At the edge of the rocky crag, battered by the freezing wind, a withered old tree clings to life. Its roots stick out of the cliff like bones. Its branches wave and creak. Not a single leaf adorns its gnarled form.


    Perhaps this tree is a weary traveller like herself. The gentle woodlands of Maskamere lie far behind them. No silvertree blesses her with its magic. This tree, a straggler, may as well give up.


    Yet she admires its tenacity. Even here, in this most inhospitable place, there’s life. And where there’s life—


    *


    After a few days, the events at the hunting lodge felt like a surreal dream. Avon reported that his father had no memory of the interrogation. They’d passed off his limp as a sprained ankle, and Reinard had forgiven his brother for accidentally shooting him. Valerie received no thanks for her part in healing his wound, but she preferred silence to being blamed for the accident, and so far no one had contradicted their story.


    All in all, the plan had succeeded. If her spell hadn’t clouded the Emperor’s mind sufficiently, the alcohol had.


    Even so, she couldn’t help but feel a niggle of doubt. That gnawing worry had amplified on the second day when one of the valets returned the white silk cravat. No comment, no note. Just the tie draped over her chair.


    Had it all been too easy? Did the Emperor remember more than he was letting on? What if one of the servants blabbed about the shooting? What if Rufus betrayed them? What if—


    “Lady Valerie?”


    She blinked. Lord Beathan Rutherford, the Archbishop of Arden, peered at her from over his teacup. He was a petite, well-groomed man with thinning white hair and round glasses perched on the end of his nose. His pinky finger stuck out from the handle of the cup.


    “Would you like a scone?”


    He spoke softly, in an accent subtly different from the cut-glass Drakonian she had become accustomed to. A plump waiter presented a silver tray of jam, clotted cream and scones. She took one with a murmured thank you.


    Next to her, Ophelia also accepted a scone. It felt like an age ago that they’d arranged this get-together. They had come to a tearoom, a delightfully cosy parlour where ladies and gentlemen gathered to drink tea, eat tiny sandwiches, and gossip about each other. The gentle chatter provided a pleasant ambience. No one here knew her. They were simply two Drakonian ladies enjoying a day out.


    As for the Archbishop of Arden, he was the fifth out of the six names on her list of influential noblemen to meet. It almost seemed redundant after recent events. She kept going over the interrogation in her mind, trying to remember the Emperor’s exact words. We are not like them. What did it mean? How did the Patriarch know about the sword? Why did this knowledge give him such power over the Emperor?


    “I’m so sorry for my brother’s absence, Your Grace,” Ophelia was saying. “He has ever so much work to do, you know, and…”


    “I know,” said Lord Rutherford kindly. “You needn’t apologise. I understand he’s making his rounds with the Senate. There are rather a lot of us to get around.”


    Focus, she told herself. She still had a mystery to solve. If the Archbishop knew something worth knowing about the Patriarch, she would uncover it.


    “We appreciate you making the time for us, Your Grace.” Valerie scraped a generous amount of jam on her scone. “Are all the bishops going to vote with the Patriarch?”


    Rutherford hesitated. “Most, I expect.”


    “Including you?”


    This time the Archbishop coughed and took off his glasses, cleaning them on his sleeve before he returned them to his nose. Valerie didn’t need magic to sense Ophelia getting flustered, the other girl glancing around the tearoom as if checking for eavesdroppers.


    “Well…” said Rutherford. “That is a rather complicated question. I… Forgive me, I wouldn’t expect you to act as a spokesperson for Lord Avon. Given the, ah, delicate circumstance of the election and your part in…”


    He trailed off. Drakonians, she thought. They could never get straight to the point. Poor Ophelia had flushed bright red, but she had promised to play chaperone and so couldn’t back out.


    “You can say it,” she said. “You mean after I was accused of bewitching Lord Avon.”


    “Yes, well…”


    “Do you believe it?”


    His throat bobbed. “I couldn’t say.”


    “Then why did you agree to meet us?”


    The Archbishop glanced at Ophelia, then back at Valerie. “I confess, out of curiosity. I certainly didn’t expect to receive your invitation. I’ve never met a sorceress before, and in a tearoom of all places.”


    He gave an awkward chuckle, and Ophelia immediately joined in. “This place is darling, don’t you think? I’m taking Lady Valerie to all my favourite spots.”


    “All part of my education,” Valerie agreed, shoving down her impatience. Clearly the old man needed buttering up before he’d answer her questions. “I have so much to learn about Drakonian culture and customs. Actually, that’s why Lord Avon recommended that we write to you in particular, Your Grace.”


    Rutherford raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”


    “Lord Avon told me you’re the wisest priest he knows,” she said. “I don’t understand a thing when it comes to spiritual matters, but you must know everything about the bishops and the Divine teachings and what it all means…”


    “Yes, well…”


    He said it in quite a different tone to her previous line of questioning. She could see the Archbishop puffing up even as she spoke.


    “Would you mind terribly if I asked a few questions?” she pressed. “If it isn’t too much of an imposition.”


    He pushed his glasses up along his nose. “Of course, my lady. I could never turn down an opportunity to share the Divine.”


    “Is it complicated, then?” she asked. “Supporting the Patriarch?”


    The Archbishop took a long sip of his tea, smacking his lips before answering. “Yes, in short. Not all of us follow the same doctrine. The Patriarch and most of his bishops are evangelists. That is the majority faith in Drakon. They believe that only their followers can ever achieve salvation and thus they have a duty to spread the Divinity to all people on this earth. I am a salvationist. So is Lord Avon, and so is Lady Ophelia.” He nodded at her before continuing: “We believe that salvation is unknowable, and so all we can do is live as virtuously as possible from one life to the next. But we’re the minority in Drakon, and the Patriarch exerts great pressure on us to conform.”A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Valerie listened to all of this with keen interest. Drakon was divided along sectarian as well as cultural lines. She understood now why Avon considered the Duke of Arden an ally—and the Archbishop too. They shared a common faith, even if Avon himself showed no interest in the church.


    She added a dollop of cream to an especially crumbly piece of scone. “What do you believe about magic?”


    Rutherford smiled. “Have you ever visited Arden, my lady?” She shook her head, and he went on: “Ah, you should. It’s the closest place in Drakon to your country, and home to a great many superstitions. Our emblem is the wyvern, and there is an old legend in Arden that the wyverns are holy guardians—protectors of the realm. Some still believe in their blessings. You may call it magic or providence, but as long as it is done in the light of the Divine, I don’t believe it to be a sin.”


    Ophelia nodded fervently. She had been following the Archbishop’s story with shining eyes. “Oh, I believe that too!” she said. “It’s exactly what my brother said. If a man of the church could only speak out for us…”


    “I would, my lady,” said Rutherford. “That is the path I might advocate for, were it not for the Patriarch.”


    Valerie pursed her lips. Again, the Patriarch was blocking their progress. “Do you know why he’s so against it?”


    The Archbishop shook his head. “You’ll be too young to remember this, Lady Ophelia, but when I was a boy, the sentiment against witchcraft was not this severe. Witches were to be shunned, of course. Distrusted. But I hardly gave Maskamere a thought in my sermons, and I doubt the evangelists did either. No, I’m afraid Rupert Gideon has done that damage. He’s given a great many speeches demonising your country, Lady Valerie, and in hindsight I’m sure that was quite deliberate. We in Arden would have much preferred to leave you alone.”


    “The Patriarch stirred up hatred against us?” Her heart sank. Whatever the Patriarch’s motive against her people, the further back into the past it stretched, the harder it would be to undo. “For years?”


    “For a long time, yes. Ironic, given his own interest as a young man.”


    “What?” she said at once.


    “Ah, my favourite anecdote about the Patriarch,” said Rutherford cheerfully. He seemed to have forgotten his earlier reticence; now he was in full flow. “As a young man, he visited us! He undertook a pilgrimage to Arden, and a rather unusual pilgrimage at that: he came to the Resurrected Monks.”


    “The Resurrected Monks?” Valerie leaned forward, trying not to sound too eager. The crumbs of her scone lay forgotten on her plate. She was agog.


    “Yes,” said Rutherford. “An obscure sect most famous for being the only monastery in Drakon solely devoted to the teachings of the Fifth Philosopher.”


    “Oh!” said Ophelia softly.


    “The Fifth Philosopher?”


    “Ah, you don’t know? The Divinity is not a single book. It’s a collection of works originally written by five great philosophers.” He counted them out on his fingers. “The Man of Wisdom, the Man of Virtue, the Man of Law, the Man of Knowledge… and the fifth and last, the Man of Truth. His work is the most abstract and difficult of the five. In fact, it’s mostly omitted from the church’s teachings today. He speaks of the cycle of death and rebirth, the foundation of our faith. He also claimed that he remembered his past lives, and that he would return in another life.” Rutherford chuckled. “You won’t hear the evangelists preaching about that.”


    Valerie’s mouth had gone dry. Her eyes met Ophelia’s, and she knew that they were thinking the same thing: Valerie had come back to life. Then there was the part that Ophelia didn’t know about: her past lives. She remembered them. Night after night, they crystallised in her mind like repeating sheets of music. Most played out the same, but there were discordant notes, new and different melodies that changed the final part of the song…


    Valerie had thus far ignored the Drakonian faith as an irrelevant imposition on her life. She did not want to convert. She did not want some Drakonian bishop preaching at her.


    But what if they knew more of sorcery than she had ever thought? If their so-called Divine miracles were magic by another name…


    “But the Patriarch visited these Resurrected Monks?” she prompted.


    Rutherford nodded. “This was before he became Patriarch, of course. He was another young priest searching for the Divine. And he travelled a long way to find the Resurrected Monks hidden up in the mountains.”


    “Why are they called Resurrected Monks?”


    A twinkle entered the Archbishop’s eye. “Because they were resurrected. A Divine miracle. Not that I believe it,” he added hastily. “The church would never endorse unverified claims.”


    “Maybe it was magic.” She was thinking out loud. “Do you think I could visit them? I mean, if Lord Avon and I came to Arden?”


    He chuckled. “Well, you’d be welcome to visit, but I’m afraid you won’t find them. The sect no longer exists.”


    “Why? What happened?”


    “No one knows. Rupert Gideon was the last person to see them alive. To the best of my knowledge, he’s never talked about it.”


    “What about the monastery?” Ophelia beat her to the question. “Didn’t anyone look for them?”


    “The monastery is up in the mountains, and the wyverns attack anyone who goes up there. The monks stopped coming down, and the locals stopped going up. This was forty years ago. I should think they’re all dead.”


    “Unless they were resurrected.”


    Rutherford saw her face and raised a hand. “Ah, my lady. I’m pleased you liked my story, but don’t take it too seriously.”


    Valerie wanted to believe it. He probably saw that. This could be nothing—lies and rumours from whatever backwater village lay closest to this monastery he spoke of—but it was the first real insight she’d gained into the Patriarch’s past. And this mention of resurrection was tantalising. She wanted to know more.


    “It sounds like a fairy tale.” Ophelia looked as enchanted as she felt. “But there must be something in it, mustn’t there, if the Patriarch really did go on that pilgrimage?”


    The Archbishop smiled. “Who knows? But I’m glad to entertain. I’m especially glad to entertain you, Lady Valerie, and your sincere interest in the Divine. You may tell Lord Avon that a show of faith will do wonders at the Senate. Not for the evangelists—they’re tied to the Patriarch—but to those like me…” He shrugged. “It could make all the difference.”


    Valerie forced herself to smile back. “I understand, Your Grace.”


    She couldn’t muster any real enthusiasm. She knew exactly what Rutherford was proposing—that she convert to the Drakonians’ barbaric church—and her very being railed against it. Even the thought of pretending to convert made her hackles raise.


    “You have our thanks, truly,” said Ophelia. “I know it is unbecoming to ask for your support, Your Grace… but it would make such a difference.”


    “Indeed. We shall see, we shall see. This was a pleasure either way.”


    With that, they rose from their seats. The Archbishop kissed their cheeks, a gesture familiar in Maskamere but apparently less so in Drakon, judging by Ophelia’s startled reaction. She recovered well, however, and they bid Rutherford a good day before heading out of the tearoom. Their carriage waited for them on the street.


    Ophelia linked arms with Valerie and whispered in her ear: “Did James really call him wise?”


    She grinned. “Nope.”


    “Oh, you’re such a liar! And that story about the Patriarch—do you think it—”


    She didn’t complete the sentence, because Valerie stopped dead in her tracks, throwing Ophelia off-balance. The other girl stumbled with a little cry before righting herself. But Valerie didn’t hear her. She had hit a solid wall—except there was no wall. The carriage was right there, parked on the side of the street. But she couldn''t reach it. She lifted her hands, pushing against an invisible barrier.


    Her heart leapt into her mouth. How…?


    Ophelia had already stepped beyond the barrier. Other passers-by crossed the street, some giving her funny looks. Why was she the only one affected? Is it magic? It has to be—but who?


    “Valerie,” said Ophelia uncertainly. “What are you doing?”


    Valerie looked around wildly. Someone was doing this. She cast out with her magical senses and found nothing, but then she was limited by the radius of the locket hidden in her hair.


    She spotted the culprit at the same time as the invisible barrier forced her back another step.


    The Archbishop, Lord Rutherford, was stepping into his own coach, a plum and bronze affair drawn by two fine chestnut horses. And stepping down from that carriage—its driver, a tall man in purple livery and a matching purple cap, his eyes intense, his mouth chanting words that she didn’t recognise. He thrust out a small object dangling from his hand.


    She was forced back again.


    “Valerie!” Ophelia looked quite bewildered. “The carriage is this way.”


    What was the driver holding? She squinted, mouth dry. Maddeningly, it was just beyond the limit of her own magical range. It looked like… a claw. A single curved black talon, bright as obsidian.


    Then Lord Rutherford called to his man to hurry up. As the driver retreated, so did the barrier. He climbed back into his seat, though his dark eyes never left her, then whipped the horses into action and set off, away from her, away from the tearoom, and away from Ophelia.


    Valerie dashed forward. “The driver! The Archbishop’s driver! Did you see him? Do you know who he is?”


    Ophelia followed her. “No… What happened? You’re acting so strange, Valerie, I don’t understand…”


    She was breathless, heart pounding. “He had a ward. That claw—the way he was holding it, he looked straight at me, and I couldn’t get near him…”


    “A ward?”


    Ophelia’s voice quavered. And Valerie understood the fear, she did. She’d felt it herself when she’d walked into that invisible force. But her heart pounded with excitement too.


    Because she had just encountered proof that magic existed in Drakon.