Hero

by Alethea Kontis

  “Of course,” said the chimera. “She looks like Jack.”

  “That’s what I thought too. At first.” They came to a split in the tunnel. Peregrine decided there was more work to do in the kitchen, so he selected the one on the left. “And then I realized I’d seen a face like hers more recently than that. So have you.”

  The chimera whiffled through his beak. “I have?”

  “It was her eyes that did it. Her eyes and that mad grin as we prepared to fight.”

  “When you dropped your sword.”

  “She looked at me with those bright eyes filled with fury, and I knew.” He’d known her then for who she was, just as he’d known his heart and soul were lost forever. He should have recognized her when the gods delivered her to his doorstep.

  “You knew that I was right?”

  “I knew that Elodie of Cassot was not the woman in my visions.”

  Betwixt yowled. “Oh, gods. Your infernal sketchings. That was Saturday?” The catbird yowled again in affirmation. “That was Saturday!”

  Peregrine balanced the tear-stained gauntlet and the torch while he lifted his skirt to maneuver around the small pillars and rock shelves in the floor. “‘Infernal.’ So apt a description.” Here and there the runesword scraped against the calcite, leaving a trail of glittering snow in his wake.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to change my shirt and wash my face. I will not be kissing that girl again until she’s had a proper bath. Then I plan on burning a few of my possessions before the witch can get her claws on them. Want to help?”

  Betwixt swatted at Peregrine’s skirt with a paw. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “You mean what am I going to do about being in love with Stubborn-Britches Woodcutter when I’m betrothed to another woman?”

  The gryphon’s chuckle was more of a fluttery purr. “It is a dilemma.”

  Peregrine raised a finger. “You’re not seeing the bigger picture, my friend. As a traitorous birdie-witch just told us, we’re all about to die. That pipe dream I had of returning to the world? Never going to happen. For once, I hope that after all this time dear Elodie was smart enough to carry on without me.”

  “I hope so too,” said Betwixt. “For her sake, and yours.”

  Peregrine was too wound up for serious conversation. Having reached the kitchen, he walked straight up to the shelves that contained most of his pantry items. He carefully poured the last few gryphon’s tears into an empty vial, and then slipped the vial into his pocket. The next vial he picked up and threw into the fireplace. The glass broke and spiced mold spilled everywhere. The smokeless coals began to emit strange violet fumes.

  “So, since our happy, comfortable lives will be cut short in the very near future, I feel that we should live every second as if it were our last.” A hammered helmet full of dried mushrooms exploded against the back wall. Several pieces of coal shot out of the chimney alcove and sizzled as they burned shallow holes in the icerock floor. “Don’t you agree?”

  “I’m not so sure,” muttered the chimera.

  Every piece of armor held something in this pantry, and Peregrine was of a mind to destroy it all. A pauldron of brownie teeth followed the mushrooms.

  “I am free to love Saturday Woodcutter all I want. I can hug her and kiss her and fight her and reveal my deep and abiding love for her as we’re freezing to death on the mountainside or sucked through a demon hole. Which would you prefer?” He dumped out a poleyn of dried seeds he’d been saving. There was nothing to save them for now.

  “You’re still upset,” said the chimera.

  “Right again!” cried Peregrine. “Why have I never realized just how astute you are? We should celebrate. A shame there’s no alcohol. We could have a toast.”

  “You never liked it anyway,” said the chimera.

  “Not the point! But since there’s no alcohol, I say we continue burning things.” Having reached the back of the shelf, he extracted Leila’s handmade book of recipes and spells. The pages were a mixture of parchment and animal skins and other substances that Peregrine was happy not to know. Several loose sheets fluttered to the ground as he carried it to the fireplace. He snatched them back up again—every shred of this book must be destroyed. Leila herself had instructed as much in the frontispiece, and now Peregrine knew why: the lorelei needed more avenues for her power like the world below needed a waking dragon. He’d risk forgetting these tidbits of wicked wisdom in the short time they had left in this prison.

  “Peregrine, I’ve never seen you like this,” said Betwixt. “Should I be worried?”

  Peregrine did not answer, watching the fireplace as the flames licked the pages. The edges blackened and curled in on each other. The smoke that rose from the book was chartreuse and white, and the overpowering smell of cinnamon filled the room.

  “Snip-snap-snurre-basselure. Is this a housecleaning or a tantrum?” The witch entered the kitchen through the entrance farthest from the fireplace.

  Cwyn remained safely back against the wall. Smart move. Peregrine wanted to throw the pyrrhi in the fire as well. Betwixt shook his feline head in disapproval at the murderous look in his friend’s eyes, and Peregrine backed down. As a fire witch, Cwyn more than likely would have basked in the burning.

  The bird’s blind mistress wandered closer, sniffing her way to the fireplace. “Dinner, perhaps? A new recipe? Or could it be . . . a spell?” This last choice made her the happiest. “I do detect the distinct presence of your handiwork! It’s been so long, I thought perhaps I imagined it. My darling daughter, walking in her mother’s footsteps! I am so proud of you.”

  It wasn’t impossible for humans to perform some small magic spells, but Peregrine could evoke nothing like the elemental manipulation the lorelei played at, nor did he know how to fake that distinctive burned cinnamon smell. She had forced him to attempt working magic a few times, but the amount of energy required had drained him to the point of exhaustion within moments. He’d begged the witch to forgive the loss of aptitude she’d once seen in her daughter and allow Leila to excel at her own pace.

  Now he would have to pretend he’d learned something.

  “You honor me, Mother,” said Peregrine, dreading the imminent maternal contact.

  The witch awkwardly hugged Peregrine, pressing her frail body against his lean, muscular one. “Tsk, tsk. So skinny,” she scolded. “We’ll have to work harder at fattening you up, my sweetie.” Peregrine attempted to block her from the fire, but she pushed him aside as she followed her nose. “What’s this?”

  At the flick of a bony wrist, Cwyn crossed the room and landed on the witch’s shoulder. Peregrine wrinkled his nose at the bird in disgust. The raven squawked back at him.

  “Play nice, dearies,” said the lorelei. She waved her hand; the top layer of icerock melted into the fireplace and extinguished the coal in a puff of rancid steam.

  “What have we here? Lovely things. Mushrooms . . . brown-ie teeth . . . ooh, and the pungence of a nicely fermented mold.” No stew Peregrine had ever made had garnered a grin as wide as the one that now split the lorelei’s ghastly face. “And seeds. Hmm. Oh yes.”

  He’d hoped that the charred seeds would be indistinguishable from the coal dust. Of more dire importance, though, was Leila’s spell book. Some things even the raven couldn’t unsee. The witch pinched the book between two blue fingers and held it up. The crisp black pages dripped purple blood.

  “Cauldrons are used for more than just laundry, child. Remember that. It’s easier to alter ingredients in a pot than in the”—she sniffed the pages—“fire. Not Earthfire or coal but proper, elemental fire. Plus seeds from life yet to be, and pages from life that once was. I’ve been doing it all wrong.”

  “Mother?” Peregrine hoped the witch didn’t mean what he thought she did.

  The witch jumped to her feet and did a little dance. Sweeping Peregrine up into her bony blue arms she yelled in his face, “I’ve been doing it all wrong!�
� She kissed both his cheeks. Her breath stank of rotten brownie meat, brimstone, and chalk. Given the combination of odors already in the kitchen, Peregrine preferred kissing Saturday.

  “My beautiful daughter has discovered the key! She’s a gen-ius, you know,” the witch said to Betwixt. “Shells don’t wash up too far from the tide. Thank you, my girl!”

  “The key for what, Mother?” Peregrine pitched his voice slightly higher, filling his question with youthful innocence. He was afraid he already knew the answer.

  “For the spell,” the witch supplied. “The only spell that matters—to open the doorway home! And you, dearest daughter, will be with me as I cross the threshold to the demon realm. We will return to the birthplace of the basselure and claim our rightful thrones as queens of our element.”

  “I don’t want to intrude,” said Peregrine. “It’s your spell, Mother. This is complex magic. I’m afraid my presence will cause a disturbance.” Peregrine’s absence also meant that whatever Saturday planned, she would have to carry it out by herself.

  “Nonsense, my brilliant babe! As the seed and the page, so are we the beginning and end of one life. I wouldn’t do this without you. I will have you see your mother’s triumph!”

  Peregrine tried another tactic. “But I don’t have any more of these ingredients,” he pointed out. “In my . . . passion, I used them all up in this fire.”

  The witch waved a bony hand over the drenched fire. “Snip-snap. I’ll just have Jack fetch them before I drain his blood for the cauldron. I think I’ll keep his eyes to replace my own. As long as there’s blood and bone, I don’t imagine the spell will miss them.”

  “Poor Jack,” said Peregrine.

  “You won’t mind, will you, dearest? You probably think he’s a handsome specimen, but I assure you there are plenty more men on the sea.”

  “It sounds like you already have your mind made up, Mother. Who am I to dissuade you?” They were doomed. He’d come straight here and accidentally given the lorelei exactly what she needed. Peregrine had run out of ideas for thwarting her.

  Betwixt, hiding on high again, was no help at all.

  After a few random swats in the air, the witch found Peregrine’s cheek and patted it. “There, there. You can thank me properly later by helping me with the spell! Oh, isn’t this exciting! I must prepare. Come, Cwyn!” The witch continued her wild, swirling dance of joy, trailing her fingers along the wall to guide her way out of the kitchen area.

  Cwyn did not follow right away. She stayed perched on a pillarstone by the fire, staring Peregrine down.

  He stared back, thinking over his next words and actions carefully. Cwyn could not pass on his exact sentiments to the witch, but she could convey his actions through her eyes at any given moment.

  Rage boiled beneath the calm he forced into his body. “This is your doing. I would never have destroyed this pantry and burned that book if you hadn’t come to Saturday spouting your messages of doom.”

  Betwixt landed behind the bird, claws unsheathed. “You knew the missing pieces to the spell all along.”

  The raven cackled almost as well as the lorelei.

  “You’re forcing Saturday to kill the witch for you. And you’ve used me to do it.” Peregrine wanted to wring the bird’s neck and roast her for dinner.

  Cwyn’s voice reverberated in his skull. Saturday could leave the lorelei to work her spell. She could let the doorway open and watch as the world burns. The choice is still hers to make.

  Mind-to-mind dialogue was always painful for Peregrine, either because he had no aptitude for it, or because his brain was not used to such intrusions. He raised a hand to his pounding temples—his fingers were purple and black with soot. “She will never choose herself over the world. You know that,” he said. “You’ve known that all along.”

  The bird spread her wings and took to the air. Her maniacal laughing caw echoed down the tunnels as if a murder of ravens had joined in her celebration.

  Peregrine collapsed to the hard floor in the mess that had once been a fire. The only light left in the room was the one small torch he’d brought from the armory. “It seems Miss Woodcutter is not the only one destined for destruction,” he said to his companion.

  Despite the cold and damp floor, Betwixt curled up beside him and placed his beaked head in Peregrine’s lap. “We can help her stop the witch. We can help her escape from the mountain before the dragon wakes. It might work.”

  “And a flea might stop a giant.” Peregrine stroked the soft, downy fur behind Betwixt’s ears in an effort to calm the emotions warring in his breast. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this strongly about anything. Now that Saturday had entered his life, he seemed to be feeling everything all at once.

  “When the witch dies, every spell she’s used to form these caves will falter. If we do somehow manage to dodge the falling rocks and rivers of Earthfire all the way to the cave entrance, how do we descend from the tallest mountain in the world without being frozen to death by the wind and snow?”

  “When the witch’s spells break, I will have control over my form again,” argued Betwixt. “I can take you both down quickly enough.”

  “It might take time before you have control again. It might take energy you won’t have because the witch has siphoned every bit of it away. Do you trust your nature enough to bet our lives on it? And then, after all of that, we’ll be chased by a very angry dragon. You know full well that surviving the dragon is impossible.”

  “I’m being optimistic,” said Betwixt.

  “I’m being realistic,” said Peregrine.

  “Well, don’t let Saturday catch wind of your realism, or she’ll never go through with killing the witch.”

  “We forfeit our lives in every scenario.”

  “This is no life,” said Betwixt.

  “Funny,” said Peregrine. “Then what exactly is it we’ve been doing up to now?”

  “We do not live here. We merely exist. And we would have gone on doing so while the dragon slept, but it is not a life. Lives have suns and seasons. Lives have happiness and sadness and birth and death.” He lifted his wings to make great shadows on the walls. “Time rises up here to die. Down there is where it is lived, felt, and remembered.”

  “And regretted.” Peregrine could not help but think of Elodie and the sweet dream of a simple life he was never meant to lead. He ran a thumb across the blue scar on his wrist and allowed himself the brief fantasy of a quest-filled future beside the giant, sword-wielding brat who’d stolen his heart the moment he’d met her.

  “As you choose. That is freedom: the ability to choose. One day, I will once again be able to choose my own form. That is how I will know I am free.”

  “Death is also freedom,” said Peregrine. “It seems to be the only choice left for Saturday. And for us.”

  “And here I thought cats were supposed to be the annoyingly wise ones,” said Betwixt. Peregrine ruffled his fur, and Betwixt snapped playfully at his fingers. “I plan to help Saturday kill the witch, but I also plan to help her escape these blasted caves. Are you with me? If we’re going to die here on this mountain, I say we do it in a blaze of glory.”

  Peregrine cracked a smile. “From the gullet of a dragon.”

  11

  A Nonsense Never Hoped For

  SATURDAY WOKE up shivering in the darkness. She reached for her blanket, but Trix had stolen it again. Scamp.

  As sleep left and reality crept in to set up shop, Saturday remembered where she was and how she’d gotten there. What she’d done to Trix. How she’d abandoned her mother. She sent up a prayer to the gods for her brother’s well-being and Mama’s safekeeping, then turned her face to the icerock floor of the armory and refused to give in to the urge to cry. She needed to get up and start saving the world. It’s what Jack would have done. It’s what Trix would have wanted her to do.

  Too bad their last exchange had been a fight. Lately it seemed like most of Saturday’s conversations were a
rguments.

  The moment she raised her head, she wished she’d had that bath. Her dirty skin crawled over her aching muscles and her head itched. It wasn’t a state she was a stranger to, but she never slept this way. Mama always made her, Papa, and Peter wash before dinner. Time-consuming as the custom had been, Saturday had grown to enjoy ending the day clean and fresh. She looked forward to ridding herself of this filth when she was done mucking out the bird’s cave. She tried not to consider the quality, quantity, or temperature of the water to come, or what dubious means Peregrine had of providing it, but he had promised her a bath, and she’d hold him to it.

  He had also kissed her.

  Saturday pressed her lips together. There was no more sting left from the poison, only the memory of the pressure of Peregrine’s mouth upon hers and the ghost of his warm arms around her. She had dreamt of being kissed, once when she was a little girl and once when she’d been kidnapped from Thursday’s pirate ship. She wondered now if that second time had been a dream at all.

  To Saturday, falling in love was a nonsense never hoped for. Love and marriage and family would mean the end of her adventuring. She had only just begun to live her life outside the towerhouse. So far, that life had been full of swords and witches and life-or-death decisions. Kissing had no place there.

  And yet, Saturday couldn’t bring to mind a tale about Jack in which he’d banished evil or bested a beast without winning the heart of some girl in the end. Saturday sighed. Did romance have to be part of the adventure? It just seemed so unnecessary and distracting.

  Worst of all, she had liked the kiss. She wanted to do it again, and that annoyed the hell out of her.

  Fighting with someone was so much easier than caring about him, and caring would make Saturday’s final decision that much harder. It wasn’t just herself she’d be sacrificing by killing the witch and waking the dragon; the deaths of Peregrine and Betwixt would be on her hands as well.

  She stood up and collected the rake. If she could not conquer her emotions, she could at least conquer this day. A hard day’s work might not solve everything, but it would help her sort out her thoughts.