Page 71 of Reign

I shrugged. “I’m not sure. It might be an old symbol from when Regina was favored.”

“Are you certain the whores are witches?” Bash asked. “If you’re wrong, it could cost you your life.”

He was right, and that thought unsettled me; yet what terrified me even more was the prospect of another battle as ruthless as the last. Besides, the locket was only one clue—I recalled the other subtle magical hints I’d observed at Cambas that all pointed toward the women being witches.

“During the invasion, I saw people on that cliff edge fighting for our side with spells,” I said, pointing toward the spot. “I couldn’t see their faces, but it’s too much of a coincidence—one woman caught speaking in Yfelle, another wearing a symbol tied to the Silver Witch, and cloaked strangers performing incantations near the brothel.”

Bash offered an encouraging smile. “I think you might be on to something. Would Fitzroy want women in his magical army?”

I snorted, knowing he had already accepted me leading the search.

“His Highness has entrusted this task to me. He has no choice.”

Fletcher chuckled. “You want to spend another evening at the brothel?” he asked with a coy smile. “Careful Smith—you’ll get a name for yourself.”

I turned to Bash, ignoring Fletcher as he tittered at his own remark.

“Will you join me on my witch hunt?” I asked.

Bash rolled his eyes. “Of course I will.”

Witch Hunt.

The following evening—as the men quarreled over the biggest bowl of pottage—Bash and I slipped out of camp. I knew the brothel would still host soldiers and stragglers tonight, but visiting without a group meant fewer eyes watching our every move.

Bash grumbled about the rain as we trudged through the persistent mizzle, yet I’d grown fond of the wet weather. It reminded me of home—a place I often longed for but knew I could never return to.

“How are we going to navigate this?” Bash asked as we moved beneath the shelter of the rowan trees.

I shrugged as the remaining red berries fell from their silvery branches, tapping me on the head along with the raindrops.

“We could ask Mr. Bednot to arrange a private chat with one of the women. Then, when we’re in her bedchamber, we ask her if she’s a witch,” I suggested.

“That’s a terrible plan,” Bash replied, shaking his head and flicking droplets from his drenched hair. “Unless you speak to them in Yfelle, they’ll think you’re just a conman trying to trick them into revealing their deadly secret. And if you use the forbidden tongue but they aren’t witches, the next necklace around your pretty neck will be made of rope.”

I tried to focus on his valid points, but my attention snagged on his remark. Bash had called my neck pretty—just a turn of phrase, yet it made me giddy.

“I think one of us should pay for some time alone with that woman Red accused of speaking in Yfelle,” Bash continued. “If she’s using the magical tongue, she’s probably casting spells—and we both know what happens when someone plays with magic.” He pointed to his hand. “Eventually, she’ll strip down to nothing—even her gloves. If her palms are purple, we’ll know she’s a witch.”

Bash gave me a proud smile, clearly pleased with his version of our plan.

“Hm,” I murmured, imagining him in a compromising situation with a naked woman. There was simply no way—on the gods’ rainy realm—I was agreeing to that.

I shook my head firmly. “If we want these women to fight alongside us, we need to earn their trust. Deception and coercion won’t win us loyalty. The respectful approach is to ask.”

“What if they aren’t magical?” Bash asked. “What if you speak in Yfelle and they start screaming?”

“As long as we’re in private, we’ll be safe. If they do cause a scene, you can use that memory-loss incantation—the one you used on the baron that Fletcher stole from,” I replied.

Bash let out a long sigh. “Fine, we’ll do it your way,” he said with a reluctant smile. “You’re almost as bad an influence on me as my cousin.”

We left the shelter of the trees and rushed toward the exposed cliffs as the rain quickened, blinding me with droplets that clung to my eyelashes. Then, out of nowhere, a cloudburst struck. In seconds, the gentle shower had turned into a thunderous downpour.

We braced against the terrorizing winds blowing inland from beyond the thrashing sea. Glancing over the cliff edge, with prickly rain pelting the back of my neck, I saw no shuckers in sight—the shoreline had been swallowed by the tide, with waves crashing relentlessly against the rocks.

“Hurry!” Bash yelled over the roar of the storm.

We sprinted toward the Anchor, wading along the flooded footpath. Bash, faster than me, gained considerable distance and reached the shelter of the brothel ahead. There, he stood patiently in the pummeling rain, holding the heavy door open while I battled against the tempest. I tumbled over the threshold, slipping on the straw-covered floorboards.