Treacherous Witch
Flavia

“My great task is to establish a way of life that will last for all future generations. A way of life where the people and the silvertrees flourish in equal measure, for we are dependent on each other.”

Maska’s Testimonium, I:VII

Dinner in the Crescent household was a lively affair. Her aunt Kamila and uncle Koel ruled the kitchen with the energy of a pair of old Drakonian dictators. Valerie and her younger cousin Elissa set out the table in the courtyard. All in all, nine adults and six children, including the infant at her cousin Lavinia’s lap, jostled around to share fresh-caught mullet with roasted vegetables, yoghurt and pita bread.

At the head of the table, Aurelia, the family matriarch, settled into her wicker chair with a satisfied creak. The afternoon sun caught the pale wisps of her hair and bony cheeks. She clasped her hand to her breast.

“Let us give thanks for Maska’s bounty.”

Valerie bowed her head. “We give thanks.”

Murmurs followed. Saying prayer at dinner was an old tradition, one that had fallen out of fashion before the war. But this was life under occupation, and evening prayer was the one small act of defiance they could all agree on.

They didn’t agree on much else.

“Heard a complaint from the Fishers today,” said Kamila, whose beady eyes were fixed on Markus. “They know you vandalised their boats the other night.”

Markus flushed. “It was only paint. We didn’t break anything and no one was caught.”

“Well, they said it was you and they’re right, aren’t they? So now they’re insisting that we pay them in coin if we want to have fish for dinner again.”

“Coin?” Valerie was aghast, and she wasn’t the only one.

“That’s why we did it!” said Markus. “They’re collaborators!”

“Then everyone’s a collaborator,” Kamila snapped. “Take it up at the community meeting.”

“The community meetings run by the Drakonians?” She gave Kamila a withering look. “Sure, that’ll work.”

“But we can manage, can’t we?” said Lavinia, who had three children and a perpetual frown. “The Drakonians pay us in coin. We have to make the switch sooner or later.”

The introduction of money was one of many changes the Empire had imposed to control the population and exploit their labour. Up until a year ago, Koel had refused point-blank to accept any coin in the Crescent store. That had soon fallen away. But until recently, most Maskamery families had maintained their long-standing trade agreements, using coin only when they dealt with the Drakonians.

“No,” said Valerie, “don’t you see? It’s a trick. Drakonians want to make all the men work for coin. I make a dress and what do I get? Nothing. They’re taking everything we do away from us.”

“That’s not how it works,” said Koel. “Any coin we make is ours. We keep the proceeds—”

"You keep the proceeds. You own the house. What’s next, they sell us off too?”

That was another of the Drakonians’ stupid laws. Every Maskamery household had to select a head, the eldest male. He owned what the Drakonians called the property and any money brought in by its inhabitants. To any decent Maskamery man this arrangement was a source of great embarrassment, but she’d already heard worrying rumours of those who had embraced the new order.

Lavinia looked disturbed. “They wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s what they do in Drakon. I understand why Koel doesn’t care, but why don’t you? You should be out there protesting with us.”

“I did not say I didn’t care.” Koel shot her a dirty look. “But we shouldn’t stoop to their level—we used to talk these things out.”

“We can’t ask them nicely, Koel. How isn’t this obvious to you?”

She was getting hostile looks from all quarters now. Her aunt Kamila, of course, and the other mothers at the table. Even Lavinia. Didn’t they realise how short-sighted they were being? Did they want their children to grow up in the shadow of the Empire?

“But we have to eat,” said Aurelia.

Silence fell. Valerie swallowed her retort.

“We take care of family first,” Aurelia went on, and though her voice was soft and raspy, it cut through the warm evening air. “We are not out to make enemies, do you understand?”

“Yes, Grandma,” said Valerie softly.

Aurelia’s sharp gaze fell on Markus. “You too.”

“Yes, Grandma,” Markus echoed.

Aurelia had asked them to call her grandmother from the moment she and Markus had arrived, devastated and alone, in the wake of the invasion. Now was not the time to argue, even though she was bursting with protests.

Valerie returned to her plate, and the conversation moved on.

She glanced at Markus, who nodded back at her. At least she had his support. He had never wavered in his disgust for the Drakonians. He saw their lies for what they were, and she admired him for that.

But he was one of a few. More and more she saw signs of apathy and worse, resignation. People picking up their lives, adjusting. The younger children repeating Drakonian words and phrases, parroting values contrary to Maska’s teachings.

The end of civilisation wasn’t marked by military defeat but by the slow death of ideas.

The rebellion was failing.

Dinner at the palace was a very different experience to the Crescent household. It started with hours of preparation: a bath, changing into an evening gown, hair and make-up. Priska did everything. She felt almost guilty watching the maid painstakingly pin up her hair—what had she done to deserve this?

Tried to kill the Chancellor.

Oh, the irony.

This evening was, in Melody’s words, an opportunity for her to practise the social conventions of court. Melody had given what she was sure was a lot of very sound and practical advice during their tour of the palace, but she was just glad that she remembered which knife and fork to use.

Twenty lords and ladies sat down to dine in the hall, every one of them splendid in their jackets and tails or gowns. Servants poured them wine and set out a feast of pork belly, lamb chops and larks’ tongues. The chatter of the guests and their clinking glasses soon filled the air.

Next to her, Rose helpfully identified the lords and their consorts—some women, some men—but when Valerie asked her to explain the difference between a wife and a courtesan, she only laughed and said, “A courtesan is not a wife.”

Lord Avon was absent. She wondered if that was normal.

“Oh, he rarely joins us,” said Rose. “He’s got a war to fight.”

That much was true. Despite two years of Drakonian occupation, they hadn’t yet conquered the entire country. The northwest border of Maskamere was mountainous and covered with thick forest, defying all attempts by the Empire to impose order. Its stronghold was the northern city of Bolebund, which refused to recognise the Empire’s rule. It had survived three siege attempts thanks to its leader, the Abbess Sopphora.

Here on the south coast in Jairah, the opposite was true. The Empire’s hold was strongest here in the seat of their power, there were more Drakonian guards than any other city, and many Drakonians had moved here to enjoy the “balmy” climate.

Valerie wondered if they appreciated how much had been destroyed before they got here. The towns and villages ransacked, the silvertrees burned, thousands of lives lost...

A red-faced lord peered at her over his wine glass. Lord Warren, if she recalled correctly. “So you’re Avon’s new girl. Rather lovely. I must congratulate him. I hear Lady Melody put you through your paces today, eh?”

He chuckled and nudged Lord Gideon next to him. She smiled and nodded. After that, the entire evening was a barrage of inane questions.

“How are you finding the palace so far?”

“And the food? Isn’t it delightful?”

“Aren’t you a beauty?”

“Personally, I’ve always found Maskamery women rather coarse. But good fun if you want an argument.”

“Who on earth would want that?”

She responded in kind. Tonight she was the star attraction, Lord Avon’s new consort, lucky her. But no one asked about her personal history or brought up anything political, which she recalled was not the done thing at large social gatherings. As Melody had put it, either topic might lead to unsavoury conversation, and no one wanted that at dinner.

Those kinds of conversations happened in private, behind closed doors. It was the kind of conversation she was going to have with Avon later tonight.

As dessert rolled around, and Valerie contemplated flinging herself in the sticky toffee pudding if only to escape Lord Warren’s wobbling jowls, Lady Flavia came over. “Lady Valerie, shall I walk you back to your quarters? I know it can be tricky finding your way around.”

Valerie met her eyes and understood at once. She nodded, and the pair of them slipped away.

Back in her chambers, she kicked off her slippers and threw herself down on the bed. Flavia laughed, looking around.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk before,” she said. “I’ve never been in these rooms... What a beautiful suite.”

Flavia herself was beautiful, Valerie thought, the pins in her hair failing to tame her natural dark curls. Her dainty features gave her a charming, wide-eyed look, with sea-green eyes that were cherished in Maskamere because they typically signified a link with the royal family.

“I’m exhausted already,” said Valerie. “How do you do it?”

Flavia perched on the end of the bed. “It’s new, that’s all. It’ll get easier. How was your walk with Lady Melody?”

She made a face. “She said it’s her job to civilise us. Can you believe that?”

“Drakonian arrogance. They’re all like that. Melody thinks she’s better than everyone, if that helps.”

“But how can you stand to be treated that way? Like some unruly dog?”

“That’s the job, Valerie. It’s your job to please and make the Drakonians feel good about themselves. I’ve only been at court for two months, but I’ve been around Drakonians a lot longer. The happiest I ever made Lord Thorne was when he converted me.”

Valerie sat up, shocked. “He converted you?”

“Well, he wouldn’t take me to court unless I did. His whole mission is conversion, I have to set an example. I said the words.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“But...” She searched for the words to express her outrage. “Flavia, that’s our country. Maska, the goldentree, everything we stand for.”

Maska was the soul of Maskamere: literally, the spirit of the nation, embodied in the goldentree. Every Maskamery vowed to protect and nurture the silvertrees that protected and nurtured the people in turn through the blessings of the priesthood.

She remembered receiving the silvertree’s blessing, how special it felt.

She remembered the priestesses dying.

Flavia shook her head. “I still love Maskamere. But the silvertrees are gone, and the priestesses and the royal family are dead...”

“Not all of them.”

“The prince is never going to win. He’ll either die in the war or live out his days in exile.”

“You can’t know that. That’s no reason to turn your back on us.”

Flavia recoiled visibly, shuffling away from her. “Who’s ‘us’? If you feel that strongly about it, what are you doing here in the first place? No one’s going to praise you for your loyalty sharing Lord Avon’s bed.”

“I’m not—” She stopped, pressing her lips together. Everyone she’d met, she realised, would have assumed that if she hadn’t already slept with Avon, she was going to soon. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

Flavia rose. “Well, let me know if you want to talk again.”

She tried smiling as Flavia retreated, hoping that she hadn’t ruined the possibility of friendship on her very first day. When the other girl was gone, Valerie let out a big sigh and flopped back down on the bed.

She’d meant to ask Flavia about her family. Where she’d come from. Instead, she’d scared her off.

What had she learned? Life in the palace was going to be a huge, huge adjustment. She hadn’t ever imagined that her attempted assassination of the Chancellor would lead to this. She had no plans, no preparations, no knowledge of how to act at court. The knowledge part she could fix. If she had to learn to be a courtesan, then learn to be a courtesan she would, whether she liked it or not. She was learning already.

It’s your job to please.

Please him. Not if she could help it. She only had to blend in long enough to plot her escape. Then she could return to the resistance.

She wondered whether Prince Bakra might attempt to rescue her. Was she important enough to the resistance for him to risk it? She ought to be. And if he didn’t think it was worth it, her family would. They might not have approved of her activities in the resistance, but Aurelia would never abandon her. The question was whether the Crescents would even find out where she and Markus had been imprisoned. And if they did find out, would they be able to help?

Or would the Drakonians spread the word that she’d been burned at the stake as a witch? Her heart sank at that thought. They might think she was dead, in which case no rescue would be forthcoming.

Regardless, she couldn’t wait around for someone else to save her. She’d have to figure it out herself.

There was a soft knock at the door, then her lady-in-waiting entered without prompting. Priska curtsied.

“Excuse me, my lady, Lady Melody sent you a gift.”

“A gift?”

She rose, curious, as Priska set the gift down on the writing table. A sewing kit. A little burst of delight bubbled through her as she opened the basket. It didn’t have the full range of tools she used at the Crescent store, of course, nor the many different threads or fabrics. But it was a start.

She looked at Priska. “Please send my thanks to Lady Melody.”

The girl bobbed her head and left.

Perhaps Melody intended the sewing kit as a welcoming gesture. Perhaps she had some other motive. It didn’t matter. Valerie had the means to weave magic again and with that, the means to escape.

She picked the thimble out of the basket, rolling it between finger and thumb, and smiled.

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