Treacherous Witch

"The sad truth is that neither beauty nor virtue are hallmarks of power. The lowliest woman in the world could also be the kindest. Maska forged that connection. She built our nation to reward those who lead with wisdom and grace. What does your Empire reward? Greed. You love beauty. You admire virtue. And all you want is to claim it for yourself."

Interview with Queen Shikra III, as told to Master Anwen

Descending the grand staircase, Valerie felt like a beacon in her royal gown. Rose-red, defiant, glowing with life. In another world, she could have been queen. This could all have been real, not this play-pretend for the benefit of the Enyrn court. She was out of place, out of her element, and far, far beyond her domain.

And there was Lord Avon, waiting for her in the entrance hall. The guests were already filing through to the ballroom. Was he out of place too? He stepped forward to meet her, his expression betraying nothing but calm. Without the permanent scowl he'd worn in the past few days, she might almost call him handsome in his jacket and tails.

"Lord Avon." She curtsied smoothly, telling herself that he couldn't hear her heart thumping in her chest.

"Lady Valerie." He took her arm.

Enyrn custom dictated that dance partners did not see each other until they entered the party, and she was a little gratified to find that Avon couldn't take his eyes off her.

He wasn't the only one looking. As the ballroom filled up, it seemed as if everyone was looking at them. She felt the attention as if it were palpable. This had become normal to her in the palace in Jairah, where Avon commanded any room he entered. It struck her all over again here in this castle by the sea, leagues from Maskamere and even farther from Drakon.

Even in Enyr, he was the most powerful person in the room. The Empire's influence stretched far beyond its borders.

It was an odd feeling, this reflection of power. Whispers followed them. Her face burned. She hoped the paint on her skin stopped her cheeks from turning as red as her dress.

They stopped beneath a grand chandelier. Pillars lined the hall where the guests stood to watch, but the ballroom itself was a wide, open space. Musicians played gentle music on a stage at the front. As Lord Hafnir stepped forward, the music stopped. A great hush descended.

A nervous tremor ran through her body.

Avon squeezed her hand. "Relax," he murmured. "Just follow my lead."

They were third in line to the dance floor. First was Lord Hafnir and his partner, an Enyrn woman who walked with the delicate precision of a ballerina. Next was Lord Dryden and Pedram, his favourite courtier. No doubt it didn't hurt that Pedram was Enyrn too, which perhaps gave a favourable impression to this court. Then she felt Avon move and walked with him, holding her head high and trying to look only at the stage at the far end of the hall.

Avon took her into hold. She was vaguely aware of other couples joining them. At least they wouldn't be alone.

She recognised the opening notes of the waltz and looked into her lord's eyes.

Mastery over the self. If I can't do this, what hope do I have of overcoming him?

Avon's eyes burned into hers as they locked into step. She let muscle memory take over, following his lead. Everything else—the ballroom, the audience, the other dancers, even the music—faded into a blur. They glided across the floor. Avon smiled at her, which was strange. It softened his whole face. She nearly smiled back, but then he glanced sideways and took a longer turn that made her stumble. Air whooshed past her face as they narrowly avoided colliding with another couple. They hadn't practised navigating the floor with other dancers around.

She refocused on the steps, but her shoulders tensed. Only a few seconds left, she thought, forcing her trembling arms to maintain position. She was sweating with concentration.

Avon twirled her around for the final flourish, then drew her back, one arm around her waist, the other extending her arm into the air. The music ended, and polite applause filled the air.

She'd done it. She'd gotten through it.

Avon's breath tickled her ear. "Well done."

She smiled, then stopped. Don't be silly. Placate him, don't fawn over him.

The second she could excuse herself, she did, slipping away to the buffet table where the guests could enjoy the local cuisine. Lady Melody joined her. Valerie poured herself an extra-large glass of wine.

"What a display," Melody said. "I fear you stole Dryden's thunder."

"I just did what we practised." As often with Lady Melody, she'd been presented with a statement for which she could think of no suitable response.

"Oh, not the dance, darling. You won't be winning any awards for that. No, your dress. Did Lord Avon approve of those colours?"

She flushed. "Yes, he did."

"Interesting. It's quite a statement to make—a Maskamery trophy, if you like—"

"There you are," an oily voice interrupted. Lord Gideon joined them, immediately popping a prawn into his mouth. "Lady Valerie, you look ravishing. May I have this dance?"

She stared at him and almost refused until Lady Melody nudged her forward. Later, she learned that swapping dance partners was another Enyrn tradition. It didn't seem like the ladies had much choice in the matter. She danced with Lord Gideon, who leered at her and whose hands kept slipping below her waist; then Lord Hafnir, who was elegant and gracious; then Lord Dryden, who gave her a searching look that reminded her of Avon.

He looked about Avon's age too, though thinner, with high cheekbones, freckles, and sideburns that accentuated the planes of his face. A handsome scholar, perhaps, if she favoured the sharp features common to many Drakonians.

"I've heard a lot about you," he said.

"Good things, I hope, my lord," she said lightly.

He smiled. "Lord Avon is an old friend. I suppose I'm quite protective of him. I wouldn't want him led astray."

Her muscles tensed. She forced her shoulders down. "Led astray?"

"By sorcery and guile."

"I don't know what you mean, my lord."

"I know the Maskamery royal family. Some things in that palace are best left undisturbed."

"If you believe that, convince Lord Avon. You don't need to convince me."

"Really?"

"Why would I want to give the Drakonian Empire more wealth?"

"I don't imagine that's what you want."

She bit back her frustration. "Then what do you think I want, my lord?"

"I saw a man bewitched once. He would have done anything for the witch who ensnared him. Did, actually. He took a bullet that was meant for her, and that was that."

"Maybe he loved her."

"James has more sense than that," Dryden said, and she wondered for a moment who he was talking about until she remembered that James was Lord Avon's first name. "You're pretty, to be sure, but I don't see why you'd be worth the hassle."

"Maybe I can please him in a way that you can't."

She knew that she'd hit the mark from the way his face flushed. If he was so concerned, he should have talked to Avon. Either he had tried to convince Avon already that she was a bad prospect and failed, or he hadn't tried because he didn't think he'd succeed. Either way was a win for her.

"If you have any sense of decency," said Dryden stiffly as the music came to an end, "you'll refrain from working your sorcery. I've yet to meet one of your kind with such restraint, but I live in hope. Good night, my lady."

He kissed her hand and retreated. She watched his back, wondering when she had become the wicked witch. He'd gotten it all backwards. Why? A simple misunderstanding?

A whisper grazed her ear. "Valerie."

Lord Avon held out his arm and she took it. They joined a throng of Enyrn guests, where Valerie smiled at the ogling men and nodded at the ladies complimenting her dress. Once or twice she caught Lord Dryden looking at her, but he didn't join them.

Finally, when her feet were aching from her high heels and she was sick of smiling, one of the gentlemen suggested they return to the dance floor. Perhaps her dismay showed on her face because Avon politely declined.

"If you'll excuse us."

He took her hand. Valerie didn't protest, following him out of the ballroom and through the entrance hall. A few other guests milled around the hall, away from the main party, but Avon continued on. They climbed a spiral staircase. Valerie slowed down as the music and chatter faded below, but Avon tugged at her hand. She had no choice but to go with him.

At the top of the spiral staircase, a cool draught swirled through the open doors. An Enyrn guard allowed them to pass through to the battlements. At once, her skin prickled with goosebumps. High above the sea, beneath the open sky, they could see for miles around. Beyond the battlement, she looked across the spit of land that led away from the castle and into Enyr proper, a rocky cliff pocked with tall grass that swayed in the breeze.

It was so different to Maskamere. And they'd come up here alone, away from the other guests. Why?

Avon glanced at her. "I thought you might appreciate some fresh air."

He'd slowed to a gentle stroll, as if they were taking a romantic walk in the gardens in Jairah. The battlements stretched all the way around the castle's perimeter, guards stationed at the cardinal points. The height didn't bother her. His hand closed around hers did.

"Well done tonight," Avon went on. "Your conduct was exemplary. What did you think of Lord Dryden?"

She frowned. "Does it matter what I think?"

"By all accounts you have an opinion."

"He... seemed like a perfect gentleman. But I don't know much about him."

He stopped by one of the turrets, finally releasing her hand. There he leaned over and gazed at the waves crashing against the rocks far below. She clutched her hand over her other arm, not quite daring to step away.

"We were old school friends," said Avon. "He spent five years working for the Master of Foreign Affairs, seven years as Master of Trade with Enyr, and the last two as Master of Trade with Maskamere. It's thanks to him that Maskamere avoided a famine. He saved the people from starvation."

What was she supposed to say to that? Be grateful that he'd done something positive for her people? There wouldn't have been a famine in the first place if the Empire hadn't invaded.

She swallowed. "I didn't know."

"The Emperor is displeased at Maskamere's lack of productivity these past two years. It's my duty to turn our fortunes around. Reaffirming our ties with Enyr is one way to do that."

"I thought Enyr was allied with the crown."

"Why do you say that?"

"I..." She stopped. "We've been trade partners for centuries. I learned about it at the convent."

"Nothing to do with your time with the resistance, then."

"No, my lord. I've never been to Enyr before."

This place—the black castle, the wild water, even the smell of the salt in the air—was all unfamiliar. A hundred feet below, the moon shone down on a rocky shore. It was beautiful, but she'd find no shelter if she ran away here. She'd have no idea where to go.

Avon looked at her. "When are you going to stop lying to me, Valerie?"

Her stomach dropped. What did he mean? She'd done nothing wrong.

"I'm not lying, my lord. This is my first time in Enyr."

"Not about Enyr. About the resistance."

She backed away. Her heart was racing again, but with a little more distance between them she felt oddly reckless.

"You asked me to lie. I'm only doing as you've asked."

His brow furrowed. "I asked you to lie?"

"Every day pretending that I'm with you. This... charade of us together."

She gestured at her dress, the beautiful scarlet gown that she'd made a mockery of tonight. Dancing with her sworn enemy, parading her nation's colours for the amusement of these foreigners. A Maskamery trophy. The parading she understood. This was something else.

"It doesn't have to be a charade."

She froze. "What?"

"Would you believe me if I told you I wish Maskamere to prosper?"

"No. Not in a way that helps any of us. All you want is more wealth for the Empire."

He took a step forward and she tensed. "I believe it's possible to achieve both. This trade deal will benefit everyone. The war with the resistance only drains our resources."

"Why are you telling me this?"

It was as if he wanted to convince her. He'd never bothered before. She didn't think he cared about her opinion.

Avon sighed. "Why do you think I brought you here?"

"I don't know, my lord. I assumed the dress had something to do with it."

That got a slight smile. "You're right, in a fashion, about Lord Dryden. He's not here to represent the interests of the Maskamery people. He's here to represent the interests of the Drakonian Empire in respect of Maskamere. You on the other hand are the best person I know to represent the other face of Maskamere—the native population, so to speak."

"But..." She stopped. This didn't make any sense. He'd told her only earlier that evening that he expected her to be polite at dinner—in effect, to shut up and do as she was told. "I'm not representing anything. You haven't let me."

"I'd like to talk with you more."

"You mean about the resistance."

"That, and Maskamery politics and culture. Affairs at court. Your practice of sorcery."

The latter was the only one he'd shown interest in previously. She didn't like this change, and she couldn't interpret it as anything other than yet another tactic to get her to talk about the resistance.

He stepped forward, and she shrank back as he clasped her shoulder. She looked down, mouth dry. She couldn't think of anything to say.

"Look at me," he said.

She obeyed, afraid to meet his eyes. He drew her closer, placing one hand on her waist. It was a little like their ballroom hold, she thought dimly.

"It doesn't have to be a charade," he said. "I would like to..."

He stroked her hair, and she trembled. She'd seen his eyes like this before, full of desire. Should she let this happen? Wouldn't it be satisfying to lure him in like the wicked witch Lord Dryden believed she was, only to reveal that she'd intended to betray him all along? The thought made her shiver.

His lips brushed her cheek, feather-light. Then, when she didn't pull away, he kissed her mouth. A strange frisson went through her, half-fear, half-want. Confused, she brought her hands up to press against his chest. He straightened, taking her hands.

"I thought you wanted to regain my favour."

"Not like this."

He leaned in again. This time she pulled away, shaking her head.

"I'll curse you if you do this. I'll make you wither away."

He stilled. "You can't."

"I can."

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"I think you are."

They stared at each other, and she could picture him thinking through the logic as she had done. He could call her bluff... but was it worth the risk?

He exhaled and turned away, and she let out a breath.

"Come, then," he said. "Let's call it a night."

*

She was still tense as they made their way back to their quarters. He'd shown his hand, and she had only an empty bluff to keep him from playing it. They entered the room, which was shrouded in dark. Lord Avon moved over to light the oil lamp.

"I'll call a maid," he said.

She nodded, sitting down on the chaise longue to remove her shoes and the blisters that had plagued her half the night. Then she removed the clip from her hair, running her fingers through the loose curls. She wished that she could sleep in her own bed in the room she shared above the Crescent store with her cousins. Or even in the queen's bed at the palace. Just somewhere of her own.

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of the maid. Avon bid her enter, and Valerie blinked as the girl hurried in carrying a soft blanket and pillow.

"Here," said Avon, and the maid dropped the blanket and pillow on the chaise longue next to her. "That will be all, thank you."

The maid curtsied and left, and Valerie looked up at Avon.

"Is that...?"

"For you," he answered. "If you wish."

Relief filled her. She let out a breath. All evening he let that hang over me. And she couldn't say anything about it.

She rose. "Thank you."

He approached, and she moved away to begin braiding her hair. Ordinarily the maid would have done this, but he'd dismissed her. Before the palace it would have been her cousin Lavinia. Avon watched her through the mirror.

"I don't want you to run. I'd prefer it if you chose to serve me."

His presumption knew no bounds. Did she dare ask again about their deal? She considered it. Maybe it was better to say nothing and act as if it stood. He'd spoken more words to her tonight than all the nights since her escape attempt. Clearly, he wanted reconciliation of some kind.

"You were right, you know," he went on.

She weaved her fingers through her hair, a soothing pattern. "About what?"

"That I should have expected nothing less from the girl who tried to kill me. I intend to change your mind about that."

Good luck, she thought.

"Thank you, my lord," she said, "for giving me some space. I appreciate it."

He stepped forward and laid a hand on her shoulder. She tensed up, but his fingers merely tightened against her skin.

"Good night, Valerie."

"Good night, my lord."

She was grateful that she didn't tremble.