Treacherous Witch
The Abbess Sopphora

“The Maskamery army is well-prepared and highly trained but thinly distributed and lacking in number. The key weakness is not the army, however. Nine individuals hold almost all the magical power in the realm. If they were to fall, the country’s defences would all but disappear.”

Titus Steward, Letter to the Emperor, #05

She awoke in an armchair. Her head was splitting. Valerie grimaced, lifting a hand to her temple, and realised all at once that she was much closer to the silvertree. She could feel it like a pulse just out of her reach.

“You have a concussion. Heal yourself.”

The voice was female, assured and smooth. On the circular table in front of her was a tray of tea and biscuits. A pale hand, adorned with rings, reached out to pick up a cup. Her head throbbed again. Valerie forced herself to concentrate, healing the pain away.

The room came into sharp focus. They were in a sitting room like one at the palace, fancy and full of light. The billowing curtains were embroidered with trees, and every piece of furniture was a masterpiece of craftswomanship. The woman sitting before her was fancy too, her velvet gown cut in the Maskamery style but with a northern twist: a silk scarf artfully wrapped around her shoulders and neck. Her black hair was drawn into a bun, her wide mouth set in a secretive smile, and her eyes were green.

Like Bakra’s. Like the queen.

“You’re Abbess Sopphora.”

The woman arched an eyebrow. “I am. To whom am I speaking?”

This was it. Her chance. She sat up straight. “Valerie Crescent. What happened to Lavinia?”

“Who is Lavinia?”

“My cousin. I asked her to take me to you, and your men attacked us.”

“My men won’t harm an innocent woman. Would you like some tea?”

She accepted in bemusement as Sopphora poured her tea. Apparently, they were in no hurry.

“They used force,” Sopphora went on, “because you’re a sorcerer, and I don’t allow rogue sorcerers in my city.”

“I told them I’m not a sorcerer. I’m a priestess.”

The Abbess raised her eyebrows. “A priestess where?”

“I fled from the north to Jairah during the war. Ask Prince Bakra. I was part of the plot to assassinate the Chancellor. They captured me at the palace, and the prince told me to stay there and spy for the resistance, to pass back all the information I could.”

“Then why are you not at your post?”

She paused, taken aback by the cool tone of the Abbess. Valerie forced herself to try the tea, which was too sweet for her liking. She put it down on the table and went on:

“Because I have important news to tell him.”

“Could you not have passed on your message to one of our operatives?”

“No. My contact was caught by the Drakonians. I didn’t have anyone else to go to, so I decided it was time to escape.”

“What is your message?”

Valerie hesitated, looking around. Sopphora was Bakra’s aunt; they were on the same side. She ought to trust her, yet...

“The man who found me,” she said. “How did he know what I was?”

“All who are blessed answer to me.”

“That makes him a petty sorcerer. It’s forbidden.”

“We’re at war. We take all the allies we can get.”

“How many sorcerers are in the city?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Because the Drakonian army is about to march on Bolebund. They’re planning to take the city tonight.”

A pause. “That’s sooner than we thought.”

“You already knew?”

“You can’t march an army into Maskamere without being noticed. I’ll tell our commanders to hasten our preparations.”

“Wait.” The Abbess turned her cool green eyes on Valerie, and she tried to meet them without flinching. “I want to help. There’s a silvertree here, isn’t there? Where are we?”

“The Convent of St. Lilia, by the Temple of the Fallen Saint. If there is an attack tonight, the Drakonians will attempt to destroy this place. You could help to protect it.”

She nodded. “I’d like to go to the silvertree, Abbess. Pray for its blessing.”

Sopphora stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

“If I had another blessing...”

The Abbess cut her off. “You’re already twice-blessed. That’s more than sufficient.”

She was dumbfounded. “What do you mean? There are hardly any priestesses left! You’ve resorted to working with petty sorcerers and hedge witches. I was educated at a convent—”

“Which convent?”

“St. Maia, near Drymuir. High Priestess Glynda blessed me.”

Sopphora’s expression softened. “I knew Glynda. She was a wonderful teacher. But if you had been properly educated, you would know that to be thrice-blessed is a privilege granted only to a few. There is a process to be followed.”

“What happened to we’re at war? You said you’d take all the allies you can get.”

Without warning, the room darkened, and a sense of foreboding prickled Valerie’s nerves. The sky outside turned overcast. The shadows in the room lengthened, and Abbess Sopphora stood up.

“Are you really a spy?”

She couldn’t move. Her limbs were pinned back to her seat. The power in Sopphora’s voice forced her mouth to open, and she gritted the words out.

“Y-yes.”

Terror electrified her veins, but she couldn’t even tremble. She should have realised—this was Sopphora’s domain, utterly and completely, the city that she governed and the convent that she owned.

“A member of the resistance?”

“Yes.”

“Blessed by a High Priestess?”

“Yes.”

“What about the second blessing?”

“I—I did that myself. The silvertree in Enyr.”

It was hard to breathe. Every word was yanked out of her like splints from a wound.

“How did you come to be in Enyr?”

“I was with Lord Avon.”

“Why?”

“I was his consort. I—”

Abruptly, the pressure on her throat ceased. Sopphora whipped around to face the door, on full alert. A second later, Valerie sensed it too: a magical beacon.

Lord Avon.

She caught her breath. He’d followed her. She was still unable to move, and so she was helpless to do anything but watch as the scene unfolded.

Sopphora called out, short and sharp. “Guards!”

No reply. Four, five seconds passed in agonising silence. The beacon approached.

He’s going to die, she thought. And I won’t be the one to kill him.

And then: He must know that the Abbess is here! Who else would live in this house? Why would he do something so idiotic—

The door burst open. Sopphora was ready. A blast of air swept up an armchair, side table, and a vase of flowers, a miniature cyclone aimed at their intruder. There was Avon at the door, brandishing his sword—

He ducked as the vase smashed against his shoulder, but he wasn’t blown back. The air died.

The sword!

Sopphora’s eyes widened. “Stop!”

Her command held the same tinge of power that had pinned Valerie to her seat. Avon strode forward. Blood spattered his face.

He drove the blade through Sopphora’s heart.

The wail Sopphora let out was terrifying, a banshee call. With it came a howling wind, every item in the room torn into the gale—all except for Avon, the space where he was kneeling a cocoon of calm, the wind kept at bay. Thrown out of her seat, Valerie smacked into the wooden floorboards with a painful thud. She curled up in a ball, covering her head with her hands.

The wind stopped. The howling stopped. She sensed rather than saw light stream through the windows again, and the dark weight of Sopphora’s magic lifted.

She felt Avon’s hands on her, lifting her up. “Valerie. Valerie. Are you hurt?”

She was shaking. He pulled her to her feet, cradling her face in his hands. Numbly, she shook her head. He hugged her tightly, and she let herself bury her face in his chest, take comfort from his arms around her, the solid press of his body against hers.

Finally, she looked over at the Abbess’s body. She was sprawled in a pool of blood, her beautiful dress stained a deep red around the chest, ruined forever...

The rest of the room was a mess. Glass peppered the overturned couch where a mirror had smashed. A vase was broken, violets strewn around like macabre decorations. Wrecked furniture, spilled tea.

“She’s dead.”

She said it as if to confirm to herself that it was real, that she’d come to Bolebund to aid the resistance only to wreak the worst possible destruction. Maskamere had lost its most powerful defender.

“We should leave. Can you walk?”

She looked up at him. “You’re bleeding.”

He shook his head. “It’s not my blood. Come.”

“Wait!” She grabbed his arm. “The silvertree is nearby. I can feel it.”

He understood at once. “Lead the way.”

Her heart was pounding so hard she felt she might deafen herself. But she moved, picking her way through the ruined sitting room and opening the splintered door into a hallway slippery with blood.

The guards Sopphora had called for. Five, six bodies, piled haphazardly along the hallway like old leaves in the street. She recognised one of them: the man from the pub, Max, his throat cut and his eyes staring blankly at his dead comrades.

“You slaughtered them.”

“They didn’t see me.”

Unbidden, the image of a different hallway came to her mind: her own convent, two years ago, that night she’d stumbled down from her room to scenes of panic, the acolytes screaming and running. Drakonian soldiers cut down girls without mercy, their bodies piling up—and then she’d run into the courtyard to find old Glynda, kind Glynda, with her robes bloody and her throat cut.

Her vision swam. She stumbled, and Avon caught her.

“Val?”

She shook her head. “This way.”

She thought she’d suppressed that memory. She tried so hard never to think of it. They stepped outside into a courtyard, and there was the silvertree, tall and bright and bursting with life. Two acolytes in their brown robes hurried towards the convent, and she almost couldn’t continue.

“Hey!” she managed.

The two girls froze. “There’s a guard dead in the garden!” one said. “Where’s Abbess Sopphora? Where is everyone?”

“The Drakonians are coming! You need to run! Go, now!”

Their faces paled. “The Abbess—”

“Go! Get everyone out!”

They turned tail and fled, and she glanced at Avon to see him take his hand off the hilt of his sword.

“Did you kill any of the acolytes?”

“No.”

But he had, during the war. She looked away from him and to the silvertree, its power calling to her. The Abbess would have denied her this power. She’d won it, inadvertently, because she’d armed Avon too well. How weak even Bolebund was, if it failed to protect itself from one man with an invisibility spell and a sword.

“Wait,” said Avon.

She turned back. “What?”

“Before you accept the blessing.” He gestured at the tree. “I want you to do something for me. Promise that you’ll never deceive me. Swear by the silvertree.”

“But...” She swallowed. “I can’t do that.”

How else was she supposed to fight him, if not by deceit? She’d destroyed the golden pen that she had used to verify her claim about the seal to prevent him from using this exact tactic.

“You can,” said Avon, “if you ever want me to trust you again.”

“If—”

“It’s not a request, Val,” he interrupted. “This is non-negotiable. I’ll have the truth from you whether you like it or not.”

His face was set. And much as she didn’t like it, she could hardly blame him. If this was the price she had to pay...

Valerie nodded.

She stepped into the light of the silvertree. Avon watched in silence. The tree’s boughs rustled, and a sense of calm descended on her. Regardless of circumstance, the silvertree offered its shelter to all who were blessed. She was welcome here.

Valerie pressed her palm against the trunk.

The silvertree’s power rushed through her. She held back, closing her eyes, and spoke her oath.

“I, Valerie Crescent, do swear that the oath I make is binding and true. From this day forward, I will only tell Lord Avon the truth. If I tell him a lie, I will fall into an enchanted sleep that only Lord Avon or his next of kin can wake me from. I swear this under the light of the silvertree.”

And so it was done. She was double-cursed.

Valerie took a breath and let the silvertree’s power flow.

She opened her eyes, stepping back from the tree towering above her to look around the graveyard. Just as before, most of the forest was a blackened ruin. Was the Enyr tree close by?

She cast around, feeling sure there was a thread here she could sense if only she could figure out how this place worked. The trees were connected. Perhaps they even talked to each other.

“Valerie.”

A thrill ran through her. That voice! The queen!

Just as before, the glowing figure had found her. But this time Valerie recognised her, the high cheekbones, piercing green eyes, black hair haloed by the white light of the trees.

“Your Majesty,” she whispered.

“Help me,” the queen implored.

She was approaching, ghostly footsteps in the dark earth. Valerie stared, caught between fascination and the urge to flee.

“How?”

The queen extended her hands. She was smiling, as if to greet a sister or daughter.

"How?” Valerie repeated.

Ghostly fingertips reached out to her. Why wasn’t the queen answering? As Shikra reached for her, as the white halo flickered and the silvertrees swayed in the non-existent breeze, Valerie felt a stab of fear—and then the queen’s hands curled around her own.

“Remember,” the queen intoned.

Valerie closed her eyes. And remembered.

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