Kat Marie started to respond, but a great tremor suddenly shook through the earth, sending them all struggling for balance. Clementine held up the old woman until it passed. The air buzzed with energy, cracking and fizzling with sounds that Clementine suspected only she (and perhaps the hedgewitch) could hear. A wave of dizziness washed over her. She clutched at the edge of the well until the world stopped spinning.
“The wards,” Clementine gasped.
Sebastien rushed forward, but Clementine waved him off. It was finally happening. The Whittle Witch had arrived at last. Clementine should have known the poisoning would be a mere distraction. “She’s attacking the castle . . . and my father! My father is still there!”
“You must go, my child,” insisted Kat Marie Grice. She squeezed Clementine’s hand. “You must go and retrieve the grimoire, before the Whittle Witch gets her hands on it.” She lowered her voice. “Go, and save your father, if you can.”
Clementine looked at the crowd’s pinched, worried faces, and saw real fear in their eyes—but something else, too. For the first time, they were looking at her not just with fear or disdain, but with something that might have been a glimmer of hope. She was their only hope to retrieve the antidote—if there was one—and protect them from the Whittle Witch.
But what if she didn’t make it back in time? What if the Whittle Witch caught her? Would it be better to stay here, to try and analyze the potion with the hedgewitches and see if they could come up with their own cure? To try and fortify the village—perhaps even cast their own spells of protection?
And yet if there was any chance—any chance at all—of saving her father and keeping the Gricken away from the Whittle Witch, Clementine knew it was her duty to take that chance.
“I’ll come back,” Clementine said, her breath hitching. She hoped she was loud enough for the scared villagers to hear. “I’ll come back. I promise.”
Kat Marie nodded. “We know you will.” She placed a quick kiss on Clementine’s forehead. “Now quickly, child. Go!”
Clementine turned and scampered away, around and through the fastest paths she knew from years of skulking in their shadows. But when she finally broke out onto the main road, just at the edge of town, she heard running footsteps behind her.
“Wait!”
Clementine turned at the sound of the voice. It was Sebastien running behind her, sword in hand once more—and he wasn’t alone. At least six of the Brack Knights—even Roderick and Gregor the Whiny!—trailed behind, hefting weapons ranging from their lake swords to an actual pitchfork.
Clementine stepped back. She’d envisioned encounters with angry mobs so many times—but she’d never pictured them being led by someone she had called a friend.
Clementine held up her hands in surrender, but she readied her fire spell—just in case. “Please,” she said. “I’m just going to the castle to try and get my father’s grimoire before the witch who’s attacking does. It might have a cure for the sickness.”
“We know that,” whined Gregor. “So let’s get going!”
Clementine lowered her hands. “What?”
“We’re coming with you, of course,” said Sebastien, planting his sword in the earth emphatically. Clementine had a feeling Darka would have taken him to task for that, but she was too puzzled to dwell on it. “As Knights of Castle Brack,” Sebastien said, “it is our duty to protect you.”
“You want to . . . come with me?” Clementine repeated, stunned.
“And we want to save our families, too,” pointed out Roderick.
“You don’t understand,” Clementine said. “This witch . . . she’s powerful. She’s already broken through some of my father’s wards—protective spells on the castle. She may have overrun it already. I’ll need to sneak in through the mountains. It’ll be terribly dangerous—”
“Which is exactly why you need someone who’s handy with a sword,” said Sebastien, unsticking his from the muddy ground with a squelch.
Clementine didn’t understand. These boys didn’t like her. They didn’t trust her. They liked to play at being knights and the chance for a break from their everyday lives. She hadn’t trusted them, either, and they had run at the first sign of trouble. And now they wanted to help her?
“But I haven’t even saved your families!” Clementine said. They had no proof that she would return, other than her word. They had no proof that she could cure the sick, even if she did return.
“But you’re trying,” said Sebastien, “and we’ve got to try, too. That’s . . . that’s what friends do.” A blush crept up his cheeks as he offered Clementine his hand. “Let’s go.”
That’s what friends do.
Her heart racing and full, Clementine took it.
***
Clementine, Sebastien, and the Brack Knights crept through the craggy paths at the foot of the Fifth Sister, circling around to approach the castle from the east. The trees here, being farther from the larger forest, had not been exposed to the Whittle Witch’s influence—at least not yet—and they offered no resistance as the group took cover under their branches.
“When we get there,” Clementine said quietly to Sebastien, “I want the boys to wait in the mountains.”
“But—” he protested.
“You will come with me,” said Clementine. She paused and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It had helpfully turned a staid brown to blend in with the forest around them.
Sebastien thought it looked as lovely as a shining chestnut, but he also guessed now was probably not the time to share that particular thought. Also, he did not know if ladies appreciated being compared to food, shining or not.
Clementine cleared her throat, and Sebastien straightened. “That is, um, if you want to,” she said. “After I find my father, we need to look for the Gricken.”
“The Gricken?”
“You know the giant chicken that looks like it’s made of book pages?”
Sebastien nodded.
“That’s my family grimoire—our spellbook,” said Clementine slowly, as if she were admitting some great secret. Perhaps she was. At any rate, the appearance of her earlier sunshine spell in egg form suddenly made a lot more sense.
“Huh,” said Sebastien. “That’s . . . different.”
“The Gricken may not have all the answers—we’ll need to check my father’s library, too,” said Clementine. “That’ll be trickier . . .”
The trees ahead rustled, and without thinking, Sebastien swept Clementine behind him, his sword raised. A creature came bounding out of the forest, a giant black blur leaping straight at them.
“Get back!” cried Sebastien, swinging the sword. The creature let out a terrified bleat and dodged it just in time, losing its footing and rolling down the path.
“It-it’s only me!” cried the creature in a raspy, quivering voice.
Sebastien nearly dropped his sword. It was only a black sheep—but it was a black sheep that was clearly talking.
“Wait! Stop!” said Clementine. “He’s a friend!”
“You can talk!” exclaimed Sebastien as the sheep got to his feet, mumbling about “overenthusiastic warmongers” and something called “toxic masculinity.” The rest of the boys backed away, staring and whispering behind their hands.
“My apologies, but we’ve no time for the usual introduction to transfiguration today,” said the sheep. “Clementine, you must come with me. I managed to get your father out of the castle—”
“Oh, thank you!” said Clementine, rushing forward to embrace the black sheep in a hug.
“But, Clementine . . .” The sheep hesitated. “He doesn’t have much time left.”
Clementine’s breath hitched, but she nodded. If she wanted to say goodbye to her father—or what’s left of him, thought Sebastien with a shudder—she’d need to do it now.
“Go,”
Sebastien found himself saying. He put a hand on Clementine’s shoulder. “We’ll keep on toward the castle”—he looked back to the rest of the knights, most of whom nodded—“and you can loop back and meet up with us there. Just tell us the way.”
Roderick and some of the others looked like they might have wanted to protest, but they were silenced by a hard look from Sebastien. Dark Lord or not, Lord Elithor was still Clementine’s father. Some of the knights had left behind sick fathers in the village, too, or mothers and sisters and brothers. They knew now what it might be like to never get a chance to say goodbye.
Clementine removed her arms from around the sheep’s neck and turned her bone-crushing hug on Sebastien. He was rather surprised to find he did not burst into flames or turn into some sort of domesticated animal himself—you heard all sorts of rumors about the touch of Dark Lords. He was also surprised that it was a very good hug.
“Thank you,” Clementine murmured into his shoulder.
Probably one of his top five hugs of all time, honestly.
Clementine hurriedly explained the best route for them to approach the castle, and before Sebastien knew it, she and the black sheep had disappeared through the trees. Sebastien and the Brack Knights pressed on—onward and upward toward the great shadow of Castle Brack.
Chapter 21
Time to Say Goodbye
or The Power of Fragile Things
The black sheep led Clementine through the narrow and rocky paths between the Fourth and Fifth Sisters. They passed the lake, and Clementine couldn’t help but think of the last happy afternoon she’d spent here, gently teasing the Lady of the Lake and helping her knights pick out swords. Today, the surface was as still as if it were covered in ice.
Clementine approached the shore. She knew she was far too exposed without the cover of the trees, but the Lady of the Lake deserved to know she might have a change in Evil Overlord to look forward to. The moment she crouched by the shoreline, a pale hand emerged from the water, followed by another, and then a dripping but handsome green-haired head. For once, the Lady of the Lake said nothing.
“The Whittle Witch attacks,” Clementine said, though she knew Vivienne must be able to feel it as surely as Clementine could. She ran her fingers along the pebbles on the shoreline, too embarrassed to meet Vivienne’s gaze. “The rule of the Morcerouses may come to an end.”
“Do you seek my counsel, my lady?” Vivienne asked, resting her chin on her hands. Her ice-colored eyes looked deep into Clementine’s.
Clementine nodded. “Yes, Lady,” she said, chuckling slightly. It did sound rather silly for both of them to call the other the same thing.
“Protect the heart that has been given to you,” advised Vivienne. “It is a fragile, powerful thing.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that saying,” said Clementine, puzzled.
The Lady smiled, reached out of the water, and brought her cool hands to Clementine’s face. She planted a chilly kiss on Clementine’s forehead. “Heed it, all the same,” she said, and sank back down into the lake without another word.
The smooth surface of the water mirrored the unnatural stillness in the air. It sent a shiver down Clementine’s spine. She hurried after the black sheep to find her father.
He lay on a bed of moss and leaves that the black sheep had undoubtedly made for him, nestled in a cluster of rocks, the great gray wall of the mountain close behind him. The black sheep shuffled away, muttering something about keeping a lookout. Clementine frowned. Although they were near the top of a steep slope, this wasn’t the most strategic hiding spot. There was nowhere to run, with the mountain on one side and thick forest on the others.
But then, she supposed, her father was nearly done running.
Clementine knelt beside him and pressed her ear to his tiny wooden chest. She couldn’t look into his eyes—not when they were no longer his, but painted on like a doll’s. She felt only the faintest, slowest of heartbeats. She breathed in the smell of his robes. She was thankful that even now he still smelled like her father—like licorice and smoke and herbs and the slight but sharp traces of whatever chemicals he’d been using in his laboratory.
She wanted to say so many things.
I’m so sorry, Daddy.
I should have gone after her myself.
Please don’t go.
How could you have fallen for her tricks?
I should have stayed with you, forced you to let me help.
Please don’t go.
I did my best. I know you did, too.
I should have done better.
You should have known better.
I promise I’ll stop talking to the Lady in White and I’ll burn my garden to ashes and I’ll be the best Dark Lord in training there ever was, and I won’t let you down. Just please . . .
Please don’t go.
But nothing came out. All she could do was breathe in the scent of him, the very last part of him. All she could focus on was the heat behind her eyes as she squeezed them shut, her tears soaking into his shirt, because the world had shrunk to the size of that feeling.
Clementine did not notice the unicorn enter the clearing. She did not hear its gentle step, or see its shining white coat or spiraling, sharp horn. She did not know that it had been drawn to her pain and her loss, and the loss of the mountains at the Whittle Witch’s attack.
It was not until Clementine had finally whispered, “Goodbye, Father,” that she looked up, and the world widened again, just a little bit, and she saw the unicorn standing there. Watching her.
Clementine had never seen a creature so beautiful. Their first meetings, cautiously watching each other across the mountains, had not prepared her for seeing the unicorn face-to-face. It was not a large creature—bigger than a deer, but nowhere near the size of a full-grown horse or nightmare. Its horn was longer and rougher than she had expected, the pale spiral run through with twisting shades of brown. Speckled and even chipped in places, it was the only part of the unicorn that showed signs of age.
Clementine could not quite look directly into its dark eyes. When she did, it was like looking at the entire mountain range and everything that had ever happened on it, and at herself—all at once. It was too much. She blinked, and the too-much went away. But the unicorn kept watching.
She was glad that it was here, in a way, even though it was too late. Her father was surely beyond saving. And yet how cruel was it that the unicorn appeared now—now, when her father was nearly dead and the castle overrun? What use was the unicorn now?
But as Clementine watched the unicorn, and the unicorn watched her, she knew it was not a thing to be used. It was not a flower to be picked or a horse to be ridden, or even a fellow sorcerer to be bargained with. It was power and magic. It was older than the souls of the mountains. It simply was. And so she did not expect anything of it, even as she took comfort in its presence. She was glad there was someone—something—else here in the valley with her and her father and the black sheep.
The unicorn took a step forward.
It carefully picked its way between the trees. The branches themselves seemed to part around it, as if in deference. The unicorn slipped between and around the rock formations on the slope with the grace of a dancer, its hooves barely making a sound.
The moment the unicorn stopped, just a few feet from Clementine, a soft thrum cut through the stillness. It was almost too quiet for Clementine to hear, and much too fast for her to even realize she’d heard it, until it was too late.
The unicorn reared back as the arrow sped through the air, but the creature wasn’t fast enough. The arrow pierced the front of its left shoulder. The unicorn cried out, and the mountains shook, and the birds in the air shrieked, and the beasts of the forest roared, and the even the fish in the streams opened their mouths in silent screams, though they did not know why. But they all felt it.
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Clementine was too shocked to scream with them. But Darka Wesk-Starzec, stepping out of her hiding place in the shadows, did not looked shocked at all.
She looked disappointed.
Shining silver blood leaked from the unicorn’s wound, covering its white coat in a muddy dark gray stain. It reared again, and Darka raised her bow for a second shot.
“Darka, stop!” cried Clementine, jumping to her feet. Her legs shook beneath her.
“Stay back, Clementine,” warned Darka. She lowered her arm, but only for a moment, slowly circling the bucking, whinnying unicorn. “You don’t know what these monsters are capable of.”
“B-best do as she says,” suggested the black sheep weakly, cowering behind one of the rocks. He turned his head away from Clementine.
So that was why the black sheep had rescued her father and brought her here, to this particular spot. Not out of the goodness of his heart. Not so she could say goodbye before she lost everything, before she risked life and limb to try and save the mountain from the Whittle Witch.
Clementine was not the savior of the mountain. She was just the bait.
And she’d walked straight into the trap.
The unicorn tried to stumble away, but disoriented with pain, it merely backed itself up against the mountainside. Darka stalked its every step.
“Darka, please—don’t do this,” begged Clementine, her hands up in surrender. “The unicorn is . . . it’s the lifeblood of the mountains. If you kill something so innocent—”
“Innocent?” Darka barked out a laugh. “Even if that were true—what is it to you? I thought you, of all people, Clementine—you and your father”—she nodded toward him, still lying upon the rocks—“would understand.”
“My father told me to never, ever hurt a unicorn,” said Clementine.
Darka’s eyes briefly darted in her direction.
“The unicorn is . . . different,” Clementine insisted, though she knew the words sounded weak. “It hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“And your townspeople have?” Darka asked, her lips twisting further into a smirk. “The villagers—the ones your father makes a living terrorizing—they deserve his punishments, do they?”
The Dark Lord Clementine Page 19