Treacherous Witch

“A sorcerer in a cage has no power at all—provided it’s a sturdy cage.”

Interview with Queen Shikra III, as told to Master Anwen

Prison didn’t seem like the worst punishment considering what she’d done. Valerie was less concerned for herself and more for her cellmate.

Iora.

Her friend was chained up in the dungeon that was identical to if not the same as the one she’d spent a miserable night in following the assassination attempt. Brackets on the wall held fire-braziers, and the hooks embedded at intervals in the stone could hold up to four prisoners. The guards threw Valerie down on the sandy ground next to Iora, and cold iron snapped into place around her ankle. Valerie didn’t bother testing her manacles. She knew from experience that they wouldn’t budge.

Iora stared at her, hair matted, clothes dirty. Only when the guards retreated and the iron door at the top of the steps slammed shut did the other girl speak.

“Traitor.”

She spoke the word with such venom that Valerie felt it like a dagger in her gut. But she’d expected this. Someone had to take the fall for the attempted poisoning. And since it was Valerie’s fault that Iora had been arrested, it was her responsibility to ensure that the fall was as gentle as possible.

The arrangement had already been made.

Valerie sat up on her hands and knees. “Iora... What are you doing here? How did they catch you?”

“Don’t lie!” Iora’s eyes were red and puffy. “I saw what you did.”

“What I did? I stopped us from murdering an innocent woman.”

“The Drakonians aren’t innocent—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she interrupted. “Avon was never going to drink the poison after that man started choking. I covered for you.”

Iora shook her head. “They knew it was me. They dragged me out of the kitchen after dinner and told me I was being arrested as a spy.”

Her eyes widened. “How did they know?”

“How?” She sensed the other girl’s bewilderment, catching herself. “You’re the only one I told, Val. You’re saying it wasn’t you?”

“I’m not the only one,” she said. “Don’t forget, there’s your traitor too. Do you think they’d throw me in here if I’d switched sides?”

“I...” Iora swallowed. “What happened?”

“One of the lords died drinking the poison. The man from Bolebund. I tried to save him. When I failed, they accused me of poisoning him.”

She wasn’t sure when Iora had left the dining hall, how much she had witnessed, but she couldn’t have been there for Kreios’s death. Valerie was counting on this to sketch her version of events. Judging by Iora’s troubled expression, it seemed to be working.

“You know they know what I am,” she went on, pressing her point. “You poisoned that chalice in front of me—with me at the table—I had to make it look like I did it, so they wouldn’t come looking for you.”

“I’m sorry,” Iora whispered.

“Who do you think betrayed you?”

“I don’t know...”

“The traitor,” she said, impatient. “Who is it?”

“I don’t...”

The door at the top of the staircase creaked open, and both girls fell silent. They looked up. Heavy boots descended the steps, a dark cloak, gloves, and then the cruel face of a man she knew well. Lord Gideon.

As quickly as she could, Valerie scrabbled over to Iora, the manacle cutting into her ankle, and whispered in her ear.

“Listen, do they have hard evidence against you? Did anyone see you?”

“No! You were the only one who saw.”

“Then don’t say anything. I’ll confess.”

“Val...” Iora shook her head, mouth trembling. “You can’t do that for me. This was my fault.”

“It’s okay. One of us has to carry on—”

She stopped as Gideon reached the sandy floor at the foot of the stairs and peeled off his gloves, smiling at each of them. “Well, ladies. Who shall I question first?”

Silence. The two girls huddled together, Valerie taking Iora’s hand. She had some sense of what was coming—and the water trough standing in the middle of the cell was an unwelcome reminder of what she had endured the last time she’d been here. She wouldn’t let Iora suffer that. No, Iora would be spared the Empire’s wrath.

“No volunteers?” The glee in his voice made her sick. “The Empire can offer mercy—if you confess.”

She let go of Iora’s hand, bracing herself against the ground to stand up.

“It was me.”

Valerie caught her breath. Iora had beaten her to it—the other girl leapt up, facing Gideon with her chin lifted and her back straight.

“Iora, don’t—”

“I did it,” said Iora. “I poisoned the wine. I tried to kill the Chancellor.”

Valerie got up too, grabbing her friend’s arm, but it was no good. Iora’s eyes burned with a clarity of purpose she’d seen before: when they’d joined the mob yelling and jeering at their Drakonian overlords in the city streets; whenever the prince slammed his fist against the table and declared that he was taking back his throne.

Gideon’s insidious sharp eyes turned on Valerie. “And you?”

“I didn’t poison anyone.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Well. We have a confession. Guards!” He called up the steps for two of the fortress guards to come down. “Take the girl. That one, not her. Move her to a holding cell; I’ll deal with her presently.”

The guards unchained Iora and dragged her away, her eyes never leaving Valerie’s until the last second. Valerie held her gaze, trying to communicate without words—to express her gratitude.

Then the door slammed shut, and she and Gideon were alone.

Gideon chuckled. “What a cunning little snake you are.”

“You promised she wouldn’t be harmed,” she reminded him.

Whether Iora would have crumbled under threat of torture, she didn’t know, but it wasn’t worth the risk. She didn’t like making a deal with the likes of Gideon, but she’d held her nose and done it. No more resistance secrets would be spilled to the Empire. She’d gotten the confession that he wanted without any need for interrogation.

“Indeed.” Gideon shuffled forward, seeming to sniff at her, and Valerie backed away in disgust. “As for you...”

She took a breath. “I have a message. I want to speak to Lord Avon.”

“You want. You’re too used to getting what you want, aren’t you?”

“My message is this: Please ask the Master of Justice to pass a lenient sentence. Iora is a healer. She can serve her time in a clinic or apothecary, somewhere she can help people. If the Chanceller sees fit to show mercy, he’ll find me very grateful.”

Gideon scoffed. “The serpent rears her head again. Why should only the Chancellor receive your gratitude?”

He reached out to brush her cheek and she flinched away. The cold stone wall hit her back. She glanced down at the chain at her feet, willing it to break, snap—anything to get away. But she couldn’t summon up even the slightest magical spark. This was his domain, the dungeon. His instruments of torture, his prisoners to poke at until he made them scream. His presence was so overwhelming that it stamped out her power altogether.

“Do you think Lord Avon is happy to share?” she asked instead. “What will he do if you fail to pass on my message?”

Avon took promises seriously, she knew that. And she trusted him to keep his promises more than she did Gideon. Iora’s safety depended on it.

For a second, Gideon’s face twisted. Then he smiled, and the slow curve of his mouth chilled her more than any of his sneers.

“You’ve proven a wonderful distraction,” he murmured. “Don’t trouble yourself about your poor young friend. She’ll receive the best of care. After all...” He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “I’m on your side.”

She shuddered, but he was already retreating. It was only when he reached the steps that the full impact of his meaning hit her.

“Wait!”

But he ignored her. The door slammed shut, leaving her trapped in the dark.

How much time then passed, she didn’t know. The cell had no windows. She could only measure it by the coming and going of the guard: regular intervals to check in on her, feed her, and take away her chamber pot. As the hours ticked by, her mind kept going round and round in circles, returning always to one singular thought:

Gideon was the traitor.

That had to be what his parting words had meant. Gideon! Him, of all people, on her side. Working with the resistance.

The more she thought about it, the more it made a strange kind of sense. Markus had said he was in touch with the resistance. Who else but Gideon, the Master of Justice, could have informed them of his whereabouts? Then there was the meeting with Iora in her family’s store. Lady Melody had ushered her off on this sudden shopping trip, and who was she but Gideon’s consort? He could have ordered her to do it. Even the news about Lavinia’s arrest would have gone through Gideon—he would have executed the order.

And, she thought, her mind grasping further back, she’d seen him whispering with Lord Hafnir at the castle in Enyr! Hafnir, a known ally of the resistance.

But what if he wanted her to think that? What if this was all a ploy—another scheme to make her give away information about the resistance? She could imagine Lord Avon giving that order and Gideon being all too happy to follow it. He didn’t give a damn about her family. Why would he help Lavinia? And why would Prince Bakra ally with a man as despicable as Gideon?

Whatever the truth, the way he had done it was monstrously clever. He’d said enough to tip her off but not enough to confirm beyond doubt. If she tried telling Avon or anyone else, Gideon would easily be able to pass his words off as an interrogation tactic.

And after all that, where did she stand? Gideon? Avon? The resistance? Who could help her? She’d focused so much on getting Iora out safely that she’d left her own fate uncertain. Valerie clung on to one slim hope: Avon had promised he would talk to her.

The guards had stopped checking her cell. The air was chilly. She guessed it was night and curled up on the hard sandy ground to sleep.

Her next visitor was Captain Doryn. She woke up when light spilled into the cell. Her muscles ached with cramp. She stretched, cracking a few joints.

“Get up,” he said, his men hurrying down to remove her chains.

She did so, brushing the sand from her dress. “Captain? Where are we going?”

“The Chancellor summons you.”

Her heart leapt. The guards dragged her up, past the cells and through the mess hall until she emerged outside, squinting against the glare of the sun. They shoved her into a waiting carriage. The journey was no different to the one she’d taken to get here: a half hour ride from fortress to palace.

She expected to be taken straight to Lord Avon, but instead the guards escorted her to the bath chamber where the matron, Dinah, and her maids were waiting. Dinah took one look at her and clicked her tongue.

“You again. Did you run away?”

“No,” she said, aware that she was every bit as dishevelled as the first time Dinah had taken her in.

“Come, then. Let’s make it quick.”

They bathed and dressed her in one of her own gowns, a pale-yellow affair with a white sash and trim. With that, she realised that she was being reintroduced to court. Her hair was pinned up in the Drakonian style. She’d wiped away any bruises she might have to hide and so looked as clean, fresh, and presentable as if she hadn’t spent the night in a dungeon.

Avon wasn’t locking her up alone. She felt a burst of hope.

When she was ready, Doryn collected her. Valerie took his arm. They passed through the galleries, nodding at the occasional passing courtier. No one blinked an eye. Then Doryn took her to the gallery above the throne room, and she found it crowded with courtiers.

“Join the others,” he murmured.

Valerie walked over, hoping she looked like she knew what was going on. She sensed Doryn retreat to guard the door behind her. He would be watching.

“Hey,” she whispered, squeezing in at the edge of the balcony between Lady Amilia and Lady Flavia.

Amilia looked startled. “Lady Valerie! Hush, they’re about to start.”

“Start what?”

“Bringing in the traitor,” said Lady Rose, leaning in from next to Amilia.

Valerie looked down. Avon sat upon the queen’s throne, his Masters of state around him. The throne room was flanked by guards, as well as an audience of lords, all men. The ladies and lower ranking courtiers had to watch from the gallery above. Valerie looked around for Lady Ophelia but couldn’t see her. Maybe she was still recovering from the shock of the attempted poisoning.

Then the doors to the throne room flung open and Lord Gideon entered, his dark-green cloak sweeping behind him. He was followed by a contingent of armed guards dragging in a prisoner. For a moment Valerie’s heart leapt into her mouth—it couldn’t be Iora—but, no, it wasn’t.

The man they dragged before the Chancellor, his hair ragged, jaw unshaven, armour stripped away—that man was Captain Quintus.