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from
Elizabeth and her minions.”
    “ I can only hope. It would serve us poorly were the
heir to the throne to fall into that witch’s hands. The rest of the
Council would hear of it quicker than any, no doubt”
    Deborah leaned back and settled into her
throne. It was an uncomfortable seat. More than just the curve of
its arms and the hard wood beneath her, the throne bore a heavy
burden, its authority steeped in the blood of its predecessor. It
was as if the chair knew Deborah did not belong upon it, ever
pressuring her in subtle ways to revoke her claim, to step away.
The White Witch ground her buttocks down upon it in defiance. There
would come a time when she fed the throne to the fire like she had
the witch who’d sat upon it last.
    She tore her attention from the chair and
raised her eyes to Gracelin’s. “I have no faith Graves will succeed
in his mission to find the warlock, so have Shade make ready. If
Elizabeth has grown bold enough to send one of her minions at the
Red Guard directly, it’s only a matter of time until she does so
again. We must be prepared.”
    Gracelin nodded. “We will find them,
Deborah; the warlock and Emerald both.”
    The White Witch forced a smile as she rose
to her feet, but left it at that. “Ready a bath for me, please.”
She glanced once more at the backs of her hands. “I feel the cruel
touch of time weathering me as we speak. I would feel young again,
Gracelin, if only for a short while.”
    The Green Witch grinned. “Capture this
warlock alive rather than kill him, and we can bleed him for all
eternity.”
    Deborah smiled. “You speak the sweetest
words.” She strolled across the dais and took Gracelin’s soft hand
in hers. With a quiet laugh, she led her down the stairs and out of
the room, toward the bathing chambers. For all the efforts of the
throne, its burden would be cast aside within the warm embrace of
the crimson pool, the blood of warlocks who would never be,
cleansing the wear of years from her.
    If only for a short while, Deborah could
forget her duties. She could forget her spiteful daughter who
spurned her future inheritance of the throne, and the enslaved
General Graves who would forever think of Deborah as the enemy. The
bath would chase all that away, as well as the years they brought
with them. If only for a short time, she would be happy.

Five
     
    Though worn down from the excesses of the
day, Sebastian found sleep to be evasive. He tossed and turned in
the rushes, the unfamiliar sounds of Deliton peppering his
consciousness as though bee stings. The ever-present scent of
burning flesh hung in his nose. Deep into the night, the wind
licking at the thatched roof of the hut, he lay staring at the
ceiling, his eyes tracing the knotted lines that ran the length of
the wooden beams that held the hut together. His mind in a somber
fugue, he listened to the crackle of the pyre, doing his best to
not imagine the fuel on which it burned. He heard a number of quick
pops, followed by a creaking snap.
    He shot upright in the bed at the last, the
sound having come from behind the hut, from the opposite direction
of the burning wood pile. He cleared his mind as he had been
taught, his focus on his senses. The wind still rattled Jonas’s
home, but between the creaks of the shifting walls he caught the
gentle crunch of a footfall, followed a moment later by another,
and then yet another.
    He eased from the bed and set his bare feet
upon the cool wood floor, grateful its planks had been hewn from
the trunk of a great tree, unlike the rest of the hut, its natural
thickness muffling any sound he might have made. He claimed his
sword from beside the cot, leaving it inside its sheath, and crept
to the other side of the tiny hut, his ears pricked.
    He leaned over to rouse his father only to
meet his open eyes. Darius raised a finger to his lips and nodded
as he climbed from his bed in silence. Once he was up, he stood
rigid a moment, clearly listening. Another footfall