Page 16 of Burn Her They Said
“Can you name a creature small enough to fit under doors with the ability to see nearly three hundred and sixty degrees and a venom which causes paralysis from the neck down for a full six hours?” Wyrth’s eyes flash with mischief.
Imperial Treasurer Aldo pales. “N-no, I am unaware of any such creature.”
“Then you understand why a hybrid wyvern, mill fly, and Deicra hornet is necessary.”
“Y-yes, Imperial Grand Philosopher Wyrth,” our Imperial Treasurer stammers.
“How did you give it telepathy?” Imperial Steward Garth asks. “That is the most terrifying attribute, if you ask me.”
Wyrth’s sallow cheeks pull back in long linear dimples. “The wyvern mind, of course.”
The Emperor’s tiny spy soars past, and I narrow my eyes at the matte black scales made to absorb the light—a reminder of how difficult it would be to see at night.
A chill creeps up my spine, and I choke as the berry lodges in my throat. His Majesty sneers as I cough and pound my fist in the center of my chest, heat rising in my cheeks just before I free the fragment, with Malin’s magic having been threatening to pry open the seam of my lips and retrieve it for me.
My fingers swipe the glass from the table with far too much aggression, sloshing water onto the surface. The Emperor turns and glares in my direction while I carefully drink a few sips before setting the vessel down again, clinking it loudly over the wood and drawing the attention of the Imperial Court leaders. My magic detects the Emperor’s resulting disgust rippling through his middle from my display of clumsiness. I steal a sense of contentment from memory and send the light-blue tendril straight to his spinal column, replacing his feeling of annoyance until the tension in his jaw eases enough for me to retract it.
He smiles and raises his arm for Raki, his tiny spy, to land on. A chill rises, unsettling the hairs along the back of my neck when it sits on his shoulder and seems to stare with its bug eyes and venomous tail pointed in my direction.
I grab hold of my fork and prepare to take a bite of roasted vegetables when the fluttering of wings grows closer. Every muscle in my body tenses when its tiny paws press into the fabric over my shoulder. The Emperor’s magic surrounds me like a dark gray vapor, then tightens, binding my arms to my sides while forcing my spine to remain straight, giving the miniature spy a sturdy foundation from which to torment me.
Its razor-sharp talons dig into the flesh behind my neck, and all I can do is focus on breathing as tears well in my eyes without the ability to hide them.
I drag a false sense of complacency from where I store the emotions stolen from others and imbue myself, needing what little I have of my own magic to disguise my fear. Not wanting the damned thing to detect any of the terror it conjures and sting me because of it—a natural reaction it maintained from its Deicra hornet ancestry.
His Majesty’s expression is painted with pride as he clicks his tongue. “Come, Raki.”
It lifts off, and I pull in a gasp as the talon on the edge of its wing slices the skin on the back of my neck. Blood stings along the seam of the cut as a light-blue fog rolls up my back, my healer’s magic tending the wound. I turn and catch Cirrin’s eyes and subtly nod in thanks.
“My little witch is jealous,” His Majesty drones, stroking the spines lining Raki’s back as its tiny mouth lined with razor-sharp teeth opens to let out a croak.
“You will be on your best behavior today,” the Emperor chides me with a withering look. “You have been far too distracted, and I will not tolerate any more of your insolence.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
He turns and stuffs a bite of sausage in his mouth. “You have acted far too entitled,” he adds as he chews. “Ungrateful for all I do, giving you anything you could ever want.”
I nod and guzzle the contents of the goblet past the constriction in my throat, wishing wine alone were capable of making this day more tolerable.
Chapter Seven
Throne
Soldiers verify each citizen’s documentation before granting them entry to the tall cathedral walls of the throne room, forming a wide line from the streets of the Citadel to the bottom of the stairs leading up the wide, rounded stage. Excited whispers fill the vacuous space as they crane their necks for a chance to take in the wonder that is the ornate golden throne rising from its center.
The Throne Room is the only part of the Palace built at the foot of the mountain, boasting a domed roof which can be seen from miles away. A shape which feels out of place when the rest of the Palace is carved within the side of the mountain—except for the balconies which jut out from its surface, our only reprieve from being stuck inside the cold gray walls otherwise.
Imperial soldiers stand shoulder to shoulder, curving along the stone walls to enforce order, separated only by their assigned Imperial witches, who help maintain their solemn focus. Telekinetic Guards are posted at the end of every pew, attuning to every citizen in their designated area to detect any use of unsanctioned magic. Their own witches sit within their sections to keep their mood regulated so they may be consistent in discovering any citizen bold enough to break Imperial law.
Wyrth and his Guards are the first to be announced and paraded on stage, taking their place to the left side of the throne while his Imperial witch, Imelda, is forced to sit among the other high-ranking witches in the front row. Seated next to her is her apparent confidant, and my assigned attendant, Drusilla. Their camaraderie is a thing of mystery, as they each seem just as miserable together as they do apart, and I find it strange that they gravitate toward each other despite years of them having done so.
Though it seems even more ridiculous for me to be the only witch permitted on stage as I watch those assigned to the sorcerers in the highest roles gather in the middle-front pew before us. All because His Majesty chose to laud my power by adding Grand to my title, affording me the privilege no other witch has been given.
A dozen acolytes in crisp black uniforms stream from the servant’s entrance, raising a banner in honor of each of my Guards. The Imperial page prepares to announce their titles and magical forms to the tune of the unnecessarily sinister song for the Imperial Grand Witch and her protectors.
Pulling in a breath, I gaze out at the tall black banners where the golden Ampara Deicra sigil alternates with my signet—the outline of an eclipsed moon, signifying emotional transformation, which frames the outline of our Empire’s flower in the center, so aptly named ‘Dragon’s Fury,’ after the frilled black petals resembling that of a Dragon’s skull. The top petals flare wider than the lower, and purple stems sprout from its center, making it appear to be breathing fire—a symbol of both strength and beauty, assigned to me due to its essence, which causes anyone who ingests it to become far more susceptible to certain forms of influence.
The page steps forward, projecting his voice. “Presenting Imperial Grand Witch Tasch and her Imperial Guards.” He bows low before continuing. “Imperial Lead Guard Hendry, representing a higher-than-average strength in force magic.”
