Chapter Ten: The witch who betrayed us
Simone
When I was younger, my mother would sit me by the fire and tell me the same story she told every night. The story of the great black witch, Marinthia Galma. She was one of the most powerful necromancers to ever exist until she let her pride consume her. Until she started to want more.
Desperate for power and total control, Marinthia led an army of power hungry witches to Randale, the ancestral home of the high king. All the witches were slaughtered before they made it past the castle gates. All eighteen thousand of them were killed because among them hid a traitor. The traitor was a more powerful witch than Marinthia was.
She switched sides at the last moment and led the high king’s army to victory over her own people. Some claimed that she was in love with a vampire. A vampire who dwelt within the high king’s castle walls. But that wasn’t the main lesson my mother was aiming to teach me.
No. Not at all. She would always end her story with the one witch who was said to have escaped. A woman who struck a deal with a knight to let her live and all she did was surrender, submit to him. When all was said and done, she earned her freedom. I picked up a few lessons from her story.
Lesson number one: Keep your head down, pride is deadly.
Lesson number two: Never follow the crowd
Lesson number three: Trust no one because if an ant bites you, it is most likely from the cloth you’re wearing.
My mother would always end the story with the same mantra she drilled into my head during my nineteen years of life. ‘Do whatever you must to survive’
And that is exactly what I did.
It was almost midnight when Ayesha barged into our room four nights ago or was it three? Time is tricky when you’re locked up in a dark cell. It’s ironic how I manage to enjoy the silence of the dungeon.
Ayesha was covered in blood, a wild fire in her eyes. She was a trapped animal and her hunter already had his noose around her neck. I remember the fear I felt. How it wrapped its slithering tail around my neck until I could barely breath. I prayed that the blood on her hands did not belong to the same man who’s hand in marriage we were all competing for.
My prayers were futile.
Before Ayesha could even begin to explain herself, the kings guards knocked down our door. They dragged Ayesha and I away in separate directions. I never saw her again but I had a fair idea of what they did to her for murdering their prince.
In Ayesha’s case, death would be mercy.
I was beaten, stripped bare and thrown into a cold dungeon. Every few hours, water would drip from my prison walls into a small wooden bowl. By night time, I would have enough to drink.
The guard who came to me everyday to make sure I hadn’t escaped told me what happened.
An ant in my cloth had bitten not just me but the entirety of the witch race as well.
An ant named Baila.
***************************
Keys clattered to the floor as the guard tried to open my cell. He cursed loudly, picked up the keys and shoved one of them back in the key hole. During this time, I remained huddled in a corner, my back raw and bloody from leaning up against the wall for too long.
When he stepped inside my cell with three other guards, I practiced lesson number one.
‘Always keep your head down’
I was limp in their arms as they dragged me up a flight of stairs and along the hallways, naked and bleeding. I coughed, a gnawing pain eating at my stomach. I was going to die. Wasn’t I?
The hallways were unusually quiet. There was not a guard in sight or the usual maids that paced up and down with trays of food and warm napkins. It seemed the castle was empty or maybe everyone was isolated in their grief over the death of their most treasured high prince.
The guards came to a stop but I didn’t bother to look up. All I could see was the floor as I spat out more blood. A door opened before us and I was thrown inside and tossed at someone’s feet.
This person wore leather boots encrusted with rubies.
The man before me was the high king of the realm.
The one who’s son Baila had murdered.
I was torn between begging for mercy and waiting for him to speak. The silence grew more and more uncomfortable, choking me. I could tell he was studying but I did not look up no matter how tempting the urge to do so became.
Lesson number one was still in session.
“You’ve been informed of what your sisters have done?” he questioned. His voice was rough, deep like the ocean. And after a few days of worrying over my fate, I welcomed his voice.
“I have no sisters,” I managed to speak. My throat ached from the action. In comparison to his, my voice was low, raspy and sickly.
He chuckled, throwing a huge blanket over me before stepping back. I relaxed, welcoming the warmth of the cotton sheet.
Maybe I wasn’t going to die after all.
Simone
When I was younger, my mother would sit me by the fire and tell me the same story she told every night. The story of the great black witch, Marinthia Galma. She was one of the most powerful necromancers to ever exist until she let her pride consume her. Until she started to want more.
Desperate for power and total control, Marinthia led an army of power hungry witches to Randale, the ancestral home of the high king. All the witches were slaughtered before they made it past the castle gates. All eighteen thousand of them were killed because among them hid a traitor. The traitor was a more powerful witch than Marinthia was.
She switched sides at the last moment and led the high king’s army to victory over her own people. Some claimed that she was in love with a vampire. A vampire who dwelt within the high king’s castle walls. But that wasn’t the main lesson my mother was aiming to teach me.
No. Not at all. She would always end her story with the one witch who was said to have escaped. A woman who struck a deal with a knight to let her live and all she did was surrender, submit to him. When all was said and done, she earned her freedom. I picked up a few lessons from her story.
Lesson number one: Keep your head down, pride is deadly.
Lesson number two: Never follow the crowd
Lesson number three: Trust no one
Lesson number four: If an ant bites you, it is most likely from the cloth you’re wearing.
My mother would always end the story with the same mantra she drilled into my head during my nineteen years of life. ‘Do whatever you must to survive’
And that is exactly what I did.
It was almost midnight when Ayesha barged into our room four nights ago or was it three? Time is tricky when you’re locked up in a dark cell. It’s ironic how I manage to enjoy the silence of the dungeon.
Ayesha was covered in blood, a wild fire in her eyes. She was a trapped animal and her hunter already had his noose around her neck. I remember the fear I felt. How it wrapped its slithering tail around my neck until I could barely breath. I prayed that the blood on her hands did not belong to the same man who’s hand in marriage we were all competing for.
My prayers were futile.
Before Ayesha could even begin to explain herself, the kings guards knocked down our door. They dragged Ayesha and I away in separate directions. I never saw her again but I had a fair idea of what they did to her for murdering their prince.
In Ayesha’s case, death would be mercy.
I was beaten, stripped bare and thrown into a cold dungeon. Every few hours, water would drip from my prison walls into a small wooden bowl. By night time, I would have enough to drink.
The guard who came to me everyday to make sure I hadn’t escaped told me what happened.
An ant in my cloth had bitten not just me but the entirety of the witch race as well.
An ant named Baila.
***************************
Keys clattered to the floor as the guard tried to open my cell. He cursed loudly, picked up the keys and shoved one of them back in the key hole. During this time, I remained huddled in a corner, my back raw and bloody from leaning up against the wall for too long.
When he stepped inside my cell with three other guards, I practiced lesson number one.
‘Always keep your head down’
I was limp in their arms as they dragged me up a flight of stairs and along the hallways, naked and bleeding. I coughed, a gnawing pain eating at my stomach. I was going to die. Wasn’t I?
The hallways were unusually quiet. There was not a guard in sight or the usual maids that paced up and down with trays of food and warm napkins. It seemed the castle was empty or maybe everyone was isolated in their grief over the death of their most treasured high prince.
The guards came to a stop but I didn’t bother to look up. All I could see was the floor as I spat out more blood. A door opened before us and I was thrown inside and tossed at someone’s feet.
This person wore leather boots encrusted with rubies.
The man before me was the high king of the realm.
The one who’s son Baila had murdered.
I was torn between begging for mercy and waiting for him to speak. The silence grew more and more uncomfortable, choking me. I could tell he was studying but I did not look up no matter how tempting the urge to do so became.
Lesson number one was still in session.
“You’ve been informed of what your sisters have done?” he questioned. His voice was rough, deep like the ocean. And after a few days of worrying over my fate, I welcomed his voice.
“I have no sisters,” I managed to speak. My throat ached from the action. In comparison to his, my voice was low, raspy and sickly.
He chuckled, throwing a huge blanket over me before stepping back. I relaxed, welcoming the warmth of the cotton sheet.
Maybe I wasn’t going to die after all.
If he planned on killing me, he would not have covered me with a blanket and he most certainly would not have had a friendly reaction to my answer.
“You’re aware nonetheless of their reckless behaviour,” he hummed, yanking open the curtains. Light flooded the room. It was so bright, I squeezed my eyes shut. Pain reverberated in my eyes and my head.
“I’m aware of the consequences of such actions,” I blinked slowly, allowing my eyes to adjust to the light.
The high king let out a heavy breath as he sat on the bed in front of me. I finally gathered the courage to look up but I avoided eye contact as much as possible. I sat up straight, groaning as a slicing pain shot through my ribs. I wrapped the blanket tightly around me.
“I’m not one to consult with witches but I am at my wits end now. Try as they did, the healers could not revive my son,”
That was news to me. I had been under the impression that the prince died on the spot. Baila was a red witch after all.
“My condolences, Your majesty,” I whispered, bowing my head.
He waved me off. “It is not your condolences I want or your sympathy. It is your help,”
I paused. The high king wanted y help? Was it a trap? A way to make me suffer more before he took my life for what Baila had done.
“You are familiar with the dark arts. Necromancy. No?” he cocked a brow at me.
I swallowed. It burned my throat to do so.
Certainly, the high king of the realm who had relentlessly persecuted witches over the years was not asking me to bring his son back from the dead. He knelt before me, taking my chin gently between his thumb and his index finger. My blue eyes met with his dark brown eyes and I saw the grief in them, desperation like no other. Dark circles marred the skin beneath the high king’s eyes. His eyes were red rimmed and filled with tears as he stared into mine pleadingly.
“You’ll have whatever you desire and more if you bring my son back to me.”
I remained silent. As tempting as his offer was, I remembered lesson number three.
‘Trust no one,’
My silence seemed to agitate him more as tears poured down his cheeks. The high king was showing me his vulnerability.
“Bring my son back to life and I’ll call off the bride trials and announce you as the winner. You can marry him. Become high queen consort once he assumes the throne,” he begged, more tears pooled in his eyes. “Please,”
I wondered what answer I would have given him if I was not in such a compromising situation. There comes a moment in everyone’s life where they must become the thing they hate the most in order to survive. A monster, a traitor, their mother…..
This was my moment.
Would I give in? Or would I hold out?
My mother never taught me how to hold a sword but she taught me seven lessons.
Lesson number five, ‘Do whatever you must to survive’