Shifting Stars, page 11
“Greetings,” she offered, pleasantly, “and what brings you to my door on such a fine afternoon?”
“Surrender or die, Black Witch!” the knight leader declared.
“‘Black Witch’ is it, now?” Dreya remarked with raised eyebrows. “And I was just getting used to ‘Dreya the Dark.’ I do wish you’d make up your minds about my nickname, it’s getting hard to keep track.”
“Your tower is a blight on the land!” insisted one of the clerics.
Dreya looked hurt as she glanced around her grounds.
“Well, I agree it’s a bit of a mess right now, but ‘blight’ is a bit harsh,” she pouted. “Be fair, this mess is three hundred years in the making, and I’ve been here about three days. I’ve got my best people working on it.”
“You are the scourge of the people, and you must die!” another knight declared.
“Or surrender,” Dreya suggested. “At least according to your friend here.”
The knight blinked, confused. He had expected a fight, not a debate.
“Well, yes, I suppose you can surrender instead. Do you wish to surrender?”
“Well…” Dreya closed her book and seemed to consider the question. “…I’d say that rather depends on what happens after I surrender.”
The knight leader answered, “You will be taken to Gaggleswick, where you will be tried, sentenced and executed.”
Dreya slowly stood. “On what charge?” she asked. “I believe I am entitled to know that, am I not?”
“You are a threat!” said the cleric spokesman, as if it were obvious.
“I’m sorry,” said a puzzled Dreya, “who exactly have I threatened?”
“That’s for the court to decide,” a knight asserted.
“But according to you, the court has already decided, since I am to be tried, sentenced and executed. So, it seems to me as if you are giving me a choice between dying here or dying in the town square. That’s not much of a choice, is it?”
“Well, it’s the only one you’re getting!” the lead cleric insisted.
“In that case,” Dreya’s voice gained an edge of steel and her gaze sharpened to match. “Let me give you a choice: leave my lands and never return or enter my service and never leave.”
“We will not leave until you die!” the knight insisted; the others murmured their agreement. All readied weapons.
“Very well, I accept your choice,” Dreya replied.
With that, she unleashed her power at her enemies. She tore out the knights’ souls and discarded them, turning all four into her very own death knight bodyguards, each with the strength of ten mortal knights, unyielding, untiring. Meanwhile, with the clerics, she took the opposite approach. Discarding their lifeless bodies and corrupting their souls, so they became ghouls, floating on the breeze as insubstantial as light and sparking with the power of the gods of Darkness, each one more than a match for any dozen mortal clerics.
“Tell me,” Dreya said, “whom do you serve?”
“We serve our Mistress, Dreya the Dark,” they chorused.
“And when will you leave my service?” she asked.
“We will not leave until you die,” they said.
“Excellent,” Dreya approved.
*****
You see, gentle reader? Aunt Dreya gave them a choice – a far better one than the non-choice they gave her – and she accepted their decision. They would serve and protect her, and never leave until the day she died, and technically, gentle reader, a thousand years later, she still hasn’t.
Chapter 14
Dreya assigned duties to her attackers, treating them as her household staff, while she retired to her study.
An hour or so later, she emerged with a pair of sealed letters and handed one to each of her two groups with instructions to deliver them to the individuals who sent them to kill her. They were under strict orders to take no hostile action except to defend themselves and ensure the letters reached their recipients on the stroke of midnight. They bowed and obeyed.
That night, Squire Johanssen and Prince Travarin were both shocked to receive their unexpected visitors. With trembling hands, each opened their identical letters, which read:
Dear sir,
You are cordially invited to attend Mistress Dreya the Dark for a banquet at her private residence, the Black Tower, in precisely 72 hours from the moment you receive this letter. Please arrive promptly at the gates to my grounds by the first stroke of midnight, whereupon your hostess will be delighted to escort you to her tower. (Formalwear required, leave all weapons behind, no plus ones.)
Once here, it shall be my honour and privilege to treat you to an evening of delicious food, fine wine and the charming conversation of yours truly.
Then afterwards, we shall retire to my drawing room where we will discuss, in most pleasant surroundings, our future as neighbours in these lands.
At the end of what is sure to be a night to remember, you will, of course, be free to return home to your lives, as usual, all of us secure in the knowledge that there will be no further misunderstandings between us.
Attendance is not compulsory, but it is in your best interests, for should you choose to decline my formal invitation, you will find my terms are not nearly as favourable.
Yours in magic,
Dreya the Dark
Mistress of the Black Tower
p.s. In the interests of safety, please do not attempt to enter my grounds unescorted. A few of the late Ulvarius’ defences are having some difficulty adapting to the new regime here, and I would hate for there to be any unfortunate accidents.
Too terrified to do other than as they were told, seventy-two hours later, Squire Johanssen and Prince Travarin were waiting restlessly at the gate to the Black Tower’s grounds. On the stroke of midnight, Dreya emerged silently from out of the darkness. Neither human nor Faery could say whether she had teleported just that second or whether she had been there, unnoticed, as one with the shadows, since before they arrived.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” came Dreya’s voice from the depths of her hood. “I am so pleased you were able to attend. I trust you had a pleasant journey here?”
Both men nervously agreed that yes, their journeys were indeed trouble-free.
“Excellent,” Dreya declared. “Now, if you would allow me…?”
She moved between them, a hand on each one’s arm as they strolled through her garden. As they walked, she pointed out various items of interest along the way, and both men were sure to make appropriate appreciative noises.
“Are you two quite alright?” Dreya asked innocently. “You seem almost nervous about something.”
Both men scoffed at such an absurd notion. Of course they weren’t nervous. Why would they be?
“Why indeed?” Dreya agreed as they reached the steps of her Tower. “It would be extraordinary if you were nervous. After all, you were bold enough when you were sending others into my grounds to attack me, so why would two such brave men be nervous at the prospect of meeting me yourselves, for a harmless little dinner party?”
Before either could think of any kind of response, she removed her hands from their arms and dropped to one knee to examine the black roses. “Look at these!” she exclaimed delightedly. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
Both men grabbed this new line of conversation with both hands, waxing lyrical on the astounding beauty of the flowers.
Dreya picked one and stood, turning to face them. “I used one of these roses to banish the lich form of Ulvarius that had been guarding this place for three centuries. Naturally, I know the stories of that time. It must have been terrible to live in the shadow of such a tyrant, not knowing from one moment to the next whether one might live or die at their slightest whim. When it came down to it, though, all I had to do was prick my finger on a thorn.” She demonstrated, holding her hand close to their faces so they could watch a trickle of blood run down her fingers and drip onto the ground. “Then I invoked blood magic and he simply vanished in a puff of smoke.” She made the rose turn to dust in her hand and blew it in their faces. “Oh, I do apologise,” she gasped. “Must have been a freak gust of wind.”
As the two men followed her inside, they assured her that there was no harm done and not to worry about such little accidents.
“It’s good of you to be so forgiving,” she said as two death knight guards opened the doors into the dining hall. There, a ghoul awaited them, carrying, of all things, a white towel as if it were a waiter at a restaurant, there to greet them and show them to their table. Which, of course, was precisely its function that night.
Dreya removed her hood and regarded the two men with a puzzled expression, cocking her head to one side.
“There’s definitely something about you two tonight. Are you sure you’re not nervous about something?”
Both men assured her they were fine.
“Well, if you’re sure. But I should tell you, this is my first time entertaining two such important visitors, so if I say or do anything tonight that makes you the slightest bit uncomfortable, you will tell me, won’t you?”
They both agreed they would.
“Promise?” she pressed them.
Forcing a smile, they both promised.
“Excellent,” she declared, “now if you would care to follow my ghoulish waiter here, he will show you to your places on the dinner table.” She rolled her eyes. “Sorry, slip of the tongue, I meant at the dinner table, of course, not on it! I mean, it’s not like I’m going to gobble you up or anything, is it?” she laughed.
The two men nervously joined in her laughter as they walked into the dining room and stood at their places until Dreya, at the head of the table, sat down.
“Ah, such gentlemen,” she said. “Waiting for a lady to sit first.”
The ghoul flew away and returned with the wine list.
“Do you mind if I choose?” Dreya asked her guests.
They assured her they didn’t mind at all.
“Excellent. Hmmm…Red for tonight, I think,” Dreya mused. Let me see…she stabbed the list with a finger.” The ghoul flew away again and returned a moment later with a bottle, which he presented to his mistress. When he poured a small amount into a glass for her, she stared at it for a moment, her eyes wide. Dipping her little fingertip into the liquid, she hesitantly tasted a drop on the tip of her tongue. Screwing up her face in disgust, Dreya flushed with embarrassment, and shooed the ghoul away with the bottle and glass. “Don’t bother with the list again!” she called after him. “Any will do. Just make sure it’s actually wine, this time, and not…blood!”
To her two guests, she said, “I’m so sorry. He’s new – I’m just training him up. Only been with me a few days, but then you knew that.”
After that, the rest of the dinner passed without incident. They talked about small, inconsequential things and the two men almost started to relax. Almost.
The dinner came to an end and true to her word, Dreya invited them into her drawing room, leaving her ‘household staff’ to clear everything away.
Settling into soft leather chairs, surrounded by books on shelves, paintings on the walls and a large plush rug on the floor, Dreya took a sip of wine, and remarked, “Isn’t this civilised?”
Yes, it was, they agreed.
“Well, think how much more enjoyable it could have been, had you not sent your people to kill me. If you had simply asked to meet me to discuss your concerns, we could have avoided so much unpleasantness. Instead, we are here, as I said in my letter, to discuss our future relations. Specifically, the terms of your surrender.”
“Surrender?” the men demanded.
“Of course,” Dreya said as if it should be obvious. “You went to war with me, and you lost. Now you have a choice: you can either escalate the conflict, or you can surrender.
“Let me be clear, gentlemen: I am not Ulvarius. Just because a person lives in a house that once belonged to a monster, that does not mean they must be a monster, too. I have no interest in a war with you. I don’t do random violence. What I will do is neutralise, without mercy, any threat to my life. I have no interest in your politics. I have no interest in conquest or in ruling the world. If I wanted the world, I could have it tomorrow, but frankly, I wouldn’t want the paperwork. Leave me alone to study my magic, and I have no reason to harm any of your citizens.”
“So, what exactly are your terms of our…surrender?” Prince Travarin asked hesitantly.
“Well, since you came as requested today, they’re straightforward: Leave me alone, and I’ll leave you alone. In your case, I am unlikely to venture into Sylfranian lands because it would be…painful for me,” Dreya admitted.
There were wards in place, set by White clerics, that would react badly to the presence of her Dark wizard magic.
With a flash of her eyes, however, she warned him, “but don’t imagine that would stop me if ever you gave me cause.” Point made, she reverted to her usual pleasant, conversational tone. “I would, however, ask for a gift. You know the house and family I belong to, don’t you?”
“Of course,” he concurred.
“Then I want my ring back, please. You see, I left in something of a hurry and left it behind. Get it for me within seven days, and I guarantee the safety of any messenger carrying it. Can you arrange that?”
The truth was, she didn’t care about her ring, and the noble Sylfranian house it represented meant nothing to her, but it meant everything to Travarin.
Working hard to mask how painful it was for him, the Prince agreed to her terms, so Dreya turned her attention to Squire Johanssen.
“The terms for you are slightly different,” she said, “because I am very much interested in visiting your town.
“There are bound to be things that I need, so I expect to be granted the freedom of Gaggleswick and full access to its services, just like anyone else. I will, of course, pay the going rate. I always pay my debts. However, as an apology for your thoughtless attack, I would like a gift from you, too. These linen robes of mine are not the most comfortable. They chafe and scratch in places – it’s very distracting. Therefore, I would like a bolt of black fabric, please – I’m thinking the softest, most luxurious velvet money can buy – and to hire the services of your finest tailor to ensure a perfect fit every time. Once again, the safety of that tailor will be guaranteed on the condition of absolute discretion on their part.”
Without any further explanation for that condition, Dreya concluded, “Now, considering you tried to take my life from me, I consider that a bargain price.”
The squire quickly agreed to organise the tailor and have Freedom of Gaggleswick documents drawn up and signed.
“Good. Again, shall we say seven days?”
He assured Dreya that would be no problem.
“Excellent,” she said, satisfied. “In that case, gentlemen, our business is at an end.” She stood and began to escort them from her home. “I hope you have enjoyed this evening. Do not expect it to happen again.
“One last thing,” she added as they reached her door. “You attacked me, yet you still live. Understand the rarity of that. From this day forward, you live only because I choose it. Do not give me reason to choose otherwise. Farewell, gentlemen, and don’t worry about walking through my grounds alone. They’re all under control now,” she assured them.
“Mostly,” she added as she closed the door behind them.
*****
After that, gentle reader, she was indeed left alone, and all was well, apart from one incident a few months later, when a mob of hot-headed thugs decided if they couldn’t attack Dreya directly, they would go after the one who trained her. After all, it was his fault she was there at all.
Xarnas was a skilled wizard, but it had been a while since he had been involved in a real fight and he was getting slightly worried about the large gang that was advancing on him. He need not have feared, however, as a figure in velvet robes of the deepest black he had ever seen, materialised beside him.
Dreya made short work of the attacking group, sending out an energy beam that incinerated all but one who had been trying to sneak up behind them. Now he turned to flee, instead.
“What was that?” Xarnas gasped in astonishment. “It almost looked like the cannon thing that those higher planar beings fight with.”
Dreya inclined her head in respect. “I see your mind has lost none of its sharpness in my absence,” she said, getting remarkably close to a compliment. “It’s not that powerful, yet, but give me time.”
Watching the fleeing man, she said, “I suppose this is the part where I say, ‘Let’s leave this one alive so he can warn any others what happens if they attack us.’”
“Actually, I’ve never seen the point of that,” Xarnas replied.
“No,” Dreya agreed, snapping the ruffian’s neck with a flick of her wrist. “Neither have I.”
She turned to Xarnas, pulling the hood from her head. “I’ll send a message to Squire Johanssen, get him to spread the word that you’re under my protection and an attack on you is an attack on me.”
“An act of kindness from a Black robe, Dreya?” he wondered.
“Kindness has nothing to do with it,” she insisted, flicking her long dark hair out of her eyes, a look of irritation passing over her usually impassive face. “You helped make me what I am. I owe you, and I always pay my debts.”
Without another word, she left her former Master’s tower for what would be the last time.
In the years that followed, Dreya got more involved with the Council of Wizards, keen to support anything that promoted order and control in magic as well as its protection. The Black division was well known for its infighting, with its wizards vying for power. That exasperated Dreya, as it stood against her dual desires for order and an increase in the power of magic. But if a threat came her way, she would not hesitate to kill her attacker and drain their magic to increase her own. This fuelled her reputation as someone to be feared. She found that useful and did everything she could to cultivate that reputation. That kind of fear, it seemed, meant other wizards didn’t attack her. She wasn’t afraid of those attacks, but they wasted her time and energy. Dreya hated that.
