Treacherous Witch

He can't die like this. Not while she's lost in the woods, alone and vulnerable. She needs him.

Valerie places her hand over Avon's heart—

*

Maskamere's sun shone down on the palace grounds in a halo of gold. Everything was brighter than Drakon: the green of the grass, the pale whitewashed stone of the palace walls, violets and roses and marigolds in the gardens. A remnant of the queen's blessing on this land? Or her magical senses bringing everything into vivid focus.

Or, Valerie thought, Drakon was just that dull.

A velvet carpet had been laid out for her, lest she sully her feet in Maskamere's dirt. She trod delicately, arm-in-arm with Avon, her dress trailing behind her. Ophelia's bridesmaids had joined them the moment she set foot outside the queen's chambers, all of them dressed in silver like fishes' scales, all of them excited and perhaps a little miffed to finally see the bride after being denied their part in her preparations.

She did not know them, these girls who carried her train at the back and led the way at the front. They were daughters of lords and ladies, young and unmarried—Ophelia's peers. She pretended to be overwhelmed, bowing her head.

Until, outside, she saw something quite unexpected.

By the velvety path, the palace ladies waved their fans. She recognised the courtesans she had spent so much time with during her captivity: Rose, Mona, Amilia and Flavia.

Valerie's heart jumped. Flavia! The Maskamery courtesan had sunk to the brink of despair following her brother's death. Yet here she stood in the midst of the other ladies, eyes bright, dark curly hair tumbling over her shoulders, her face open with awe and delight.

The other ladies curtsied as she walked by too: Mona, the elegant and graceful Enyrn; Rose, the youngest, flushed with excitement; Amilia eyeing her wedding gown with obvious envy. But they didn't see her, of course. They saw Ophelia, the Emperor's daughter, a different creature altogether.

The bridal procession continued, and Valerie couldn't let it go. She slipped out of Avon's grasp and darted over to Flavia. Her feet sank into the grass. Half the ladies audibly gasped. Flavia's sea-green eyes widened, and she froze, rooted to the spot, when Valerie flung her arms around her fellow courtesan.

"My—my lady—"

"Don't say anything," she whispered. "It's me, Valerie. Go tell everyone it's me, all right? Lady Melody will know what to do."

She felt Flavia stiffen in her arms, heart racing in her chest.

"Va—" Avon stopped himself. "Ophelia, darling, the chapel is this way."

With that, Valerie returned to her velvet carpet, the bridesmaids fussing over her. She chanced a look back at Flavia who hadn't moved a muscle. The other courtesans crowded around her, faces brimming with curiosity.

Well, that would keep them busy.

Meanwhile, the chapel approached. Valerie wrinkled her nose when it came into view. It was even uglier than she remembered. More of a block than a building, it held no sense of aesthetic proportions, nor did it welcome visitors: the eye-slit windows guarded against intruders, and the heavyset wood and iron door seemed designed to shut rather than open.

Today, however, the door flung wide open, sombre piano music drifting through to the grounds.

Valerie clutched at Avon's arm. "Lord Rutherford? Does he have it?"

She sensed magic inside the chapel. A powerful presence that had to be Mithras. But what about the Kestrel's Eye?

"I believe he does." Avon straightened as they entered the chapel. "I'll watch for your signal."

She trembled. If they were to snatch the Golden Sceptre from the Admiral, they would need the element of surprise. Now, as she took the first steps down the aisle, remembering to pace herself, remembering to look straight ahead, she felt again the full force of Mithras' power, and she tried not to buckle.

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He was there, of course, in his guise as Avon's uncle, occupying a place in the front pew. Slowly, they passed each row of wedding guests standing decked in their finery. Ahead of them, Argo, one of the palace courtiers, played the most miserable dirge on the piano. She thought it better suited for a funeral than a wedding, but then again she'd never been to a wedding before.

Beyond the pews, stone steps piled up with hundreds of candles, each of them a flickering light, so that the entire altar appeared to glow. To the left, near the piano, she was dismayed to see Lord Thorne, the palace bishop, scanning his holy book with a portentous air. Something about him itched at her skin. She couldn't quite place it. He handed the book over to Lord Rutherford, then bowed, and it was the Archbishop who stepped up to the altar to await the bride.

The Archbishop did not carry the Kestrel's Eye, however. She sensed it as they drew closer, a pulse of magic.

Rufus had it.

He stood by the altar waiting for her, a Maskamery man dressed in the finest Drakonian coat and tails, and she could not read his expression.

Poor Rufus. He wasn't getting the bride he wanted today. She hoped he believed her promise.

As Valerie crossed the last few feet to join him, Lord Rutherford raised his hand and the piano music changed. As one, the wedding guests began to sing, and all the hairs on Valerie's arms stood on end. They sang of holiness and purity, of love and unity, of this Divine presence that she did not understand, but she felt something of it in this place, this sense of something vast and inescapable.

She faced Rufus, her groom, in parallel to the wedding guests. Avon retreated to his seat next to the Admiral. The bridesmaids waited in the wings.

A dragon statue curled around the altar before them, and she wondered if it represented the Divine, or Drakon, or both. Either way, it was forbidding. She felt eyes on her from all corners. Beneath the veil, her cheeks heated. The Masked Crown maintained her glamour. Rufus had the Kestrel's Eye in his pocket. Behind her, the Golden Sceptre burned with power. All the pieces were here, the keys to the goldentree. It was just a question of who would take them.

The hymn ended, the music fading away. The guests took their seats. Gowns and collars rustled. A few people coughed.

She felt that they were all an inch from death.

"Friends," said the Archbishop, raising his hands, "we are gathered here today to witness the union of two very special people. This man and this woman shall be joined in holy matrimony not only for themselves, but in a symbolic union between Drakon and Maskamere. In their union, the light of the Divine shall cast upon this land and guide us to a future of peace and prosperity. In their union, we shall remember that we are all one people, and that it is a blessing to mix our fortunes with that of our friends, for only together can we truly achieve greatness.

"In their union, there shall be happiness and laughter, and smiles, and sorrow. They will be visited by all the trials and tribulations of this imperfect life, but with the Divine light upon them, they shall overcome all challenges and grow stronger together."

As he spoke, Lord Thorne approached carrying two statuettes: carved representations of a bride and a groom. He passed the statuettes to Rutherford, then bowed and retreated, but not before Valerie noticed what was bothering her about him.

Beneath the white bishop's robes, Lord Thorne bore the mark of a vessel.

Valerie took in a sharp breath. So Mithras had another body to jump into right here in the chapel. If she gave the signal to Avon—who waited with his sword at the ready—Mithras would hop from the Admiral to the bishop, and they would not have eliminated the threat.

Meanwhile, the Archbishop raised the wooden bride and groom and said something about purification before turning away to dip the statuettes in a font of clear water.

"Now let us wash away their sins."

Lord Rutherford raised the statuettes up high, water dripping down his sleeves, and the piano music began once more. As one, the wedding guests got to their feet and began a different hymn, this one about purification and corruption. The voices merged in mournful harmony with the music.

While they sang, Valerie nudged Rufus' arm. Frowning, he bent towards her.

"Kill Thorne."

She did a quick tiny gesture in the bishop's direction, conscious that they were standing in full view of all the guests. Rufus' frown deepened. She shook her head. Not yet.

Not yet.

Timing was everything.

As the hymn reached its crescendo, Valerie resisted the urge to look at the Admiral. He stood at the edge of her vision, in the first row behind her left shoulder. As far as she could tell, he was singing along with everyone else.

What was he waiting for?

The piano music ended, and she took a deep breath, trying to remember how she'd practised the ceremony with Lady Melody. It was tediously long. First the walk down the aisle, then the Archbishop's speech, the first hymn, the ritual with the statuettes, the second hymn, and then…

"Friends," said the Archbishop, returning to his book, "we are about to witness our couple today joined in holy union. Before they speak their vows, I must offer you one last chance to raise your voice if you do not offer your blessing. I ask of all of you: does anyone object to this union?"

Silence in the chapel. Somewhere in the rafters, something shifted—a bird, perhaps. The room had become uncomfortably hot with so many packed bodies and the heat from so many candles.

The Admiral shifted in his seat.

She knew then that Mithras could not resist the drama of such a moment. Then again, neither could she.

Valerie threw off her veil, and with it, the glamour concealing her true appearance. She faced the wedding guests as herself: the dark-haired Maskamery priestess, alive and defiant.

"I do."