"Knowledge is power. That's why we don't give it up freely."
Interview with Queen Shikra III, as told to Master Anwen
Valerie's courage wavered when the guards reappeared. Walking down the opulent hallways, she became acutely aware of how vulnerable she was. No weapons, nothing she might defend herself with. They hadn't even given her proper shoes, only thin slippers. Her feet sank into the rich soft carpet with every step, and the turquoise blue gown they'd put her in was no good for running with its layers of skirt. In the sun she'd overheat; in the rain she would be sodden. Even walking across gravel would be a struggle. She'd injure her feet in no time if she had to navigate the cobblestones of the city proper.
It was one way to keep someone prisoner, she thought. Give them no protection against the elements or the outside world. Inside the palace, the air was pleasantly cool. Less pleasant were the bayonets of the guards glinting as they marched on either side of her.
They stopped outside a set of ornate wooden doors, and she recognised the insignia on the door handle, carved into the head of a kestrel. The royal bird. Two men in armour gazed at her suspiciously from behind their helmets.
"In," one of the guards grunted, nudging her forward with the butt of his rifle.
In she went, to a set of rooms that had once been the royal quarters, now sullied by Lord Avon's presence. Without warning, fear suffused her. She trembled with every step.
And there he was, Lord Avon himself, looking up from his desk as she approached. His ceremonial armour stood empty nearby, and he was wearing a loose cotton shirt and breeches. He wasn't armed. She scanned the room: an ornate spear hung from a bracket above the suit of armour, and on a nearby table a carving knife impaled the remains of a half-eaten chicken alongside a plate of fruit, bread and cheese. She'd go for the knife, if she had to...
"You look better," said Lord Avon by way of greeting. "I trust your service so far has been respectful?"
She frowned. What did he care if the servants treated her with respect?
"Have you been fed? Watered?"
He gestured over at the supper table, but though she hadn't eaten more than a few pieces of fruit since being brought to the palace, the food didn't look appetising. She felt sick.
"Yes," she said, "thank you."
"I want to commend you," he said, "for speaking up back at the fortress. That was very courageous."
She said nothing.
"I would like proof, however," he went on, "that you are what you say you are before we go any further."
He set a paper down on the desk and moved around towards her. Valerie's instinct was to flinch away. She held her ground.
"What's your name?"
So close, she thought. We were so close to killing him. What price was she going to pay for their failure? Was it worth gambling her life for the cause?
She took in a breath. "Why am I here?" She gestured at her gown. "Why did you dress me up?"
He smiled. Not a real smile, but rather the curl of a lip and glimpse of teeth that one might expect from a predator. A wolfish smile.
"You will address me as Lord Avon or my lord. As for your attire, I could hardly bring you into the palace as you were. Say hello to the witch who tried to kill me! No. You're the lucky Maskamery girl who caught the eye of the Chancellor. I've brought you into my entourage to serve as my consort, and for that I expect your gratitude."
"I'm overwhelmed with it, my lord."
She was sure that he didn't miss the sarcasm, but he chose to ignore it.
"But," he continued, "that's not the real reason you're here. It so happens that I have a task to perform that can only be done by a sorceress. Help me perform it, and I won't have you burned at the stake."
She did her best to look surprised. "What task?"
"What task, my lord. Your companion called you Val. Is that your name, Val?"
Was there any point in hiding it? He must have heard it already from Lord Gideon.
"Valerie," she answered, and then a second too late added, "my lord."
"Valerie." He said it with a certain satisfaction. "And your family name?"
She said nothing.
"How long have you been a member of the resistance?"
"I thought you wanted proof of my sorcery, my lord."
Avon raised his eyebrows. After a moment, he walked over to ring a bell on the wall. Within seconds, a manservant entered pushing a trolley table. On the table's metallic surface were an array of objects, but her eyes were drawn to one: a sword. Valerie was no expert in swords, so she couldn't say whether this was a well-made weapon, but she knew one thing: it held power. A faint light emanated from it, a magical pulse.
"These ten objects," Avon began.
"The sword," she interrupted before he could explain, and he blinked at her. She hadn't even looked at the other items—they ranged from a silver goblet to a pair of boots. All mundane. "The sword has power, my lord. Shall I tell you what it does?"
He nodded, impressed. She needed to touch it to learn more, so she approached the trolley and laid her hand on the hilt. The manservant almost stopped her, but Avon shook his head.
"It's... powerful," she said in some surprise. She hadn't expected that with its faint aura, but the magic in the blade was potent. She had only encountered one other object more powerful than this before, and that had been one of the crown jewels, Prince Bakra's most prized possession. "A curse-breaker. It can protect against any harmful magic... I think it could even cut a magical entity. Is this from the palace vault?"
"No," said Avon. "That sword belongs to me." Her eyes went wide and he explained: "It was given to me by my grandfather, who was an ambassador to Maskamere."
Valerie contemplated this as the servant departed with the ten items on the trolley. Avon's family had history in Maskamere. She hadn't known that, nor had she expected him to be in possession of a magical object when his own laws forbade it.
"Let me show you one more thing."
He held out his hand. His fingers were long, and he wore a silver ring on his middle finger that she felt sure was significant in Drakon, but she couldn't recall what that significance might be.
She stepped past him instead, clasping her hands in front of her. He took her meaning and let his hand drop, turning away to show her into the next room.
"The royal bedchamber," Avon said as she stepped inside. "A bed for a king."
It looked like it. Posts and headboard carved in—she almost gasped—the wood of a silvertree, while the bed covers themselves were red and gold silk. Curtains fluttered in the breeze from the open window, casting an amber light over the entire chamber.
"You recognise it?" He ran his hand over one of the posts, carved with roses growing from root to stem.
She nodded mutely.
"There's enough silverwood here to fashion staves for a small army of sorcerers. And the king warmed his back on it. They warned me when I first arrived that to sleep in this bed would not only be sacrilegious, it would also be dangerous. The silvertree would not bear the weight of a foreigner, a Drakonian, let alone one who had played a part in the murder of the queen. What do you think?"
Her heart was beating fast. She could feel the thrum of power emanating from the silverwood. Valerie approached the opposite post and set her hand on it, the swirl of magic warming her palm.
"You're right, my lord," she said. "This magic won't hurt anyone. It's a spell for a good night's sleep."
"As I thought. All these threats and superstitions. Maskamere was never as powerful as it liked to believe."
Was that meant as a warning? She stared at him, glad for the magic in the bedpost calming her nerves.
"How did you know? I mean, that one of us was a sorcerer."
"We have a way of detecting magic."
There was no chance he would tell her what that was. She stepped away from the bed.
"I thought the Drakonians wanted to destroy all the silvertrees. You tried, at least."
They'd uprooted or burned hundreds of them, purging the land of magic and rendering the priestesses powerless as a result. The worst fighting had been here in the capital city, Jairah, where magic still lingered. Hundreds of priestesses had died, and sorcerers of every stripe: healers, hedge witches, armourers, beastmasters, warlocks...
Yet she had already encountered three magical objects in the palace. The Drakonians had either failed to find them or chosen not to destroy them. Strange.
"Don't be insolent," he said. "What kind of magic do you practise?"
"I'm a dressmaker, my lord. I weave magic into garments—"
"Where?"
She pressed her lips together. Answering that question would get her family into trouble. Valerie might only be a distant relative—Aurelia, the family matriarch, was her great grandmother's sister—but they were Crescents, and they'd taken her in.
Avon stalked from one end of the bed to the other. "No doubt you're an asset to the resistance. I need you to swear your allegiance to me."
"But you haven't even told me what this task is—"
"Swear it," he said. "Do you think I'd allow a rogue sorceress into my home without a guarantee?"
She opened her mouth and then closed it again. Think! High Priestess Glynda had always said that there was power in promises. That once a priestess made an oath, she held to it.
"If you want a guarantee," she said slowly, "then I want one too. Promise me that you'll do me no harm, nor command anyone else to do me harm, and that you'll set me and my friend free. In return, I'll grant you one spell... my lord."
He stared at her and she met his gaze, determined not to blink first. What was that gleam in his eyes? He looked fascinated, as if he were admiring a prize specimen, one of the royal kestrels or a great cat from the jungle.
"You're quite the negotiator," Avon said softly. "You do realise that I could have your friend killed. Perhaps you should mind his life before you overstep your place here."
"I understand, my lord. It's your choice."
"Hmm. Very well. You will perform the spell I ask when I ask. Until then I won't harm you, nor will I order any harm to come to you, and when the task is done your life will be spared."
Her heart hammered. "What about freeing us?"
"That you'll have to convince me you deserve. It wouldn't be wise to release a convicted traitor, would it?"
It's not exactly wise to keep one by your side either, she thought.
She nodded. "Thank you, my lord."
He had twisted her words—only promising that she wouldn't be harmed until she had performed a spell for him, but if nothing else that would buy her some time. It was the best she could do.
"This way."
He ushered her out of the bedchamber, back through his quarters and into—she didn't know what she had expected—another equally lavish set of royal quarters. An embroidered couch took pride of place in front of the coffee table and fireplace. By the bay window, a golden harp stood untouched next to a small dining table and two chairs. Its strings glimmered with a magical hue. An open door led to the bedchamber. She didn't know where to look first.
"These were the queen's quarters," said Avon, and a chill ran through her.
The queen! Queen Shikra, who had been dead for over two years now, and yet this place looked as if she might return to her favourite seat at any moment. Queen Shikra, who had been the most powerful woman in the queendom, Maska's direct descendant and sole possessor of the goldentree's blessing. Valerie had never seen her face, let alone met her. But she had listened to Bakra's stories, and she had imagined the queen dancing in a splendid ballroom, a vision of scarlet beauty, in those long hours she had toiled away on that rose-red gown.
She had never imagined sleeping in the dead queen's bed.
"Sleep here for now," Avon went on. "Let the servants know if you need anything. We'll meet for breakfast in the morning."
"Thank you, my lord," she said, because she didn't know what else to say.
"Good night."
He nodded at her, and she didn't quite manage to nod back before he turned away, closing the door behind him. A long moment passed. Valerie stood still, breathing in and out. She had saved herself, maybe, for one night at least. She had promised to perform a task that she had no idea whether she could perform, because she had no idea what it was. And she was going to sleep in the bed of a queen, in a room next to the Chancellor she had plotted to assassinate.
It could be worse, she thought, and almost laughed at the absurdity of it.
Yes, it could be worse. What on earth was she supposed to do now?