The day comes when they run out of road. The north has fallen. They make for the mountain pass—and as luck would have it, Valerie knows this place better than anyone else. The ruins of her village rot in the valley below.


    The Drakonians pursue them, and—


    *


    When she woke up, Valerie had no idea where she was. It took her a moment to realise that she was resting on Avon, his chest acting as a warm if not soft pillow. She blinked, looking up to find him already gazing at her.


    “Good morning,” he said.


    She cleared her throat. “Were you watching me sleep?”


    “Well, you looked so peaceful. I was afraid to wake you.”


    There was a rare sweetness in his expression, here together before the weight of the day. She liked it, and she brushed her fingers along his jaw, liking the rough texture of his stubble too. She could have stayed in this cosy bubble for another half hour at least, but Avon’s half-amused look reminded her that they did in fact have things to do today.


    Outside, the sun had risen. Valerie sat up, and her illusion of privacy immediately shattered when she saw her maidservant Cilla nosing about the room. The girl picked up and folded her discarded gown.


    She opened her mouth, then closed it again when the Admiral ambled in—fully dressed, thank Maska—and plonked himself down in the wing-backed armchair opposite them.


    “Excellent day for shooting,” he said. “Bright, light breeze, dry as—”


    Avon sat up. “Uncle!”


    The Admiral waved a hand. “Where’s my morning brew? My brother will be here any minute. Chop, chop.”


    His valet, the older man who had accompanied the Admiral to the lodge, hurried in and bowed before dashing off again.


    The Admiral nodded at Valerie. “Room’s all yours, my lady.”


    Realising that he’d done her a favour, Valerie nodded back. No rest. Things to do. She yawned, stretched, wrapped the blanket around herself, and got to her feet.


    “Good luck,” she said.


    With that, she bid the two men farewell and returned to the bedchamber where she had left most of her things. The first thing she checked was the locket, tucked away in her sewing kit. It hadn’t been touched, of course. She didn’t think the Admiral was the sort of man who would pry through a lady’s belongings.


    Cilla helped her to wash and dress, then Valerie dismissed the maid and headed for the room next door.


    “Anwen? Can I come in?”


    She heard a muffled “yes” and entered the room. There she found the old scholar crouched with his tailcoat sweeping the floor, hastily stuffing books and papers into his red leather suitcase.


    “What are you doing?” Somehow, the sight distressed her. “Are you leaving already?”


    Anwen stood up with a groan. “Ah—not quite. I must keep up appearances for the Emperor. I’ll slip away quietly after the hunt. Forgive me. I’ve been a terrible nuisance.”


    “Don’t say that.”


    He shook his head. “No, no, don’t trouble yourself. I’m afraid we both understand my circumstances. I cannot be the guardian of the silvertree as Lord Avon wished.”


    She didn’t know what to say, hovering helplessly in the doorway while Anwen snapped the suitcase shut. He was right, of course. The curse prevented Anwen from performing the duty that Avon had intended for him. Worse, he would not be able to return to Maskamere. A lifetime of study, she thought, gone just like that.


    “Look on the bright side.” Anwen picked up the case, his eyes twinkling. “Now I should finish my book, hmm? I have a great deal of new material.”


    He was putting on a brave face. She would have been devastated. “I’m sorry the queen did that to you.”


    “She was only guarding her secrets. One might argue I deserve her ire. I told the Council even a little of what I had learned during my time in Maskamere, and in so doing facilitated the invasion of your country.” He looked at her, clear-eyed and sorrowful. “I apologise for my part.”


    Her heart twinged. Anwen had been so kind, so helpful… Even though she knew his privileges in Maskamere had come at the expense of her own people, she had always considered him a friend. Surely there’s a world where the priestesses and Anwen can study magic. If only we weren’t so divided.


    She managed a smile. “See, you were never a traitor. I’m still grateful for your help, Anwen.”


    His smile back was equally tremulous. “The feeling is mutual, my dear. Go on, there’s no need to fuss. Get your breakfast.”


    *


    Valerie joined Cilla in the kitchen for a late breakfast. Although she tried to make conversation, she got little in the way of response. The girl seemed nervous.


    She wasn’t the only one. All of the servants were avoiding her—perhaps the incident with Anwen had spooked them. Or perhaps their latest visitor had put them on edge


    The Emperor had arrived.


    The hunting party gathered in the lounge: Avon, his uncle, his father, Anwen and another new visitor, Rufus. She heard them laughing and joking about something or other. But she couldn’t join them. They’d agreed that Valerie would not reveal her presence in the lodge until the time came to interrogate the Emperor.


    She heard boots shuffling and coats ruffling in the other room and thought that the hunting party might finally be off. Then one set of footsteps headed towards her. The door swung open, and Valerie hurriedly stepped back—it must be one of the valets.


    A tall man wearing a hunting jacket, breeches and long leather boots entered the kitchen. Nope. Not a servant.


    It was Rufus.


    He stopped short at the sight of her. “Valerie?”This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Well, that proves Avon’s theory wrong, she thought. He’d been sure that none of the hunting party would so much as glance this way.


    She grabbed his arm, pulling him forward. “Quiet! I’m not here.”


    “You’re not…?” He gathered himself. “Right. Why are you not here?”


    She’d positioned them so that Rufus’ back was to the windowsill where the silvertree seedling still perched in its pot. He was far more likely to recognise it than any of the servants. His attention focused on her, of course, his gaze as sharp as ever, frown lines crinkling his brow.


    “None of your business,” she told him. “Keep your big mouth shut.”


    “Right, right.” He backed up against the counter, freeing himself from her grip. “Would Lord Avon disapprove of what you’re not doing here?”


    “No.”


    “You sure? Because last time—”


    “I didn’t rat you out, did I? So you owe me.”


    He gave a disbelieving laugh. “As I recall, you left me high and dry when I came to pick you up from the embassy. And I didn’t rat you out, so if anything, you owe me. What’s really going on?”


    They stared at each other. He cut a dashing figure in his hunting gear, she thought. It suited him better than the more elaborate Drakonian styles. But he wasn’t one of them, no matter how much he pretended. Avon didn’t know about the part he’d played in arranging the visit with Titus. She could change that in a moment.


    Another roar of laughter came from the next room. Someone mentioned Lord Falconer’s name.


    She raised her eyebrows. “You’d better go. What did you come in here for anyway?”


    He gave her a look, then snatched up an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter. “Shooting makes me peckish. Have a good day, my lady.”


    He buffed the apple against the lapel of his jacket, winked at her, then sauntered out. Valerie’s mouth turned dry. Too many witnesses, she thought. This plan of theirs had to be executed flawlessly, or else they would be in serious trouble.


    Speaking of… Valerie turned to Cilla, who had been watching all this time like a startled deer, her hands full of suds. Well, Valerie thought, the girl already feared her. She might as well lean into it.


    “Cilla,” she said. “Are you going to keep your mouth shut too?”


    The maid nodded.


    “Do you know what happens if you don’t?”


    Tears pricked Cilla’s eyes. She shook her head.


    Valerie smiled and patted the other girl’s arm. “Let’s keep it that way.”


    She peeked out of the window at the retreating hunting party: Avon, his father, his uncle, Rufus and Anwen, each dressed in their shooting gear and carrying hunting rifles. They were accompanied by their servants and a bloodhound that galloped eagerly into the moor. She waited until the dog’s barks faded into the distance, then turned back to survey the lodge.


    Cilla was the only other person who remained in the residence, and the maid seemed keen to stay out of her way. Valerie was happy to let her.


    She had a task to complete.


    *


    To say that Valerie was fatigued by the time the hunting party returned would be an understatement. The light was fading. Her throat was parched, her fingers stiff, and her head ached with a constant dull throb. She gulped down a glass of water and sent another wash of magic through her body, but at this point only sleep would soothe the itching in her eyes. She’d exhausted herself.


    Two failed attempts. One successful—but barely. She was not happy with the strength of the spell she had created.


    It would have to do.


    Shouts and barking alerted her to the party’s return. Cilla ran to the door. Valerie swept away all evidence of her work from the kitchen table, except for a single piece of fabric which she wrapped around her wrist.


    “Get him inside! Quickly!”


    She hurried to meet them, then stopped dead at the lounge entrance. Avon, Rufus and the Admiral carried a half-conscious Reinard into the room. His left leg was stained a dark crimson and dripping with blood. Anwen and one of the servants followed behind. Somewhere outside, the hound’s yapping ripped into the quiet evening air.


    “Valerie!” said Avon hoarsely. “My father needs healing, right now!”


    “What happened?” she gasped.


    “Shot in the thigh,” said Rufus. “An accident—”


    “Oh, my,” Anwen kept saying. “Oh my, oh my…”


    “My lady, please, tell us what you need.” The Admiral’s eyes pleaded with her. “He’s already lost a lot of blood.”


    They laid him down on the wolf-skin rug, Valerie wondering what had gone wrong. The plan had been to shoot the Admiral. Avon had refused to budge on that. They would shoot the Admiral, giving her power over the Emperor who would beg her to heal his brother…


    Valerie knelt down on the rug. “Fetch the silvertree! And get Anwen out of here—he can’t be near it.”


    There was a flurry of movement around her. Avon ordered Rufus to leave with Anwen and the other servants. She caught Rufus staring at her and gave him a sharp nod, which she hoped he understood. His gaze flickered, but he nodded back.


    “Don’t tell Ophelia,” Avon warned him. “My father is fine, do you hear me? He’ll be back at court tomorrow.”


    “Bright and early,” said Rufus. “I’ll see you there.”


    As Rufus and the others departed, the Admiral brought in the silvertree seedling, which he set down by the cabinet. Her magical senses flared into life, and she placed two fingers against the Emperor’s throat. His pulse was weak. He had indeed lost a lot of blood.


    “Sit him up,” she said, looking at Avon. “Admiral, there’s brandy in the kitchen. Can you fetch it?”


    “On it.” The Admiral strode off.


    Avon sat down behind his father and lifted him up so that Reinard’s head lolled in his arms, while the lower half of his body stretched out flat on the rug. The stench of blood filled the air. She unwrapped the fabric from her wrist and gave it to Avon without a word.


    “Reinard,” she whispered, grabbing his chin. “Can you hear me? Let me heal you.”


    The Emperor’s eyes opened. He groaned when he saw her, then wrenched violently in Avon’s grasp, but Avon held him.


    “Get—her—away,” Reinard croaked out.


    “You’ll die!” Avon hissed. “Now is not the time to be stubborn.”


    His fingers worked around the Emperor’s neck, first loosening his collar, then tying the strip of fabric around his neck. It was a cravat, a ruffled scrap of white silk that she’d destroyed a perfectly good nightdress to make.


    The Admiral returned with the flask of brandy, kneeling down beside his brother. “Drink,” he said. “It’ll take the edge off.”


    He tipped a drop or two into the Emperor’s mouth, then Reinard grabbed hold of the flask and downed a large gulp. He let go with a gasp, breathing heavily. His eyes focused on Valerie.


    “I need your permission,” she urged him. She could feel him getting weaker, but his skin acted as an impenetrable barrier. Injured as he was, she still lacked power over him. “Just say the word and I’ll heal you.”


    The Emperor merely glowered at her.


    Maska, she thought, maybe I should let him die. No one could argue he didn’t deserve it. Avon’s hands gripped his father’s shoulders hard enough to leave bruises.


    “Oh, for Divine’s sake, get a grip!” The Admiral slapped his brother’s thigh, and Reinard gasped in pain. “Are you going to die to prove a point?”


    Reinard laughed, a strange, raspy sound. His face twisted. “Do it.”


    The barrier vanished. Valerie moved her hand to the Emperor’s left leg, above the knee. He had been shot in a fleshy part of the thigh. The good news: the bullet hadn’t hit any major arteries. The bad news: it remained buried in his flesh. She could let him bleed out…


    For a moment, she was tempted. It would cause such chaos.


    But chaos could get her killed. Besides, she had promised Avon. The Emperor must live. She focused all her attention on stopping the bleeding. The dull ache behind her eyes became acute; her vision flickered, haloed in an aura of light.


    “Valerie,” said Avon.


    “Don’t interrupt me.” She grimaced, closing her eyes. She heard the Emperor’s ragged breaths, felt the erratic beat of his heart. The wound held. But… “We need to get the bullet out. There are tweezers in my room. Fetch them.”


    The Admiral’s heavy boots crossed the floor. It felt like he took an age, Valerie holding the wound until the world spun around her. Then he returned, and between the three of them, they coaxed the bullet out—Avon clamping his hand over his father’s mouth to stop the screaming, Valerie shifting it with her magic, and the Admiral finally digging in with the tweezers. There were bits of shrapnel too—she drew those out herself, willing the wound to knit together, his blood to replenish.


    She was soaked with sweat, her hair damp. Reinard stopped struggling, the tension slowly leaving his body. Finally, she let go. She had not fully healed the wound. But she’d done enough. The Emperor would not die tonight.


    “Is that it?” Reinard stared at her. His grey hair hung damp around his neck, but his gaze had lost none of its ferocity.


    “You’ll live,” she said. “That’s all you get.”


    While the Admiral moved his brother to the armchair by the fireplace and plied him with more brandy, Avon came over to her. He picked her up and she clung to him, grateful for his solid strength.


    “Are you all right?” he whispered.


    She nodded, finding a vestige of power to banish the migraine. The fatigue remained. She found that her legs were shaky, and with Avon’s help, she made her way over to the couch where they had slept the night before, collapsing with relief on the soft cushion. Avon squeezed her hand, then turned to the Emperor.


    Reinard finished off the brandy and stared up at his son, eyes glittering with malice.


    Avon scowled right back. “All right, Father. Let’s have a little talk.”