"Maskamere is built on cooperation, not conflict. When Drakonians talk about us, they speak of witchcraft or curses. But nearly all the sorcery we perform is done to help someone. I don't believe it should be a destructive force."

Interview with Queen Shikra III, as told to Master Anwen

Step one: Trick Lord Gideon into giving away his plan.

That night, there was a rap at her door. Valerie tucked her braid over her shoulder and rose to her feet.

"Come in."

Gideon entered. And even though she had invited him, she took an instinctive step back, fingernails digging into her palms. He looked oily and furtive, glancing around the room before his gaze swept her up and down.

"You can't stay long," she said. "Lord Avon is next door."

"Pity." He circled around her, taking in the fruits of her labour: the spindle, the cloth, the needle and thread. His fingers brushed the ruffled sleeve of her latest project, a summer gown. "You are a most lovely snare. What do you want?"

"I want your help to get the crown jewels and escape back to the resistance."

He scoffed. "In return for what?"

"You said that you were on my side, didn't you? What do you want?"

She'd wondered this since that night she'd spent in the dungeon. Gideon had claimed to be an ally. First he'd vouched for her. Then in the temple chamber he'd called her a liar. What game was he playing?

Gideon's expression twisted into an unpleasant leer. "Ah," he said. "Many things. But I have a simple request for you."

"What?"

"You open that door for me."

And there it was. For a moment she was speechless. Then she gathered herself, lifting her chin.

"You want the elixir. Fine. What will you do about Avon?"

"Me? Nothing. Leave that to your resistance."

She kept her voice steady. "That's not good enough. If I agree to this, I need to know that you'll do your part. How do I know that I can trust you?"

He laughed. "Good one! That's rich, coming from you. How many of your allies have you betrayed? Let's see... That lovely servant girl with the poison. Captain Viper, turned to dust. The witch in the north. Lord Thorne's Maskamery slut—"

"Her name is Flavia," she ground out, shaking with anger. "I've done nothing but protect her."

"Liar." Gideon advanced on her, his cane thudding on the wooden floorboards. "I've watched you play at court. You're a vicious, stuck-up little whore with a forked tongue and crooked teeth. Why should I trust you?"

She took another step back, fists clenched. Of course, she could lie all she wanted to Gideon. After dancing around her conversations with Avon, she felt as if she were stretching her muscles after a long journey in a cramped carriage.

And she could spit truths at him too.

"You know what, I don't like you either. I don't care if you trust me. Good luck getting that door open without me."

"Oh, don't do it because I want you to," he said. "Do it for Bakra."

"What?"

Gideon leaned on his cane with both hands and smiled. "Would you like to see your prince?"

She couldn't speak. Would she like to see the prince? Yes! She had so many questions for Bakra, she'd lost count. About the queen, the palace, the temple, his ambitions for the throne and the priesthood... And was this confirmation that Bakra was working with Gideon? Of all the people in the palace, Gideon was the one he'd put his faith in?

That seemed like a terrible idea.

"What does Bakra have to do with this?"

"The deal is done. The throne for the elixir. Unless you betray him too."

There was a long moment of silence.

Valerie swallowed thickly. "I don't believe you."

"He has the Masked Crown," said Gideon. "Good luck getting the crown jewels without me."

She had no answer to that.

"Fine," she said slowly. "I'll talk to the prince. And then I'll decide if we have a deal."

Gideon's smile widened. "Good girl."

*

Of course, any deal with Lord Gideon was a non-starter.

Valerie paced around her chamber, then sat down at her vanity and returned to her sewing. The repetitive nature of the needlework soothed her nerves. Had she thought of everything? The possibilities, the potential outcomes? Everyone else in this court planned ten steps ahead, so she had to do the same. She couldn't afford any more mistakes.

If Gideon was telling the truth, then he was betraying Lord Avon, and he might well have a good chance of succeeding with her support. Prince Bakra would take his throne, Gideon would get his elixir, and then... What? Return to Drakon? The Empire wouldn't sit back and accept defeat. Unless Gideon came to some kind of power-sharing arrangement with Bakra... Then what would become of the silvertrees? Had Bakra negotiated that too, or did he only care about his throne?

She filed that away as another question for the prince. This scenario she didn't like—even if they succeeded, it left her position uncertain and the Empire poised to retaliate.

And if Gideon was lying? He could be tricking her. Perhaps he and Avon were working together to lure the prince to the palace, in the same way Avon had used her as bait to get to Abbess Sopphora.

The other alternative was that Gideon intended to let the prince kill Avon first before betraying Bakra too. In that scenario, she would be a liability, a co-conspirator that he didn't trust. Her utility to him would vanish the second she opened that door, at which point she would become his biggest threat.

None of those options were good.

Time for step two.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Valerie put away her sewing kit and tore off a sheet of paper from the gold-lined notepad.

*

The following morning, Lord Avon summoned her to the aviary. This was a part of the palace grounds she had only ever passed by on her way to the stables. The groundskeeper's lodge overlooked a field bordering the river, and nearby a copse of oaks sheltered the aviary. The day was overcast, the path down past the lodge a little muddy. She lifted her skirts over her ankles, trying not to get pebbles in her shoes.

In her mind's eye, Lady Melody sniffed in disdain.

Avon was waiting by one of the cages with the falconer, an old Drakonian man with ruddy cheeks and big calloused hands. As she approached, the two guards accompanying her retreated, and the falconer bowed and hurried away.

"Lady Valerie."

Avon smiled, but for once he didn't grab her attention. He was wearing a falconer's glove, and she recognised the bird gripping his wrist with razor-sharp talons: a male kestrel with burnished orange wings and a fan-shaped tail. A leather hood covered its head.

"Beautiful, isn't he?" said Avon. "One of the few to survive the war. We think he's about three years old."

The kestrel's head swivelled, perhaps sensing her approach. Behind Avon, one of the other hawks in the cages screeched its displeasure.

"He's gorgeous."

She almost reached out, then Avon indicated another glove lying on a wooden stool by one of the cages.

"Would you like to hold him?"

She put on the glove. With Avon's guidance, she moved it to the kestrel's belly, the bird stepping on to her wrist. She felt its weight, the way it instinctively shifted to find its balance. Its claws pricked her even through the thick leather. Then Avon removed the bird's hood, and the kestrel flapped its wings, startling her.

"Hold still," said Avon. "That's all right."

He fed it a piece of dead chick from a pouch at his waist. Valerie watched in fascination as the kestrel gripped the morsel in its claws and tore off pieces with its beak.

"My lord!"

A cry in the distance. The old falconer was waving at them from the field. He had a lure attached to the end of a rope that he began to spin around in the air. The kestrel on her fist puffed up its feathers, its bright beady eyes spotting the lure.

"Let's fly him, shall we?" said Avon.

She only had to hold up her fist, and the kestrel launched off at once, going straight for the lure. Valerie laughed in delight.

"Can we watch?"

Avon took off their gloves first, placing both of them on the wooden stool. Then he followed her down to the fence at the edge of the field, where Valerie leaned over to watch the kestrel swoop and dive. They were caught in a dance, the falcon and the old man. The kestrel soared up with every failed pass, becoming a dark speck against the clouded sky, before diving in to snatch at the lure.

When the kestrel alighted in the nearby oak, she looked at Avon. "Don't they ever fly away?"

Though the bird wore light hunting jesses, the leather straps obviously didn't hinder its ability to fly.

"Sometimes," said Avon. "Sirius up there disappeared for nearly a week in the spring. But they always come back."

"How come?"

"They know they'll get food," said Avon, as the kestrel dived down to finally claim his prize. "And shelter. They're safe here. But most of all, I think, there's an inescapable bond between falcon and falconer. Harold has done a fine job."

"Because they trust him. They know he won't hurt them."

Harold, the old falconer, had attached another piece of meat as a lure. He swung the rope, and the dance began again.

There was a familiarity and ease in this hunting ritual, she thought, a routine known to both bird and human. Kestrels were the queen's messengers. Sirius's life would have been quite different if not for the war.

"Speaking of trust," said Avon, "how was your chat with Lord Gideon?"

He said it as casually as he'd spoken about the bird, and though she’d warned him that she believed Gideon was a traitor, the hairs on the back of Valerie's neck stood on end.

"He agreed to a deal," she said. "He wants what's behind the door."

"Well, we'll have to make sure he doesn't get it."

"You can't arrest him yet."

"Why not?"

"He offered me a chance to meet the prince."

He looked at her sharply. She told him what Gideon had said, including his claim that Bakra had the Masked Crown. Gideon was the key to both the crown and the prince. She knew Avon wouldn't pass up this chance.

"Ah," he said, when she'd finished, "and what are you planning, Valerie? What do you gain from telling me this?"

"It's not fair to ask that when I can't lie to you."

"That's precisely why I'm asking."

She inhaled the fresh air, leaning back against the fence. "Would you free me, my lord? After I break the seal?"

"If that's what you wish. Your debt to me will be complete. But I hope you'll stay."

She bit her lip. "To become your queen?"

"Do you want that or not?"

"What if there's nothing in there?" She looked at him, the harsh planes of his face. "What if the chamber is empty, or full of monsters, or cursed?"

"Then I will have miscalculated. But that would be my mistake, not yours. I made you a promise. I'll keep it no matter what we find there."

A moment passed in silence. She glanced back over the field. Sirius the kestrel had returned to his master's fist.

Was she stupid for believing Avon's promises? Unlike him, she had no guarantee.

"What happens when your father hears about me? Does he already know?"

"I'll deal with my father."

"And the other lords? They've hated me from the start. They'll never accept a Maskamery queen."

"They will, because they answer to me."

"It's not that easy."

"No," he admitted. "No, ruling is never easy. Have you found life at this court challenging, Val? Try the court in Drakon. It's a nest of vipers. Every lord in the Senate would happily stab either of us in the back for their own gain."

"Like Gideon."

"Gideon isn't the first, and he won't be the last. You didn't answer my question."

"What question?"

"What are you planning? Where do your loyalties lie?"

"That's two questions." He gave her a look and she shook her head. "Let me meet Prince Bakra. I'll take the Masked Crown, and then we'll have everything we need to open the seal. You can arrest Lord Gideon right then."

"I want the prince too."

"Then I'll bring him to you."

"That sounds like a trap."

She exhaled, then straightened up and stepped closer to him. His breath caught. They stared at each other, almost but not quite touching. He was quite handsome, she thought distantly. The way his hair fell over his eyes, shadowing his cheekbones. The intensity of his gaze, which had always intrigued her. She ought not to think that about a man who had murdered people she loved, but what could she do about her own feelings?

"If I wanted you dead, I could have killed you already," she said quietly. "You know that."

"I want Bakra dead," he said, and there was a deep fervour in his eyes. "I won't let him take you away from me. Anyone—the resistance, your family—anyone who tries to take you away from me will die, do you understand me?"

"James," she said, and stopped.

He went quiet. Then, eyes bright, he gently lifted his hand to stroke her hair. His fingertips brushed her skin and she shivered. She became aware of their breathing, the way the sound mingled with the soft rustling of the trees.

"Do you want me?" she asked.

"Yes."

"But do you want me as your equal?"

Did he understand what it meant to be queen of Maskamere? That her power would eclipse his, that he—as king or Chancellor or whatever title he fancied—he would answer to her.

Or did he want a Drakonian puppet-queen—a wife, little better than a courtesan, her only reward the knowledge that her son might some day take the crown? Except not, she thought, because Avon already had a son, and so even that privilege would be denied to her. A Drakonian-backed monarchy would not operate by Maskamere's rules. She'd raise some other woman's child and live out her days in the palace, a gilded cage.

Not her. He hadn't asked her to become his wife, perhaps because he knew what the answer would be.

Here, now, in the bare light of day, he considered her. That searching intelligence she'd noticed about him straight away was trained on her. She appreciated the way it flickered in his eyes, the slight crease in his brow.

"That is the question, isn't it," he murmured. "The source of our differences. And not only for me—for you too. Do you want me as your equal? I don't think you appreciate weakness."

"Neither do you."

A moment passed. Then he bent forward to kiss her, and this time she didn't hold back. She pressed her mouth against his and wrapped her arms around his neck, sinking, melting into him. His hands closed around her waist and stayed there when he drew back, holding her.

"Am I a fool for wanting you?" he asked softly.

It was like being drunk. She was nearly giddy with the sensation of his hand on her back.

"Maybe," she whispered, "but you're the smartest fool I've ever met. I can't promise I won't betray you. But I know you'll be ready."

"Come back to my quarters. Now—before any of our plans stand a chance of ruining this."

Her heart was racing. Surely he could hear it. No, no, no. Don't lose your leverage.

She shook her head, pulling away from his grasp. "No. Not while I'm your prisoner."

Slowly, with a clear look of frustration, he let go. His eyes never left her.

She returned to the palace without looking back—but she acted more composed than she felt. Inside she was jelly. The rest of the day's activities were distractions: luncheon, card games, a music recital. She should have been plotting the next stage of her plan. But she couldn't forget the warm press of his fingers or the heat of his mouth.

I want this, she thought. The crown, the silvertrees, him. I want all of it.

Is it so bad to want everything?