Treacherous Witch

—and heals him, just enough to make him stir and groan. That's all she can manage.

He stares up at her in both wonder and suspicion. "What did you…?"

"Come on."

They're about to head back towards the road when a low whistle makes her heart stop. That's a Maskamery signal.

"Quickly!" she hisses, leading him in the opposite direction, away from the raiders. Further into the forest, and she wishes she knew where she was going, but—

*

A collective gasp rang out from the wedding guests, a palpable tremor rippling through the chapel. Valerie could not wait for anyone else to react. She had to seize this moment, and seize it she did.

The dragon statue uncurled itself from the altar, stone flowing into scales, eyes gleaming. It rose up with elongated neck and fins and released a plume of fire into the air.

Gasps turned to screams.

The Admiral stood. "Witchcraft!"

But that was her signal, the Masked Crown's power running through her as easily as air. Avon and Rufus both reacted. Avon drew his sword and turned on his uncle; Rufus strode over to Thorne, reaching for a small knife inside his pocket.

"Good heavens! Lady Valerie!"

The poor Archbishop, Lord Rutherford, stood right in the thick of it, the dragon undulating around the altar before him. He was an ally, one that Avon had confided in, but they had not told him about Valerie's disguise. He looked as shocked as everyone else. He backed up, nearly tripping over his robes, and his holy book fell from his trembling hands.

As for Valerie, all of this happened in a matter of moments, her magical senses on high alert, every nerve and every fibre of her body thrumming with adrenaline. She spotted guards pushing through either wing of the chapel and conjured great roots that sprang from the ground, blocking their way. She did not block the doors at the far end of the chapel; the wedding guests were already fleeing in a cacophony of shrieks, and Valerie had no desire to trap them inside. Let this be a battle between herself and Mithras.

The Admiral raised the Golden Sceptre and swept it aloft as Avon thrust the point of his blade—

An ear-pounding explosion reverberated around the chapel. The entire first two rows of pews were blown apart in an instant. Light burned her eyes, then dust, then the iron smell of blood.

"Avon!"

She dashed forward, conjuring a mess of ropes—or snakes—that slithered around the Admiral's legs and arms. Blood pounded in her ears. The cracked and broken remains of the pews lay strewn about the floor along with a hideous array of limbs, hands, guts and other unrecognisable body parts—perhaps a dozen guests who had not abandoned their seats quickly enough.

The Admiral sneered and blasted the snake-ropes coiling around him, clutching the Golden Sceptre tight in his hand.

"Val!"

She didn't see Mithras, despite his overpowering presence. She didn't see Rufus grappling with Thorne or the Archbishop cowering under the piano or the guards coming around to the middle aisle. In that moment, she saw only Avon, on his knees, face caked with dirt, the sword miraculously still in his grip, and her name on his lips. The explosion had blown him away, but Maska's sword had saved him from the worst of its destructive power.

Maska's shield, she thought, deliriously, and the Crown's power surged through her. The snake-ropes multiplied, tightening their hold even as the Admiral fought against them, and her dragon, half the size of a wyvern but still formidable, leapt at the Admiral and wrenched the Golden Sceptre out of his grasp.

Back on his feet, Avon bore down upon his uncle with murder in his eyes.

"James, my boy, what's gotten into you? You're bewitched! You're out of your mind! Come now—"

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Avon skewered the Admiral with satisfying precision. The blade pierced cleanly through his chest and back, and the Admiral gurgled in shock. As the body sagged against the ruined pew, as Avon straightened up, expression dark with triumph, Valerie experienced a moment of short-lived but overwhelming joy.

Then she thought: Thorne.

She turned around.

And Thorne snatched the Masked Crown, veil and all, from her head. She was immediately disoriented, swaying on her feet. First because the burning power of Mithras' presence had disappeared from its original spot occupying the Admiral's body and reignited itself in Thorne. Second because her conjured creatures—the stone dragon and the snake-ropes and the tree roots—all convulsed and then turned away from her and towards Mithras. The snake-ropes raced up her legs, binding her. The tree roots cleared a pathway for the guards to grab Avon. The stone dragon delivered the Golden Sceptre to its new master.

Thorne shoved her to the floor, took the Sceptre and strolled over to a prone body by the altar.

Caught in her own trap, Valerie let out an incoherent cry. She recognised the body, his fine groom's jacket and tails now soaked with blood, and the Kestrel's Eye, the last crown jewel, glowing in his pocket.

Rufus was dead.

What would Ophelia think if she were alive to see this? Her perfect wedding utterly ruined. Her dress in tatters, torn and bloodstained. Slaughtered guests lying in pieces around the altar.

I've ruined it, she thought, tears threatening to choke her. I've ruined everything.

"Restrain him!" Thorne said, for Avon had already elbowed one of the guards and snarled at another. "The poor man is clearly mad. We may have to put him down."

Avon was still struggling. "Lay another hand on me and you'll have the Emperor to answer to."

"Lay down your sword."

The blade was the one thing keeping him alive, they all knew that. Avon held it despite no fewer than four guards now restraining him, heavy gauntlets gripping his arms.

"Stop it!" The volume of her cry surprised even her. But she couldn't risk Avon losing the blade. "You're right. It's my fault. I bewitched Lord Avon. I murdered Lady Ophelia and took her place. I spilled blood under the light of the Divine. Now I only want one more thing and my revenge will be complete."

Thorne raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Lord Avon's death." She addressed the guards directly, trembling. "He's already bewitched. Kill him."

As she spoke, Avon's shoulders sagged. He stared at her, pale-faced, with such a potent mixture of sadness and rage and understanding and betrayal in his eyes that she wanted to run over and kiss him, tell him that everything was all right, she was only pretending, and he just had to hold out and trust her one more time…

The guards hesitated. She saw that, their confusion. Was it all a trick? What should they do? Killing Lord Avon, the Chancellor, ought to be out of the question in any normal circumstances. They certainly wouldn't do it because a witch ordered them to.

Glancing down, Valerie noticed that her restraints had vanished. They weren't gone—she was very much held in place by thick magical ropes trapping her ankles—but instead of their scaly texture, they had turned clear as glass, almost invisible to the naked eye. Which meant Mithras in his latest guise was still playing the holy man. He was Lord Thorne, the bishop, not a sorcerer. Perhaps he didn't trust the guards to obey him otherwise.

She dashed away her tears. Perhaps a glimmer of hope remained.

Thorne licked his lips, an action that reminded her horribly of the Patriarch. "The witch speaks one truth. We shouldn't spill blood in a holy place. Escort them both out."

"Lady Valerie."

Startled, she turned to the Archbishop, Lord Rutherford, who had emerged from his hiding spot with trembling hands.

"Lady Valerie," Rutherford repeated, "what stays your hand? If you are so eager for his death, why not kill Lord Avon yourself?"

She didn't know what to say. Thorne raised the Masked Crown, a note of irritation slipping into his voice. "This, Your Grace. I recognised it from my time in the royal palace. It belonged to the queen—one of her wicked treasures."

"Archbishop." Avon spoke with authority despite the guards surrounding him. "It's of the same kind as the pendant I asked you to bring to this ceremony. Notice how Lord Thorne stooped down to steal it. See that he now holds my uncle's sceptre. No man should hold all three crown jewels. Hold me if you must, but confiscate the jewels from Lord Thorne."

"Sacrilege!" The way Thorne hissed the word again reminded her of the Patriarch, the same mannerisms bleeding through. "Lord Avon would never speak to me in such a manner. Your Grace, let us not be deceived by this evil witch. We should take them both into custody."

There was a short pause during which the Archbishop frowned, his bushy eyebrows drawing together. She could almost sense the impatience and contempt emanating from Mithras as he awaited Rutherford's response. He had been forced into a third-choice body, a lowly bishop, outranked by the Archbishop and obliged to follow his command.

The glimmer of hope crystallised into something more.

"Yes," said the Archbishop, "we'll take them into custody and clean up this dreadful scene. I'll have the crown jewels placed under lock and key. Give them to me."

He was brave, she thought, Rutherford, braver than she had anticipated. Whether he understood the true nature of the threat he was facing, she didn't know, but there was a sheen of cold sweat over his skin. He had now made this situation rather awkward for Mithras, stuck in Thorne's body, and—

"Clever," said Thorne, "but I shan't be denied again."

He pointed the Sceptre at Rutherford. A beam of light engulfed the Archbishop, incinerating him in an instant. Valerie didn't realise that she had gasped until her body shook, almost hyperventilating. Two of the guards let go of Avon in shock, and he launched himself at Thorne, but a wall of twisted black stone shot up from the ground between them, an insurmountable barrier that spanned the entire width of the chapel.

Valerie barely knew what was happening before the invisible ropes binding her melted away, and Mithras wrenched at her hair.

"Now, little witch. No more playtime. We're going to see Mae."