by J. A. White
I wish Taff were here. He would know what to do.
Countless reflections stared back at her, countless Karas doomed to failure.
She sat up.
I’m not good enough, she thought, the idea maybe not perfect yet but with a comforting feel, like finally finding a familiar path after hours lost in the woods. I always fall short in the end. I wasn’t a good enough witch to keep my powers. I wasn’t a good enough daughter to save Mother and Father. I’m not a good enough sister to keep my brother safe. Even now I want Taff here because I’m not good enough to solve this riddle on my own!
She picked up the clock and hurled it across the room. It struck the mirror with a resounding clatter but did not crack the glass.
“I’m not even good enough to break that mirror!” Kara screamed. “I don’t deserve my powers!”
But could this really be the fault that the queth’nondra was seeking? Surely her powers would not be returned to her if she did not deserve them in the first place. Was this all some kind of cruel jape?
She heard Mary Kettle’s voice, as close as a whisper:
You must learn to ask the right questions.
Kara stared at the place where she had thrown the clock. Another mirror that refuses to crack, she thought, remembering Bethany’s grimoire and how it had swallowed Lucas’s arrow. The unfortunate girl was no doubt in an iron cage right now, or maybe even dead. Yet another person she couldn’t help.
Kara noticed her defeated expression in the mirror and grew suddenly angry.
“But I did help her,” she said. “I saved her from doing wrong. I saved all those children too.”
And then Timoth Clen came and snatched her away and . . .
“Yes. But I still saved them.” She jabbed a finger at her chest. “Me. I did that.”
Kara took a seat on a feathered trunk as a stunning new idea blazed to life. What if she was thinking about this all wrong? What if she did deserve her powers after all? What if her fault was . . .
Self-doubt.
Minoth’s words rang in her ears: “All you can do is believe. Are you ready to do that, Kara?”
“That wasn’t just talk,” Kara said. “That was a hint!”
She rose to her feet, shaking with excitement. I’m close. I can feel it. All she had to do was find an object that demonstrated . . . what, exactly? That she trusted herself? That she was worthy of having her powers returned to her? Kara had no idea how a single object could prove this; nevertheless she began to sift through the chests’ contents for a second time. As she did, Kara remembered the good she had done, hoping that one of these accomplishments might point her in the right direction.
I rescued Taff when Simon tried to kill him.
I overcame the dark power of the grimoire.
I saved De’Noran from Grace, though the villagers were cruel to me and hardly deserved such help.
I stopped Imogen.
I freed Kala Malta.
I brought Mary Kettle back into the light.
I traveled to the World. Found Sablethorn. Entered the Well of Witches.
For the first twelve years of her life Kara had been told, through both words and actions, that she was evil and worthless. This litany of good deeds, however, acted as a balm for the thousands of unseen wounds she had accumulated as a Child of the Fold.
She suddenly felt stronger. Lighter. Free.
They were wrong about me. All of them.
“I’ve done good things!” Kara exclaimed. “I’ve helped people! I’m not worthless!”
Suddenly, she knew the answer to the queth’nondra’s riddle. It was unorthodox, and would require ignoring Minoth’s instructions completely, but it felt right.
I need to have complete faith in myself.
She opened her hands and the objects she was holding clattered to the floor.
“My name is Kara Westfall,” she said, making her way toward the exit to the room. “Daughter of Helena and William. Sister of Taff. And I don’t need anything from this room to prove that I deserve my powers back. I know I do. I am—and always will be—what my people claimed was impossible: a good witch!”
Empty-handed, Kara stepped through the door.
It was Redmask who noticed her first. The antlered Faceless was listlessly poking its spear into Rattle’s flank, the piteous whines of the rustle-foot causing the surrounding monsters to pop their fingers in appreciation, when it glimpsed Kara approaching from the far side of the queth’nondra. Redmask tilted its head in confusion. It wasn’t expecting to see me like this, Kara thought. All the witches before me exited the same way they entered. And none had kept their face. Kara’s reappearance—smiling, no less—clearly made Redmask uneasy. Its paper fingers tightened around its spear. Kara knew that if she got too close the creature would drive it through her chest without hesitation. In Redmask’s mind, any witch who could escape the queth’nondra unaltered was too dangerous to live.
Other Faceless began to turn in Kara’s direction. She heard the rustle of cloaks, the crinkle of spinning heels against the paper ground. Taff shouted her name. She tuned out the sounds and remembered a sunny day, the heat gracing her skin with warmth so tender it was like a caress, and used that memory to build a mind-bridge to the rustle-foot. This is my world, Kara told it. Light. Life. For a brief, heart-stopping moment Kara felt nothing—and then Rattle opened itself up to her, eager to embrace any show of kindness.
All of this happened in the flutter of a heartbeat. While Kara’s mind wandered to the rustle-foot, her dark eyes remained on Redmask.
“I really don’t like you,” she said.
She sent her command and Rattle followed it gleefully, opening her long mouth and swallowing Redmask in a single bite. The rustle-foot chewed thoughtfully for a moment, enjoying the new flavor of this unexpected treat, before spitting out a pair of antlers. They skittered along the ground and came to a stop at Kara’s feet.
After this it was chaos.
Kara didn’t even need to build mind-bridges to the other rustle-feet; Rattle’s action had given them all the courage they needed. Many Faceless were devoured on the spot. Those that escaped were hunted down by a rampaging horde of rustle-feet that crushed masks beneath their feet with playful abandon. Kara felt their joy—their freedom—and she rejoiced in it.
Taff ran into her arms. She rejoiced in that as well.
“I guess you got your magic back,” he said.
Grace arrived just in time to overhear this. Her mouth dropped open and she shoved her right hand against her hip.
“What’s he talking about?” she asked. “Are you telling me that this entire time you haven’t had any powers?”
“Long story,” Kara said. She turned to her brother. “I met Minoth Dravania! He was wonderful! And I learned a few things that we should probably—”
“No time,” Taff said, pointing past her. “Look!”
One of the Burngates had opened, exposing a small circle of sky. Sunlight spilled across the Well of Witches, red-cloaked figures clawing at one another for a taste of its embrace. The ground below the Burngate spiraled upward like a staircase, allowing five witches—their ankles shackled by long paper chains—to climb through the hole itself. From this angle, their bodies—half in the Well and half in the real world—seemed to vanish at the waist. A few moments later a struggling figure was dragged into the waiting arms of the Faceless. Though it was faint at this distance, Kara could hear the witches chanting, “One of us, one of us, one of us!”
The Burngate closed, leaving the parchment sky unchanged, and the ground descended to its original position. The other two Burngates swelled like blisters ready to pop. It wouldn’t be long before they opened as well.
“The battle between Rygoth and Timoth Clen is happening right now,” Kara said.
“That’s impossible,” said Taff. “We’ve only been gone a week at most, and last we checked the graycloaks were still near Nye’s Landing and Rygoth was on the other side of Sentium.”
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“Rygoth has Niersook,” said Kara. “She can get places fast. Or maybe witches are casting their Last Spells for a different reason altogether. I don’t know. The important thing is those Burngates are about to open. Who knows when we’ll get this chance again?”
“You’ll never make it in time,” Grace said.
“I didn’t come this far just to give up now,” Kara said.
As much as she hated to admit it, though, she saw Grace’s point. It would take them at least an hour just to reach the place where the ground rose into the sky, and then hours more to climb to the hole itself . . . not to mention all the Faceless and witches standing in their path.
One of the remaining Burngates made a sizzling noise, like oil touching a hot pan, and a beam of sunlight speared the ground.
Dark despair began to worm its way into Kara’s body.
No, she thought. I can do this. There must be a way! But how?
Inside her mind she felt a warm nudge, a forgotten cat pressing against her legs for attention.
I help. Cut free first. Go fast-fast!
With a wide smile, Rattle rolled her hooded eyes toward the thick ropes wound about her torso.
The majority of its legs are bound just like all the other rustle-feet, Kara thought. It will take some precious time to free them, but once I do we should be able to move much faster. . . .
“All right,” Kara said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
As the second Burngate burst open, she snatched Redmask’s spear from the ground and used it to cut at the ropes. Taff followed suit, and even Grace—much to Kara’s surprise—picked up an abandoned blade and began to help.
A few minutes later the rope fell away, and Kara realized that it wasn’t Rattle’s legs that had been bound at all.
It was her wings.
Freed at last, they sprang out from her body like a compressed spring, knocking the children to the ground. Twice as long as the creature herself, the wings were the drowsy blue of an early-morning sky with tips of purest gold.
Kara, mouth agape, rose to her feet.
“This ugly thing’s a bird?” Grace asked.
The rustle-foot shook her wings proudly and rattled with joy.
Come, Rattle thought. Fly.
It flattened itself as low as it could, allowing the children to climb onto its back. Kara assumed that Rattle would immediately take off into the sky, but the rustle-foot still had one surprise left for them that day: balancing on the tips of its wings, it raised itself high and dashed across the ground. Kara had just enough time to notice that the second Burngate had closed, then she held tight and pressed her face close to the creature’s body as the Well blurred past them in a quickening rush.
Grace screamed. Taff laughed.
Rattle took flight.
The rustle-foot was fast—impossibly, improbably, storybook fast. Through eyes slitted against the stinging air, Kara saw the final Burngate peel away and drift to the ground like a diseased cloud. A large hole revealed the world beyond the Well, the moon hanging pale in the night sky. How can it be dark already? Kara thought. It was just sunny out two minutes ago. There was no time to think about that now; five witches standing at the peak of the skyscraping ground stretched into the other world, the widening hole large enough to fit them all with ease. Kara saw their bodies tense as, she imagined, their quarry was doing her best to escape their clawing hands. The witches climbed even farther until only their feet, shackled by paper chains, were still visible.
Just a few more moments, Kara thought, willing the doomed witch who had just cast her Last Spell to dodge their grasp for as long as possible. They were nearly there, but Rattle was beginning to tire; it had been a long time since she had last used her wings.
Come on, Kara pleaded with the rustle-foot. Please. For me. . . .
And then the witches had their prey: a middle-aged woman with long auburn hair and a shirt drenched with blood. Kara could not tell if her screams came from pain or horror. Perhaps both. The witches dragged her down, none too gently, and she was passed to a group of waiting Faceless.
The hole began to close.
“No!” Kara shouted. “No!”
Hold tight, thought the rustle-foot. It gave its wings one last ferocious swoop and tucked them tight against its body. Kara felt like one of Lucas’s glorb arrows as they shot through the air at blinding speed, knocking witches and Faceless from their sky perch and shooting through the open Burngate into the cold, rainy night.
Taff whooped with delight.
We made it, Kara thought. We made it!
Her jubilation was short-lived, however, as the first creature crashed into them, a large bird with teeth-lined wings and a snout as long as an alligator’s. It snapped at Rattle, who extended her wings and knocked the grotesque animal into a flock of flying lampreys. These tore the bird to bits and then darted toward the children with long undulations of their eel-like bodies, as though sky could be swum through as easily as air. Right before the lampreys reached them, however, their path was blocked by a massive reptilian form. Kara assumed, as high as they were, that this new arrival was airborne as well, but looking down she saw that it was simply huge, its massive feet making craterous footprints in the earth below them.
Get us out of here! Kara told Rattle.
Before Kara had finished her sentence the rustle-foot was on the move, gracefully dodging creatures large and small in a sky teeming with life. What is going on? Kara thought. Deafening noise stretched out in all directions: screeching, squawking, fluttering. These are Rygoth’s creations. Just like Niersook. Life that was never meant to be.
Cold pebbles of rain pelted the children as Rattle swooped lower. Below them stretched a scene even more chaotic than the one in the sky. Hundreds of graycloaks armed with shields and ball-staffs fought all manner of creature: shambling monstrosities that stunk of grave dirt, icy shadows hovering low to the ground like mist, six-footed beasts with manes of fire. Witches read from open grimoires and created golems of dirt and stone, fireballs, waves of black energy. A wizened old woman stood in the midst of all the chaos and brought forth bolts of black lightning from the sky, so engrossed in her conjurations that she did not hear the graycloak approach her from behind. His ball-staff flashed in the moonlight and the black lightning ceased.
“I’m glad you rescued me, Kara,” said Grace, hugging her from behind. “This is great fun!”
Kara pushed Grace away.
“Rygoth freed the witches,” Taff said, pointing to the empty iron cages scattered across the field.
“At least Timoth Clen didn’t kill them,” Kara said.
“Except they’re fighting for Rygoth now!”
“I don’t think so. The witches down there look more experienced. They’re probably the ones from Rygoth’s tent. Don’t forget, three of them just used their Last Spells, otherwise the Burngates wouldn’t have opened. New witches wouldn’t be that far along in their grimoires yet.”
“We have to help the soldiers,” said Taff. “They’re getting slaughtered down there!”
“Right now we have to find Father!”
“Listen to your sister,” said Grace. Her eyes, drawn to the carnage below, glowed like twin moons. “Graycloaks don’t want help—especially from two witches. This is what the Children of the Fold have been praying for—a great battle against the forces of darkness! It would be unfair to rob them of their glory.”
They heard the screams of a man far below them and then tearing sounds, like two dogs fighting over a piece of meat.
“We can’t just let them die—” said Taff.
“Sure we can!”
“—because even though they’re graycloaks, they’re still people. Father would want you to help them first. You know he would.”
Kara looked over her shoulder at him. “But he’s so close, Taff. I can feel it.”
“Father’s waited for us a long time. A few more minutes won’t matter. You have to do this, Kara.”
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br /> Taff’s right. If I have the power to save these men, it’s my responsibility to use it.
“Is anyone going to ask me what I think?” Grace chimed in.
“No,” said Kara and Taff in unison.
The rustle-foot landed in the center of the field. Shadowy shapes—perhaps man, perhaps beast—noted their arrival and crept closer.
Kara slid to the ground and reached out with her mind.
She was afraid, at first, that she would be unable to control Rygoth’s creations; their minds felt different from natural animals, vacant, like the soulless creatures of the Draye’varg. It turned out, however, that slipping inside these monsters required little effort at all, and Kara soon found herself flitting from one mind to the next with surprising ease. Their thoughts are completely unprotected. Rygoth made them that way so they’d be easy to control. She never imagined that another wexari might take advantage of it. She didn’t even stay to make sure they were doing what she asked; she just sent them in the general direction of the graycloaks and allowed their violent tendencies to do the rest.
Rygoth’s initial order—KILL EVERY HUMAN YOU SEE—was too deeply entrenched for Kara to remove; these creatures had been engineered for the sole purpose of death and destruction. However, she was able to tweak the order by adding a single word, a change the monsters willingly accepted because they would still be allowed to hurt things.
Kill every NOT-human you see, Kara ordered them.
As she expected, the creatures attacked each other.
The night was filled with the sounds of snapping jaws and snarling, frothing mouths. Oft-bitten bodies slumped to the ground. Winged predators dug their talons into the flanks of unsuspecting monsters and hurried them away. The witches, confused by this unexpected development, tucked their grimoires beneath their arms and fled. Graycloaks set off in hot pursuit.
“How are you doing this without a grimoire?” Grace asked, mouth agape.
“I don’t need one,” said Kara. “I can do magic anytime I feel like it. Best remember that, in case you’re thinking of crossing me tonight.”
For the first time Kara could remember, Grace Stone was at a loss for words. She simply nodded.