by Tim Marquitz
Hours after nightfall, Emerald lay beneath the cloth tarp that fluttered gently in the light breeze. Exhausted from the day’s travel and excitement, she tossed and turned, fitful, her mind frustratingly sharp despite her weariness. She could hear the deep rumble of Fulrik’s snores. She envied his peace of mind, the mercenary asleep within minutes after determining his companion would take first watch.
Fearful of alerting the passing patrols of Red Guard, which had been flying overhead with alarming frequency, they’d foregone the fire. In its absence, the night was alive with the chittered voices of insects and the rustling of the trees, either by the breeze or by creatures she could not see nor chose to imagine. The night was bold without the fear of flames to hold it back.
Earlier, Emerald could pick out the sound of Donlen’s heavy steps as he strode about the perimeter of the camp, but she hadn’t heard him in a while. She presumed he too had fallen asleep somewhere in the dark, the gentle lull of the crickets a siren’s song whose drone was compelling. Even the horses were still. Sadly immune to the song, Emerald grunted as she rolled to her side, trying to find a relaxing spot on the unforgiving ground. Though still a ways from her time, the swell of her belly made every position uncomfortable.
The snap of a twig stopped her squirming cold. She held her breath and listened. Fulrik’s snores continued without interruption, but all else had gone silent, the insects and trees as still as the air in her lungs. Her mind told her it was Donlen, but a fluttering ache in her belly screamed otherwise. She heard another gentle footfall as a deeper shade of darkness enveloped the tarp above. Afraid to make a sound, she bit back a shout when she spied furtive movement just beyond her makeshift tent. She felt her will gathering, her magic coming to her defense against her wishes. Terrified of what her power might do to her unborn child, Emerald forced her magic to abate just as a pair of dark leather boots appeared before the opening to her shelter. She went to scream but a blackened shadow slipped beneath the tarp and a calloused, rough hand clasped tight against her lips, her eyes squeezing shut of their own accord.
“Be still, Emerald, it’s only me.”
She recognized the graveled voice instantly and opened her eyes to be certain. The frantic dash of her heart sputtered and lost its drive as she loosed a warm breath against his hand. A smile showed bright from within his thick beard.
“Victor,” she whispered as he slid his hand from her lips to her cheek. She dove to embrace him.
His quiet chuckle tickled her ear. “It’s good to be missed.”
She clutched to his chest, her arms unable to touch at his back for the mass of him. The metal plates of his armor dug into her tender breasts and arms, but she didn’t care. The musky scent she so fondly remembered wafted to her nose and she drew it in, reveling in his closeness. No words were spoken as she clung to him as though fearing she might be swept away from his embrace, the sounds of the night returning to serenade them softly.
After a long moment, Victor shifted and pulled away, the brightness of his gaze settling on her. His smile was gone. She missed it immediately.
“I’m sorry if I scared you.” His voice was a reedy whisper. He gestured to the skies above. “Your mother’s army scours the wilderness in search of a warlock who dared to attack the Red Guard. You must be even more cautious now.”
Emerald grasped one of his hands and pulled it to her, setting its palm against her belly. “We are safe with you here.”
He sighed, letting his hand linger a moment in a gentle caress before easing it away. “I cannot stay, my love.” He ran his fingers across her cheek to wipe away a tear she hadn’t noticed had fallen. “The Council doubts my loyalty; your mother most of all. If I were to stay, she would find us. I have no doubt she tracks me somehow through the accursed sigils she set within my skin.” He held his arms out so she could see the dark swirls that discolored his arms. “I will not put you further at risk, nor will I endanger our child.” A soft smile broke against his lips. “You must trust that Donlen and Fulrik will see you safely to your destination, where you will find the help you need.”
“I can’t do this alone, Victor.” She entwined her fingers about his, bringing his hand to her breast. She had never felt so lonely. The only home she’d ever known was miles away and unwelcoming, the forest no less so. “Stay with me, please.”
He shook his head with somber conviction. “I cannot.” He disengaged his hand from hers. “You know full well what would happen to our child—our son—should Deborah find you. They will take him from you…from us. He can be nothing but an abomination in their eyes. They will slaughter him, Emerald, as though he were no better than a beast.” She could feel the heat of his words.
Emerald drew back, her tears flowing free in warm trails across her cheeks. She knew he spoke the truth but hated it, knowing her own mother would gladly tear the baby from her womb to bathe in its blood; his blood. It would make the woman happy to see Emerald suffer, believing it would make her stronger, more fit to rule. So unlike her mother, Emerald wanted none of that. If kindness was a weakness, she would rather suffer its pall than become like her mother: hard and cruel. She would never let that woman take her child.
Her stomach churned at the thought, and she turned away from Victor and scrambled to the edge of the shelter to purge the vile truth. She hunched just inches above the ground, her sides wracked with spasms as her meager dinner spilled onto the earth. She fought to remain quiet, uncertain of her success. Through the haze she felt a strong hand at her back, its stroking touch soft, yet insistent. After a few moments, she drew herself up and wiped the spittle from her lips with her sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” Victor told her.
She waved his words away, swallowing to find her voice. “It is for the best, my love.” She drew in a deep breath, the air sour from her sickness. “You speak only the words I need to hear. It is my fear that speaks for me, my thoughts twisted by it. I know what we do is right. We cannot be caught.”
Victor crept closer. “You need not fear, Emerald. While I cannot remain with you, I am always close.” He reached behind his back and retrieved a leather-bound package, which he held out to her. “And with this, I am assured of your safety.”
The package settled lightly into her hands. She plucked at the tie and pulled the leather apart to reveal what lay inside. Nestled within was a short dagger. The golden hilt curled delicately to end in a pommel carved to resemble a griffon. Red rubies stood out as its eyes, glistening even in the night’s darkness. She set her hand upon the chilled hilt and tugged the dagger free of its simple, unadorned sheath and gasped when she saw the blade.
It shined silvery, as if possessed of its own illumination. Like liquid steel, it undulated and rippled. She could feel the power that wafted from it. Emerald tore her eyes from the mesmerizing blade and met Victor’s amused stare.
“No one would dare to stand before a quicksilver blade.” He smiled. “You remember your lessons?”
She nodded numbly, Victor teaching her the ways of the blade seemed so long ago.
“Good. Keep it well hidden, but close at hand, on you at all times. Use it as you must, but only then. More importantly, it is attuned to my blood. I will know when it has been pulled from its sheath, and I will come for you.”
Emerald glanced back at the dagger and slid it reverently back into its cover. She clutched it to her, feeling the strength of it as it washed over her. “Thank you.”
Victor leaned in close and kissed her forehead, the wild whiskers of his beard tickling her eyelids. He sat back, only the remnants of his smile still on his lips. “I have given directions to Donlen, to help guide you on your way. You haven’t much further to go, your destination measured in just days now.” He stood hunched and backed out from beneath the shelter. Emerald followed him.
She wrapped her arms about him once more, feeling her courage build as she held him tight. All too soon, he pressed her away, their eyes locking.
“I must go, my
love, lest I bring the wrath of your mother down upon us.” He kissed her deep, pulling away with a smile. “Once you have met with Elizabeth, and she has performed the ritual, draw the blade so I might know you are safe. It would ease my heart to know.”
She nodded, uncertain of her voice. He kissed her once more and whispered his goodbyes, then drifted into the woods to disappear. Emerald stared after him for a moment, her breath shallow. Her heart beat heavily in her chest. She clutched to the dagger, listening for any sound that might indicate Victor was still somewhere nearby. There was nothing but Fulrik’s raspy snores and the quiet whinny of one of the horses. At the crunch of leaves behind her, she turned to spy Donlen emerging from the far side of the camp. He waved to her and came over.
“You saw the Lord?” He kept his voice low. His eyes darted to the dagger, then back to her face in a rush.
She nodded.
“We head out early. You might try to get some sleep before we do. We’ve a long few days ahead.”
Emerald mustered a smile. Donlen nodded and headed back toward the trees. Like with Victor, she watched until he faded into the foliage. She glanced at her makeshift shelter and felt her stomach rumble. There’d be no more sleeping there, the scent of her sickness a reminder of her fear.
She went to the nearest of the large trees that cast a leafy green ceiling overtop and dropped down beside its trunk. The buildup of humus was soft and fragrant, and no worse than the ground she’d picked to set her shelter, so she settled atop it. She drew a small pile of foliage under her head to use as a pillow, and lay upon her back, glancing up through the cracks in the canopy.
The branches swayed in gentle rhythm with the wind, the star-speckled sky popping in and out of sight. She watched the movement with slowly closing eyes, holding the blade clutched tight to her chest. She had left her world behind, her inheritance, everything she’d ever known. Her fingers tracing the line of her belly as she hoped she hadn’t been a fool.
After but a few moments, a yawn stretched her mouth. Victor’s visit had been a balm to her restlessness. She drew in a deep breath of the musky forest air and knew no more.
Seven
Deborah pushed her way into the throne room, shoving the heavy doors aside. The servant behind her leapt to the one nearest and grabbed its handle just before it struck the inner wall. The other door hit with a resounding boom, the throne room echoing with its clatter.
“This had better be worth dragging me from my bed.” She stared at Gracelin who met her stare with boldness.
“I would not have done so if it were not.” She grinned, her joy contagious.
Deborah sighed and strode to stand in front of the Green Witch, the slightest touch of a smile brightening her own lips. “Then tell me, woman. I’m in no mood for surprises.”
“I’m certain you’ll enjoy this surprise.” Gracelin shooed the servant away, speaking only once the door was closed, despite Deborah’s insistent glare. “I have word of Elizabeth.”
Deborah’s smile broke across her mouth, spilling onto her cheeks. “Tell me.”
Gracelin took her hands in hers. “One of the Red Guard captains patrolling near the waste lands received word from a villager, more fearful of us than the resistance, it would seem.” She squeezed Deborah’s hands. “He told her a number of armed men had passed through their village but days before, led by an older woman with wild streaks of blue in her hair.”
“It’s Elizabeth, most certain.”
Gracelin nodded. “No other witch would dare wear the signs of her shame so brazenly.”
“And the village?”
“Deliton. The man told the captain that the resistance had headed northeast of the town, in the direction of Corilea, by way of Cammpras.”
Deborah pulled away from the Green Witch and strode up the stairs to her throne, dropping down heavily. “She comes here? What an interesting tactic.”
“If that is truly her intent, I would say it’s more foolish.” Gracelin came to stand before her. “She would need an army to wage war against the seat of our domain. Given the number of Red Guard we retain at the walls alone, she would be slain before she reached the city gates, without us needing so much as to raise a hand in our own defense.”
“Elizabeth is no fool. Perhaps she hopes to distract us, or mislead us into drawing our forces back to Corilea. That would give her free reign to traipse about Mynistiria without being seen.”
“Perhaps, but we’d be the fools were we to pass this opportunity by without response.” She knelt beside the throne, gazing up at Deborah. “Now is the time to make use of Shade. If Elizabeth has set a trap, then Shade can sniff it out for us. But if our informant has spoken the truth of what he has seen, then the assassin can make the most of it by bringing us Elizabeth’s head.”
The White Witch leaned back into the throne, her stare locked on the brown pools of Gracelin’s eyes. She sat silent for a moment, her mind spinning. At last, she gave a quick nod. “You are right.” She set a smooth hand on Gracelin’s cheek and traced the line of her jaw gently with a finger. “Send Shade to me. I would have her on her way.”
Gracelin smiled up at her and rose slow. “We can end this now,” she said as she backed toward the edge of the dais. “Just as I could years ago, I can imagine the day you rule unopposed.” She loosed a quiet laugh and nearly danced down the stairs, flowing from the room without a backward glance.
Deborah’s grin fell from her face once Gracelin was gone, not willing to give in to the woman’s hopeful optimism. She, too, could picture the day, though it had been long in coming. Nineteen years had slipped away since she’d taken the throne, but her victory could never be complete as long as Elizabeth still lived. She was the last of the witches who had known Alise’s true will, the desire that burned most fiercely in the woman’s heart. Alise would have had the Council step down, eliminating it in favor of letting the people rule their own destinies. It was her wish to stop the culling of warlocks, and to embrace them as one of their own.
Deborah felt her lips pulled unconsciously into a sneer and smoothed them with her palm. She had argued with Alise, bartered, even begged, but the former White Witch would not budge. She had been bound and determined to bring about a new world where witches were no better than the rest of the rabble in a society of equals. It sickened Deborah to think of it, even now.
Within the blood of a warlock was hidden the key to immortality, and Alise would have given it away without a thought, condemning all of their sisters to the same pitiful end as the human roaches that skittered across the carcass of the land. They were naught but bugs to be exterminated; to be ruled.
So Deborah did what she must, and Alise was sent to her grave before she could set her plans in motion, but the truth of what she intended still lived on in Elizabeth, a witness to the blood that stained Deborah’s hands. With word of Bourne’s location at last, she hoped to strangle the truth into silence.
A knock at the door pulled her from her grim reverie. She called out as she wiped all trace of emotion from her face. Shade stepped inside, drifting gracefully down the aisle toward the dais. Deborah watched her approach with wistful silence.
Tall for a woman, Shade stood at least six feet. Beneath the distorting bulk of the hardened leather plates sewn into the midnight black of her outfit, she was lean and wiry with muscle. Her hair cut to the scalp beneath the mask she wore, Deborah could see nothing but the shimmering blue of her eyes that peered from the narrow slits cut into the mask. She strode to the stairs and bowed deep, the swords hung at her hips curving out and away as if they were the twin tails of a dark scorpion. She rose to meet Deborah’s gaze, her arms at rest behind her back.
“Welcome, Shade. I have a mission for you.”
Shade nodded, the blackness of her mask giving away none of the expressions beneath.
“Please, remove the mask. I would see the face of those to whom I speak.”
“Of course.” Shade reached up and pulled her covering a
side with efficient ease, her arm settling once more behind her.
Deborah smiled as she gazed at her assassin. A face so rarely seen, the White Witch had nearly forgotten what lay beneath the concealing cloth. Fiery stubble sat atop her head, the hair of her eyebrows long by comparison. Beneath the cold stare of her eyes was a face that might once have been considered pretty, but the patchwork of puckered scars raised across its pale surface obliterated any comparison to true beauty. Shade’s nose, the cartilage whittled down nearly to the bone, was little more than a round dot above her thin lips. Her cheeks stood out prominently with puckered flesh, adding a superficial thickness to what had once been a narrow countenance.
Deborah stared a moment at the ruin of Shade’s face, before remembering her manners and bringing her gaze up to meet the assassin’s. Shade seemed not to care.
“There has been news of Elizabeth Bourne,” Deborah said, motioning Shade up to the top of the dais. Once she was there, the White Witch continued. “I would have you confirm whether the information is true or false. Should it be proven true, my wish is that you put Elizabeth to the fire.” She clasped her hands, her knuckles turning white. “I want her dead. It’s as simple as that. I don’t care how you accomplish it, be it quick or cruel, but bring me her lifeless head.”
Shade’s lips peeled back into a horrific semblance of a smile. “I understand.” Her voice flowed out smooth, melodic even, a sharp counterpoint to the damage that marred the woman’s appearance.
The White Witch met the assassin’s smile with her own. “Succeed in this and great will be your reward. You might just find yourself with a seat upon the High Council when all is said and done.”
Baring her teeth, Shade’s smile turned into a hideous grin. “That would be wonderful, indeed.” She bowed and slid her mask over her head, hiding her features once more. “I’ll send word soon.” She straightened and left the room without waiting to be dismissed.
Deborah watched as the assassin left, the image of the woman’s face etched upon her mind’s eye. For all her pity for the ruin of Shade’s appearance, beneath the scarred exterior was a woman forged in the finest of steels. Deborah could have chosen no better weapon.
