Page 142 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

“Why did you come back here?” I whispered, plagued by guilt as images of his bloodied chest flashed behind my eyes. It couldn’t have been for me; I was certain of that. I recalled how he’d launched himself at Mordric without a second thought. Fought his way past the guards who must have been ordered to let no one in, not even the prince. My stomach churned as I tried to make sense of it all. My gaze fell to his belt, where the alder dagger was tucked neatly into its sheath.

“I told you when we parted ways that I had a theory about the link between all of this. So I paid a visit to the blacksmith’s cellar.”

My chin snapped up. “You what?”

He held out his hand. Sitting in the center of his palm was a misshapen clay bead with a hole poked through its middle. A thin B was etched into its surface. “When we first found the shrine, I noticed this in the basin at the center of the pentagram. It was part of a bracelet once. A bracelet that belonged to Ophelia.”

I balked.

“I thought I recognized it when we were in the cellar,” he continued, “which is why I took a piece. I would have said something to Mordric earlier, but after the way he reacted when he found us there, I thought it better not to press the matter.”

“How do you know it’s hers?”

“I didn’t at first. But Ophelia’s wife never left Valnar after her disappearance, so I paid her a visit. She confirmed that it came from a bracelet her son, Benji, made as a child.”

“So it couldn’t have been Ewan,” I thought aloud, my foggy brain slowly putting the pieces together. “He only came to Valnar five years ago.”

“Not Ewan alone, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you were under his control, Geraint said that he’d been trying to achieve his ends for years, which reminded me of our conversation in the blacksmith’s cellar. I think that he’s been possessing people in Valnar for decades to carry out murders on his behalf.”

I shivered, recalling the sensation of being manipulated like a marionette on a string, my jolting movements the same as Ewan’s on the night he attacked me. “Why not murder those people himself?” I whispered.

“I told you that Valnar was protected,” Enhart pointed out. “He likely couldn’t pass through the city walls on his own. He needed someone on the inside. A mortal like Ewan, who passed through the gates frequently running errands for the blacksmith, would have been an easy target.”

My stomach churned. I wondered if Ewan was aware of what he was doing when he’d killed Ruby and Alice. Or when he’d nearly killed me. For his sake, I hoped not. “It can’t be a coincidence that he went after two witches,” I mused aloud. “Do you think Ruby and Alice were witches, too?”

“I don’t know about Alice, but you knew Ruby, didn’t you?”

My heart ached as I recalled the girl’s long brown braids and zeal for gossip. “If she was a witch, then she hid her powers just like I did.” I groaned, massaging my temples. “Why would Geraint do this?” I asked finally. “What does it mean?”

Enhart’s face fell. “Now that, I cannot answer. I’m sorry.”

I buried my head in my hands. So much bloodshed. “And then he tried to make me kill you. Why?”

He raised a shoulder. “Perhaps he simply felt like it. Or perhaps he didn’t think the King would spare you if you succeeded. Then he would have had his fifth witch, killed for whatever ends he intended. The final piece of the pentagram.”

“I—” I faltered as my ears picked up the heavy tread of boots in the corridor. I backed away from the bars, my heartbeat racing as the Master at Arms appeared. He was flanked by a dozen soldiers armed with swords and crossbows. Sir Raltisse was dressed in full armor. A ridiculous display, as if I might unveil a broadsword and thwack him through the bars of my cage.

The company bowed before the prince, the shining metal plates of their armor clinking together in a chorus.

“The king’s council has requested your presence in the throne room,” Sir Raltisse announced, eyeing me warily. “For sentencing.”

I exchanged a worried glance with Enhart. The gaggle of armored soldiers stared at me through the bars, their faces pinched in disdain. I could almost feel the sting of it. I wondered nervously how many of them had witnessed the events of yesterday evening.

“I need to speak to the King alone,” I protested, meeting Sir Raltisse’s stare.

“You’ll speak to him in a matter of moments,” he assured me. “Once you put these on.”

I recoiled as he unfurled a pair of iron shackles. The metal was laced with rust, as if they hadn’t been used in years. The hair on the back of my arms stood on end as I recalled the sensation of the angelica-laced rope from the witches’ encampment. The iron bars before me nearly made me sick, and the last thing I wanted was to be wrapped in the cursed metal.

“Shackles?” Enhart asked, his brows raised. “That hardly seems necessary.”

Perhaps this was my destiny, I thought. The fate that had been waiting for me ever since I escaped punishment in Wealdstone. Perhaps I was not meant to save the kingdom like Mordric had believed, but to be its prisoner.

“It’s alright,” I whispered. “I understand.”