The Witch Queen's Secret

by Anna Elliott

“DO YOU RECOGNIZE HIM?” Dera asked. They’d been sitting in silence a time, the only sounds in the infirmary the harsh rattle of the man’s breathing. Outside, Dera could hear the fighting men who guarded the fortress shouting to one another, getting ready to move out and search for whoever it was had fired the arrow. She realized her belly was tight, knotted up with expecting every moment to hear those shouts turn to the battle screams and clashing swords that would mean Dinas Emrys was truly under attack.

  Lady Isolde nodded. “I think so. He’s one of King Madoc’s men, of course. But stationed here. I’ve seen him on the ramparts at night. His name is”—she stopped and frowned with trying to remember— “Bevan. That’s it. Bevan.”

  Almost like he was answering that, the man’s eyelids flickered. He was an older man, fifty, or thereabouts, with a nose that had been broken at least once, and purple veins like a spider’s web across his cheeks and nose.

  He let out another groan, and for a moment Dera thought he was going to wake. He slumped back an instant later, though, his eyes still shut. His skin was gray, now, and the hand Dera was holding felt colder, and still slack as a dead eel.

  Lady Isolde put a hand on his forehead. And then she jerked her fingers back, like the touch of his skin had burned her. “He was a traitor.” She was staring down at the man’s face, her face gone white to the lips, and Dera didn’t even think she knew she’d spoken. “He was paid to let a war band of Marche’s men into the fortress. But he went to them, demanding more money. And they shot him, instead. He”—Lady Isolde shut her eyes— “Marche said they’d already gotten as much information from him as they needed, and he was no use to them now.”

  Dera realized she was sitting and gaping—like a fish—again. She swallowed and said, feeling a bit surprised that her voice sounded nearly the same as it always did, “How do you—”

  “I saw it.” Lady Isolde was still chalky pale, and she was staring at the big man on the floor like she couldn’t believe he was real. “When I touched him. I saw the whole scene. Him—this man here—asking for more gold. And Ma— Marche”—she stumbled a little over the name— “ordering one of his archers to shoot. It was a cross bow bolt.” One of her fingers touched the shaft in the man’s chest. “He was on horseback, or he’d never have gotten away. But the horse bolted. They didn’t dare follow him too close to the fortress for fear of running into one of the guard patrols and giving themselves away.”

  Her voice was wavering, and she looked up. “How—how did I see that? The Sight is supposed to be gone. I gave it up. Years ago.” The words tumbled out, faster and faster. “I Saw Marche three months ago—that’s what gave me the evidence to prove him a traitor to the Council. But I thought—”

  She was staring up at something above Dera’s head, and when Dera turned, she saw there was a shelf that she’d never noticed before, high up on the infirmary wall. The shelf was empty except for a bronze bowl. It looked old—old as the stories about dragons. And it had designs etched into the signs. Dera could just make them out. A man with a deer’s antlers growing from his head. Twisting leaves, and snakes making hoops of their bodies by swallowing their own tails.

  Lady Isolde had locked her hands tight together, like she was trying to keep them from shaking, but Dera saw the shivers ripple through her from head to toe.

  Dera hoped she never had to be as brave as Lady Isolde was. And she’d never yet managed to call her ‘Isolde.’ But now it didn’t matter—she put her arms around Lady Isolde as if she were Jory’s age and hugged her tight. “There, now, lovey. It’s all right. Nothing to hurt or to harm. All’s well.”

  Which wasn’t true, any of it—but it seemed to help a bit, because after a minute, Lady Isolde stopped shaking and pulled away a bit. “I have to go—I have to tell someone about—”

  “You can’t!”

  “But Gwion should—”

  Lady Isolde had already started to get up, but Dera stopped her, squeezing her wrist hard, because the blank look in Lady Isolde’s eyes was scaring her. “What are you going to say? Tell a passel of soldiers to please listen to you and do as you say because a magic vision told you? You want to be burned to a cinder? Because that’s what’ll happen if they put you on trial as a witch again.”

  Some of the empty look went out of Lady Isolde’s eyes. Her hand was shaking, but she reached up and scrubbed a hand across her eyes. “You’re right. Goddess, I know you’re right. And yet we can’t risk it. I can’t risk not telling. If Dinas Emrys does come under attack—”

  She straightened, like she was trying to get up again, but Dera pushed her back. “Not yet. Just”—she waved a hand at the man on the floor— “see what else you can find out. That’s only sense, isn’t it? See if there’s anything else you can learn before you go rushing off to tell.”

  “I—” Lady Isolde swallowed. Then she nodded, still a bit shaky-like. “You’re right. It’s just—” she looked down at the man Bevan’s face. “It feels wrong. Using him like that—to gain information—when he’s dying.”

  “Maybe he’d be glad. Maybe he’s sorry for turning traitor, and would want to help you to make up for what he’s done. Anyhow,” Dera added, “No one deserves to die alone. And if someone’s got to hold his hand, it might as well be you.”

  Lady Isolde’s face was still white, but her mouth turned up just a bit, like she was trying to smile at that. “Thank you, Dera. I’m glad”—she stopped and squeezed Dera’s hand— “I’m so glad you’re here. All right.” She took a breath, and Dera saw her stiffen, like she was trying to brace herself. Then she slipped her hand into the wounded man’s. She shivered again, but this time she didn’t jerk back.

  After a moment, though, she shook her head. “All I’m getting is what he’d planned to do with the gold he was paid. Women and—” she stopped. “And I can feel the pain he’s in. It’s … terrible. He’s finding it harder and harder to get a breath, and”—she stopped again, and just lightly rested her free hand against his brow— “and he’s getting colder. He can’t feel his feet anymore.”

  She closed her eyes, and the muscles in her throat bobbed up and down as she swallowed, like she was trying to keep herself from being sick. Then she looked up.

  “King Madoc is on Ynys Mon with his war band. That’s only a day’s ride from here. If we could send one of the men left on guard here to get word to him—”

  Then she stopped, eyes gone suddenly wide. “But that’s just it. We can’t. Where there’s one traitor, there may be others, as well. That could be what … what Marche meant, when he said Bevan was no use to them. Maybe they’d found another warrior at Dinas Emrys willing to turn his coat for payment. If that is true, I won’t be able to see it—because Bevan doesn’t know himself, and never did. But that means—”

  “Even if we can figure a way to tell someone—ask one of the men to get word to King Madoc—we could be handing ourselves over to a traitor, like turkeys waddling straight up to the chopping block,” Dera finished for her. Sometime, without her noticing, the men must have ridden out, because the fortress was quiet, now. The infirmary walls seemed like they were pressing in around her, and Dera wasn’t doing any too well at getting a breath herself.

  “All right,” she said. She made her voice sound more certain than she felt. “Here’s what we’ve got to do.”

  PART III