, no matter what body he possessed. Avon's hand gripped the hilt of his sword. She had the Masked Crown; she only had to lift it out of the chest, and she could conjure up any manner of entities to devour him. But the Admiral held the Golden Sceptre. He could, with a sweep of his arm, kill every single person in the harbour. Even if they got to him first, even if they snuffed out this body before Mithras could do any damage, the entire crowd would witness them murdering Avon's uncle. They might easily turn on her.

It was a strange feeling, to gaze upon the faces of her people and consider killing them all.

They'd caused so much death in the past few days anyway; what was another massacre? Nothing mattered anymore. She felt detached from the scene, as if the entire world were unreal, merely a page in a book that she could scrub out and rewrite.

But she could die. Avon could die. Fear and doubt made her hesitate, and before she knew it, they had reached the jetty where the Admiral hugged Avon and then her, and she felt his hot breath in her ear.

"Show me the third jewel."

Her heart jumped. Mithras didn't know where the Kestrel's Eye was either.

"Take your hands off her," Avon hissed.

"Oh, don't be so touchy." The Admiral smiled at his little joke. She felt sick. "Welcome back, Lord Chancellor. I can't wait to catch up."

*

The next few hours unfolded in an unspoken but uneasy truce. Avon had spent much of the day with his fake uncle, catching up with his Council and generally acting like the returning Chancellor. She had caught him only long enough to ask two key questions. One: Where was the Kestrel's Eye? Two: How soon could they get hold of it?

Unfortunately, the answer to that second question wasn't right this minute, which meant she would have to carry on this pretence for a little while longer. Part of her wanted to reunite with the court ladies, including Flavia whom she had spotted arm-in-arm with some Drakonian lord, but Melody insisted that they follow protocol.

Today was the day before her wedding; she was to be pampered and prodded, polished and prepared. She felt like an actor performing in some sick play. Enter stage left: Valerie, playing Lord Avon's recently deceased sister Ophelia, and Melody, her judicious lady-in-waiting.

"Don't say I'm looking after you," Melody told her. "I couldn't stand for the other ladies to see my lacking Lord Avon's favour."

This conversation took place in the queen's quarters, where Valerie shed the black garments of mourning and conjured a garland of roses to wrap around the Masked Crown and a rose gown fit for the bride-to-be. With the crown on her head, she cast a glamour that didn't fade away. Ophelia stared back at her through the mirror with an expression she had never seen on the other girl's face: a wary, scornful, cat-about-to-pounce sort of look.

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She met Melody's eyes through her reflection. "Is that really important right now?"

"Appearances are everything," said Melody briskly. "As you well know."

Seeing as she was wearing a stolen face and a stolen crown, she couldn't disagree.

Enter stage right: Mithras, playing the part of the bombastic uncle with glee. As the Admiral, he had invited them to dinner in the palace. A welcome party, he called it, to entertain the wedding guests the night before the wedding, and to officially mark Avon's return as Chancellor of Maskamere.

Her transformation into a flower-clad Lady Ophelia complete, Valerie and Melody joined the party in the main hall, the tables lit by two dozen lanterns and weighed down by a feast of every Maskamery delicacy imaginable.

Here, she met Avon's eyes across the high table. She was glad to see that he wore the silver-winged coat from the summer ball, the one she had spelled to protect him.

Other than that, she wasn't glad of anything at all.

The Admiral cheerfully informed them that his ship had been wrecked not far from the city. No survivors but him. Terrible tragedy, dreadfully sorry.

She and Avon made the right sympathetic noises in return. Terrible tragedy; what a shame for the crew and the servants who had been onboard that ship. They would hold a proper memorial later, after Ophelia's wedding.

She ate dinner sandwiched between Melody and Rufus, who looked confused at the grim expression on Avon's face until she leaned in and whispered to him that Mithras was already here.

The Admiral sat on Avon's other side. He did not let go of the Golden Sceptre, which he had tucked into his belt. Avon still wore his sword. This was the only hint of the reality that lay behind the facade: she, Avon and Mithras were caught in a stalemate, and at any moment he might kill them all.

"Look at that." The Admiral jabbed a finger at a spindly tree that had been uprooted from the grounds and placed in a pot at the front of the hall. Gifts had piled up around it. "What a lovely display. Alas, my gift to you was lost during the shipwreck. James, you remember, don't you? That beautiful golden pendant."

Valerie caught her breath. He was describing the Kestrel's Eye.

"I remember," said Avon.

"Or perhaps… Was it in your luggage, by any chance? I would love to present it to dear Ophelia if it might be found."

"I'm sure you would." Avon appeared to consider the matter. "There may be a chance. I'll see if I can take a look."

"Marvellous."

The self-satisfied way the Admiral licked his lips made her shudder in disgust.

*

By the time she retreated back to her quarters, Valerie's nerves were frayed.

"Stay here," she told Melody, and slipped from the queen's rooms into the king's bedchamber—Avon's quarters—as she had done so many times before when he had imprisoned her in the palace.

There she found Avon sitting on the bed with his head in his hands.

"Hey."

He looked up, and she was glad that she had removed the glamour, because his face was tear-stained. Valerie crossed the distance between them, embracing him without hesitation. He shuddered, then wrapped his arms around her. They stayed like that for a time, overwhelmed perhaps, but even as she sensed that Avon was in the most fragile state she had ever seen him, he still felt like a port in a storm to her.

"Avon," she whispered. "I think it's time."

He drew back. "The queen?"

"Yeah. Take my hand. Come with me."

She entwined her fingers with his. They had never been closer, in every possible sense of the word, and her heart ached at the thought of losing this. She didn't want to lose him. She had promised him that he would see his sister again—that somehow, she would make it all work.

They were desperate for answers. The queen might be their last hope.

Valerie closed her eyes and reached out for that golden thread.

She found it quickly, another heart-string that tugged at her chest. They were in the heart of Maska's domain, and the queen responded.

You've brought darkness to my realm, Valerie. Darkness and death.

We need your help to stop it.

She pictured the queen's chambers, the gentle lilt of a harp, the scent of rose perfume. But she wasn't going to meet the queen alone. Avon held her hand, and she brought Avon with her, magical lines forming around them like the brushstrokes of a painting—

"There she is."

That satisfied, triumphant voice shattered her concentration. She felt alarm from the queen, a swift retreat—

Valerie opened her eyes.

The Admiral gazed at them, Golden Sceptre in hand, a cruel smile twisting his mouth. "I didn't believe it," he said. "You and my Mae. What a beautiful offering."

Avon leapt to his feet and drew his sword. "What do you want?"

"The Kestrel's Eye. Obviously."

"You'll have it tomorrow," said Avon. "It's a wedding gift."

"Mmm," said the Admiral.

Something about the tilt of his head disturbed her. Valerie moved at the same time he did: she, to place herself in front of Avon, a human shield; he, to point the Golden Sceptre at Avon.

"Look, we're co-operating, aren't we? We're not going to fight you. You made your point when you murdered Ophelia."

"Yes," said the Admiral, "but I do like to make my point firmly."

He was taunting them, she thought. Playing with their lives like dice. "You'll get the pendant tomorrow. Don't mess it up before then."

"I think you mean you'll get the pendant tomorrow. At least, that's your intention." She saw nothing of the Admiral in him now, Mithras circling them as a serpent enmeshed its prey. "Then you'll try to kill me and take the Sceptre for yourself. Do you deny it?"

"No one has to die."

"Everyone has to die. That's the way of the world, sweet." He chewed his lip. "Well, if your intentions are pure, you won't mind offering a guarantee. Give me the Crown."

She blanched, and Avon stepped forward, raising his sword. The Masked Crown felt precarious on her head. She had to be ready at any moment for a fight…

"You'll get the Kestrel's Eye tomorrow," said Avon. "The Crown is our guarantee."

"Hmm." Mithras tilted his head. "No."

She anticipated his next move in the split second that it happened, the serpent uncoiling to strike. Lightning flashed, a great bolt of magic leaping out from the Sceptre. A terrible thunderclap filled the air. Valerie cried out, threw herself forward—

The bolt struck Avon.