—as they crest the next peak, Shikra stops.


    “I can go no further,” she tells them. “Go.”


    Valerie and her companions protest, but the queen insists. It was always meant to be this way. She will protect them.


    Drakonian boots march up the mountain. Valerie is last to leave, but her footsteps falter. There’s no magic in the air. It’s faded. Snuffed out like the silvertrees.


    She turns back. “I can’t leave you.”


    “You can,” Shikra says softly.


    “I can’t. You saved my life, I…”


    “You owe me a life-debt.” The queen smiles, always gentle, always kind. “Go.”


    *


    Father and son bristled at each other like two great birds of prey, wings hunched, talons ready to strike. Reinard’s injury did not make him less dangerous, Valerie thought, and if the alcohol had dulled his senses, he showed no sign of it. Avon stood tall by the fireplace, shadow looming over to where his uncle propped up Reinard’s bad leg on a footstool.


    She had done her part. Curled up in her seat, Valerie lay with her eyes half-closed and watched.


    “It’s time we spoke the truth,” said Avon. “Father, Lady Valerie just saved your life. And yet your behaviour towards her has been abhorrent from the start. Perhaps you’d like to apologise for misjudging her.”


    Reinard’s lip curled. “Perhaps you’d like to apologise for shooting me.”


    “That was my fault,” said the Admiral hurriedly. “Trigger finger slipped. I’m terribly sorry. If there’s anything I can do…”


    Surely it can’t have been an accident. Valerie frowned. Maybe the Admiral had shot his brother because he didn’t fancy getting injured himself. Or maybe he didn’t believe the ploy would work—after all, he had told Valerie exactly that—and so he’d taken matters into his own hands. Either way, if his actions had been deliberate, he had disobeyed Avon’s orders. She couldn’t imagine Avon being happy about that.


    “You can leave us,” said Reinard, turning on his brother. “I think you’ve done enough, don’t you?”


    “Ah… quite.”


    The Admiral rose, picking up the empty flask of brandy, and shuffled off with a sheepish look in Avon’s direction. With his uncle out of the room, Avon had lost an ally in this interrogation. Yet the Emperor hadn’t ordered her to leave. She figured that if she looked out of it enough, they might forget her…


    Avon regarded his father. “Did you really consider refusing Valerie’s magic?”


    The Emperor smiled grimly. “No.”


    “Then what perverse behaviour was that?”


    “The little witch has no choice. You wouldn’t let me die.”


    Reinard’s eyes gleamed. He was enjoying this, Valerie thought. The darker Avon’s face became, the more satisfied the Emperor appeared. Don’t lose control, she thought. He wants to provoke you.


    “Why does that matter?” Avon asked softly.


    “Ask her.”


    The two men looked at her. Valerie grimaced. So much for going unnoticed. “It matters because you owe me a life-debt,” she said. “You would be within my power now if only you had begged. But how do you know that?”


    “You followed my son’s command,” said Reinard. “I owe you nothing. Nor am I ignorant of your sorcery.”


    But, she thought with a jolt of excitement, the Emperor was ignorant to the fact that she had already bewitched him. He had yet to notice that he was answering all of their questions. No doubt the brandy helped. But the real culprit lay wrapped around his neck: the cravat. She had woven a truth-telling spell into that scrap of white silk, similar to the curse Valerie herself carried. She could not lie to Avon. In his current state, Reinard couldn’t lie to anyone.


    But she knew from experience that being unable to lie did not mean being unable to deceive. She would have to listen carefully.


    Avon, meanwhile, had come to a different realisation. “Grandfather,” he said. “Grandfather taught you the rules of magic. Help me understand. You ordered the purge. You wanted to wipe out magic in Maskamere, and you refuse to support my claim to Maskamere now. Why?”


    Reinard’s face darkened. “Have we not already discussed this? I am protecting you.”This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    “Protecting me from what?”


    She sensed the frustration in Avon’s voice and guessed that they had circled around this topic before. Surely the Emperor would repeat his argument about Avon being bewitched, then. He feared that Valerie might control his son, and by extension—


    “The Patriarch!” The Emperor curled his fists. “I’ve tried to tell you, and you refuse to listen, so have it plain: The Patriarch knows that only you can wield Maska’s sword. We are not like them. If he reveals the truth, our power will collapse, your witch will burn and my legacy will rot in the ground. I will not have you destroy us.”


    There was a stunned silence.


    Valerie swallowed, her head reeling. What did he mean? She hardly knew where to begin.


    Avon appeared to share her feelings. “What are you talking about? What madness is this?”


    “Did the Patriarch tell you to invade Maskamere?” she asked suddenly. “Is that what he wanted in return for keeping your secret?”


    Reinard nodded. “The destruction of magic is a holy crusade. A small price to pay to maintain our position.”


    She nearly choked. Her fatigue fell away; she sat up, eyes blazing, fingers burning. “A small price to pay? You invaded my home! You destroyed the silvertrees, you committed genocide—all because you were being blackmailed by the Patriarch?”


    “Don’t be ridiculous.” The Emperor’s dismissive tone sounded uncannily like his son. “We live or die by our reputation, and the two of you are determined to ruin it.”


    “You’re talking nonsense.” Avon’s hand drifted to his hip, but the sword wasn’t there. He hadn’t brought it with him. “The blade was passed to me, nothing more. Even if it were true, why does it matter?”


    Reinard only gave a grim chuckle. Groaning, he got to his feet, warning Avon off with a raised hand. “Enough. I’m going to bed.”


    “Tell us,” said Valerie. She felt the heat in her fingertips; she could have set the entire lodge ablaze. “Tell us why it matters.”


    But the Emperor ignored her. The spell she had weaved wasn’t strong enough. It could not force him to speak.


    Reinard limped across the room, and before either of them could react, he bent down, picked up the silvertree seedling pot, and flung it into the fire.


    The sound that left Valerie’s mouth was not a gasp. She could not have described it. It was something between an anguished wail and a note of pure shock. The pot hit the back of the fireplace where it shattered into pieces and set the tiny fragile seedling alight—and in the same moment, like a candle, her magic snuffed out. A wave of dizzying darkness hit her, as if she had been blinded.


    She wasn’t aware that she’d moved. She only knew that in her next moment of awareness, the fire danced hot before her eyes and Avon was pulling her away, his arms wrapped tight around her while she kicked and screamed.


    Heated words were exchanged. At some point, the Emperor departed. At some point, the Admiral returned, and they spoke of calming her down.


    He destroyed it. That was all she could think. Callously, carelessly, deliberately, the Emperor had murdered the silvertree in front of them. To Valerie, this act of sacrilege carried the same weight as the killing of an infant.


    Just like he had ordered the purge. The killing of the priestesses. The burning of all the silvertrees in Maskamere. And for what? Because he feared for his reputation?


    Hatred burned through her like lava, hot and viscous and angry. One man’s cowardice could not have cost her this much. He had made this decision every time. In every memory she relived, every night she died in her dreams, the Emperor had made the same choice.


    She dashed the tears from her eyes and made a vow: whether in this timeline or the next, the Emperor would die by her hand.


    *


    The embers of her anger gradually faded. In the dark of the bedchamber, Valerie clutched the silver locket to her breast and breathed in, calming herself.


    She thought she had become numb to the death of a silvertree. In some small way, the grief comforted her. She wanted to hold on to that feeling, the conviction that had too often wavered. She was a creature of few if any principles, but in Maska she always believed.


    The door to the bedchamber opened. Valerie shoved the locket beneath her pillow, then sat up primly as Avon approached.


    “I’m sorry,” he said. “Father…”


    She clasped her hands in her lap. “What’s done is done.”


    He joined her on the bed. She let him sit close, though neither of them touched the other. Finally, she looked up at him, and they both spoke at the same time:


    “Do you have any idea what he—”


    “Do you know what my father—”


    They stopped. Avon smiled. “I see we both have the same question. No, I have no idea what my father was talking about. Nor does my uncle.”


    “Did you know that only you can wield the sword? Is that true?”


    “I don’t know. It’s true that the blade was passed to me with some pomp and ceremony. My grandfather even said to me, let no other man wield it. But I did not take that as…” He trailed off.


    “A magical spell,” she supplied.


    “I should like to know if there is one. Blast Father for destroying the silvertree.”


    Valerie’s mouth tightened, nails digging into her palms. Avon noticed, pausing before he spoke again in a gentler tone.


    “Forgive me. He snuffed out a lifeline for you. That was not the price I wished to pay.”


    “You didn’t pay it.” She looked away. “I did.”


    Rationally, she knew that all wasn’t lost. She had the locket, even if she would have to pretend that she couldn’t use magic again. And they had learned something tonight, despite her frustration that the truth spell had not fully loosened Reinard’s tongue.


    If Avon felt guilty, however, who was she to deny him the pleasure of making it up to her?


    “I think,” said Avon after a moment, “it’s time we focused our attention on the shadow that lurks behind my father’s back. This goes beyond the election. We are dealing with a puppet master.”


    “The Patriarch,” she whispered.


    Even the name made her queasy. She hated the Emperor, but something about the Patriarch was just so off.


    “Will you help me stop him?”


    She looked up at Avon and found not a trace of guile; his face was entirely serious.


    “Yes,” she said. “But I won’t forgive your father.”


    His expression didn’t change. “Nor will I.”


    He lightly brushed her hand and wished her good night. Valerie watched him leave. For a second or two, she held herself upright and just breathed. Her thoughts were already starting to race. Then she climbed under the covers and buried her head into the pillow, trying to make sense of it all.


    Reinard hadn’t told them everything. She was certain of that. Examining the sword might help. If nothing else, she could check if only Avon could wield it, although that would be strange in itself. How could an enchanted blade inspire such fear? And how did the Patriarch even know about it in the first place?


    Only he could answer that. And though it had cost them the life of a silvertree, she now had a clear direction. The Patriarch had instigated the war. The Patriarch was blocking Avon’s reelection. To forge the path that she wanted—that she and Avon both wanted—they would need to remove the one man standing in their way.


    The question was no longer why the Emperor hated magic so much. The question was: Why did the Patriarch?