Treacherous Witch
The Convent

Remember.

That night, Valerie kicked off her shoes and jumped on the bed in her new room, exhausted, a little drunk, and very happy. It had all been such a whirlwind. She wanted to hug every moment close to her chest, cherish every memory. The celebrations. The parade. The oath. The blessing.

The light of the silvertree—that, she would never forget. The way it had shone within her, illuminating a power she didn’t know she had. She’d changed the colour of her fingernails—a tiny, insignificant spell—and her mother had gasped in delight.

“She’s a natural,” High Priestess Glynda had said, and Valerie could have burst with pride.

She lifted her hands now, examining the blood vessels, the crisscrossing lines, the complexity of her own flesh. A lamp on her bedside table glowed with a magical light. She’d worked that one out too. She only had to will it, to want it to happen, and so it was.

I can do anything.

She couldn’t sleep. Even though it was late and every muscle ached, she was brimming with possibilities. And why sleep, when she could dream about all the things she was going to do, starting with herself—she would not be anything less than dazzling—and then her home, and then the village, and then...

A sharp rap at the door startled her. “Valerie!”

A strong, motherly voice—High Priestess Glynda. Valerie’s heart rate quickened. What was the High Priestess doing here? Was there some other ritual, some part of the induction process that she didn’t know about?

“Come in,” she called, getting up.

The door opened, but Glynda didn’t enter. “Good, you’re awake. I need your help with something. Get dressed, quick as you can.”

“Help with what?”

Valerie reached for her brown acolyte’s robes, but the High Priestess shook her head.

“No, no—wear your own clothes. And sturdy shoes, if you can. Boots? Those will do. The cloak too, it’ll be chilly. I’ll show you what in a moment.”

Burning with curiosity, Valerie did as she was told. She had packed her own garments to wear outside of class, including for the coming winter months, so she was soon dressed in her own deep red gown, woollen travelling cloak, and leather boots. But Glynda was wearing her grey priestess’s robes. Why would she...

“Quickly,” Glynda urged.

The High Priestess gestured at Valerie to follow. Together they hurried through the hallway of the acolytes’ quarters, dark and silent, down the spiral staircase to the communal hall, and then outside into the main courtyard. Valerie shivered as the cold air hit her. It had to be closer to the next morning than sundown. Everything was eerie and still, and even the moon had vanished behind some cloud.

The only light came from the silvertree, tall, splendid, and with its own incandescent beauty that struck her all over again in the dead of night.

And it was to the silvertree that Glynda led her, hurrying across the lawn.

“I don’t understand,” she said, her voice sounding as tremulous as she felt. “High Priestess, is something wrong? I didn’t know this was part of the blessing.”

“It isn’t.” Glynda turned to her, illuminated by the silvertree, and drew out a wand from her billowing grey sleeve. “Our first duty is to protect the silvertrees. They are in the greatest peril they have ever been. I am going to protect the tree, and you are going to help me, do you understand? Take my arm.”

Glynda was never one to panic. Valerie had always admired that about her, how the High Priestess was a fortress of calm even in the worst storm. She spoke in measured tones, careful, controlled, but it was everything she wasn’t saying that scared Valerie.

“What peril?” she whispered, as Glynda extended her arm to tap the wand against Valerie’s shoulder, as Valerie closed her hand around the High Priestess’s sleeve.

“I don’t know,” said Glynda, in as firm a tone as if she had answered the question.

“Then how do you...?” She shook her head. “Why me? I’m new, I haven’t even—”

Glynda’s other hand touched the bark of the silvertree, and Valerie gasped as power jolted through her. It wasn’t the same as the power she’d felt when receiving the blessing, but she sensed the silvertree’s presence. Then the wand which was made of silverwood—a cutting from this same tree, in fact—and therefore a conduit...

Fear gripped her. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing to hurt you.” Glynda closed her eyes. “Take a breath. We’re protecting the tree.”

She sensed Glynda’s presence then too, calm, soothing. No malicious intent. Valerie breathed in. We’re protecting the tree. And out. The tree has to be protected.

A spell flowed through the wand and into her shoulder. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did, in the same way that she smelled her mother’s famous honey dumplings, or heard the light patter of rain on the rooftops of her village, or jumped from rock to rock to cross the shallow stream on her way to the convent. It was a new sense that she’d barely begun to explore.

A spell of... hiding?

She pictured a sky-coloured cloak, as if someone had carved a piece out of the night and thrown it over the silvertree. A veil. A world where the silvertree did not exist, where the square of grass in this courtyard was just that, grass, and nothing else.

Glynda stepped back, the wand at her side, and the connection to the silvertree vanished. For a moment, Valerie stood still, uncomprehending.

“Well done,” said Glynda.

Her frown deepened. “But I didn’t do anything.”

A sharp crack rang through the air, and Valerie flinched. Glynda turned, her eyes scanning through the dark. She flicked her wand, and the lanterns around the convent entrance lit up. Then a frightening sight: the convent gates burst open, and a man on a horse rode through, charging towards them.

Glynda strode forward, raising her wand. “Who goes there?”

Valerie shrank back under the light of the silvertree, heart in her mouth. The rider was galloping at full tilt, hooves thudding on the stone courtyard and then the grass. He drew a shining sword from its scabbard—

A black shade rose up from the roots of the silvertree, blotting out the sky—

She could hardly see—its fingers, tendrils of darkness, stretched out to engulf the rider, but his blade flashed and the shadow tore in two. The horse whinnied, rearing up; the rider yanked it back under control. As bits of shadow floated through the air like confetti, Glynda uttered a guttural cry. Flames spread out around her only to extinguish without warning as the rider charged, blade glowing in the silvertree’s light, and—

A scream tore from her throat.

The rider struck without mercy. With the horse at a gallop, his sword cleaved Glynda’s head from her body. Blood spattered on the grass, on her skin. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Valerie gasped for breath—when had it become so hard to breathe?—and then as the rider galloped to the other end of the lawn, the horse turned, and she realised that he was circling back around.

He was coming for her.

Adrenaline shot through her veins. Her limbs unstuck. And Valerie ran.

Panting, half-sobbing, her boots pounded on the gravel as she raced for the convent. The horse’s hooves thundered behind her. He was rapidly closing the gap—she didn’t dare look back, every muscle in her body working at full tilt. She glimpsed the horse’s muzzle to her right, the snort of its breath.

She threw herself to the ground—

The sword whistled over her head.

The rider galloped on by. Valerie rolled forward, using her momentum to spring back up. The acolytes’ residence was only a few feet away. Gunshots cracked somewhere over her head. She made it to the door, yanked it open, almost fell in. The hall was empty. She ran for the staircase, and as she reached its foot, a whoosh of air told her that the doors had opened behind her.

She looked back.

The man with the sword strode towards her. He wore chain mail, but otherwise his armour was light, his dark hair tied back, eyes glinting in the darkness.

And even with his face in shadow, Valerie recognised him.

“Avon?”

He paused. “What did you say?”

I’m dreaming, she thought, in a daze. Two years ago, Drakonian soldiers had murdered High Priestess Glynda and slaughtered every other soul at the convent. But back then, she hadn’t known the man leading the charge.

Why should she be surprised that it was Lord Avon? He’d told her himself the role he’d played in the war.

And the sword. He must have known exactly what it did. The Drakonian army’s secret weapon.

“You bastard,” she said, straightening up to face him. This was not how she’d behaved in reality. She had fled to warn the other acolytes of the danger, but she knew how that ended. “You killed them. All of them. My family. My mother.”

Her voice cracked. He was unmoved, approaching with the intent of a wolf stalking its prey.

She swallowed. “If you kill me, Ophelia and Edrick will die too.”

That stopped him in his tracks. He was almost within striking distance, but she held her ground. His eyes had widened. That slight tremor in his shoulders was a sign of fear.

“Where did you hear those names?”

“From you.”

“You’re lying.”

“Kill me and see.”

There was a long moment of silence. Outside, more gunshots fired. Screams. Cries. She remembered this too. The soldiers who had swarmed in after Avon had targeted the priestesses’ quarters first, cutting them down, before going after the acolytes.

“I’ll spare them,” she said, before he could retort, “if you do something for me.”

“What?”

“Answer a question. Outside, in the courtyard.”

She stepped off the staircase and towards him. He stiffened, and she guessed that he was a hairsbreadth from killing her. She raised her hands, approaching slowly. Dying in a dream shouldn’t kill her, right? None of this was real. Which meant she was fine. Perfectly safe—

He lunged forward and grabbed her, and suddenly his blade was at her throat.

“One wrong word and you die.”

She swallowed, a very real fear trembling through her limbs. Avon dragged her back to the entrance and through the door into the courtyard. He cast around, probably looking for a trap.

“The lawn,” she gasped. “What do you see?”

“Is that a trick question?”

He turned his attention to the lawn where the silvertree glowed proud and bright, impossible to miss. But as Avon frowned, eyes narrowed, she sensed that her suspicion was right.

“Not a trick. What do you see?”

“A dead witch.”

“Wrong.”

He marched over to the lawn, still dragging her with him. Perhaps he was expecting Glynda to rise from the dead, like the necromancer armies of old. But by approaching Glynda, they were approaching the silvertree, and Avon’s lack of reaction told her that he couldn’t see it.

Which meant that Glynda’s spell had worked. They had protected the silvertree.

“Over here!” Avon barked, startling her, but he wasn’t shouting at her, he was calling his men.

The battle, if it could be called that, had spilled outside of the priestesses’ quarters which was on fire. At least one priestess was putting up a fight, throwing a black powder that exploded into a cloud of darkness. Screams pierced the air from the acolytes’ residence. None of them would make it out.

She couldn’t stay for this; she ought to be long gone.

“That was your question?” Avon said, watching the body.

“That was it. If you—”

She choked, a dull pain rushing through her chest, and looked down in disbelief. The sword’s length was buried between her ribs. Avon drew the blade out and stepped away. She fell to the ground, a gargled cry escaping her lungs.

Her lungs. He’d pierced her lungs. Blood bubbled up her throat.

Heal, she thought furiously, clutching the wound at her side. The pain was an abyss, deep and piercing. But the silvertree was right there, its roots almost within reach. She crawled, forcing her body to keep going, to hold in her wound, her breath. A rushing sound filled her ears. The light of the silvertree eclipsed everything else.

As her consciousness faded, Valerie reached out with the last ember of strength she had left.

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