"Silence is a valuable thing," I whispered, excluding the rest of the room from our discussion. Did he understand the extent of my family's influence and wealth? "It could make you a very rich man."
"Freedom is invaluable," he countered. Then he glanced over his shoulder, taking in the throngs of people who shamelessly leaned forward in a futile attempt to make out our conversation. In a voice even softer, he added: "And something tells me that the safety of your people is invaluable to you."
My temper flared. Did he think to threaten me? Would he really maim the innocent to achieve his goals? I swallowed down the urge to beat a lesson into him. Pride was not the matter at hand to be resolved. I was here as a mediator, to facilitate discussion and balance the ulterior motives of two powerful parties. Anger would not help those that I wished to protect.
"I don't think you want to see anyone hurt," I ventured, hoping to appeal to his better nature. The tactic had certainly worked on London.
"What I want and what I will do are two vastly different things."
It was like breathing in a cloud of golden glitter. The witch meant what he said. He was like a cornered animal, one that would commit atrocious acts in order to be freed of a threatening situation, regardless of its prior domestication. When pitted against the instinct of self-preservation, the rules of higher thinking were bound to fail.
Perhaps his fear can be tempered with curiosity, I thought as the witch stared at me without quite seeing me, utterly enraptured. Something told me he was witnessing the activation of my gift.
"Let's compromise," I proffered. "How about a trade: I'll ensure your immediate release if you relay your message for the occupants of this hall one more time?"
"Fine," he relented, relaxing for the first time. The atmosphere, which had been uncharacteristically heavy and bitter, thinned into its usual consistency as he did. "But there is one more bargain to be struck."
Of course, there was the cost of his silence regarding my gift. "What do you want?"
"A vial of your blood," he said, and the speed of his answer made me deeply suspicious. What would he do with the vial? Sell it on the black market, use it to make me someone's slave...? I didn't know enough about witches to feel confident about my stakes in the deal he proposed.
"I won't collect it now," the witch added flippantly, as though I'd already agreed to his terms. "But I will collect it soon."
I bared my teeth at him, hoping the crowd would mistake the gesture for a smile. The cornered animal had in turn cornered me. I hated making decisions without researching them. But what other choice did I have?
You can always kill him later, when he comes to collect, offered a small voice in the back of my head. It made me feel better. From what I understood of the witch race, the man before me was human, despite his ability to wield magic. His bones would snap easily beneath my strength if I caught him off guard.
"One vial," I hissed, turning back to the throne. Projecting my voice this time, I announced that he would relay the message again, on the condition of his immediate, subsequent release. "Do these terms suit you, Lord Nightshade?" I asked in summary.
"I suppose so," Father said. "Perform your magic, witch. Then be gone."
The witch tapped me on the shoulder. "Move," he said bluntly.
I retreated as he took in a slow breath and clasped his hands together, palm to palm, fingers interlocking. He chanted something in a strange language, and then something marvellous happened — the air around his hands warped and shimmered. The tattoos on his knuckles glowed brighter and brighter, until they practically beamed with emerald light.
Still chanting, the witch lifted his arms, causing the sleeves of his robes to slide back to his elbows. Not an inch of his skin was free of ink. Before I could make out his tattoos, the man tore his hands apart and shouted one final incantation.
Colourless energy erupted overhead with the bang of a popping balloon, startling the crowd. It fashioned a curving panel that rivalled the size of a theatre screen. I leaned forward on the tips of my toes, peering through the shimmering veil. The other side of the throne room was distorted and drab, thrown out of proportion as though I was looking through someone else's prescription glasses.
The magic screen took on colours and shapes of its own. Thirteen witches in colourful robes materialised in a line, facing the throne. One of them was familiar.
"Midna!" I called out, startled by her grandeur. On her last visit she'd been dressed casually, likely because she'd rushed over after an ominous vision in the late hours of the night. Now she looked positively regal in an amethyst robe, the sleeves of which were embroidered with gold and encrusted with precious stones. Her ebony hair was done in an elaborate wreath that secured her crown of thorns in place.
"Good afternoon, Chance Nightshade," she bid me, but it was a dispassionate greeting, neither warm nor cold. We weren't friends. I was foolish to have felt excited to see her.
Her aloofness reminded me she was indeed a powerful figure, probably inclined towards manipulating people to bring about the future she most desired. I wondered if I'd imagined her warmth towards me that night, when Richard brought news of Arthur's death. Perhaps she was simply trying to build a rapport with me, so I'd consider her request for a peaceful resolution more seriously, I thought, equal parts disgruntled and impressed. For the first time, I understood what it really meant for her to be a member of the Council of Thirteen.
One of the other witches in the mirage, a woman with blazing red hair and a proliferation of freckles and tattoos, turned on the witch I'd convinced to summon her. His dark robes and air of power were dreary compared to the brilliance of his thirteen leaders.
"Why have you summoned us, Lachlan?" she asked, with an imperious tone that instantly rubbed me the wrong way. "This meeting was not scheduled."
I almost snorted at that. He was so unusual, so intimidating, and his name was so normal. As if sensing my amusement, Lachlan pointed at me. I sobered immediately beneath the scrutiny of the thirteen most powerful witches in the world.
"My apologies, Megan," Lachlan said, inclining his head. "Ford wants a recap of our first meeting, for the benefit of his whel—" Lachlan cut off at the promise of annihilation in my eyes. "... daughter," he finished, and I nodded. That was much more accommodating.
The Council exchanged loaded glances. One member — a beardless man in the second half of his life, with a shock of white hair that matched his robe — stepped forward to speak on behalf of the others.
"We don't approve of this unwarranted summons," he said sternly. "Know that we will not tolerate this lack of decorum in the future. However, this situation will be chalked up to the Nightshade family's inexperience with our customs, and we'll leave it at that."
"Will you humour our request for a repetition of this morning's meeting?" I ventured into their disapproving silence. "I wasn't able to attend, but as the heir and advisor to the throne, it's imperative that I receive political information firsthand. These are difficult times."
The old man frowned. "Difficult times indeed. Your people insist on war. It is for this reason that we invite three of the Nightshade family and three of the Irephang family to visit the Incantum this evening, under the conditions of ceasefire, to discuss the approaching battle and the role witches will play in it."
"It's hard to bring three when only two Nightshades are left," Father muttered, with the bitterness of coffee dregs. I realised with a start that the news of Arthur's death was still a fresh wound for him. I mourned my brother's loss, but accepted it as a fact of life and had dedicated myself to moving forward. Father, on the other hand, was still struggling to come to terms with the fact it had happened at all. This was the first time I could recall in my entire life that I'd healed faster than my father.
"I request you extend the invitation to Jerome Blanc, the man engaged to my daughter," Father called out, seemingly on a whim. "He will share our blood soon enough."
I wanted to throw up at that insinuation. He was publicly announcing that we would drink each other's blood and become mates, now? I knew we were to be married, Jerome and I, but mates? That was commitment on a whole other level. To bond with him would be to sacrifice all privacy of mind and flesh. To bond with him would be the end of my autonomy itself.
The witches didn't seem bothered by this news in the least. "Very well, we extend our invitation to Jerome Blanc," the white-robed man said. "One of our people will arrive here at 7pm to escort you to the Incantum."
The tattooed woman added: "Leave your weapons at home, or there will be consequences."
"Blessed be," Midna said. The Council wavered before us, their brilliant forms guttering like candle flames. They were taking their leave.
"Wait!" Father shouted. "How do we know if this is a trap?"
Ah, this was it. This was the reason I'd been woken and brought from my room, the reason I hadn't been violently punished for my transgressions. Father needed me, needed my magic, to determine whether this invitation was a hoax. To understand the underlying motivation for his generosity was both a disappointment and a relief. Everything came back to my bloody gift, one way or another.
"It is not a trap," Midna assured us, and the truth of her words throbbed with each beat of my heart. Their invitation was genuine. "But we have no proof to offer you other than our word. Whether that is enough is up to you."
She winked at me, so quickly that I almost doubted she'd done it at all. Then the Council of Thirteen turned their backs on the throne in unison, their vibrant cloaks arcing behind them. The mirage imploded with an audible boom, raining down on the spectators in a cloud of silver dust. I felt a stab of fear for those it touched, only to quickly realise that it didn't hold the caustic properties of genuine silver. The magical stuff evaporated the instant it met the resistance of floor or flesh. Lachlan sagged with exhaustion. The summoning had taken its toll on him.
"Chance," Father boomed. "Is their word enough to reassure us?"
I turned around to face him. Would I let him use me?
"It is," I said, holding fast to the knowledge that I was using my gift for my own purposes as well as his. To meet with the witches would be to establish contact with London. And that was the first step in my plan to undermine my father. "It is."
Thoughts? Theories?
Stay toasty,
- AJ