Chapter Thirty-One The Witch
Chapter Thirty-One
The Witch
Be careful of the fae. They’re in a terrible temper, and their respect for the Queen is waning. If aught can be done, sir, then please do it before they have us all dancing on coals or some other rot fae enjoy.
Source: Letter from Mary Sampson to the Spymaster
Two heartbeats after the knight and the fae had vanished, regret hit the Witch. She strode off in the direction where they’d gone, then began to run across the grass. But it was too late. The knight had disappeared. The borders of the Palace grounds were too thick with guards for the Witch to pass.
She felt dizzy; heartsick, maybe. The knight, her knight, had been there under her hands. And now she was gone. The Witch felt bereft and hated it.
She turned back toward the ball. If her absence had been noticed, there’d be trouble—for her, but hopefully for Sir Edmund too. If he was removed from his post guarding her, that would be one silver lining.
When she entered the ballroom her jaw tightened, stress ratcheting up inside her. The ball was quieter, the quartet playing calming music. No one was dancing. The Queen and her ladies-in-waiting were absent, and so were all the Palace incarnates. Edmund walked over to her swiftly.
“We’re heading out soon,” he said gruffly. “Stay here.”
“The ball’s barely started,” said the Witch.
“Well, a bloody incarnate tried to make a run for it, didn’t they? The Queen’s not happy. And now the Eternal Prince has been sighted, two days’ ride from London, so she’s utterly lost it.”
“Which incarnate?”
“The new one,” said Edmund. “The one this ball is for.”
The Witch looked around, scanning quickly, but there was no sign of Margaret. Meera approached, expression harried. “Come on,” she said, and gestured sharply for the Witch to follow her.
They left the Palace grounds and went to their barge on the river, where a handful of knights stood guard.
One of the Queen’s knights, her rose symbol on his armor, a man with a red beard visible beneath his helm, came up to Sir Edmund and grasped him by the shoulder.
They spoke for a long moment as the Witch stepped into the barge.
Then Edmund shook his head, pulled away, and followed.
The Witch would have asked what they’d been discussing, but she didn’t care enough to do so. She looked away, and thought of the knight.
Meera’s expression was tight, but even though the Witch was waiting to be scolded, nothing was said.
Whatever was causing Archivist Sharma dissatisfaction, apparently it was not the Witch’s jaunt in the gardens with her errant knight.
Somehow she’d escaped without anyone realizing who she had crossed paths with and what she’d done.
Anyone but Sir Edmund, at least. He was staring out of the barge, out at the city, expression sullen.
But she didn’t want the knight to be secret. She was afraid for the knight. If she spoke now, if she said her knight was in danger, perhaps she could save her.
And yet she didn’t speak; didn’t say a word to Meera, or the archivists who met the barge.
She said nothing as she walked back to her rooms; as Meera sent up another apprentice, who clumsily and sulkily unlaced her gown for her, then helped cut her out when they realized the sewn collar was a real problem.
She dragged on a robe. In her mirrors, she watched her door open and close, and open again as Edmund entered.
That was when she finally exploded.
“I don’t want you here anymore,” she said, voice harsh. “You failed me, at the Queen’s ball.”
“Failed you, did I?” His sullenness sharpened to anger on his face. “Go on, then, Witch. Tell me how.”
“You let the—the stranger drag me away.”
“Looked like you were letting yourself be dragged,” said Edmund. “And that was no stranger. I know who she was.”
The Witch’s hands clenched into fists.
“If you knew what she was, how could you let her go?” the Witch demanded.
“She’s—an incarnate, all on her own! Anything could happen to her.
You allowed me to be—to be misled and enchanted.
And you allowed her to be lost again. Tell the Queen you can’t serve me any longer.
Tell her you’re not fit to be a knight, because it’s the damn truth. ”
“I volunteered for this job,” Edmund said, voice low and angry like she’d never heard it before. “Not for your sake—you’re as sullen a bitch as I’ve ever known, Witch—but for hers. I gave you both time together, didn’t I? God knows I owed her that, even if I don’t owe you anything.”
The Witch reeled. “You know her?”
“I knew her once,” he said. “A lifetime ago. You really think she’d be safer trapped like you are?
” He scoffed. “If you had any sense, you would have run off with her. I gave you enough time. But I can’t do your thinking for you.
Tell me: Do you really think your life is good, Witch? Do you think it’s worth living?”
She said nothing.
“They’ve fucked you up, girl.”
“Get out,” she said.
“I’ll go, then,” he said. “But when you regret what you’ve chosen, you remember I would have helped you. And trust me, you will regret it. Staying here, letting them use you—that’s utter bullshit.”
She couldn’t rest. There, in her sleep clothes, she sat with her knees tucked to her chin. Finally, buzzing with adrenaline, she decided to do what she should have done all along. She went to Archivist Sharma’s quarters.
She padded silently down the winding stairs of her tower, then out along the battlements. A warder nodded politely as she passed, as he made his rounds along the Tower’s walls.
She walked into Aunt Meera’s tower, which mirrored her own, with a winding staircase leading up to wider rooms. The first door as she entered was Meera’s office, and it was shut.
She listened, just beyond the door. The need to move silently, drilled into her by Aunt Meera, had made her good at sneaking.
Now she could hear muddled voices. See light through the unlocked door.
Carefully, she nudged the door open a sliver and looked in.
Margaret was there, seated on a stool. Still in her gown. They’d caught her just recently, then. Around her were a milling group of archivists.
“The Laidly Wyrm is just a small tale,” the girl said. Her voice was small now, tired. Her scent, without the muddle of other incarnates around them to mask it, was filled with the crash of petrichor, sea-foam against rocks.
“From Bamborough, I believe,” said Harry, the apprentice who was clearly studying her. His eye was monocled, his brow furrowed.
“It hurts,” the girl said quietly. Looking closer, the Witch could see sweat on her skin. There was pain in her voice. One of the other archivists was doing something to her arm. The Witch couldn’t quite see it.
The archivist made a triumphant noise. Stepped back.
A spool of ink followed them, drawn by the urging of their hand.
The ink, the Witch realized with horror, was bound to a book on the table.
Her skin itched as she gazed on it. A slim volume, covered in brown leather, encircled by pulsing chains of ink. The Laidly Wyrm.
The Witch felt cold.
She watched the chains between the book and girl tighten. Margaret began to struggle. With a sigh, an archivist bound her to her chair with buckled straps of leather, as if her pain were no more than an inconvenience.
The Witch had seen those buckles before, on the chair Aunt Meera kept at the corner of her office. She had never thought about what they signified. A chill of horror ran through her now.
The Witch thought of the book with her own tale’s title on it—that torn book, leaking ink, almost beyond repair.
She thought of the other thin blue tome she’d broken free from its inky bindings.
There was something here she could almost touch or understand; something about herself and the archives, a huge knowledge that could change her utterly.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to see it. But looking at Margaret, crying out in pain, she wasn’t sure she could walk away from it either.
We can free the girl, a voice in her head said. You know we can. We can free them all. Please, for once, listen to me!
She flattened against the wall as the younger apprentices left Archivist Sharma’s offices. Mercifully, they did not see her.
She stayed there, heart hammering, until she was sure no more would come or go. Then she went and peered through the keyhole.
Head Archivist Roland and Archivist Sharma stood together. Margaret sat unconscious, face white with sweat. They were talking.
“With respect, sir, the risks are too high, just as they’ve always been,” said Meera.
Her hands were clasped together, knuckles white.
She looked nervous, in a way the Witch had never seen before.
“We discussed this, sir: The fact she remains an incarnate at all, and true to her tale, is a miracle after the damage her tome suffered. Binding her closer to her tome may break the tale entirely, and then the Copper Mountains and all the villages that surround them will be lost.”
“The Queen is fearful,” said Apollonius.
“The Witch has behaved. But her nature is her nature. And the archives, our canonical texts, must stand strong. We must make sure the Isle is the Isle the Queen created. We must stand by her. She asks that we try. I am skilled enough to end our binding if the Witch suffers ill effects.”
“Haven’t I proved myself, sir?” Meera’s voice quavered, then firmed. “Rearing her, training her. If you think I’ve failed—”
“Not at all, not at all,” Apollonius said. “You’re a credit to your post. You’ve done far more than I thought you were capable of.”
The Witch clenched her hands tight.
They were going to use that ink on her. Hurt her, as they’d hurt Margaret.
She could stay where she was, standing behind the door, and wait to be found. Or she could return to her room and delay whatever it was Apollonius intended to do with her. Either way, her first instinct was obedience.