A Fiery Friendship

by Lisa Fiedler

  “I am tempted,” Mentir stormed, “to forbid you to declare!”

  Glinda’s throat tightened. “Forbid me to—?”

  “That will mean no ceremony, no scroll, no future for you!”

  No future? And all for the want of an appropriate hairstyle? Glinda couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Please, Madam,” she choked out. “You can’t forbid—”

  “Silence! I am considering.”

  It was at this very moment that the Declaration Day guests suddenly began to assemble on the front steps. This was odd, as it was over an hour and a half prior to the time noted on the invitations. Glinda could see them through the diamond-paned windows, making their way up the front steps. Even they looked confused as to why they were arriving so early, as if they’d somehow come without meaning to. But there they were.

  The gentlest of sighs came from Miss Gage. “Not yet half past eight and the families have begun to arrive,” she noted calmly. “And all at once, no less.”

  Madam Mentir looked positively apoplectic. She clapped her hands sharply and addressed the class. “Conclusives, to the drawing room! Immediately! Your families, it seems, have elected to redefine punctuality. Now, line up according to height. Runts to the front, gangly ones fall in behind. During the ceremony, those of you who are pretty may smile if you choose. Plain girls, endeavor to look content; smart if you can manage it.”

  In a scuffle of shoe leather the Declarants hurried from the foyer. Reluctantly, Glinda lifted her face to meet the headmistress’s scowl.

  “Go to the toolshed and find a length of twine,” Mentir commanded. “Use it to tie back that flame-colored hair.” She clicked her tongue in disgust, as if having red hair was a crime Glinda had willingly committed.

  “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you in large amounts.”

  Mentir took a moment to study Glinda’s face. “And when the Declaration activities commence, you have my permission to smile.” Then she dismissed Glinda with a grunt, composed her features, and strode to the entrance to welcome her guests.

  As Glinda rushed from the foyer, she paused at the back door to glance back over her shoulder toward the stairs.

  Miss Gage was nowhere to be seen.

  6

  A THING OF COLD, OF SLUDGE, AND SILT

  The reflecting pool was the centerpiece of Aphidina’s entry garden.

  The crystalline body of water sat like a sparkling jewel, surrounded by a border of wildflowers, further encircled by the roundabout of fieldstone pavers that marked the beginning—or the end—of the bridge path, depending on whether one was entering or exiting the palace grounds. Entering was the more frequent occurrence, for other than Aphidina herself and those in her employ, few who were delivered here were ever given the opportunity to leave.

  As Aphidina descended the outer steps of her palace, the train of her red gown trailed along behind her like the shimmering slime of a slug. Daisy shuffled along warily beside, petals fluttering, leafy arms pumping in her efforts to keep up.

  “Did you send word to the wagon driver?” asked the Witch, barely tipping her fine chin in Daisy’s direction.

  “My Queen, I did as you asked. The driver has altered his course and is returning here as we speak.” She paused to punctuate the news with a nervous smile, loosing a sprinkle of pollen from her plump yellow cheeks. “You will be pleased to hear that this morning has yielded a full cart.”

  Aphidina sniffed. “Pleased” was not at all what she was feeling at the moment, given that she was about to perform her least favorite task. The summoning of Bog, for a queen who valued elegance and beauty almost as much as she prized power, was a loathsome errand indeed. She wished she had created him differently. She wished she had made him lovely. But his purpose was to be mighty and merciless in equal measures and his appearance, horrendous as it was, was suited to his responsibilities.

  Even if it did cause Aphidina’s stomach to sour.

  The Witch cast a longing glance toward her favorite feature on the entire property—the Grande Allée of Symmetrees. She would much prefer to be strolling that tranquil lane, bordered by two rows of towering trees, each individual specimen perfectly symmetrical to the one that grew across from it. These she had cultivated since they were saplings, and they, like everything else in her garden, were enchanted. She took great pride in the precision of them, the order and equilibrium—mostly because she was the one who controlled it.

  A short distance from the reflecting pool, a high wall constructed of enormous Lurcher creatures enclosed the expansive castle grounds. The wall was interrupted by a towering gate of giant cabbage leaves, which opened and closed by Magical command. The leafy doors were guarded both within and without by her best changeling sentries.

  Gliding to the edge of the reflecting pool, the Witch took a moment to admire the way it held the sky upon its surface so that the pink clouds overhead appeared to be also resting upon the calm sheen of the water.

  What lay beneath the calm was quite another matter.

  Aphidina raised her arms and, dipping one toe into the pool, chanted an incantation:

  “From the depths of muck and mire bring to me what I desire,

  A thing of slime, a thing of cold, of sludge, and silt, morass and mold

  Vanish clean and clear and blue! Congeal Bog! You’ve work to do!”

  Then Aphidina snatched her toe out of the water and leaped back.

  At the edge of the pool, the gorgeous riot of snapdragons and toadflax, columbines and zinnias wilted and withered. The water began to roil in huge burplike bubbles, bursting up from the deep bottom of the pool. And while the playful pinkish clouds in the sky remained as they were, those mirrored on the boiling surface did not; their reflections darkened to reddish black, drawing together into a storm mass from which jagged bolts of lightning flashed.

  Blue-white bursts speared eerily into the fathomlessness, shedding light on the swampy swirl spinning up from the pool’s floor. Mud sucking itself into itself to form a torso of massive muck muscles, spewing green slime that became arms and legs and a swollen headlike thing.

  Daisy turned away.

  Aphidina did not. This was her beast, her creature. And although the sight of him sickened her, she never ceased to be amazed by her own ability to bring about terror.

  The water gushed back and fell away, leaching into its own banks until only a murky puddle remained at the bottom. From this Bog rose up, like a mudslide in reverse. Stink and stagnation; marsh gas and weedy rot. His breath was a gaseous heaving from his broad chest as he trudged out of the pool and through the flower bed, slopping right past Aphidina, who recoiled, knowing that his very presence would leave a stain.

  “Open the gates,” cried a sentry from outside. “The prison wagon comes.”

  A sizzle of Witchcraft—swoosh!—and the cabbage leaves swung open into the garden. Aphidina could see the prison wagon making its way across the long moat bridge. In no time, it was through the gate, the horses at full gallop, the wheels grinding violently over the stones of the roundabout.

  In a cloud of stench, Bog planted himself in the path of the team as if they were merely a litter of kittens scampering in his direction.

  “Whoa!” the driver hollered, pulling back on the reins. “Whoa!”

  The horses reared and whinnied, skidding to a halt a hairbreadth from the bounty hunter’s muddy form. With a slurping growl, Bog stomped past them, yanking the driver from his seat and tossing him into the murky shallows of the reflecting pool.

  He climbed onto the seat to take the reins.

  “The prisoners!” the driver choked from the mud puddle.

  Aphidina gestured wildly to the sentries, who ran to unload the captives—a gang of panic-stricken Field Waifs and a boy in blue—from the enchanted cart.

  Aphidina locked eyes with the boy. His twinkling blue eyes inspired her; she could sow them in her garden—eyes like that, if properly planted, would yield a dazzling blue patch of delphini-winkles before
midsummer.

  But Bog was already punishing the horses with the crop, shouting insults and threats to the frightened team, and the sentries were forced to quit their task, leaving the boy and a few remaining Waifs in the cart.

  “Ride with the muck!” the Witch commanded her soldiers.

  Obediently, two sentries hurled themselves into the saddles of their waiting steeds and steered them into the wagon’s wake.

  “H’yah!” croaked Bog, cracking the reins. The wild-eyed horses sprang into motion.

  Flinging herself out of the way, the Witch managed to aim one quick spell at the frightened Field Waifs still trapped in the prison wagon. “Straw and rags, rags and straw, here’s what you get for breaking my law!”

  She knew not what crime they had committed, but their unexcused absence from her pasture was more than enough to warrant a Magical punishment—especially since no Quadling citizens were present to witness her vengeance. “With vacant eyes and brainless heads, henceforth protect my flower beds!”

  The dark charm settled over them as the wagon bombed past, taking the turn of the circular path so recklessly that Aphidina thought it might flip. But Bog steadied the tilting vehicle with a ferocious tug on the reins, and the wheels slammed back down to the stones. The Waifs and the boy in blue bounced hard on their wooden seats. The cart bolted onward, fishtailing through the gate and taking out one of the Lurchers as it did.

  No matter; Aphidina would simply send a gardener to the Perilous Pasture to harvest another. She would repair the wall and plant the delphini-winkles. Because the blue-eyed boy would be back; Bog would see to that.

  And this time, Tilda Gavaria, Sorceress of the Foursworn, would be with him.

  7

  THE SCRYING MIRROR

  Glinda slipped out the back door and hurried across the rear lawn to the toolshed. Sounds from within stopped her in her tracks: anxious pacing and hushed voices. She pressed her ear to the door to listen.

  “If only I weren’t obliged to take part in this ridiculous Declaration ceremony, which I myself pushed up an entire hour by mobilating the guests as a diversionary tactic.”

  Glinda immediately identified the speaker as Miss Gage. But what in the world did she mean by ‘mobilating’? That was a word that had definitely not been taught in Approved Vocabulary for Girls.

  “Now tell me,” Gage went on, “why have you sought me out?”

  “I have come seeking help from the Foursworn.”

  This second speaker was a girl, though it was clear to Glinda that she was not a Conclusive, or for that matter, even a Quadling. Her accent was stiff and sharp, as if each word were being bitten off at the end. Glinda guessed it was the accent of the enemy Gillikin region, or perhaps Munchkin Country (it was said that Winkies warbled, as a general rule), since she’d never heard anything quite like it before.

  “My name is Locasta,” said the girl. “My father was a Revo—Norr of Gillikin—but he has been missing now for many months. . . .” Her voice broke and she trailed off, but when she began again, the resolve in her tone was even stronger. “Before he disappeared, he told me that if ever I found myself in trouble, I should come to Quadling to find you.”

  “I remember your father well,” said Gage. “We met long ago at one of the earliest Minglings, when the cause was very new.” The teacher paused. “Are you in trouble, child?”

  “Not me,” Locasta said. “My younger brother, Thruff. He has joined with the Witch Marada. He has been threatening to do it since our father disappeared, but I don’t believe he’s Wicked, just desperate and angry. I tried to explain to him about the Foursworn and the rebellion, but Thruff is extremely . . . stubborn.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Gage asked.

  Locasta nodded. “He stood up to Marada at the Levying and got himself hauled off to the castle dungeon.”

  “That’s not quite the same as joining her ranks,” Miss Gage pointed out.

  “You don’t know Thruff. I’m certain by now he’s found a way to prove his usefulness.” Here Locasta let out a disgusted sigh. “Or perhaps she tired of him an hour into their association and he’s already dead. With Thruff, it could go either way.”

  “When was he captured?”

  “Two weeks past,” Locasta replied. “It has taken me that long to get to Quadling, as escaping Gillikin was a nearly impossible task. I had to make my way in secret, traveling after dark with only small bits of Magic to aid me.”

  There was a pause as Miss Gage considered Locasta’s problem. “How can I be of assistance?”

  “I require an introduction to the Grand Adept who dwells here in Quadling. Surely she is the only one who can assist me in saving Thruff. Can you help me?”

  “I’ll most certainly try,” Gage promised. “But I am sorry to say I am not personally acquainted with the Grand Adept. The Foursworn, as I’m sure your father explained, operate under deepest cover. So for secrecy’s sake, I’ve kept my distance.” The teacher echoed Locasta’s dreary sigh. “I will try to arrange a meeting. Here, take this with you. It’s a scrying mirror. It will lead you to the old Makewright’s cabin. Wait for us there.” There was another anxious swish of skirts. “I must leave you now. They’ll miss me if I’m too long absent.”

  “Truth Above All,” said the girl.

  “Yes,” said Miss Gage, her footsteps approaching the door. “Above All.”

  Glinda quickly concealed herself on the far side of the toolshed, under the pink cloud of a cherry blossom tree, and peered around the corner just as the door swung open. Miss Gage rushed out and hurried up the path toward the academy’s back entrance.

  A second later the girl emerged.

  Locasta Norr was like no one Glinda had ever seen. Her hair was a mass of long, curling ringlets, a dazzling shade of deep lavender, and her eyes were the highly charged purple of amethyst stones.

  She was a Gillikin, of this there was no doubt, for the Gillikins were known to be smaller in stature than the willowy Quadlings (though taller than the Winkies, who were not nearly so squat nor bulky as the Munchkins).

  Most peculiar was the girl’s clothing. She did not wear a full-skirted gown, like Miss Gage, nor was she turned out in a simple cotton school dress with a ruffled hem and pinafore apron, like Glinda. Locasta sported a hooded tunic with blousy sleeves and tight cuffs; the tunic was pale violet and belted around the middle with a wide purple sash. And she was wearing knee breeches! Leather ones, tucked into sturdy boots that were snugly fastened around her calves with straps and laces.

  It was when Locasta bent down to adjust one of these straps that a small shiny object slipped out of her tunic pocket and into the soft grass.

  Miss Gage’s mirror.

  Without even thinking about what she was doing, Glinda leaped from the shadow of the toolshed, picked up the fallen compact, and called, “Wait. You dropped this.”

  In the next second, Locasta had grabbed the front of Glinda’s pinafore and slammed her up against the cherry tree.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  Glinda squirmed against the rough bark of the tree trunk. “Let me go.”

  “Not until you tell me what you’re doing out here,” Locasta snarled, tightening her grip.

  “Not that it’s any concern of yours,” rasped Glinda, “but I gave my hair ribbons to a clumsy bear, and the headmistress will not allow me to declare if I don’t tie it up.”

  “She wants you to tie up a bear?”

  “No, my hair! She wants me to tie up my hair.” Glinda eyed the girl’s own tangle of purple curls. “You have my apologies for overhearing your conversation, and I do hope you are able to correct the situation with your brother. Now, please release me! I need to get back inside.”

  Locasta made no move to let go. If anything, her hold on Glinda’s pinafore grew tighter.

  Glinda began to struggle. When Locasta laughed at her piteous attempts to free herself, a bolt of fury shot through her, and with one mighty thrust Glinda sent her capt
or toppling backward onto the lawn.

  For a long moment, the two glared at each other.

  Glinda had never shoved anyone before, but the sight of Locasta on her backside in a pile of twigs and grass clippings, not to mention the look of complete astonishment on her face, was oddly satisfying.

  It was then that she noticed the girl’s wrists.

  What she had first thought to be the cuffs of Locasta’s violet tunic were actually rusted metal shackles, clamped around her wrists.

  Locasta quickly shoved her hands in her pockets, concealing the manacles. “Don’t you have a ceremony to attend?” she huffed.

  “Yes, I do,” said Glinda, holding out Miss Gage’s mirror yet again. “But I would recommend you take better care of this. It was a gift, after all.”

  The Gillikin rolled her eyes, then stood up and slipped the mirror into her pocket. “I hope I never see you again,” she said.

  “The feeling is quite mutual,” Glinda retorted. But Locasta did not hear; she had already broken into a run.

  8

  DECLARATION DAY

  Glinda hurried across the lawn toward school. It was time for her to declare herself.

  “Glinda!” someone called from the road. “Glinda Gavaria, is that you?”

  Glinda turned in the direction of the voice and saw a young man in an army uniform approaching. His sturdy shoulders and cropped mane of shining, husk-colored hair were unmistakable.

  “Leef Dashingwood!” said Glinda, relieved to see a friendly face after her ugly run-in with the purple-haired ruffian. “What a lovely surprise.”

  The young soldier closed the distance between them with long, swaggering strides. This was the first Glinda had seen of Leef since his abrupt departure from Mendacium’s; he looked quite smart in his cutaway coat of deep scarlet, its velvet lapels winking with bright brass buttons. But when Glinda’s mind flashed back to the image of the changeling soldier in the square, she shuddered.