Chapter Twenty-Seven The Witch
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Witch
I have little to report, sir. She’s quiet. Obedient. I’ve made discreet inquiries, but everyone agrees the Witch is a beaten animal.
Source: Letter from Warder Rupert Aske to the Spymaster
It was inevitable that she’d go back. She’d always been obedient to the will of the archivists, but now that she’d transgressed, the urge to do so again was strong. It was like putting ink to paper—you could never return to the blank page.
She thought often of that torn book, that tooled writing, that title. The Knight and the Witch. Her tale. Why had it burned at her—like hot lightning to her skull? Why had Adder led her to it? It was hers, of course, but it was forbidden.
The only thing that stopped her from returning was the presence of her new guard. Sir Edmund was irritating—sullenly quiet, radiating boredom, but stubbornly unwilling to leave her alone.
She was fixing some damaged print texts—dull work, nothing as luminously worthy as working on incarnate tomes for the Tower’s resident incarnate—in a workroom piled with books, shelves groaning under their weight.
She was standing at her work table, tools arrayed around her. He was leaning against the main door.
She heard him shift again. Yawn.
“Must you hover behind me?” the Witch snapped.
“It’s my job to watch over you.”
“I’m not doing anything dangerous,” the Witch pointed out. “Are you worried I’ll stab myself with a book? They’re not very sharp.”
“Some of your tools are,” Edmund said.
I’d rather stab you than myself, the Witch thought with irritation.
“I’m not going to hurt myself with those either. Do you think there’s a wayward assassin hiding behind the books? No? Then you can stand outside.” She pointed imperiously at the door, and finally he shuffled out and shut the door behind him.
She counted down ten seconds in her head, then went over to a shelf to the left and shoved it slightly with her elbow. Behind it was a window that led out to the battlements.
It wasn’t intentionally hidden, she guessed.
Bookcases had been shoved around the space so often that it must have been covered and immediately forgotten.
She climbed out of it now, and shimmied out onto the battlements.
Then, quickly, she walked her way down to the green that surrounded the White Tower.
The warders took no notice of her, assuming she was just another apprentice busy with her work.
She went to the side of the White Tower, slapping her hand against stone. The door Adder had made was gone.
“Adder,” she whispered. Then, a little louder, “Adder!”
Adder did not come, and no door was forthcoming. Feeling foolish, the Witch pressed her forehead against the cool stone.
If she were sensible, she’d head straight back to her workroom.
If she were sensible, she’d never have come here at all.
She straightened up and walked, bold as brass, into the White Tower proper.
She moved carefully up the narrow staircase, waiting until corridors emptied before going into them herself, a planned excuse caught behind her teeth, on her tongue, ready to use. I was asked to tell Archivist Sharma something confidential. I was told she was here. Direct me, please. And so forth.
No one stopped her. She made it to the room, and pushed the door open.
The Knight and the Witch was no longer set out—some other text was set in its place—but there were incarnate tomes in here. She could feel the teeth-itching magic of them, pressing against her skin. If she just looked through the shelves…
She peered closely at the shelves through the dim light of the room. So many titles, and none of them the one she was looking for. She stepped back, and looked again at the work table—and the book that was on it.
It was a slim blue volume—very slim. It was probably part of a larger collection of incarnate tomes.
Its name was so faded she could read nothing but an M followed by a brief blur of letters, and a T.
But what distracted her was what surrounded it.
A snarl of inky shadows was tangled around the book, shaped like rope, or perhaps like chains.
Limni ink. The Witch knew she shouldn’t touch it.
She knew it would hurt her. But that strange voice was whispering in her skull again—that awful, insistent voice.
Pick it up, the voice insisted. See what you’re capable of. Go on.
She hesitated, hands raised.
Stop being such a coward!
The Witch picked up the book in her left hand… and grasped the shadows with her right.
She felt a jolt go through her. Not pain—and it should have been pain. Instead she felt very alive, very aware of the snarled darkness in her palm. An old instinct welled up in her, and she tightened her grip. She tore the chain in two.
Images flashed through her mind: a woman in a hooded cloak, deep blue as midnight; a body in her arms, crowned and trailing blood; water, shimmering around a barge. She blinked hard, and the images crumbled to dust.
The shadows were gone. The book lay quiescent in her hands. There was a pool of limni ink now on the table.
The Witch dropped the book back on the table and stared down at her own hands.
I touched limni ink, she thought, with wonder and horror. How?
There were footsteps in the corridor. She held her breath until they passed, then emerged and hurried back to her workroom.
She’d just gotten back into the room and shoved the shelf into place when she heard a creak of the door. Panic and anger made her whirl on the spot to face Edmund without dissembling.
“I told you to wait outside,” snapped the Witch.
Edmund’s expression was shuttered and serious.
“Where did you go?” he asked.
“To the loo, if you really have to know,” said the Witch, which was an obvious bald-faced lie. If he wanted to question her, he was welcome to try. “What is it?”
“The Queen has summoned you,” said Sir Edmund.
“Me? What for?”
“I don’t know,” said Edmund. “Get ready. We’ve got to head out soon.”
They left by the Traitor’s Gate, in a boat with a covered compartment for its occupants, windows blacked out with cloth.
Even with the sights of the city concealed from her, leaving the archive often felt like leaping into icy water—a shock to her entire body that made her feel suddenly, achingly more alive.
Within the archive, tales were carefully controlled: bound, managed, settled into ink.
Beyond the Tower of London, errant tales lived and breathed, swimming through normal mortal lives.
She could feel the pull of the Eternal Prince—his tale coiling inside her skull. He lives and lives again. Eternal.
I wonder, she thought, how the Queen feels about losing her throne.
They arrived at the Palace, and were met by knights and guards, who guided them toward the White Hall. The Witch walked forward, caught between Head Archivist Roland and Archivist Sharma. Behind her walked Sir Edmund. She felt intensely caged, her palms clammy.
The Queen’s hallways were full of intense revelry—courtiers in fine gowns laughing and chattering in the corridors; the sound of lutes and music, from distant rooms.
The White Hall was thronged with people, all standing below the Queen, red-haired and white-faced upon her ugly throne.
Behind her throne was draped the hide of a dragon, bronze-scaled and shining.
Even as she bowed, the Witch could not look away from it.
The empty sockets of its eyes. Its talons, gold-tipped and speared against the wall.
One of the Queen’s pet incarnates was standing in court, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot: Owain, incarnate of the giant-killer Tom Hickathrift.
He’d had a growth spurt since she last saw him, and towered over the other courtiers, almost as if he were a giant himself.
If he was here, no doubt the others were too.
She never let them wander far. Sure enough, Mrs. Bell—incarnate from the tales of Mother Shipton—was on her usual seat in the corner, watching proceedings with unblinking, beady eyes. She gave the Witch a nod.
A girl already stood in front of the Court—bird-boned, no older than sixteen. Her hair was muddy brown. When she turned at the sound of the archivists’ entrance, the Witch saw that she had the faintest marks of scales at her cheeks. Their eyes met, then the girl looked away.
“Dear Apollonius!” the Queen crowed, delighted, her lips shaping a glorious smile. “Come. This girl must be tested.”
Apollonius returned some honeyed words to the Queen, as Meera examined the brown-haired girl, peering through the prism over her eye.
“Well?” Apollonius asked finally.
“She is indeed an incarnate,” said Meera. “The Laidly Wyrm. Congratulations, Your Majesty.”
There was a smattering of applause from the Court. The Witch’s stomach roiled.
The Queen clapped her own hands with delight. Behind her, her masked ladies-in-waiting mirrored the movement.
“We’ve met this one before!” said the Queen, visibly pleased.
“And in far less salubrious circumstances. When we dine together, little wyrm, let us tell you about the time we almost hunted you.” She turned her attention back to her Court.
“The new incarnate must be celebrated,” said the Queen.
“We must have a ball. It seems we always have the need to celebrate some such thing—how lucky the Isle is, to be so blessed.”
“We are lucky to have a Queen who ensures we are blessed,” Apollonius said, bowing deep.
The Witch looked down at her own shoes. The Witch remembered her own welcome party, when she was young enough to be terrified of large celebratory crowds of raucous adults, but old enough not to cry about it. Oh, she pitied the poor new incarnate dragged into court for another interminable ball.
“… and the Witch will attend, of course,” Archivist Roland was saying. His hand came to rest on her shoulder, pinning her in place, hot as a brand.