The Dark Lord Clementine

by Sarah Jean Horwitz

  The Whittle Witch’s eyes widened with panic as she, too, noticed the pounding hooves and blazing white horns of the creatures charging down the mountain.

  “Indeed,” said Darka, and the avalanche exploded around them.

  ***

  A funny thing happened as Darka Wesk-Starzec was supposed to be getting crushed to death: nothing. As the snow crashed over and around her, it transformed into a harmless pale fog. She could still see the unicorns—hundreds of white horses galloping past, their forms indistinct, blending in and out of the fog and into one another. But the unicorns did not touch her, and the few that did come close merely brushed against her like lengths of silk. The mist roiled in great clouds but did no harm—at least not to Darka and the black sheep.

  The Whittle Witch was not so lucky. Though it was difficult to see through the clouds of white, Darka did catch one last glimpse of the witch, standing stock-still, as if paralyzed by fear. Darka watched as three of the ephemeral unicorns charged the witch at once. As their horns ran through her, the witch exploded into a shower of dust, which was quickly swept up in the coming wave and ground into the earth under the hooves of the stampeding unicorns.

  Darka could only imagine how dark one’s heart had to be to disintegrate at the touch of a unicorn.

  The avalanche swept past them as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Darka and the sheep blinking and shivering in the mist. The moisture on Darka’s face tingled, mixing with the tears she hadn’t realized she’d shed. Her scar nearly hummed with the magic in the air, making the muscles in her lips twitch. Darka sank to her knees, hugging her arms to her chest. She felt hollowed out, as if every bitter feeling, every ounce of rage she’d carried in her heart and her gut since Alaric’s death had been scooped out of her, leaving nothing but empty air in its place.

  A moan from a few feet away let Darka know that she was not the only one who had been transformed, in one way or another, from the avalanche’s touch. The Dark Lord Elithor Morcerous lay draped over the rocks where the black sheep had placed him like a gangly black spider, limbs splayed every which way. But he was most definitely not a spider—and not a wooden puppet, either. He was, without a doubt, a man—a man unquestionably healed and whole. His greasy black hair fell into his face as he began to stir awake.

  A small blossom of hope bloomed in Darka’s chest, bright and painful in the new hollowness there. She crawled on shaky hands and knees over to Clementine.

  “Please, please, please, please, please,” Darka muttered, fluttering her hands on either side of the girl’s still, pale face. It was not lost on her that she was now pleading with the very same creature she’d tried to kill.

  Darka jumped back—at her touch, Clementine’s hair began to fade from its sunset shades to a frosty white, nearly as white as it had been when Darka first shot her in the forest. Darka bit back a sob at the reminder. She stared in wonder as a dark gray-brown streak threaded itself through the white, all the way from Clementine’s temple to the ends of her hair.

  And then, quite impossibly, the girl’s chest began to rise and fall, and Clementine Morcerous slowly opened her eyes.

  Chapter 23

  A Truly Admirable Chicken

  or The Black Sheep Gets Shorn

  They sat on top of the gate in the outermost wall separating the (formerly) silent farm from the outskirts of the village, because it was the only part currently sticking out of the snow. It was one of the few recognizable structures on the entirety of the Morcerous lands.

  The Fourth Sister had been utterly transformed. The unicorn-enhanced avalanche had gone tearing down the mountain and utterly demolished Castle Brack. Clementine and her father didn’t even dare to try and pick through the ruins—at least not yet—because great chunks of stone continued to fall down the mountainside under the weight of the snow.

  “There goes the tearoom,” commented Lord Elithor with a sigh.

  Clementine, for one, was a lot sadder about the library. She imagined the black sheep was, as well.

  It seemed at least part of the avalanche had been real—enough to destroy the castle and smother most of the farm in over fifteen feet of snow. It was packed hard enough to almost forget there was an entirely different landscape beneath it—and Clementine thought that had rather been the idea. The unicorn had saved them, but she had also made her displeasure with the Dark Lord’s regime known.

  Nightmares and chickens (both fire-breathing and mundane) milled about the gate near them, curiously nosing through the snow. The fire-breathing chickens seemed disappointed to see their powers curtailed in the presence of so much wet, and clucked nervously. Clementine wondered how they had escaped the avalanche, and felt a brief pang of regret for the Brack Butler, and even for the snakes, nasty as they were.

  Clementine heard a sniff and a shuddering breath from the other side of Lord Elithor, and sighed. Darka had not stopped crying since Clementine had awoken in the clearing, and now sat as far away from Clementine and her father as she could get on their perch, which was not very far.

  Lord Elithor kept looking at her with his lip curled, and had at one moment on their walk to the castle pointedly leaned over to Clementine and said, “Must we suffer the presence of this continuously mewling woman?” Clementine had said yes, they did, and that had been that.

  Clementine thought he was being rather harsh with Darka, considering his own whining. “What are we going to do?” asked Lord Elithor—and not for the first time, either. He had said little else since the avalanche, and seemed curiously diminished since his transformation—like a fearsome black cat suddenly faced with the indignity of a bath, turned into a smaller and damper version of himself.

  Although perhaps it was just that Clementine could no longer feel as afraid of him as she once had. Clementine squinted into the sunlight glinting off the snow. Just as the mountain had been swept clean, so, she felt, had she. Watching the castle crumble, the weight she’d carried for so long—her fear of her father, and his expectations, and their family legacy—crumbled off her shoulders, too.

  “For starters,” Clementine said, “we’re all going to have some uncomfortable conversations—whether you want to or not.” Her father needed to explain how he’d gotten involved with the Whittle Witch. Darka needed to explain why she’d been hunting the unicorn. And Clementine needed to explain why she wasn’t at all sad that their home was now buried under fifteen feet of snow. If this was to be a fresh start, she thought, there would be no more Not Talking About Anything. Or at least, there would be a lot more Talking About Most Things.

  Lord Elithor grunted—a surprisingly undignified sound, coming from him—but didn’t have time to say more, because they were no longer alone. A crowd was walking up from the village, struggling to tramp through the top layer of softer snow.

  “Oh, for the sake of all that is evil,” groaned Lord Elithor as he and Clementine turned to watch the villagers approach.

  It took a while, because of the snow, and both sides clearly had loads to say to the other, which made the wait a bit awkward. They could only stare at one another until they came within shouting distance.

  At the head of the crowd were Mayor Turnacliff, Henrietta (who looked hale and hearty, as far as Clementine could see), and Sebastien, who rode above the rest on the back of Clementine’s nightmare—though you could barely call it a nightmare anymore, after spending so much time around Sebastien. Soon it would be merely an intimi­dating horse. Amazingly, the Gricken was perched precari­ously on the nightmare’s neck.

  Clementine was the first to hop down from the gate.

  “Sebastien!” she called, waving frantically. He waved back and sped ahead of the crowd.

  Clementine called, “I’m very glad you’re not dead!”

  He laughed and stopped the horse right in front of her.

  “It looks like I can say the same,” he said, his eyes wide as he to
ok in Clementine’s bloodstained dress and silvery-white hair.

  “Oh, I’m fine,” said Clementine, sweeping a dark gray lock of hair behind her ear with a blush. “It wasn’t as bad as it looks. However did you get away from the avalanche?”

  “We didn’t,” said Sebastien with a shrug as he dismounted the nightmare. “When you didn’t show, I got the boys to set the animals free—we didn’t want that witch getting her hands on them, did we? And by the time we heard the rumbling, well, there wasn’t much point in running. But it just kind of fizzled over us—the villagers, too, sounds like—more like fog than anything else. And I could’ve sworn I saw . . .” He cupped his hands around the back of his head, which Clementine now recognized as his primary posture for Not Looking Bothered when he really was a bit bothered.

  But his troubled expression soon vanished, his face splitting into a grin. “Well, never mind. Whatever you did, it worked! You saved us, Clementine.”

  Clementine’s newly healed heart fluttered in her chest. “You helped,” she allowed.

  “And I saved your chicken,” Sebastien pointed out.

  “Lord Elithor!” The village mayor—a tall, barrel-chested man with a beard so meticulously curled it would have made even the most fastidious Dark Lord Morcerous look plain—had finally reached them, huffing and puffing. “As mayor of this town, I simply demand an explanation for . . . for . . .” He had only just seemed to notice the utter destruction of Castle Brack. “Oh,” he said. And then, “Well, for everything! All of it!”

  Mayor Turnacliff proceeded to go on a long rant about all of the abuses Lord Elithor had subjected the townspeople to—because there’s nothing like kicking a man when he’s just been de-puppeted, and lost his home and livelihood.

  As the mayor’s chin wobbled against his collar, and his face turned redder and splotchier, Clementine noticed the black sheep trying to obscure himself from view by burrowing into a snow mound. This was curious, as she highly doubted that a love of snow was one of his magical transfigured-sheep traits, like the ability to climb stairs. The black sheep hated being cold and wet.

  “And now, you and your spawn have gone and poisoned half the village!” finished the mayor, with an extra glare just for Clementine.

  “Have we?” asked Lord Elithor, with an appreciative eyebrow raise. He lowered his voice to speak to Clementine. “My dear, they certainly don’t look very poisoned. Perhaps it’s slow-acting? Or they’ve left the terminally ill behind in the village?”

  “But Lord Elithor and Clementine didn’t poison the well,” piped up a small voice—it was Little Ian, standing with the rest of the former Brack Knights in the crowd.

  “Ian’s right,” said Sebastien to the mayor. “And you know that as well as we do. The poison was the work of a sorceress called the Whittle Witch. Clementine didn’t poison us—she saved us. All the sick are well again, aren’t they?” There were a few reluctant nods from the crowd. “You lot should be thanking her.” Sebastien stood firmly next to Clementine, his arms folded.

  Darka, who was still crying, let out a particularly loud sob, which everyone politely ignored.

  Mayor Turnacliff sputtered. “Thank her? Thank her? The daughter of the man who has kidnapped our children, baked our pets into pies . . .”

  Now that’s just a lie, Clementine thought.

  “Turned our potato crop into stones, taxed us for wearing specific shades of black . . .” The mayor sounded ready to get on a roll again, and Lord Elithor’s temper was simmering hotter and hotter with every comment—Clementine could tell, because his lips were pressing into a thin, flat line and the edges of his robes had started to smoke. She was sure this would most definitely not turn out well, when Henrietta Turnacliff stepped forward.

  “My father may not be willing to thank you,” Henrietta half shouted over the mayor, whose diatribe petered out in his surprise. “But I will.” She looked at Clementine with her perfect curls and rosy cheeks and her chin held high, and did not look the least bit afraid. “On behalf of all of us—thank you for saving us from the Whittle Witch’s machinations.”

  “Which we only had to be saved from,” muttered the mayor, “because of their machinations against each other.” He jerked a thumb toward Lord Elithor. “Wizards. Honestly . . .”

  But Clementine hardly noticed the mayor’s comments. As she looked into Henrietta’s eyes, she saw something familiar there. Her visit to the hedgewitches’ camp came unbidden into her mind:

  “Please, I need something that will help me locate my brother,” Clementine heard Henrietta tell the witch. “He’s been missing for . . .”

  But the turquoise-haired witch put her hand on Henrietta’s shoulder and turned her to face the other way, and their conversation faded from Clementine’s ears.

  A chorus of baahs arose from the sheep pen, and Clementine looked over to see the black sheep pawing the ground and scampering behind the witches’ sheep.

  Clementine blinked. It appeared she wasn’t the only one in the Seven Sisters looking to distance herself from certain family ties. Though, really, getting oneself turned into a sheep was a bit extreme.

  “It was my pleasure,” said Clementine to Henrietta, raising her voice so the crowd could hear. “From this day forward, you have my word as the future Dark Lord of the Seven Sisters: you have nothing to fear from me. And—”

  “SQUAWK!” At that moment, the Gricken hopped down from the nightmare’s back, squawked once more, and laid a perfect yellow egg at Clementine’s feet.

  It was as yellow as Henrietta’s perfect blond curls. Clementine smiled.

  “You are a very admirable chicken,” Clementine said, and placed a kiss upon the Gricken’s head. She straightened up and held out the egg to the confused-looking villagers. “And as a show of my good faith,” she called out to them, “I will right another wrong that has been done to you. Sir Sebastien, would you please wrangle the black sheep that is unsuccessfully hiding in that patch of snow?”

  The black sheep tried to make a break for it, but between the snow and the efforts of Sebastien, the nightmare, and a very aggressive Gricken, he didn’t get very far.

  “I told you I’d keep my promise,” Clementine said to him, and cracked the egg over his head.

  The words of the short incantation that filled her mind tasted like warm milk and losing baby teeth, and dirt and sorrow and ice cream, and even (though she didn’t know it yet) a first kiss, as they passed her lips. As the spell oozed over the black sheep’s head, his wool dissolved into a swirling rainbow mist, and then, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, it reformed—into the shape of a blond, curly-haired, gangly young teenager.

  “David!” cried Henrietta.

  “Dave!” cried Mayor Turnacliff, because he had given the boy that nickname, and by the Seven Sisters, he was going to make it stick.

  They both rushed forward to embrace their formerly missing brother and son. Sebastien led the crowd in celebratory applause, which distracted everyone just long enough for Dave Turnacliff to borrow someone’s cloak to put on.

  Clementine admired her knight’s growing sense of tact.

  Dave looked happy enough to see his sister, but when confronted with his father listing all the things they had to catch up on, his voice went oddly high and sheepy again, and he cried, “But I still don’t want to be mayor!”

  “I wouldn’t worry, if I were you,” Clementine told him. She thought of Henrietta fearlessly trekking to the hedgewitches’ camp on the villagers’ behalf, even when she was ill herself, and of how she had so boldly spoken to Clementine. “I think there’s someone else in the Turnacliff family more suited to the job, anyway.” She patted him on the shoulder.

  As the villagers chatted among themselves, and Clementine thanked each of her knights, and Lord Elithor smoldered alone in the corner until he melted the snow around him into a little puddle, Clementine no
ticed one figure drifting away from the crowd: Darka Wesk-Starzec.

  The hedgewitches had reappeared at the edge of the forest, Kat Marie Grice at their head. They kept their distance from the villagers—now that the crisis was over, it seemed that some old divisions were determined to resurface—but when Clementine nodded to Kat Marie, the old hedgewitch nodded back.

  Darka stopped just short of the witches, shivering in the snow. A few of them regarded her with narrowed eyes and crossed arms—she’d been working with Clementine, after all, and now it was certain at least a few of them knew her true identity.

  But after a moment, Kat Marie opened her arms, beckoned Darka forward, and closed the last few steps between them. Darka fell into the old woman’s arms, her shoulders racked with fresh sobs.

  Clementine wanted to call after Darka. She wanted to tell her to . . . what, come home? Their home was destroyed. Darka had used her. Darka had shot her (twice). And yet now, when Clementine even thought of “home,” she thought of Darka Wesk-Starzec and their days in the gatehouse quarters. And she wondered if, just maybe, Darka felt that way, too.

  But Darka did not look back as the hedgewitches led her away, back to their home in the woods, and if it stung Clementine, just a little bit, she tried not to show it. Her father was cured. Her people were healthy. Her friends were safe.

  And at the end of the day, she had a far more pressing question to answer:

  Now what?

  Chapter 24

  To Just Be or Not to Just Be

  or Beyond the Mountains

  Eventually, the crowd drifted off, leaving Lord Elithor and Clementine alone with their avalanche. Clementine was starting to feel the snow’s chill, now that the excitement of the day was beginning to wane. She hopped back up onto the gate and sat, hugging her knees to her chest. A few moments later, her father clambered up after her.