The Dark Lord Clementine

by Sarah Jean Horwitz

  It was just past summer, after all. Some of the snow was starting to melt already. They watched a great glob of it come sliding out of what had once been the castle’s front door.

  Lord Elithor finally broke the silence. “I heard your . . . impassioned declaration, back there in the clearing.”

  Clementine froze. She hadn’t thought her father had been conscious for most of the last few days.

  “Oh, yes, I heard everything,” he said bitterly, shaking his head. “How you don’t want to terrorize anyone, or kill anyone, or hurt anyone at all! How you don’t even want to be the Dark Lord! Honestly, Clementine. Is this how I raised you? To be so ungrateful for the sacrifices your ancestors have made—that I’ve made—and to go gallivanting around, growing flowers and befriending peasants and healing the sick, without a care in the world for the legacy that is ours to protect?”

  “That’s not fair, Father,” said Clementine. “That’s not fair at all. You know I worked so hard—harder than any Morcerous has had to in quite a while, I’d guess—to keep the farm going while you were ill. I did care, more than anything.”

  “‘Did,’ I see.” Lord Elithor pursed his lips. “So what could possibly have changed, Clementine? What could possibly have persuaded you to abandon”—he gestured to the white wasteland around them—“all of this?” He waved his hands, as if to indicate that Clementine should ignore the present state of their surroundings. “Was it those new friends of yours? And how did that work out for you, hmm?” he asked, his voice smug. “Your brave new knights—who bravely ran away at the first sign of trouble—or your unicorn huntress, who shot you through the heart?” Elithor’s voice trembled, ever so slightly.

  Clementine sighed. It was true that in some ways, much of what Lord Elithor had warned her about the people outside their castle walls had come to pass. Clementine had been disappointed. She had been betrayed. She had seen the people she’d grown to care about at their worst—in their pettiest, darkest, angriest, and least courageous moments. This was all true.

  But she’d also seen them at their best. They had comforted her, and laughed with her, and worked with her side by side. She had seen them risk their lives to help her and the people they loved. And it was better, somehow, to have made those friendships, even if she’d gotten hurt. She could hardly remember the girl she had been a few weeks ago, with only her flowers and the Lady in White for company. She could not imagine going back to such a life—a life without real friendships, friendships that she had chosen to make. Now, she knew, she could make more.

  And yet she did not think she could explain this to her father—at least, not today. And so she simply settled for, “Darka didn’t do that on purpose.”

  Lord Elithor scoffed.

  “And I cared because I . . . I love you, Father,” said Clementine. “Even though we don’t agree on many, many things. And I loved our home. I wanted to save it, and save you. But not so I could become Dark Lord someday.”

  “Oh?” sniffed Lord Elithor. “And what will you do? Where will you go? Do you intend to become a Good Witch, and leave your poor father, the villain, to rot in his ruined castle?”

  Clementine resisted the urge to roll her eyes. No one could say Dark Lords didn’t have a flair for the dramatic.

  “Father,” she said. “I think it’s time you were honest with me, as well. Because let’s face it. You’re just . . . not much of a villain.”

  “Excuse me?” said the Dark Lord, his shadow growing as tall as a giant behind him. Clementine sighed.

  “Turning people purple, Father? Really?”

  The Whittle Witch’s potion had been much more potent than Lord Elithor’s had ever been—and Clementine knew her father wasn’t a complete fool. No, there was a reason the Dark Lord Elithor confined his Dastardly Deeds to unfortunate transfigurations and mild curses and magical-artifact-market manipulation: his heart had never been in it, either.

  And as it turned out, Lord Elithor did not have much of a rebuttal for that. He merely huffed. They watched some snow slosh out of the castle’s broken windows.

  “I don’t know if I’ll become a Good Witch,” Clementine said. She thought of the way the sunlight magic had hummed in her veins, out in the mountain caves. She wanted to explore more light magic, but she didn’t feel ready to commit to any strictly defined role at the moment. “Right now, I . . . I just want to do what most people do. I just want to be.”

  Lord Elithor threw up his hands. “And while you are busy being, my dear daughter, what will I be doing to actually put food on the table, hmm? Have you thought about this in all of your grand plans?”

  Clementine had no grand plans to speak of, but at that moment, as she watched the last rays of the setting sun glint across the mountains, she knew what they had to do.

  “I think what we both need, Father, is a fresh start,” she said. “It’s time you showed me what’s beyond the mountains.”

  ***

  The woods really were a rather pleasant place, Clementine thought, when they weren’t trying to kill you. As she walked through the sunlit paths, she regretted that she hadn’t been able to spend more time in them when she was growing up.

  Of course, her previous relationship with the inhabitants had a great deal to do with that absence.

  As it was, the wards around the hedgewitches’ camp wobbled and thrummed as she approached, announcing her arrival to anyone nearby. But as they didn’t make blood pour out of her eyes or barbecue her like a kebab, Clementine took it as a sign that she was welcome to enter.

  She found Darka sitting outside Kat Marie’s tent, sipping a cup of tea, with a light blanket around her shoulders and looking about as done-in as Clementine had felt the last time she’d been in the coven’s camp. She turned even paler when she saw Clementine.

  “Clementine,” Darka said softly. It seemed to take every ounce of her courage to finally meet Clementine’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. I never meant for you to get hurt.”

  And Darka told Clementine everything. How she was from far away, on the other side of the mountains, where magic was much less prevalent and magical artifacts and beasts were hunted and traded by an adventurous and viciously competitive few. How Darka had been only eighteen when a stranger had come to town—a young, handsome stranger who’d promised her magic and excitement and adventure, who’d taught her how to shoot and fight and track animals in the wild. How she’d fallen in love with that stranger—and how he’d used her as bait, just as Darka had used Clementine. How Darka had refused to accept that he had tricked her and became consumed by her grief, swearing revenge on all unicorns.

  How Darka thought she could never feel love again—until she met Clementine, and trained with the Brack Knights, and spent her days surrounded by the beauty of the Seven Sisters. And then, how hard it was to give up on her revenge, when it had been driving her forward for so long.

  “But I was wrong,” Darka finished, her eyes brimming with tears.

  Clementine wondered how any of them had any tears left after the last few days.

  “I was so, so wrong,” Darka said. “And if you hadn’t—if the unicorn hadn’t saved you . . .”

  “Darka,” Clementine said, putting a hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “I forgive you.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘buts.’ I forgive you for lying about hunting the unicorn,” she said. “I even forgive you for manipulating me. I only ask for one favor in return.”

  Darka nodded. “Anything.”

  “Keep that bow of yours well away when I’m around,” said Clementine, nudging Darka with her shoulder.

  Darka let out a weak chuckle. “I think I can do that,” she said, wiping her eyes with the blanket.

  After a few moments of silence, Clementine cleared her throat. “My father and I are leaving,” she said quietly. “He’s going to show me what’s beyond the mountains
. And I . . . I was wondering if you might want to come with us.” She picked at a stray thread poking out of her boot in the silence that followed.

  “Oh, Clementine,” said Darka with a sigh, “I . . . I wish I could. But you have to understand. The other side of the mountains wouldn’t be an adventure, or a new start—not for me. Right now, it’s still . . . a reminder. Of painful memories I’d rather forget.”

  Clementine’s shoulders slumped, and Darka tentatively put her arm around them. Clementine leaned into her embrace.

  “I understand,” Clementine said, though the lump in her throat begged to differ. But Darka was right. This life, here in the hedgewitches’ camp, was Darka’s fresh start. It wouldn’t be fair to make her face her past—not if she wasn’t ready.

  “I’m going to stay here,” said Darka, “and train with the witches. I’ve . . . got a lot to learn. And I think I could find a place here, at least for a little while.”

  Across the camp, Shirin stopped in her tracks as she caught sight of Darka. She tucked a lock of her red-feathered hair behind her ear and gave a decidedly shy and un-Shirin-like little wave before walking on.

  Clementine smiled. She didn’t think Darka would have much trouble finding a place to belong here at all.

  ***

  “ ‘A traveling magician,’ ” Lord Elithor complained for the hundredth time. “Whoever heard of such a thing?” But he hoisted his pack on his shoulders all the same. It made his usually billowing cloak bunch up around the armpits. Clementine bit her lip to keep herself from giggling.

  “Plenty of people, according to Darka,” said Clementine.

  They really were going to have to work on her father’s people skills if they hoped to make any sort of living in these new lands. She slung her own satchel over her shoulder and mounted her broomstick. Her father had not been pleased about that development, but really, why get tired and muddy trekking through the mountain paths when she could comfortably fly the whole way? She’d conceded to merely hovering by his side for most of the trip. Compromise was another thing they would have to work on.

  Clementine turned for one last look at the valley—at the ruins of the place that had been her home since she was born—only to see a man on horseback come galloping around the corner at full tilt.

  “Clementine, wait!”

  Clementine raised her hands, and the Gricken hopped to her side, ready to supply her with a defensive attack, but the rider was no man—it was Sebastien, who had somehow managed to unearth an old Brack Knight’s suit of armor from the castle ruins—or he’d stolen it back when he’d been training with Darka, more likely. He rode the nightmare, which at this point really did just look like a mildly alarming black horse in need of a good feeding. The armor did not fit him well, and it made great clanking and scraping noises with every step of the horse. Lord Elithor’s hair stood on end at the sound.

  “Sebastien,” said Clementine. “What are you doing here?”

  Sebastien sat up tall on the nightmare. “Coming with you, of course! Word in the village is you’re going beyond the mountains. Which you really should have told me, you know, since I’m your most trusted Brack Knight and everything. I felt pretty dumb, being as surprised as everyone else.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Clementine. She hadn’t meant to make him feel left out. But . . . “Wait, what? What do you mean, come with?”

  “It is my sworn duty as a knight to protect you,” insisted Sebastien, removing his helmet and bowing slightly in the saddle.

  Clementine felt her cheeks go hot. She had not planned on any other additions to their traveling party. “Can’t you . . . Don’t the villagers need protecting?”

  Sebastien looked a bit torn at that but perked up almost instantly. “Nah, the other knights can take care of that,” he said. “Plus, something tells me there’s going to be a lot less to protect them from, since, uh, your dad’s not going to be around.”

  “ ‘Dad,’ ” muttered Elithor weakly. “I’ve just been called a ‘dad.’ ”

  But Sebastien only had eyes for Clementine. “Where you go, I go, my lady.”

  “Oh, Seven Sisters,” groaned Lord Elithor.

  “Well . . . I . . .” said Clementine. It was suddenly taking quite a bit of effort to stay on her broomstick. “I suppose having someone who can swing an ax around might be handy . . .”

  “Yes!” Sebastien pumped his fist in the air in victory. The plates of his armor shifted and got stuck as he made the motion, and he had to bang his arm against his side a few times to be able to bend his elbow again.

  “Sebastien, do your parents even know about this?” asked Clementine, crossing her arms. “Or am I going to have to add ‘kidnapping’ to my list of Dastardly Deeds?”

  “If we don’t get a move on soon, I plan on adding ‘murder’ to mine,” grumbled Lord Elithor. He tramped on ahead through the muddy snow.

  Clementine turned to Sebastien, half expecting him to be riding away from her as fast as he could—and ready to hastily explain that her father didn’t really mean he’d murder them—but Sebastien showed no signs of bolting. Instead, he merely flicked the nightmare’s reins and followed behind Lord Elithor, grinning at Clementine all the while.

  With a little push off her toes, Clementine flew after them, and their journey beyond the mountains began.

  ***

  Dear Council of Least Esteemed Evil Overlords,

  It is my pleasure to inform you that since your last letter, I, Clementine Morcerous, have assumed the full duties of the Dark Lordship of the Seven Sisters Mountains. In the last few weeks, I have completed no fewer than three Dastardly Deeds:

  1. A magically enhanced weather phenomenon

  2. A stampede

  3. An unfortunate transfiguration

  4. A (possible) kidnapping

  As you might imagine, completing all of these Dastardly Deeds in such a short amount of time has taken its toll on my “work-life balance,” as some might say. As such, my father and I will be taking a well-deserved extended vacation.

  Lest the Council be tempted—and what kind of Evil Overlords would you be if you weren’t?—to try and replace me as Dark Lord of the Seven Sisters, or to capture Castle Brack while my father and I are away, I warn you that this would be most unwise.

  The unicorn of the mountains is a friend of mine, and she does not take kindly to strangers staking claims on her domain.

  Wishing you a positively dreadful day,

  The Dark Lord Clementine

  Acknowledgments

  It is extremely rare, at least in my experience, that an idea for an entire story stems from a single encounter. And yet somehow, several years ago, as I sat with my old high school friends on our former English teacher’s floor, coaxing her baby daughter to mimic the sounds of her toy farm animals, inspiration struck—and it struck hard. I couldn’t be more thankful to Alice, Chelsea, CarolAnn, and of course, the original owner of “the silent farm”—little Clementine. A special thanks to Alice and her lovely husband, Chris, for humoring me as I spun out The Dark Lord Clementine all the way from amusing anecdote to story idea to full-fledged novel. Clementine, you are extremely fortunate to have such rock-star parents. This gives you very little excuse to ever transform into a Dark Lord in the future.

  Many thanks also to:

  Brooke Mills, nicknamer of the original Dark Lord, baby Leah Fallyn.

  My partner, David, for charging through the living room with a broom handle and pretending to be a unicorn for the sake of my art. You are, as some grand­motherly types might say, a keeper.

  Harvard John and Alex Trivilino, for helping me whip the beginning of this book into good-enough shape to get it sold on proposal—and alerting me about all of my plot vacations.

  My agent, Victoria Marini, for believing in this story when it was nothing but a zany idea and a prologue, even thou
gh she hates prologues.

  Krestyna Lypen, Elise Howard, and the team at Algonquin Young Readers. This is our third date to the dance, and I’m very thankful you still want to take my stories out for a spin.

  Jessica & Sean Abbott, Nancy & Raj Tandon, Carolyn & Lisa Rosinsky, Harvard John, Brooke Mills, and everyone else who contributed technical expertise for everything from unicorn-related injuries to castle defense. Any mistakes are due entirely to my bumbling incompetence. (Or maybe witches. I could just blame it on witches.)

  David Crowther, the host of the History of England podcast, for letting me name a sheep after him. David, I can only hope I’m near the top of your list of strangest listener emails.

  Published by

  Algonquin Young Readers

  an imprint of Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill

  Post Office Box 2225

  Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225

  a division of

  Workman Publishing

  225 Varick Street

  New York, New York 10014

  © 2019 by Sarah Jean Horwitz.

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Published simultaneously in Canada by Thomas Allen & Son Limited.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Horwitz, Sarah Jean, author.

  Title: The Dark Lord Clementine / Sarah Jean Horwitz.

  Description: Chapel Hill, North Carolina : Algonquin Young Readers, [2019] |

  Summary: When her father is cursed by a rival witch, twelve-year-old Clementine Morcerous assumes his duties as Dark Lord of the realm, but soon questions her father’s code of good and evil.

  eISBN 9781643750019

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019006072