Page 33 of The Wand of Lore

“She is already in my service, and though Steffan claims he brought her in, I know it was you who lured her out of her village and brought her to me. I know you can’t compete with your elder brother, but still, I look generously at those who follow my directives. She has been adjusting poorly to her collar, and even now continues to struggle, irrational thing that she is. Perhaps you could see her, help her acclimate to her new life of servitude.”

“Never! Father, please, let her go. She is not a woman made for metal and chains. She is the only person taking care ofthe sick in her village, and she will never adjust to life here. It will kill her.”

“You are fond of her then? Well, consider my request. It could do well for her to see a friendly face, even if it is the face of her betrayer. In the meantime, I will send you a manservant to dress you more appropriately, and you will have a bath, a proper meal, and quarters more befitting the prince, my son, Lord of Wellwall. Don’t squander it, boy, and perhaps you’ll have a chance at success.”

“No, you’re not listening! You must free her! Holding a woman like Gwenneth is cruel. Please, you have to let her go!” Vaylor was yelling now and gesticulating wildly.

“I have to do nothing,” the King growled in a low voice. “You think you’re so mighty? So much more principled than me? What about the other witches? What makes yours so special that she alone is too good for captivity? You’ve learned nothing, boy. Nobody wants to be a captive. Nobody was born for it. We were all born to feel the sun kiss our faces, but some of us have power, and we keep it by ensuring others who could threaten it are denied the sun’s kisses. You’re an idiot, son. My witches are all mistreated and all miserable. I know it, and I don’t care. But at least I don’t fool myself. Even when you try for a heroic gesture, it fails.” He shook his head, turned with a swish of his cape, and left the room before Vaylor could utter the promises of death lingering in his throat.

***

Almost immediately, Vaylor was whisked away from his bedroom prison and sent to a larger room where, if there were any lingering ghosts, they refused to talk to him. It had a large four-poster bed with a silk cover. There followed a whirlwind of activity: his hair was cut, he was measured for a wardrobe, and he was introduced to a personal butler. There was no time forhim to sit and contemplate his father’s abrupt change of heart, so he squeezed it in during the hullabaloo of becoming a prince again. Mostly, he sat through these proceedings with his brows furrowed, snapping at anyone who dared speak to him.

“My Prince, do you have a preference for hairstyles? I can show you sketches of the latest fashions,” said the barber.

“Why the bloody hell would I give a damn about hairstyles? How dare you talk to me about such inane details when the woman I love is in chains just downstairs!” he yelled, and the barber went back to working in silence.

Vaylor’s blood simmered under his skin, threatening to boil over. He envisioned slicing his father’s throat and watching the blood spurt out, then dashing to the dungeons and rescuing Gwenneth from a fate worse than death. In his mind’s eye, he served cups of poison-laced wine to every member of the guard, with an extra dose for his father. He cut apart limbs, bashed skulls, severed heads a hundred times before his heart started to quieten and he resigned himself to the truth that none of his harebrained schemes could possibly work. In reality, his situation was quite straight forward and there wasn’t much to do. Gwenneth was beyond saving and would be under heavy guard. The king was finally granting him the thing he wanted most—to be acknowledged, wanted, and even loved by his father. To be granted a place in his court and allowed responsibilities befitting a prince was no small gesture after a lifetime of mistreatment. He ought to feel overjoyed that his life was finally culminating in this moment, but instead, he felt empty and useless.

The matter of Gwenneth nagged him terribly, robbing him of any sense of victory at his change in fortunes. She was special, and he was a damned fool for losing her. His father was offering him official acceptance, but she had given him something deeper. Real acceptance, just exactly as he was. Sure,they had a transactional relationship, each hoping to materially benefit from their time together, but even so. He couldn’t escape the vision of her beautiful lips and her gleaming purple eyes, or the feel of her hands tracing the curse on his leg. Gods, her breasts, just exposed above the neckline of her dress. Or fully exposed under the light of the full moon.

Now she was somewhere deep in the bowels of the castle, locked away with a godsforsaken collar around her neck as if she were a domestic beast. At the thought of her hungry and abused, his innards turned ice cold. He finally had everything he had ever wanted, but without Gwenneth, it wasn’t enough.

The tailors and barbers and butlers finally cleared out, and Vaylor sighed with relief to have a moment to himself so he could succumb to the dark fears swirling about in his mind. But no, the door opened, and in shuffled an old woman with wrinkled skin, matted gray hair, a long brown shift, and the telltale metal collar encircling her neck. A witch, surely. Trailing her came a guard wearing a full suit of armor, with a sword at his side and a set of keys swinging from his hand. His other hand held a chain connected to the witch’s collar, along with a pair of stones that, when handled a particular way, Vaylor knew controlled the witch’s access to magic through the collar.

“Have you news of Gwenneth?” he asked the witch, trying to beat back the hope rising in his heart.

“Who?” the old woman croaked.

“Gwenneth. She’s a witch. Small, kind, she would be new. I have to find her. Can you help me?”

“Nobody comes for the forgotten witches. Unless they want to use us,” said the woman, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Please, is she okay?”

The woman sighed. “No, I’d say not. It is a difficult transition from freedom to captivity, and your friend had a life that she had built. She speaks feverishly of her sister and hercottage, and a knight called Sir Henry. She struggles to let it go and accept her fate, and until she does, she will hurt. None of us begrudge her hope, some even covet it; after so many years, you forget the smell of wildflowers, and all you know is the walls where we are kept. Enough of that, though. That is not what I’m here for. I am tasked with curing a formidable curse. Let’s see it.”

“Oh gods, I can’t bear that she is suffering so. Is there anything I can do?”

“How should I know?” She scoffed at him. “You’re the prince here. I am at your service.”

“Could you free her if I commanded it?”

The woman laughed, and her thin cackle filled the room.

“I have spent more time in captivity than I have in freedom. My life is one miserable spell after another. Are you truly daft enough to believe that I have the ability to help anybody get anywhere, much less a witch to safety? No, your girlfriend is gone. The king determines our fates. Try changing his mind if you must.”

Now it was Vaylor’s turn to let out a grim, taut laugh. It would be easier to save Gwenneth by inciting a coup than by changing his father’s mind. If only they hadn’t decided to seek out her mother’s wand! What foolhardy conceit to think they could walk brazenly into the castle, take what had been stolen, and return home. Of course, Vaylor reminded himself with a bow of his head, his original intent had not included escorting Gwenneth home. And what about the rest of the witches? How many lovers were there, scattered about Innsbrook, dreaming of the day the witches came home? How many mothers and daughters and sisters were erased from the landscape, leaving nothing but holes across the kingdom?

“Where do you come from?” Vaylor asked. “Back before you were captured?”

At the doorway, the guard shifted from foot to foot but said nothing.

The witch hesitated, then started, at first haltingly, but then her story picked up speed. “I lived in Greenville, in a little west-facing cottage so we could see the sun setting over our garden every evening. My fellow villagers captured me one year when the crops failed. ‘Thou shall not suffer a witch to live!’ they yelled as they bound me and dragged me to the king’s guards, who were waiting for me just outside the village. They put the collar on me before I could protest, and that was that. I was twenty-two years old when I died my first death.”

“Are you very powerful? Gwenneth told me that my curse was too stubborn for ordinary magic.”

“They say I could have been had I been allowed to flourish. But none of us have particularly strong magic when we spend most of our days without access to our power, except when it is commanded of us. But I do have this ancient wand that we keep for moments like this.” She reached into her dress pocket and removed a thick wand of a rich, dark wood adorned with carvings that were so intricate that Vaylor couldn’t quite make out what they depicted, except that the design was generally floral-inspired.

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