The Right Thing To Do

The Right Thing to Do

Emily didn’t want to admit, even to herself, but she was bored.

She knew she shouldn’t be. She was on a lordly progress around the Barony of Cockatrice, the lands King Randor had gifted her as a reward for saving his life and throne, and she knew she should show interest. And yet, it had all started to blur together. The towns, the villages, the hamlets, miles upon miles of farms intermingled with hedgerows, ditches and deep dark forests, the latter the sole preserve of the aristocracy. They were hers now, she supposed. The majority of the barony’s aristocrats and their families were either dead, for choosing the wrong side, or nothing more than wards of the king until they reached their majority and tried to reclaim their lands. It gave her a window of opportunity to make changes, permanent ones, before they returned home.

They’ll find their lands changed beyond all recognition, she thought. She’d reformed the laws, cutting through the tangle of rules and regulation so complex it was hard to avoid breaking the law at some point, and started a vast program of land reform. I’d like to see them take their lands back now.

Her lips twitched. A month ago, the peasants had been little better than slaves. Emily hadn’t seen any real difference, save perhaps for the handful of slaves who were enspelled to keep them from running away. They’d had no rights, no claim to the lands they worked and, if they dared escape to the nearest city, had to remain in hiding for a year and a day before they could claim their freedom. There was an entire cottage industry of serf-catchers who went to the cities to find the runaways, trying to bring them back before time ran out. Now, the peasants had rights — written rights, as freemen — and sole ownership of their land. And the serf-catchers had been banished from her lands.

The carriage bumped. Emily gritted her teeth, muttering a cushioning spell under her breath. She’d been urged to take the old baron’s carriage, but it was a gaudy nightmare that embarrassed her even when it was resting in the coachhouse. The new one was more respectable — it belonged to a merchant, who’d been happy to loan it to her — but hellishly uncomfortable. Emily felt as if her backside had been kicked, repeatedly. She almost wished she’d thought to walk or learnt how to ride properly. But she and horses had never gotten along.

“A rough ride, Your Ladyship,” Sir Blackley said. His aristocratic accent had gotten on her nerves, the first time they’d met, and it hadn’t improved upon further acquaintance. “The peasants haven’t been maintaining the roads.”

Emily shrugged, keeping her face under tight control. Sir Blackley — she’d mentally dubbed him Sir Hiss — was tall, dark and handsome, but with a nasty glint to his eyes that bothered her. She couldn’t help thinking he was a lot like Jack Harkness yet lacking in that character’s few positive traits. He’d flirted with her when they’d first met, in a manner that sent icy shivers down her spine, and hinted he’d be willing to go a long way for her — or with her — until she’d shut him down. It hadn’t been enough to keep him from eying every young woman they met along the way, from merchant daughters to peasant girls. Emily had no idea why King Randor had picked him as her escort. Surely, he had to realise Sir Blackley wasn’t the type of person to appeal to her.

Alassa would have turned him into a toad by now, she thought, mirthlessly. And she’d have left him that way until he learnt his lesson.

She turned away to peer out the window as the forest slowly gave way to croplands and fields. It was hard to believe, sometimes, that it was all hers. Cockatrice hadn’t looked that big on the map, but it was still a huge chunk of land. It took days for a man to walk from one end of the barony to the other. There were peasants whose entire lives were bounded by a small cluster of villages, where they thought the world ended somewhere within the dark woods. Emily knew where they were coming from, even though she knew it wasn’t true. The day belonged to humanity. The night belonged to creatures from myths and legends and anyone who went out after dark might never be seen again.

“You should have a word with the headsmen,” Sir Blackley pressed. “Or I’ll do it for you, if you like.”

“No.” Emily tried to sound commanding, but she suspected she wasn’t fooling him. Alassa could snap her fingers and have everyone obey. Emily had yet to develop the talent. She rather thought Sir Blackley saw her as just another aristocratic brat, a legal child who would be married off — with or without her consent — and gift her lands to her new husband. “They’ll be convinced to maintain the roads once they prove their value.”

She ignored his snort of disbelief as the coach rattled down the bumpy road. The peasants regarded the road network as a curse, not a blessing. Better roads meant more aristocrats crashing their horses through the farms, more taxmen trying to take everything they had and more soldiers looting, raping and murdering their way through the countryside. Emily intended to improve the roads, as well as building a rail network, but it would take time to convince the peasants it was a good thing. Legally, they were meant to maintain the road network. Practically, they did as little as possible. And how could she blame them?

Her eyes widened, peering forward as the village came into view. It looked strikingly rustic, the farmhouses, cottages and a handful of other buildings somehow woven into a corpse of trees. Some were wooden from top to bottom, the kind of log cabin she’d read about in history books; some were a strange mixture of wood, stone and earthen works that blended together into a single whole. The inn was the sole building isolated from the rest, resting right at the edge of the village. It was probably an unspoken hint that any visitors shouldn’t go further into the village.

The carriage rattled to a halt. Sir Blackley opened the door and jumped down. Emily followed at a slightly more sedate pace, looking around with interest. The village looked strikingly prosperous, unlike some of the towns and hamlets too close to the castles and manors for their own good. The map she’d checked before leaving the last manor hadn’t been very accurate, but it was clear the village was right on the borderline between two separate demesnes. The villages were lucky they weren’t paying taxes to both aristocrats.

And that’s going to change too, Emily reflected, wryly. The nobility can’t take everything that isn’t nailed down anymore.

Sir Blackley roared for attention. Emily gritted her teeth as children and chickens ran for safety. She’d tried to keep her progress low-key — she’d defeated a necromancer; she didn’t have to worry about bandits or overawing the peasants — but Sir Blackley had ruined it. The peasants were going to think she was just another overbearing lord, rather than someone who meant to make things better for everyone. Unless they’d heard news from the last few towns and villages she’d visited… It was possible. There were no radios in her new world, no means of long-distance communications that didn’t involve magic, but word spread anyway.

And some of the regents hate it, she thought. The absent lords had left their regents in charge, men who saw the opportunity to take everything they could and blame it on the aristocracy, but she’d put a stop to that too. How many taxmen got lynched once word spread about the new laws?

A man — short, stout, wearing a chain of office — hurried up to her, a tall blonde woman who looked to be in her early thirties right behind him. “My Lady,” he said, falling to his knees and grovelling in the dirt. His wife followed suit. “I am Tonabrix, headman. I bid you welcome to Winter’s Edge.”

Emily motioned for him to rise. She’d never been remotely comfortable with grown men bowing and scraping before her and the headman was old enough to be her father. Probably. It was never easy to tell someone’s age, not on her new world. The lower classes aged rapidly — the headman might only be a decade or so older than she was, his wife no older — while the upper classes used glamours and cosmetic magics to hide their true ages. Tonabrix stumbled to his feet, eyes downcast. She shuddered, wishing — not for the first time — that she’d been able to resist the king’s gift. She hadn’t even realised how much power he’d given her until she’d travelled beyond the castle. She could do anything to him and they both knew it. Their former baron had been given to executing — or worse — peasants on a whim.

“The land you work will be formally recognised as yours,” Emily said, holding out a scroll for the older man. Tonabrix might not be able to read it, but there would be people in the village who could. English letters and Arabic numbers had spread with astonishing speed, despite — or perhaps because of — the aristocracy's best attempts to put the brakes on. “You will all be freemen under the law, with the rights and duties that implies.”

Tonabrix looked as if she’d hit him with a brick, as if he didn’t know to applaud her or suspect a sadistic trick. Emily understood. The previous baron had ruthlessly manipulated the laws, using the common folk’s ignorance against them when he didn’t simply make the rules up on the spot. Even here, so far from the castle, the impact had been noticeable. She had no intention of following in the old baron’s footsteps, but Tonabrix didn’t know it. And her laws might be a mixed blessing. She’d given rights to women, set an age of consent, banned forced marriages and quite a few other things. She had done the right thing — she was sure — but she’d also upset a lot of apple carts. It would be years before everything settled down again.

She allowed herself to be shown to the inn, where a hot bath and a meal were loudly calling her name. Sir Blackley had complained about using the inns — he’d argued they should stop at the manors overnight — yet Emily had been insistent. The manors might be luxurious, by the standards of the barony, but they were creepy. The regents were either openly hostile or masked their hostility behind grovelling obsequiousness; the staff and servant seemed terrified of putting a foot wrong in her presence, as if they thought she’d turn them into toads if they got the slightest thing wrong. Inns were more honest, she’d thought, and it let her make a show of being economical. The feasts some of the regents had prepared for her, when she’d started her progress, had been large enough to feed an entire town for weeks. It had been so wasteful she refused to tolerate it.

The remainder of the day was no different from the others. She toured the village and spoke to the locals, inspecting the blacksmith’s shop and noting — quietly — how he’d already taken a few things from the New Learning. It might be a while before he and his apprentices churned out a printing press, or a steam engine, but they were on the way. Reading between the lines, she thought they were producing weapons. Peasants were not allowed to carry anything more lethal than a club, but that didn’t stop them. They might need to fight their lord one day, when he went too far. Emily hoped they would be ready when the king’s wards tried to return to their lands.

“These villages aren’t paying their taxes,” Sir Blackley observed, after a brief welcome feast hosted by the headman. “It’s outrageous!”

“They’ll change, too,” Emily said.

Her lips twitched. She’d been quite impressed by the feast. She had no fondness for ultra-aristocratic food and the village food had suited her, while watching the villages had been a lesson in local democracy. The headman listened to the other villagers before making up his mind, something that marked him as smarter than his aristocratic masters. But then, a heedless headman would wind up dead in an accident that was nothing of the sort. No one would really give a damn.

She ignored Sir Blackley’s suggestion of sharing a bed — sorceresses could have sex whenever they liked, but she didn’t intend to do it— and went to sleep, after carefully casting her wards. It was unlikely anyone would try to sneak into her chamber — they’d have to be foolish, insane or desperate — but there was no point in taking chances. Alassa had told her horrifying stories about how some marriages came to be in the aristocracy. A man might rape a woman and then offer her the flat choice between marrying him or being branded a whore for having sex outside wedlock. Her fists clenched in disgust, her magic sparking in response. If Sir Blackley tried it with her, she’d blast him to pieces and tell the king to be more careful next time.

“Lady Emily!” Emily jerked awake. Someone — a young woman — was outside her door. “Lady Emily!”

Emily rolled out of bed, glanced at the open window — it was early morning — and opened the door. A young girl stood outside, wringing her hands. Emily raised her eyebrows, her imagination offering too many suggestions of what was going on. If Sir Blackley had decided to harass the innkeeper’s daughter instead…

“Lady Emily, you have a visitor.” The young woman sounded as if she was on the verge of outright panic. “Goodwoman Sofia. She insists on seeing you now. She needs help!”

“Don’t bestir yourself,” Sir Blackley said. He stood further down the corridor, one hand on his sword. It went oddly with his long white nightgown. The nasty part of Emily’s mind wondered if he went to bed with his sword. The more practical part asked how he’d managed to get so close without being noticed. “It’s just a commoner.”

Emily felt her temper flare. “If you really feel that way, then stop being a knight,” she snapped. Sir Blackley recoiled, as if she’d slapped him. “We need to find out what she wants before we dismiss her.”

Her thoughts churned as she walked back into her room to change into something less comfortable. She’d read the stories of knights in armour protecting the poor and helpless, but she’d read enough history to know knights had spent much of their time preying on the weak and common-born instead. The history books had, she’d decided, understated the case. The knights were noblemen first and foremost, brutes and barbarians who picked fights with their peers, harassed commoner women and killed any man who dared object. Sir Blackley was one of the decent ones… and wasn’t that hard to believe?

She put the thought out of her mind as she walked down the stairs, silently relieved she’d chosen to sleep in her travelling clothes. They weren’t comfortable, but they were better than a nightgown or nudity. She was aware of Sir Blackley following her — she kicked herself, mentally, for snapping at him in front of the innkeeper’s daughter — as she reached the bottom of the stairs and walked into the bar. A bizarre sight greeted her. A middle-aged woman with a scarf wrapped around her hair, a young teenage boy who looked as if he wanted to run for his life and a donkey, pawing the ground. Emily’s eyes narrowed as she met the donkey’s eyes. They were disconcertingly human.

“My Lady,” Goodwoman Sofia said. She sounded frantic. “My son… I need your help!”

Emily held up a hand. “What happened? Start from the beginning and go on from there.”

Goodwoman Sofia glared at the boy, who inched away from her. “Rufus, tell Her Ladyship what happened.”

Rufus cringed, his eyes flickering from Goodwoman Sofia to Emily and back again. “I… Your Ladyship… you see…”

The older woman smacked his arm, hard enough to hurt. “I said, tell her what happened!”

“Calmly, if possible,” Emily said. “Please.”

“I… there’s a witch who lives out in the woods,” Rufus managed. “She moved in a few months ago. Randor and I… we thought we’d go see how a witch lived and…”

“You went to spy on her,” Goodwoman Sofia snarled. “What were you thinking?”

Emily had a nasty idea where the story was going. “And what happened then?”

“She caught us,” Rufus stammered. “She… she turned Randor into a donkey. She… she took a shot at me and missed and… I fled, Randor right behind me and…”

“This is my son.” Goodwoman Sofia knelt. “Please, help him.”

“He got what he deserved,” Sir Blackley offered.

Emily ignored him and reached out, resting her hand on the donkey’s forehead. She’d always liked donkeys, but… she cursed under her breath as she felt the spell trapping the victim in an animal form. Professor Lombardi had demonstrated something similar, just to show his students what they shouldn’t do, and then lectured them on the dangers.

“If you cast a spell only you can undo,” he’d said, “you risk binding your victim permanently. And if you cast such a spell here, in Whitehall, you will be expelled.”

He’d meant it too, Emily was sure. The prospect of being bound forever was terrifying. Most spells could be unravelled by someone else, given time and expertise, but the handful that couldn’t were dangerous. They were rarely used even outside the school.

“I can’t remove the spell,” she said, grimly. Her magic clashed with the witch’s spell, looking for a way to take it to pieces, but it was impossible. She could neither crack the spellware nor starve it of power. A typical baleful polymorph would wear off — eventually — bit this one didn’t feel as though it was on a timer. “What sort of spell did she use?”

“Anything she liked,” Sir Blackley pointed out. “They were spying on her.”

Goodwoman Sofia started to cry. Emily grimaced. It was a point of law that magicians could do whatever they liked, from transfigurations to enslavement to death, to anyone who broke into their homes. The witch, whoever she was, was technically within her legal rights. And yet… her heart twisted. The witch had meted out a life sentence, if not a death sentence. The poor boy had been punished so harshly it had gone well beyond what he deserved. She looked at Goodwoman Sofia and scowled, inwardly. The poor woman would lose her son — in a sense, she already had. There was no way anyone would assume a donkey was actually human unless they knew the truth, and even if they did they’d have problems taking the beast seriously. How could they?

She took a breath. “I’ll go speak to the witch,” she said. It was her duty to look after the people in her care, even if she’d never wanted the barony and all it brought with it. “I can try and talk her into undoing the spell.”

“The law is on her side,” Sir Blackley said. “And the brat is just a commoner who will stand as a lesson…”

“And how would you like it,” Emily snarled, “if I turned you into a donkey?”

She felt her temper flare and controlled it with an effort. “You can stay here, if you don’t want to confront a witch,” she said. “I’ll be back shortly.”

“Thank you, My Lady,” Goodwoman Sofia said.

Emily summoned her coat and glanced at the boy. “Rufus,” she said. “You can guide me to the edge of the witch’s lands.”

Rufus didn’t look pleased. “My Lady, I…”

“I’ll protect you,” Emily said. “And you can go back before we reach the boundary line.”

The donkey neighed. Rufus looked at his friend, then nodded and headed for the door. Emily followed, silently marshalling arguments in her head. She didn’t really blame Sir Blackley for refusing to come, not when it might end with him as a donkey. Or an ass… she wondered if anyone would notice the difference. Sir Blackley was presumably a brave man — King Randor wouldn’t have knighted a coward — but the thought of being transfigured into something small and harmless could unman even the bravest of men. Emily hadn’t reacted well, the first time she’d been transformed, and she hadn’t grown up thinking of herself as the mistress of all she surveyed.

“It’s this way,” Rufus said. His eyes kept darting to her, then away. Emily suspected she didn’t look impressive, not like Lady Barb or Mistress Irene. She looked like the young teenager she was, not a godlike woman who’d killed a necromancer. “The witch moved into the abandoned lands a few months ago and…”

Emily listened absently, sensing wild magic pulsing through the trees. The witch’s home was close enough to the village to buy what she wanted — or simply take it — but far away enough to make sure no one entered her lands by accident. Emily wondered, as the magic grew stronger, if the local lords knew the witch lived there. She was on the borderline, perhaps too far from either of them to take notice. Or she might be too powerful for them to challenge openly. Void — Emily’s supposed father — was a one-man army and he wasn’t the only one. The lords might have decided to turn a blind eye, rather than start a fight they couldn’t win.

“My Lady,” Rufus said. “Will Randor be alright?”

“I hope so,” Emily said. She didn’t want to lie to him. “We’ll see.”

Her eyes narrowed as she spotted the boundary line. The wards weren’t enough to stop her, or anyone, but crossing the spells would alert their mistress. Rufus and Randor had been detected the moment they’d crossed… Emily took a breath, then braced herself and twanged the wards. It felt like a mistake — she thought she could sneak through the wards — but she wanted the witch to know she was there. She dared not act like a spy.

“This is the boundary line,” she said, calmly. “You can stay here, if you like, or go back to the village.”

Rufus turned and ran so fast Emily was surprised there wasn’t an audible rush. She felt a twinge of pity for the young man whose first encounter with magic had been so unpleasant, then turned to walk through the boundary line. The wards hummed around her, confirming — as if she’d had any doubt — the witch knew she was there. Emily’s heart raced as she made her way along the path. The witch had been busy. She’d grown a patchwork garden of herbs and spices, each useful in potions and spellwork. The wards grew stronger as the path widened suddenly, revealing an old farmhouse that seemed to be carved from a single piece of stone. Emily braced herself. The witch was waiting for her.

She was a tall woman, easily as tall as Lady Barb. Her face was sharp and angular, dark eyes glinting coldly and black hair hung down her back. She wore a simple shirt and trousers, odd for a sorceress. Emily reached out, gingerly, with her senses and tried not to wince when she touched the witch’s power. She’d heard hedge witches were little more than charlatans, with a touch of magic and little more, but this woman was formidable. And the land itself hummed around her.

This is her place of power, Emily thought. Show respect.

She dropped a neat curtsey. “I am Emily,” she said. It was hard to escape the feeling that reciting her titles was a very bad idea. “I come in peace.”

“Emily,” the witch said. She didn’t have a local accent. Emily couldn’t place it. “The Necromancer’s Bane, are you not?”

“So they call me,” Emily said, feeling her cheeks heat. The witch had heard of her…? Knew her? Perhaps it wasn’t that strange. As far as she knew, she was the only Emily in her new world. “May we talk?”

“I am Cornelia,” the witch said. “I have no patience for small talk. What do you want?”

Emily forced herself to meet the witch’s eyes. Cornelia? A magical name, she thought, although it didn’t mean she came from a magical family. She might have been named after someone who’d done her family a favour, or she might have simply adopted the name for herself. It was hard to hold her gaze. The woman was no lightweight. She was surrounded by an air of simmering power that blurred into the charmed garden. And the fact she wasn’t even masking her power was worrying. It was nothing more than blatant intimidation.

“I will be quick,” Emily said. It crossed her mind she should withdraw and call for help, but that would mean leaving the poor boy trapped in an animal form. “You turned a boy into a donkey, using a spell that cannot be unravelled nor left to wear off on its own. I have come to ask you to remove the spell.”

Cornelia’s eyes blazed fire. “I caught them spying on me,” she said. “On me!”

“You taught them a lesson,” Emily agreed. “But are you going to leave him that way for the rest of his life?”

The witch took a step forward. It was all Emily could do to stand her ground.

“If they’d been girls, I might have talked to them,” she snarled. There was a hint of pain under her anger. “But men are not welcome here.”

“They got the message,” Emily said. “If you release the boy now, he won’t bother you again.”

“And then they will think they can get away with entering my lands,” Cornelia told her, curtly. “They were spying on me!”

Her eyes narrowed. “And why do you care?”

Emily gritted her teeth. “Because it’s the right thing to do?”

Cornelia snorted. “Who are you to preach morality to me?”

“You have meted out a life sentence,” Emily said, ignoring the question. “If he’s a donkey, a beast of burden, for the rest of his life… how will he be treated?”

“That’s his problem,” Cornelia said. “And my answer is no. I will not restore him to humanity.”

“Please,” Emily said.

“He’s a little brat who would have grown up into an abusive husband,” Cornelia said. “And now that will never happen.”

“Just because you were mistreated by a man doesn’t mean that all men are bastards,” Emily said. The thought hurt. Her stepfather had been a bastard who made normal bastards look bland and harmless, but she’d met plenty of men who were good and decent. Sergeant Harkin had given his life to save hers and… she knew, now, how he must have felt at Whitehall. He’d had no power of his own and, if the students had challenged him, he would have been effortlessly defeated. “And he’s learnt his lesson…”

Cornelia’s temper flared. “Get out. Get out and don’t come back!”

“I will return, with the Sorcerer Void — my father — and as many other sorcerers as I can muster,” Emily said. “And we will force you to undo the spell.”

Magic flared. She shuddered as Cornelia’s curse slammed into her wards. It was hard to focus, hard to tighten her defences, as the magic snapped and snarled at her. She’d underestimated both the witch’s power and her skill. Her wards started to crumple as magic leaked through the gaps in her spells, threatening to rip the rest of her defences apart. She gritted her teeth, trying to stand up and fight back. She’d beaten a necromancer, hadn’t she?

I cheated, she recalled. And that isn’t an option here.

The magic grew worse, pressing against her. It wasn’t just Cornelia now, as formidable as she was. It felt as if the land itself was joining in the struggle. Emily shaped a spell and cast it, hoping and praying she managed to snatch up a nearby rock and throw it at the witch, but the spellware came apart before it even reached its target. A physical blow might have cracked her defences — most sorcerers didn’t pay heed to physical threats — and yet… she had to channel all her remaining power into the defences. Cornelia stood there, her dark eyes flaring with power. Emily cursed. She’d bitten off more — much more — than she could chew.

She started forward, or tried to. Her legs refused to move. She looked down and, for a moment, felt nothing but absolute horror. Her legs were gone, replaced by what looked like a tree trunk. Cornelia was turning her into a tree? Her mind refused to accept it and yet… she could feel the transformation now, a gradual shift rather than an instant transfiguration. The land was drawing her in, welcoming her… her thoughts started to scatter as the wood reached her chest and crawled over her breasts. The feeling wasn’t entirely unpleasant and yet…

Emily bit her lip, hard. She wanted to beg for mercy and yet she knew that wasn’t an option. Not any longer. Threatening Cornelia had been foolish, but… she put the thought out of her head as the transformation washed through her neck and up into her brain. Wild magic hummed around her. She could feel it… she wondered, suddenly, if Cornelia was in command of the magic or if it ruled her. The garden was more than just herbs. It bathed in wild magic and… she could see the threadlines, linking Cornelia to her home. It really was her place of power.

Her thoughts threatened to embrace being a tree, to turn towards the sun and fade into nothingness. She threw her mind forward, along the threadlines, desperately trying to get into Cornelia’s head. A normal compulsion spell would be worse than useless, she was sure, but she might just be able to influence the witch. Perhaps… the world expanded around her, thoughts and feelings crashing through her mind. The garden was an entity in its own right, great slow thoughts pulsing through a mind that was very far from human. She reached out to Cornelia and…

“Do you think you can look into my mind?” Emily wasn’t sure if Cornelia was speaking or thinking the words. “Do you want to see what I am?”

Emily’s mind rocketed forward. She found herself sitting — no, kneeling — in front of a sneering man. He looked down at her, his eyes mocking her as he buckled his pants… Emily flushed, helplessly, as she realised what she’d been doing. She was a virgin. She’d kissed Jade and… that was it. But she felt, now, as though she’d had the man’s member in her mouth. She shuddered, retching. She didn’t know what anyone got out of that.

“Teach you?” Emily could hear the sneer in the man’s voice. “Teach magic to a worthless succubus such as yourself?

“But you promised,” Emily said. Or Cornelia said. Their thoughts were one. “You said…”

“I’ll show you what she did to me,” the man said. Their eyes met. “Look!”

The memories surged, again. A young man, meeting a girl. The girl, making a fool of him. The man’s tutors, dismissing him for his foolishness. The man — older and steeped in bitterness — lashing out at every woman he saw, using magic to harass and humiliate and break them, when they came to him for lessons. Emily shuddered as she saw the man use his powers to flip up dresses, or compel girls to service him, or even leave them with compulsions and curses that would haunt them for the rest of their lives, all in the name of avenging himself on a girl who’d used, abused and, eventually, left him holding the bag.

“I went to him,” Cornelia snarled. “I had magic. I needed the lessons. I was prepared to do anything, if he taught me magic. And I did and he abandoned me and…”

“He turned you into a dark reflection of himself,” Emily said. “He hates women and tries to avenge himself on them. You do the same, except you lash out at men instead.”

“They had no right to spy on me,” Cornelia snapped. “And yet they did it!”

“Yes, they did,” Emily said. Their minds were too close for either of them to lie to the other. “They deserved punishment. But tell me, did you not take pleasure in meting it out?”

Cornelia said nothing. But the answer hung between them.

“You did,” Emily said. “You’re just like him.”

“Maybe,” Cornelia said. “But why are you trying to stop me?”

Emily took a breath, feeling for her conviction… and, deep inside, hard-won maturity. She wanted — she needed — Cornelia to understand Emily meant every word. And…

“Because it’s wrong,” Emily said. “He was abused by a woman. I can see his point. I can understand his feelings. But that doesn’t mean he was right. The women he abused had nothing to do with the woman who set him up to fall. He was right to feel slighted and unjustly treated, but wrong to take it out on you.

“You are just the same. You were mistreated” — she tried not to shudder at the memories, so close to her mind it was hard to believe they weren’t hers — “and you have a right to be angry at him. But you are wrong to take it out on every man who crosses your path.”

Cornelia said nothing for a long moment. “Are you so sure of yourself?”

“Yes.” Emily willed Cornelia to see the truth in her words. “A cycle of revenge will never end. It’ll just go on, with more and more atrocities until everyone forgets the original acts and can no longer make it stop. You can step off it now, if you wish. Or you can keep going, acting just like the man who made you this way!”

There was a chilling pause. Emily braced herself. She could understand resentment and bitterness and how the crimes of the father could be revenged upon the son, but that didn’t make it right. You could acknowledge someone’s feelings were valid without condoning what they did in revenge. You could! Emily understood exactly how Professor Snape had felt, when he’d laid eyes on Harry Potter, but that didn’t mean the professor hadn’t been out of line. His conduct had been inexcusable.

“You’re a very wise girl,” Cornelia said, coolly. “And…”

The world turned green, then blue. Emily found herself lying on her back, staring up at the bright blue sky. Cornelia knelt beside her, a small vial in her hand. Emily felt a twinge of something she couldn’t quite identify, a strange mixture of understanding and yet caution, as she checked her body. It was back to normal. She forced herself to sit up and stand. Cornelia stood too.

“Here.” Cornelia held out the vial. A droplet of blood rested within the glass. “If you use this, you should be able to restore the boy.”

“Thank you,” Emily said. “I’ll tell them never to return, too.”

“If they haven’t already gotten the message,” Cornelia said, dryly. She leaned forward and met Emily’s eyes. “If any of the girls want to come and learn, they will be welcome. But not the boys.”

Emily nodded. Cornelia had every reason to be wary of men.

“And I saw something in your memories,” Cornelia added. “You were manipulated. Needlessly, but still manipulated.”

Emily scowled, wondering how much Cornelia had seen within her memories. Earth? Her mother and stepfather and all the wonders and horrors of a technological world? Had she realised where Emily really came from? Or had she dismissed the memories as nothing more than fantasy? If someone had told Emily dragons existed, a year ago, she would have laughed at them. It wasn’t so easy now.

“Yeah,” she said, slowly. “I know.”

“I hope I don’t see you again,” Cornelia said. “But if I do…”

Emily nodded and made her farewells, then headed back down the trail and out of the garden. Cornelia needed time to think and reflect on herself and her behaviour and… Emily made a mental note to keep an eye on the village, from time to time. Cornelia was powerful enough to be a real threat, even if she had no interest in imposing her will on the world. Perhaps leaving her alone was a mistake…

She’ll have to come to terms with what she did, Emily reflected. And the bastard who tricked her is still out there. Somewhere.

The thought lingered as she reached the bottom of the track and returned to the village inn. Rufus was standing outside, pacing back and forth; Randor, the donkey, was munching grass as if he was born to it. Rufus’s eyes went wide when he saw her. Emily took the vial from her pocket, channelled the magic through the blood and cast the reversal spell. Randor’s form twisted in a manner that made her head hurt, when she looked too closely, and snapped back into human form. Emily breathed a sigh of relief, then vaporised the remnants of the blood. Cornelia wouldn’t be happy if Emily kept it.

“Go find your mother and give her a hug,” Emily told the restored boy. “And, both of you, stay away from the witch.”

The boys nodded and hurried off. Emily took a breath and stepped into the inn. Sir Blackley was sitting at the bar, the innkeeper’s daughter on his knee and his hand… the girl squeaked as Emily entered, then hastily slipped off the older man’s lap, fixed her dress and ran for the backroom. Emily met his eyes. The flash of surprise, not hidden quickly enough, confirmed Cornelia’s words.

She stepped forward. “You hoped she’d kill me, didn’t you?”

“I had every faith in you,” Sir Blackley managed. “And you survived…”

“Yes,” Emily said. She spoke as if she were pronouncing a death sentence. “You manipulated me. You pushed me to go find the witch and save the boy, in hopes I’d be killed. And you were wrong.”

And the worst thing about it, she added silently, is that I would have gone anyway.

“I did nothing of the sort,” Sir Blackley said. It was too obviously a lie. Trying to get his charge killed was one thing, trying and failing was quite another. King Randor was not going to be pleased. Sir Blackley would be a laughing stock, if he survived. Emily would be quite within her rights to kill him on the spot and they both knew it. “I will say as much to my king.”

“I could turn you into a toad right now,” Emily said. “Or worse.”

She held his gaze. “Take your horse and go back to the king. Report to him what you did and how it worked out. And then, submit to his judgement.”

Sir Blackley bowed deeply, then darted past her and through the door. Emily’s lips twitched in dark amusement. Sir Blackley would either do as he was told, and probably be stripped of his rank and title if he wasn’t beheaded, or gallop to the nearest border in hopes of fleeing the kingdom before Emily reported to King Randor. Either way, existence as he knew it was over.

You were very gentle with him, a voice said, at the back of her mind. It sounded a lot like Cornelia. You could have killed him on the spot.

I could, Emily answered. But this way, whatever choice he makes, it will be his.

She frowned, then headed to her room. She’d spend another night in the inn, after passing on Cornelia’s message, then make her way to the next village. And then…

I did the right thing, she told herself. And that’s all that matters, isn’t it?