“You saved our lives, stopping that storm like you did,” said Darka as Clementine busied herself with the reins. “Thank you. I’d like to repay you, if there’s any way I can.” The girl’s black sheep had ambled over and was peering up at Darka, who got the distinct impression that if it could, the sheep would have been raising an eyebrow at her. Darka ignored it.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Clementine, clicking her heels against the nightmare’s sides. “Do try not to shoot anyone else while you’re in my father’s forest.” And with a last nod to Kat Marie, Clementine started to lead the horse and the sheep back toward the forest.
“I heard your family’s got a farm!” Darka called after the girl, trying to think of something—anything—that might get her in the door of Castle Brack. “Any chance you could use an extra hand?”
Darka had expected Clementine to laugh at her with a stuck-up little titter, or simply to keep on riding without sparing Darka another thought. But much to Darka’s surprise, the girl pulled up on the reins and stopped. The surrounding witches had gone quiet, all pretense of trying not to stare given up entirely. Shirin Kirrane stared at Darka with a hand on her hip and a far-from-friendly expression on her face.
Oh well, thought Darka. At least I have the rope. There was no going back to the hedgewitches now. She’d offered the Dark Lord’s daughter her help, and that was something they would not soon forget.
“And what skills do you have that I might put to use?” asked Clementine, her back still to Darka.
“Mostly? I kill things,” said Darka, and a murmur swept through the crowd. “But I’m not bad at coaxing milk out of a cow, either, or so I’ve been told.” Darka watched Clementine set her shoulders.
“Come then, if you must,” said Clementine, and she urged the nightmare forward once more. “Do try to keep up. I won’t wait for you if the trees decide to get . . . feisty . . . again.”
Darka sighed and started to follow Clementine out of the camp. She reached around to grab her bow—it wouldn’t hurt to keep it at the ready in the forest—when a surprisingly strong hand gripped her wrist. She whipped around and came face-to-face with Kat Marie Grice.
“I’ll ask you to draw that weapon outside this camp,” said Kat Marie.
Darka shrugged away from the old woman’s grip.
“Oh, and Darka?” said Kat Marie, lowering her voice as they watched Clementine, the nightmare, and the black sheep disappear beyond the tree line. “A small warning for you: do not let your heart be consumed by revenge.”
Darka looked around, but no one else seemed to have heard Kat Marie’s words. The camp was returning to business as usual. But Kat Marie’s piercing gaze never wavered.
Rubbing her wrist where the old woman had grabbed it, Darka hurried after Clementine. And her dark heart beat against her ribs, thumping like a drum, echoing through the trees. This time, Darka did not feel invisible at all. She felt as if the shadows themselves were watching.
***
After the future Dark Lord of the Seven Sisters left the coven’s camp, Kat Marie Grice’s gaze wandered up and over the trees, up to the Fourth Sister, and finally to a very particular patch of snow. It sparkled and flashed in the sunset, rays of sunlight from Clementine’s spell still dancing around it, light drawn to light.
The Lady in White, the villagers called it. If only they knew.
Kat Marie Grice watched the last remnants of the spell fade away, the lights swallowed by the mountain’s shadows, and willed her hope to fade away, too. She told herself it was a fruitless hope. The little girl was still a Morcerous, through and through.
And yet, Kat Marie could not help but think of that brilliant light magic and wonder . . .
What if Clementine was the one?
***
Darka Wesk-Starzec would never do anything but curse the day that the love of her life was taken from her. But she had to admit that seven years of experience hunting mythical beasts had prepared her as well as could be expected for the reality of Dark Lord Elithor Morcerous’s silent farm. If she were still the innocent farmer’s daughter she’d been when she’d met Alaric, she would have run screaming from the looming shadow of Castle Brack before she’d even had a chance to see the fire-breathing chickens, poison apple orchard, or creepy animated scarecrows. The scarecrows were what really almost got to her. It took quite a bit of resolve not to set them alight with a few flaming arrows and run for the other side of the Seven Sisters like her life depended on it.
“How are you with plants?” Clementine asked as they entered one of the greenhouses.
“I know which ones not to eat in the forest,” said Darka, just as a fanged flower with petals as big as her hands made a lunge for her head. She drew her dagger from her waist and slashed without thinking, cleanly slicing off the blossom. It let out a distressingly human cry as it tumbled to the ground, where it lolled around like a severed head, fangs still snapping at Darka’s ankles, before it went still.
Clementine gave Darka a withering look.
“Best you not come in here alone, then,” said the black sheep, trotting alongside them.
Darka nearly jumped into a prickle bush in surprise at hearing it speak.
“Don’t worry,” said the sheep quietly, when Clementine had gone on a few steps ahead. “No one really buys the carnivorous ones anymore, anyway. More of a niche item.”
Darka nodded, but she did not sheathe her knife again until they left the greenhouse.
***
The sun had nearly set by the time they wrapped up the tour of the farm, completing their circuit at the foot of the mountain by a slightly crumbling gatehouse attached to a creaking drawbridge. (Darka did not ask what was in the moat below. She had a feeling she did not want to know the answer.) Castle Brack loomed over them. For a moment, Darka feared the little girl was about to send her right back across the drawbridge and away, but her worries were unfounded.
“It’s getting late,” said Clementine. “I must attend to . . . other business. We’ll discuss your duties in more detail in the morning. You . . . I want to thank you. For staying with me in the cave and making sure I was all right.”
“I did shoot you,” Darka said with a shrug.
Clementine’s hand drifted to her head before she snapped it back down to her side. “You may stay here,” said Clementine, nodding to the gatehouse, “if . . . if you like. It was—is—the captain of the guard’s quarters, but it’s been unoccupied for several years . . . Not that we don’t have guards! We do. Of course we do. But they are stationed in the castle at the moment. My father’s magical wards are strong enough to protect us from any invaders.” Clementine smoothed her skirts and held herself up to her full height. “A security presence this far down the mountain was deemed unnecessary.”
“Naturally,” said Darka, though she did wonder at the profound absence of another living soul throughout their entire tour. She’d assumed the servants or prisoners or whoever did the real work on the farm had been stashed away from their mistress’s view, and that she’d have a chance to meet who was really in charge of the day-to-day operations later. Now, though, Darka wasn’t so sure she wasn’t the only other person on the grounds.
“It’s not much,” warned Clementine. “The gatehouse hasn’t been looked after in a while, but I expect it’s better than anywhere you’ve ever stayed. And you’ll have to look out for yourself out here, you know.”
Darka flipped up the straw doormat in front of the old oak door, bent down, and picked up the dented brass key she found under it. She raised an eyebrow at Clementine, who blushed.
Darka tested the key in the rickety lock and, with a little elbow grease, managed to wedge open the sticky door.
“I’m sure it will be fine,” she said. She looked back to find Clementine staring at her. The girl looked sharply away, as everyone did when Darka caught them starin
g. Darka was rather impressed that Clementine had lasted this long without saying something. Most children—Seven Sisters, most adults—didn’t have such self-control.
“You can ask, you know. It doesn’t bother me.”
Well, that wasn’t strictly true. It did bother Darka, sometimes more often than not, when people asked about her scar. It just depended on how they asked, and who was doing the asking. But the curiosity of children tended not to offend her as much as others’ hostile stares.
“What happened?” Clementine asked softly. A lot of people asked softly, as if scared of summoning ill fortune onto themselves by merely speaking of it. “To your face?”
“I was attacked,” Darka said, trying to keep her voice light. But she squeezed the key tighter in her hands. “By a monster.”
It was all she could say at the moment, and fortunately, Clementine didn’t press for details. Darka hadn’t pinned her for the type who would.
“Now I’ve got a question for you,” said Darka. “If I’m to do work around his farm, your father should know about it. I don’t want to get shot at with fireballs for trespassing. When can I meet him? So we can finalize the . . . details of this arrangement?”
“Father is away on business,” said Clementine, her voice suddenly clipped and proper again. “He’ll be away for at least a month. And hopefully . . . you’ll have satisfied your debt long before then, anyway. Good night.” She gave a curt nod and walked through the heavy metal portcullis that barred entry to the path leading up to the Castle, the iron bars bending around her like wet noodles. Darka approached the portcullis after her, but the bars had already snapped back into place by the time she reached it.
Clementine turned on her heel to face Darka once more. “Oh,” she said. “Remember to keep your doors and windows locked at night. And for your own safety . . . please make as little noise as possible.”
Chapter 13
Magically Enhanced Weather Phenomena
or The Value of Lies of Omission
Despite Clementine’s fear that her father would immediately sense the presence of light magic around her as if it were a reeking, rotting stench emanating from the rapidly decomposing corpse of her reputation, he said nothing to her that evening. She caught a glimpse of his hunched shoulders as the Brack Butler slipped out the tower door, but that was all. She exchanged the dirty dishes balanced on the Butler’s shiny black top for a fresh dinner plate and some clean sheets, but when she made to linger, the Butler flashed its red lights at her and hummed angrily until she retreated. Whatever magic made it work appeared to be doing just fine, curse or not.
That night, as Clementine lay down for bed, she could still feel the sunshine thrumming through her fingers. Through her veins. Through her soul. And just this once—for it would only ever be this once—she let its pleasant warmth lull her to sleep.
***
“What do you think you’re doing?” Clementine demanded. A few yards ahead, a familiar-looking brown-haired figure jumped off the fence surrounding the horse pen.
When Clementine caught up to him, Sebastien held up his hands in surrender, still clutching a half-eaten apple. The nightmare she’d ridden into the woods happily chomped down the rest of it.
Sebastien said quickly, “I was just—”
“You shouldn’t feed a nightmare regular apples,” Clementine explained. She was surprised Sebastien had even approached the horse voluntarily. She reached into one of the many new pockets she’d installed in her work dress and pulled out a clean handkerchief. She rummaged in another for one of the poison apples she’d picked to feed to the Decimaker. “Give her this instead,” she told Sebastien, offering him the fruit in the handkerchief. “Be careful to hold it in the cloth. It’s very fresh. The sap will burn right through your fingers.”
Sebastien’s fingers shook a little as he took the apple (Clementine politely pretended not to notice), but he did take it. The nightmare nuzzled his hand before gobbling down the new treat.
“You can’t be too careful,” said Clementine. She knew she was starting to babble, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. It wasn’t every day a boy from the village just showed up outside her stables. “Too much coddling, and they might just grow up into a daymare. Or worse, a regular old pony!”
“Uh-huh,” said Sebastien. He gingerly handed the handkerchief back to Clementine.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Clementine asked. It came out a tad sharper than she meant it to. “Sharp” was sort of the Morcerous default mode of communication.
Much to her surprise, Sebastien blushed. He hopped back onto the fence, facing away from Clementine. They watched the nightmare frolic around the pen, practicing shooting fire from its nostrils.
“I . . . I just wanted to make sure you were all right, I guess,” the boy said. “You didn’t look so great after that spell . . .”
The sun spell. The light magic. Clementine’s heart sank.
“Have you told anyone?” she asked—and that time, she was sharp on purpose. “Did anyone else see the—”
“‘Blinding sunstorm?’” finished Sebastien. “That’s what folks in the village are calling it. Not sure they know it was you—I certainly wasn’t going to brag about palling around with . . . um, well, that is to say—”
“Yes, yes, that’s as it should be. Go on.”
“Oh,” said Sebastien, putting his hands on his hips.
Clementine stopped herself from rushing forward to stop him from toppling off the fence rail. Boys seemed to have their own magical powers when it came to posing about in precarious positions.
“Um, well, it terrified everyone, didn’t it?” he said. “Great big streams of sunlight shooting around the sky willy-nilly. The shadows swept through the whole village. The schoolmistress thought the Dark Lord was making the sky fall.”
Clementine could have sworn Sebastien let out a small snort. He didn’t seem to realize he’d said exactly the words that Clementine needed to hear.
The villagers had been—and she could even quote—“terrified.”
They thought her father had been the one doing the terrifying.
Perhaps it hadn’t been such a disaster not to find those mushrooms, after all.
“Sebastien,” Clementine said, “do you think a sunstorm counts as a ‘magically enhanced weather phenomenon’?”
***
Somehow, it did not surprise Clementine that the next spell the Gricken laid was the one to conjure messenger birds.
It also did not surprise her as much as it might have that she had no trouble with the enchantment at all.
***
Dear Council of Least Esteemed Evil Overlords,
I write this letter on behalf of my father, the Dark Lord Elithor Morcerous, who is far too busy with nefarious plotting at the moment to spare even a minute for bureaucratic niceties. It is my pleasure to inform you that the Dark Lord Morcerous has successfully completed a qualifying Dastardly Deed, in the form of a blinding sunstorm that froze his subjects with the fear that the very sky itself was falling and also reportedly blinded an old man who was already three-quarters blind anyway and happened to look at one of the light beams at just the wrong angle.
Testimonials of this Dastardly Deed are available upon request. I will thank you to make sure that no more friendly reminders of the Morcerous family duties grace the threshold of Castle Brack. As anyone can see—or not, if you happen to be that unfortunate man—such concern was completely unnecessary.
I look forward to communicating further reports of my father’s dastardliness.
Insincerely yours,
Lady Clementine Morcerous
***
***
Clementine knocked, softly this time. She was sure her father could hear it.
“Father, it’s me . . . I just wanted to let you know . . . well, I manage
d to carry off a small Dastardly Deed, and I’ve . . . I’ve written the Council to let them know, so . . . they should stop bothering us for a while. You can just focus on getting well again, all right?”
She had not yet told him about her run-in with the Whittle Witch’s storm, or about Kat Marie Grice’s coven. There was no need to upset him unnecessarily.
***
***
Was there?
***
Darka Wesk-Starzec had been warned not to go wandering around the Dark Lord Elithor Morcerous’s silent farm and castle grounds unsupervised. Naturally, during the breaks between curing cheese made of black milk from blood-red cows, pitching hay in the stables for the full-grown nightmares (which always left her jumping at shadows), and dodging the spark-shooting beaks of ungrateful fire-breathing chickens as she fed them live crickets, she did exactly that.
This led to the discovery of a few of the more colorful parts of Castle Brack, including a grand ballroom that appeared to be literally frozen in time—the tables were magnificently set for a feast for over a hundred people, but a thick layer of dust and frost covered everything, from the teacups to the tabletops to the iced-over dance floor. She’d also found a musty dungeon with torture devices so complicated Darka wondered if they came with instruction manuals, along with a few long-forgotten skeletons; a library lit by moonstones and filled with what appeared to be thrones; and most exciting of all, a poisonous snake pit. Darka had found that one through what she assumed was the “guest entrance”—a trapdoor hidden in the middle of an otherwise unremarkable hallway. She barely made it out alive.
And yet, throughout all of her sneaky—and not so sneaky—adventures, she did not see another single living soul. Some doors were locked to her, of course, and resisted all of her attempts to pick their locks. Sometimes she simply walked into invisible barriers—she’d smacked her nose good and proper on a few of these—and could go no farther. But she had expected a bustling castle full of evil knights and ill-used servants (either human or otherwise), court members, and captives. What she got was a creepily quiet, decaying spectacle of former glory, an awful lot of mundane farmwork, and two square meals a day, which Darka strongly suspected were prepared by a twelve-year-old girl. For whatever reason, the Morcerous estate had not been what anyone would call “bustling” for quite some time—fortunately, that meant that Darka could steal basically any supplies she needed without anyone noticing.
The Dark Lord Clementine Page 12