by Alex Aster
And then another surfaced. And then another. Until they were surrounded.
A bonesulker thrust its hand out of the lake, toward Engle, reaching for his throat. Its arm was half bone, half algae, two fingers missing altogether.
Before it could reach him, Tor thwacked it on the side of the head with one of his paddles. The beast hissed wildly.
“Go!” Melda said, and he paddled as fast as he could.
But the creatures of the lake were faster. They raced after the boat, screaming, propelling through hundreds of bobbing bones to get to their prey.
One of them broke away—it was longer than the rest, built of twice as many bones. In seconds, it swam ahead of the boat, then turned to press its bone-finger against the starboard. Its strength was enough to stop them completely. Tor’s paddles were useless.
They came to a halt.
* * *
Nowhere to run, nowhere else to go, they huddled in the middle of the boat. Engle was shaking, and, because Engle’s pants were just a little too short, Tor saw that his friend’s curse had traveled down to his ankles. He didn’t know how Engle was still conscious; the pain must have been unbearable. Tor’s arm had just a few streaks, and it burned like the skin there had been carefully peeled back.
“Engle,” Melda said, voice shaking. “I want to tell you something. Maybe this isn’t the best time, but—I feel like I have to.”
He looked at her expectantly.
“I used to think you were just a boy who was always hungry and joking around, but I wanted to say you’ve been brave. Braver than the rest of us sometimes. Especially on the zippy. And I know we weren’t really friends before, and I wasn’t kind, but things have changed, and I—”
One of the bonesulkers leapt out of the lake, grabbed Engle by the neck, and pulled him into the ice-cold water. He was gone in an instant.
“No!” Melda screamed, reaching over the boat. Engle’s eyes were wide, bubbles exploding from his mouth as they dragged him down. He reached, too, strained to stretch his arms just a little more…
But though their fingers were just inches apart, they did not meet.
She threw herself toward him, but Tor caught her by the waist. Tears in his eyes, he pulled her away.
No.
No, no, no.
He couldn’t see his friend anymore, he was—
“Gone,” he said, pale as bone. “He’s gone.”
Tor heard Melda whisper something to herself, words he remembered the giantess saying: “There are many ways to be strong that don’t require a sword.”
Melda broke free.
She jerked the glass vial from her neck, and shattered it against the side of the boat. A single drop of color fell into the water.
In a flash, the entire lake glowed sapphire blue.
The creatures shrieked, shocked momentarily by the blinding color, their screams muted by the lake’s depth. The drop was not enough to change the lake forever.
But it was enough to make the monsters release the boy.
Engle floated up, as if filled with air. His body was very still.
Tor helped Melda haul him into the boat. Engle’s eyes remained closed, and large gashes had been sliced through his clothes. He was bleeding, everywhere.
But he was still breathing.
Melda held him close while Tor paddled, tears streaming down her face.
Their boat lurched as the bottom caught on dark, rocky sand. Tor jumped off onto land, then pulled Engle from the boat, laying him on his side. He started to cough up water, then stilled. They needed help—they needed a doctor.
“Go, Tor,” Melda said. “Find the Night Witch.” She did not have to say to hurry because Engle might not survive the hour. She did not even have to say to be careful or to follow the third rule to a tee. He read it all in her now permanently gray eyes.
With a single nod, Tor grabbed the dagger and headed toward the cliff.
The Night Witch’s Castle
Once upon a full moon, the witch made a lair. A castle to match her wickedness. She crafted it from poison rock, deadly to the touch. She trapped a princess in its foundation, building around her screams, because legend said that was the only way to ensure it would never fall over. Her bones are in the walls.
In this castle on a cliff the Night Witch sits, her skin a sickly gray, speckled with blood-crusted emblems. Words whispered through villages, rumors carried by the wind and down the coast are not enough. For one can only truly know darkness by seeing it for themselves. She is spun from the shadows, a nightmare come to life.
Beware screams at the stroke of midnight. Ravens that fly against the breeze. Storm clouds that appear against a blue sky. Whispers in the wind.
For that is a sign she is near.
21
The Night Witch
Tor walked across a sandy stretch of land, toward the cliffs and castle that hovered above. His hands were in fists so tight, his nails drew blood. His best friend had almost died. He had watched him being dragged down to the depths of a deadly lake. Even now, Engle was clinging to life, sprawled out on a dark beach.
And it was his fault.
It was her fault.
He would put a stop to the Night Witch.
The thought was unrelenting, pounding through his mind. He had no fear then, no hesitancy. If he died, then so what? It would be worth it, for Engle, and for Melda. He would do anything to make sure they got out of this alive.
The dagger rocked back and forth in his pocket, poking him in the thigh, but he did not adjust it. The pain fed his anger, kept it strong.
Right in front of the cliff sat a puddle the size of a well. It was the darkest of blue, spotted with silver specks, like someone had cut out a piece of the nighttime sky and stuck it here.
Get in.
It was the voice from before.
He took off his cape and jumped.
Tor sank like a boulder, traveling what seemed to be a hundred feet deep. It felt good to be in water again, for possibly the last time. Glowing moon-colored crystals lined the smooth sides of the circular tunnel, lighting his way down. Just when the majority of his breath had been released in a stream of bubbles, he reached the bottom.
There was a shadow. It wavered before him, gone, then back again, finally taking shape. If Tor had any breath left, he would have screamed.
The creature had no face, only a flesh-covered canvas where a face should have been. But he wanted one. All vanors did. They lived to steal faces to add to their collections.
And this one wanted Tor’s.
It floated, its blankness, along with the ice-cold water, giving Tor chills.
The voice was back again. This time, it said, “Choose one—and only one. Choose wisely, and you have won.”
Out of nowhere, three pearls the size of crystal balls appeared, floating in front of the vanor. Tor felt the first jolt in his lungs warning him he’d been submerged for too long.
“Power.” The voice was a frosty whisper in his ear as the first pearl glowed purple. Suddenly, the vanor changed into his mother. She floated there, dressed in her ceremonial Chieftess outfit, headpiece and all. Mom. Tor reached for her. Then, the creature changed again, into Queen Aurelia, her huge golden dress billowing around her like a balloon.
“Riches,” the voice said next, as the second pearl turned gold. The vanor transformed into someone else then, someone Tor had not expected.
Himself.
He saw himself, dressed not in his usual clothes, but in expensive, thick fabrics, large gems sewn onto the pockets. He held a mound of golden dobbles in his hand. His reflection winked at him. Tor couldn’t imagine having that much money—enough for anything he could possibly dream of.
Finally, the voice spoke another word. It was sharp like a hiss. “Sacrifice.”
The third
pearl turned blood red. The vanor stayed as Tor, but the dobbles and gems fell away. He saw himself not winking, but drowning until his skin became a horrible shade of blue. Then, the vanor turned into Melda. Her wrist was bare—her curse gone. She was smiling.
Engle was next. Like Melda, his curse had disappeared. He looked healthy—happy.
The voice said three final words. “Choose a pearl.”
Was this a trick? A test?
If he chose the third option, would his friends die anyway?
He had been in the water for far too long. Pressure built behind his ribs.
In an absurd way, the feeling was somewhat comforting. It made him remember swimming in the ocean, on a day that felt miles away. So many things had changed.
Including Tor.
His lungs compressed as his body ached for air. He wanted to go home more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. He wished he had been grateful for everything he’d had—everything he had lost.
Then, Tor thought of what he had gained. Two friends he would trust his life with. People he had survived with. They were the silver lining of this entire dark mess.
Tor reached for the red pearl and clutched it to his chest.
The orb lit up, illuminating the water like a miniature sun. Tor’s body went numb. He couldn’t move an inch.
Which meant he couldn’t get to the surface.
Something in Tor’s throat began to throb and contract, beating like a heart. The need for air became overwhelming.
Like floodgates opening, the first burning gulp of water entered his lungs. It felt like he had swallowed flames, a bonfire lighting in his chest.
I would do anything for the people I love. Tor repeated those words in his mind until they blurred away and he couldn’t remember them.
As more and more water shot into his lungs and his eyes started to close, Tor thought about his mother. His father.
Rosa.
As soon as he thought of her, the vanor changed, taking on Rosa’s shape and size. His eyes shot open again as his sister floated in front of him, her thick eyebrows twisted in concern. She reached for him, for his hand. He reached out, too. And as soon as their fingers were meant to touch, the vanor turned back into its wicked white form.
Tor’s lungs lurched one last time. This was the end. The end of not only his life, but his journey. His quest for the Night Witch. But his friends were safe. They could return without him. And that made it all worth it. He would make the same choice, over and over again, even though dying proved to be slow and painful. He was a moment from the end, he knew.
All at once, the water glowed ice-blue.
And Tor shot to the surface like a shooting star.
He did not stop there. The water propelled him up like a beam of light, hundreds of feet into the air. Tor saw his friends on the beach far below as he flew through the blue shaft at a dizzying speed, until the stream of water finally spit him out. He rolled a few times over jagged rocks before stopping, faceup, in a wide cave.
Tor coughed up water, gasped for air, then coughed some more, his lungs sore and raw. What happened? The pain in his head beat fast as a drum. Had he been saved?
With wobbling arms and legs, he finally pushed himself to his feet. And when he turned, he saw something that made him jump back.
A young woman stood in front of him. She had beautiful blond hair and skin that glowed as brightly as bits of sun peeking through clouds.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said in a voice soft as velvet.
Tor recognized it immediately. He swallowed.
“You’re the one who’s been helping us,” he said. It was her voice that had spoken through the mouth on Engle’s arm, telling them to jump at the city of Zeal.
She smiled, then nodded.
“Are you a wish-god?”
She had not only helped them on their journey, but also saved him from drowning, just moments before. Maybe he should bow…or at least say thank you.
But then the woman shook her head no.
He froze. “I’m not on a Grail, am I?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Her voice had gone deep as the sea, sharp as an icicle. He recognized it, too—it was the same one that had whispered in his ear just moments before, in the tunnel of water. The one that had tempted him, when they’d had to follow the rules.
Half of the woman’s hair became the same pitch-black as the curse on his arm. The lace on her dress transformed as well, the velvet so dark it looked wet.
One by one, almost every inch of the woman’s body was covered by emblems, little drawings etched into her skin: a skull, a tiger, a chalice, purple flames, a heart, an hourglass, a vial, a silver star. And more still.
Tor swallowed and reached into his pocket for the dagger, clutching it tightly with shaking fingers. “You’re the Night Witch,” he said. Though covered in markings, she did not look anything like the rotting, grotesque figure the stories had described.
His head was spinning. If the two voices were from the same person, then by helping them, the witch had led them right to her.
She surprised him by laughing.
Why had the witch led him here? Why had she cursed him?
Did any of that really matter?
He swallowed and took a firm step forward. Then, he said, “I know who you really are.”
* * *
For just a moment, the Night Witch froze. Then she walked toward Tor, a wicked smile never leaving her face. “Tell me: What is it that you know?”
“You’re the moon,” he said. “From the story.”
The Night Witch did not say a word.
Etler Key had told them he suspected his great-great-uncle had written “The Sun and the Moon” about himself, after falling in love with a woman he could never be with. The old man believed that love had something to do with their family’s curse. And that was when Tor had figured it out.
“You were in love with the storyteller.”
The Night Witch turned to look at the cave wall. Spiders crawled along it and out into the gray mist.
Tor’s voice was desperate. “You might be a murderer, but there is good in you. The storyteller must have seen it.”
“Allow me to tell my own story,” she said. “Not to worry. Your friends are fine…for now. But, by the end of this day, one of us will be dead.” Her eyes gleamed. “And that, Tor Luna, is a promise.”
Tor’s jaw locked. He would make sure that Melda and Engle remained safe. This battle was between him and her. And she was absolutely right.
Only one of them would leave the cave alive.
* * *
The Night Witch turned to face him. “In a time when emblems were still rare, I was the first to be born with more than one marking: A moon. And a sun.
“The moon gave me the power to kill with a single touch. The sun allowed me to bring a person back to life with the snap of my fingers. A balance, you see. It would have remained so, if not for the event that pushed me into the darkness.
“Word had gotten out that someone in my house had more than one emblem—which they took to mean evil. Too much power. The person was to be imprisoned. The morning the prosecutors were going to make their arrest, my father painted a second emblem onto his skin and hid me in a secret room. They came to the house and saw his markings. Before I could use my abilities to save him, he was gone. And not just imprisoned. The men who came were not the prosecutors at all, but emblem-thieves. There to take my father’s alleged two powers. By killing him.
“Once they realized one of his marks was false, they came back. And found me. But I was ready this time. I killed each one where they stood. My father’s emblem became mine, a third one appearing on my skin. I left my house with it, covered in the men’s blood, without a single look back. For years, I roamed the island, searching
for thieves just like the ones that had killed my father. I killed them before they could end anyone else. And so, my markings grew.”
They covered almost every inch of her skin.
Tor gritted his teeth. “You’re lying. I know your tale…and that isn’t it. It says you killed your father to get his emblem, then left your house covered in his blood. It says you’ve murdered people—innocent people. You’re the villain in almost every story.”
She smiled, and it was sad. “By design. My story is a lie.” The Night Witch looked past him, out of the mouth of the cave. “You are correct, Tor. I loved the storyteller. We loved each other. He was the only one to see the good in me, even after what I had become. But, just like the sun and the moon, we could not be together. The darkness I still harbored put him in danger. So, I made a choice.” She swallowed. “I made him forget me—and gave him new memories. Terrible ones. I made him write me into his stories. To make me a monster.”
“Why would you ever want that?”
Her eyes became fierce. Angry. She glared at him. “I never wanted any of this. But I knew that if I was not made to be fearsome, someone would one day come to slay me.” And inherit all of her power, Tor thought. She nodded. “I made him forget everything and cursed his line never to be able to leave their home, because there are those that would capture them in an instant, should they leave my protection of the Shadows. Those that would do anything to hunt me and my power down. They are the only ones who know my location—to share in case someone would one day be worthy of finding me.”
She smiled at the horizon. “Alas, Vero remembered something of our love, it seemed, when writing our story. Even my power could not completely erase us from his mind. For years, he fought so hard to remember his stolen memories, it sent him to an early death.” She swallowed. “It was a consequence I had not anticipated.”
In an instant, her eyes snapped back to his.
“I have spent a thousand years teetering between good and evil. I created the silver falcon. I am the wish-god your people speak to on Eve, though I refute that name. I grant those wishes and have enacted many more helpful acts across the island.