Treacherous Witch
Blood and Vim

“Sending a priestess into battle is a last resort. We have better ways to defend ourselves.”

Interview with Queen Shikra III, as told to Master Anwen

The carriage rocked, jolting them in their seats, then ground to a halt. She heard muffled shouting outside. Five guards, she thought. They’d been accompanied by five guards, including Captain Doryn, and four servants. Under normal circumstances that was enough to deter a crowd.

Another stone hit the window with a loud crack, and Melody yelped. Valerie jumped too. Footsteps passed close by, followed by more yelling, and then the carriage lurched forward as two more missiles hit the bodywork. A man screamed a bloodcurdling cry that made the hair on the back of her arms stand on end.

She tugged at the blind, but Melody grabbed her arm, stopping her.

“We need to see what’s happening! What if they come in?”

“Don’t let them!” Melody insisted. “Let the guards do their job.”

“A man just died; didn’t you hear?”

Then came another, even worse cry: the scream of a horse. Abruptly, the carriage jolted sideways, flinging both women into the right-side window. Melody squealed as Valerie landed almost on top of her, and she’d had enough. She scrabbled for the left-side door, opened it, and hauled herself out to see what was going on.

They were in a narrow street surrounded by tall houses. And they were being beset from above as well as either side; someone flung a stone from a window which hit the wall behind her. She ran for cover.

Crouching beneath the upturned carriage, she saw Captain Doryn locked in battle with a man in cloak and hood who wielded a knife. Three other guards struggled to hold back a gang of thugs, all hooded and cloaked. One of the guards was dead, his helmet knocked off, skull matted with blood. Another was injured, holding his arms up to try and ward off the stones being thrown from above.

As she watched, two of the thugs broke past the guards and ran for Captain Doryn, whose back was turned. Thinking quickly, she slammed her palms into the ground, ice spreading from her fingertips and across the street. Both attackers slipped. One crashed heavily into the cobblestones while the other stumbled before righting himself, but it was enough.

“Doryn!” she cried.

Doryn kicked the hooded man he was fighting to the ground and turned in time to run his sword through the second attacker’s torso. Valerie gasped, shrinking back, and then to her horror the man in the hood set his sights on her. He strode over the ice, which cracked and melted beneath his boots, and grabbed her by the neck with one hand, holding his horrible long knife in the other.

“Witch,” he hissed.

She choked, scrabbling for her pocket. The hood shadowed his face; she glimpsed his eyes, dark and pitiless. He was going to kill her.

Her hand found the pocket of her dress, slipping on the thimble. She couldn’t breathe. The man raised the knife—

She wrenched upwards, jabbing him in the eye with the thimble. He let go of her with a cry, reeling back. The knife clattered to the ground. She made a grab for it—the man was clutching his hand over his eye—and before he could stand up, swaying, she lunged forward and plunged the blade into his chest.

He screamed. She fell back, panting, and the knife dropped from her shaking hands. Blood poured from his chest, and his screams turned to gargling cries. He twitched and convulsed before finally going still.

She lifted her hand, staring at it. Blood caked her fingernails. The skin was torn where she’d grazed her palms on the cobblestones. She healed the grazes away.

Then, without warning, Doryn was there, grabbing her shoulders.

“Lady Valerie! My lady, are you hurt?”

She shook her head numbly. He bent down to check the hooded man. On the other side of the street, the thugs had disappeared. The guards had held them off. No more stones were thrown.

“Stabbed in the heart,” said Doryn, frowning. “And the eye... Did you do this?”

He stood up to face her, and she nodded.

The colour drained from Doryn’s face. She looked again at the dead man, whose hood Doryn had uncovered, revealing a hideous, bloody hole where his left eye socket had been. He was Maskamery. Like the other thugs, like the residents high above throwing stones. She’d been attacked by her own people, and she’d killed one of her own people.

“We must return to the palace,” said Doryn. He still looked pale, but he gave his orders to the guards and the servants before bringing the surviving horse over to her. “Come.”

“What about Lady Melody?”

A shocked Melody was being helped out of the carriage by one of the servants, but Doryn shook his head. “My men will protect her. We need to leave.”

She had no choice. Valerie threw on the cloak that Doryn offered to hide her expensive gown and shoes. Then she climbed on the saddle behind him and clung to his waist.

The numbness inside her was fading, to be replaced by an awful guilt. Those hooded men might have been members of the resistance. Even if they weren’t directly affiliated with the prince, they were still fighting the occupiers. Something had gotten them riled up. And she’d stabbed that man in the heart, watched the blood gushing out...

Not her fault. No one could blame her for defending herself.

They moved fast as soon as they reached the High Road, Doryn spurring the horse into a gallop which had her jolting in the saddle. By the time they reached the palace, she thought every bone in her body must be bruised. They finally stopped in the courtyard, Doryn dismounting and then offering his hand for Valerie to climb down. She did so, grimacing, and sent a wash of magic through herself to soothe her aching muscles. That helped but not as much as she would have liked.

Fatigue was setting in. She swayed on the spot, and Doryn held her arm to steady her.

“Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” she said.

“I’ll escort you back to your quarters—”

“I’m fine,” she said again, more strongly. “Look, Priska is here. She’ll take me.”

Her maidservant indeed came running up, looking surprised to see only the two of them. “My lady... I came to help you with your shopping, where...?”

“It’s on its way,” Valerie reassured her. “We don’t have to wait.”

She was about to head into the palace when Doryn stopped her. “My lady.”

Valerie paused, turning back. Doryn’s expression was troubled, but there was a gentleness in that craggy face she hadn’t seen before.

“You saved my life,” he said quietly. “You could have fled in the commotion and left us for dead.”

I could have, couldn’t I?

“I wouldn’t have,” she said. “I wanted to help.”

He inclined his head. “You have my gratitude, my lady.”

She gave a small smile and nodded back, Priska looking awed by her side. Her mind was buzzing as Doryn departed with his horse, as she and Priska made their way back to their quarters. She’d fought with magic and won. In doing so, she’d placed Doryn in her debt—and debt, she thought, was power—and demonstrated that she no longer intended to run away. If the deaths of those men strengthened her own position, then at least they hadn’t died for nothing.

It was only later that evening she realised that she’d lost the thimble somewhere in the fray.

By the time she went down for dinner, Lady Melody was already regaling the court with the full horrifying story.

“It was dreadful! Rioting and looting all over the city—the guards in disarray—I haven’t seen such disorderly behaviour since the early days.”

“What caused it?” Lady Mona wanted to know.

“There was a fire in the north quarter. A few peasant houses burned down, and the rabble blamed the guard trying to put out the fire—in broad daylight too.”

“It certainly wasn’t us,” boomed Lord Warren, the stern Master of Home Affairs. “Rest assured, my men are investigating the matter thoroughly. We believe this to be the result of criminal activity.”

“The resistance?” someone asked.

“More than likely. They haven’t disappeared, believe you me. It’s like rooting out vermin—there’s always some hidey hole or other they can crawl back into.”

“Well,” said Lord Sandford, who was Lord Warren’s younger equivalent for Foreign Affairs, “I’m sure they’ll be dealt with in good time. Fortunately, they failed to interrupt my shipment of Enyrn wine—allow me to describe it...”

Valerie sighed. Every now and again, these conversations gave her a tantalising glimpse of what was really going on in Maskamere, but the social taboo against politics at dinner was so strong that any mention of it was always swiftly interrupted. She had a suspicion about what the fire meant, but that would have to wait until she spoke to Lord Avon. As usual, he was absent from the dinner.

She was about to return to her quarters when Lady Melody tapped her on the shoulder. “Come with me.”

Her heart leapt. Valerie followed her to one of the ladies’ sitting rooms, empty at this time of night. Melody lit a candle on the coffee table. She looked no worse for wear. If she’d been injured or suffered a shock, she gave no sign of it.

“I didn’t get the chance to ask after that dreadful attack,” she said. “How was your family?”

“I—good.” Somehow the question caught her off-guard.

“I hope they had nothing to do with those riots.”

Valerie wondered if this was the point where she ought to say something about the resistance.

“They wouldn’t be that stupid.”

“Of course.” Melody smiled, laying a hand on her arm. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Really,” she added, when Melody looked as if she might disagree, “you don’t need to worry about me.”

Did Melody know that she’d killed a man? Was that why everyone was tiptoeing around her? True, she’d watched him die, but that was hardly the worst thing she’d witnessed since the invasion. And to have that blade in her hands, to turn it back on her attacker... There was power in that too. If only he had been Drakonian instead of Maskamery, she wouldn’t have felt bad about it at all.

“I believe it.” Melody stepped back, appraising her. “I thought you an uncouth little Maskamery girl at first, I’ll admit, but you are wonderfully adaptable. We more... spirited ladies, some lords take delight in taming us. But you needn’t lose your spirit. You need only direct it appropriately.”

Valerie cocked her head. “Appropriately?”

“For the betterment of the Empire.”

Not the words she expected to hear from an ally of the resistance. Valerie schooled her expression into a smile. “Of course.”

Melody bid her good night. Valerie retreated back to her quarters, thinking all the way. She was being paranoid now. Since arriving at the palace, she’d treated every word and gesture by Lord Avon, and by extension every Drakonian, as a tactic, a clandestine interrogation designed to get her to slip up and reveal information about the resistance. She was a spy, an enemy of the court, and therefore by definition everyone could be working against her. The only Drakonian she trusted was Master Anwen.

So where did Melody fit into this?

She’d made an instant leap from the resistance knowing about her visit to the Crescent store to Melody arranging that trip. Yet despite having every opportunity tonight, Melody had failed to speak plainly about her allegiances. And why, after all, would a lady from Drakon have any interest in helping them? What was in it for her?

Perhaps Melody was simply being kind. Perhaps she knew nothing of the ongoing battle between her and Avon, and the timing was a coincidence.

Perhaps.

Night had long since fallen with a gibbous moon shining through the window and the oil lamp burning down, and Lord Avon still hadn’t returned. Valerie reclined on the queen’s great silverwood bed in her long white nightgown, imagining two dozen versions of their conversation before in a fit of pique she retrieved the locket from the drawer she’d hidden it in and put it on.

Finally, she heard movement next door but no summons. She lost patience. Valerie went over to the door and knocked until Avon himself opened it.

“What are you doing? I have no wish to see you tonight.”

“Why not?”

His tone became irritated. “Don’t question me. Go to bed.”

She’d waited all day to talk to him. She wasn’t going to let it go. Valerie turned as if to retreat but then slipped past him instead, shimmying into the room behind him.

“Let me help you undress, my lord.”

She reached out to touch his arm, but he whirled around before she could and pushed her away, his face dark with anger. “I gave you an order.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Afraid?”

“You must have heard what I did today.”

“We’ll discuss that tomorrow. I’m not in the mood for your games, Val—” He stopped. His eyes had fallen on the locket around her neck, and he went quite still. “What is that?”

“What?” She touched the locket. “Do you like it? It belonged to the queen.”

She’d always hidden it before, tucked away in a pocket or inside her bodice. But not tonight. Tonight she was full of blood and vim, and she wanted to wear a symbol of the resistance, hidden in plain sight.

“Stop that.” His voice shook. She hadn’t expected this level of—not anger. Disquiet. Even fear.

“Stop what?”

“This sorcery. Get out of my head.”

“I’m not in your head—”

“Get out!”

He screamed it loud enough to make her ears ring and, shocked and terrified, she fled. She shut the door behind her in the queen’s room, breathing hard. When she felt calmer, she looked down again at the locket. Such a small, innocuous thing.

Why had it gotten Avon so upset?

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