by Marissa Burt
“Don’t look so shocked,” she snapped at Snow. “This isn’t Perrault. We don’t have the luxury of dancing on eggshells here. We’re in trouble, Snow. In danger. I need you to keep your wits about you.”
Snow opened her mouth to argue, but her mother cut her off.
“I’d think twice about wasting your breath, Snow,” she said, but emotion—anger even—had replaced the icy stillness that usually invaded her mother’s tone. “The things that are unspoken between us. Why it is that you hate me. It can wait. We have to work together. We have to trust each other.” She reached over and grabbed Snow firmly under the chin, drawing her face up so she could look directly into her eyes.
“For better or worse, I’m all you’ve got now.”
They had just started walking again when a speck appeared on the horizon. Or what passed for the horizon in this awful, endless night. It grew to a shadowy form, and Snow ducked into the wall’s scant protection.
“Not to worry, my ladies.” The madman was back, and his voice sounded thin in the enchanted air. “Not to worry. It is I, your friend and guide.” He held one of the moldy rolls that had been on their tray in the cell and gnawed on the end.
“Great,” Snow muttered under her breath. “Just what we need.”
Her mother stepped around her. “Where does this wall go?”
“Nowhere else.”
“Nowhere else,” Snow echoed. “Oh, that’s just perfect. The tunnel goes somewhere else and the wall goes nowhere else. Add that to the list of crazy. A pretend desert that has no end. Torturers who slash up feet for fun. Guards who hide their faces and have silver claws instead of hands. A Tale Master who delivers us to the Red Enchantress with no explanation.” She looked at the man, who had stopped chewing. “And a madman is the only other living soul we’ve seen in ages.”
“What about the Tale Master?” A mushy piece of bread was dangling from the edge of the man’s mouth as he spoke.
Snow wrinkled up her nose. “Um, you’ve got something right here.” She pointed at her face.
“Tale Master Elton,” her mother said in a quiet voice. “Do you know him?”
There was a spark of interest in the man’s eyes, but, just as quickly, they clouded over. He swallowed hard to force the bread down. “I feel like I should know the name. Or the face. I’m much better with faces.” He licked his lips. “Except the Red Lady’s sleepers. Not their faces. Awake faces are best.” He snickered. “Her Taleless are hard, too. Haven’t got any faces. And they never sleep. Not like the dreamers at the Ivory Gate. Dreamers never wake.” The madman was shaking with silent laughter, and he looked even more insane than before. His jaw was open wide, and his tattered garments jiggled as he bent double.
“What do you mean by the Ivory Gate?” Her mother’s voice was sharp.
The man stopped and became almost perfectly still, an empty grin stretching the skin taut across his skull. He looked in every other direction but toward Snow’s mother. “Didn’t say anything about an Ivory Gate.”
“Yes, you did,” Snow said. “In your stupid joke.”
The man looked straight at her. “There’s no joke. For us or any of the others.” He leaned in close so that his face was right in front of Snow’s.
Snow moved back. “Get away from me!”
Snow’s mother uttered a short command that Snow couldn’t make out. Her hand stretched out, flesh pale in the moonlight, and then the madman crumpled to the ground. The air smelled of burned hair.
Snow’s eyes felt like they would pop out of her head. “You killed him?”
Her mother waved away her concern. “A freezing charm. That is all.” She limped over to what now looked like a pile of rags and nudged him with her toe. “I don’t want him to hear us.” She looked up at Snow. “He knows something of Elton, but his mind has been spoiled by magic. He has been too long under the Red Enchantress’s spell.” She stepped back from the man’s body. “Be watchful around him. I don’t want him to find you alone.” Her mother squeezed Snow’s arm. “Stay close to me. With luck, the farther we get from this evil place, the more his memories may return, and we will see what he knows about the Red Enchantress.”
Snow peered down at the man’s crumpled form. Was that what would happen to her the longer she stayed in this wasteland? She’d go mad?
Her mother raised her arms as if she were lifting the madman, even though he still lay two feet in front of her. “If nothing else, he will be of some use to us if he can lead us away from here.” Slowly, surely, the bent form straightened into the air until it was standing, arms hanging limply as if he were a scrawny puppet. Snow’s mother moved over to him and placed a hand against his forehead, murmuring softly.
Snow stared. She had always known her mother was a Villain. After all, she taught the subject at Perrault. Snow had even guessed that she might be a Witch. But Snow had never actually seen her mother act like one.
The old man jolted to life, and it was as though time had gone backward. He bent at the waist, his frame shaking with laughter. Then he stopped and said once again, “Her Taleless are hard, too. Haven’t got any faces. And they never sleep. Not like the dreamers at the Ivory Gate. Dreamers never wake.”
This time her mother approached and said in a silky voice, “How clever of you to have discovered the dreamers. Shall we follow you to them?”
The old man grinned at Snow’s mother with a besotted look and scampered ahead, glancing back over his shoulder like a dog waiting for his master.
Snow forced one foot in front of the other as she moved to catch up with him. Her mother wasn’t just a Villain. Or a Witch. Snow took a deep breath. She was an Enchantress.
Chapter 6
Peter walked briskly to keep pace with Indy. At least the other boy had enough sense to keep a Lady safe in a place like Horror Hollow, and he and Indy flanked Una on either side. The harbor road was full of people, and the water next to them was nearly as busy. A towering ship had its gangplank down, and groups of loudmouthed sailors made their way to the deck, bulging sacks slung over their shoulders. Crowds of characters clamored to join them. News of what had happened at Heart’s Place had traveled quickly, and people were leaving the main districts in droves. Peter watched a merchant thrust more sacks of coins than he had seen in his life into the arms of a shifty-looking pirate. Maybe it would be enough to get the merchant and his family far, far away, out of the Enemy’s reach.
“Let me see the map again,” he said. Una handed over the paper the Dystopian had sold them, and Peter ducked out of the main thoroughfare to study it. They should be getting close to the quill shrine, but Peter didn’t see any likely Dystopian sites around them.
“I still think this whole pilgrimage thing is a hoax,” Peter said as he scanned the map.
“The Lost Elements aren’t a hoax,” Indy said. He took the map from Peter, and, after a moment of consultation, ushered them toward a run-down side street. “The Dystopians may prey on peoples’ fears, but they are learned oral storytellers. The Sacred Order thinks they might have access to the oldest backstories.”
Peter snorted. “And does the Sacred Order also know why the Enemy would want the Lost Elements?” He took the map back from Indy and began folding it up. “Oh, sorry, I forgot, the Sacred Order didn’t know anything about the Enemy to begin with.”
“Stop arguing, you two. It’s annoying. Who cares where the information comes from?” Una snatched the map back out of Peter’s hands and slapped it across the palm of her hands. “All of the possible locations of the Dragon’s Ink are in forests. Even the stained glass window showed the dragon dying in a forest. That’s not just a coincidence. I think Fidelus really did find the Dragon’s Ink, and that’s what he gulped down before he was imprisoned.” She started for the side street. “We’ve got to know more about the Elements, and then maybe we can figure out why he wants them so much.”
Indy said nothing and easily caught up with Una.
Peter didn’t need more convi
ncing. If Indy was going, he was going too. He hurried after them. With a loud squish, Peter’s boot sank into a pile of rotting fish guts. Perfect. He stomped through the rancid pile and shook his foot. Una had stopped in front of a crumbling brick building. A wooden sign swung out from the street-side wall. There were no words, just a faded painting of a gull, wings spread as if in flight.
“This is it, huh?” Peter said as he scraped the side of his boot on the cobblestones. Somehow he had thought a holy pilgrimage site would appear more sacred, or scary . . . or at least occupied. This place just looked like an abandoned dump. After one more consultation, Una folded the parchment and made her way up the stairs, Indy close on her heels. Peter had to duck under hanging bundles of dried herbs to follow them through the crooked front door.
“Who in their right mind—” he began, but Una shushed him at the same moment a reedy voice called out, “Who’s there? Show yourselves.”
The door swung inward on its groaning hinges. Una looked at Indy. Indy looked at Peter. Peter plunged forward into the shadows.
“Children on pilgrimage, eh? Come to see my shop?”
It took a moment for Peter’s eyes to adjust to the dim interior, and then he saw the hunched figure in the corner. An old woman stooped over a barely smoldering fire, stirring something in a cook pot.
“We want to know about the Lost Elements.” Una’s voice sounded so sure. Peter glanced sideways at her. She looked fierce, arms crossed over her chest, with her chin thrust out stubbornly. Indy stood on the other side of her; from the black expression on his face, he was as uneasy as Peter about the shop owner.
When the woman didn’t answer, Una crouched next to the fire. “Please,” she said. The steam embraced Una’s face, and just then Una seemed exactly like a witch brooding over her bubbling cauldron.
“Many come here looking for the legendary Quill,” the woman said with a toothless smile. “And then they leave, and go back to their normal lives. Only old Jaga lives the pilgrim way.” Jaga turned to a shelf and fumbled around with some sacks on it. “Would you children like some candy?”
“Una.” In that moment, it struck Peter as exceptionally stupid that they had left Bramble Cottage without telling a soul where they were going. He reached down and tugged on Una’s sleeve. “This was a bad idea.”
The old woman looked hungrily up at Peter. “And what do you know of bad ideas? Speak up!” Peter felt icy cold start up at the base of his spine. Something about Jaga wasn’t quite right. Her skin wobbled loosely around her eye sockets as though she wore it like a garment.
The liquid in the pot hissed, and the heat burned Peter’s face. He stepped back.
“If it’s true that you’ve been on pilgrimage longer than anyone,” Una said, “tell us what you know about the Dragon’s Ink.”
The woman stared at Una for a long time. Peter glanced over at Indy, who hovered between Una and Jaga like a coiled cat ready to pounce.
“You know better than I what happened to the Dragon’s Ink.” Jaga stood up, more nimble than she appeared, and, edging Peter out of the way, knelt before Una. “Now you come to test my loyalty.” The old woman grabbed Una’s hand and kissed it. “Milady, you do me great honor to visit here. I have not forgotten your commission. Watch and wait. That’s what I’ve done.”
Peter’s mouth dropped open. Una looked equally astonished, but Peter saw her expression change from disbelief to something like determination. Who does this old lady think Una is? And why is Una playing along with it?
“That’s very good,” Una said awkwardly. “Do you . . .” She hesitated, and Peter could tell she was trying to find the right words. “Have . . . um . . . have you seen anything like the Silver Quill?”
However second-rate Una’s dialogue was, the old woman didn’t seem to mind. A toothless smile creased her wrinkled face. “I knew it! I knew it was you, milady. You have made yourself young. An illusion many would kill for.”
“Quite right,” Una said, sounding surer this time. “But the Quill?”
“Wait and watch. Watch and wait. That’s all I’ve done this past year at least, and I’ve found another quill for you. Perhaps it’s the one you seek,” the old woman said, while hobbling over to what Peter thought must be her bed. The misshapen pile was lost in shadow, and as she rummaged in the darkness, two cats, a rat, and something else much bigger scampered out and took refuge in the other dim corners of the room. “Fools have come and worshipped at this made-up shrine, and I’ve listened to every one of them. The scholars from the cathedral were the worst, though they were the ones who’d had word of the Silver Quill. Brother Geryon, they said. His family served the one who took it from the griffin.”
“Take care, Una,” Indy hissed.
For once, Peter agreed with him. It didn’t take a genius to see that the old lady thought Una was someone else, someone who was hunting the Lost Elements. There was no way this would end well. Jaga could have anything hidden in there: a weapon, a charm of some sort. A witch who offered children candy wasn’t doing it because she was nice. He gripped the hilt of his sword.
Jaga scooted back toward Una, clutching something to her chest and bobbing her head up and down. “I keep it safe, right here with me. I have it with me while I sleep.” She hugged the soiled cloth close and reached out her other hand. She held one long feather tightly in her filthy fist.
Peter had seen quills before, but nothing the size of the one before him. This one was the length of a man’s arm, and its silver color glowed dully in the dark room.
“This was hard to come by, milady. Had to barter with the scholars myself.” She handed it to Una with a little curtsy. “It could be the one. It’s older than the Unbinding, or so they claimed. It’s definitely older than the others I’ve brought you. Those fools from the cathedral say much that’s nonsense, but they do know their legends. I would have brought it to you, milady, only there hasn’t been a new moon yet.” Her voice faltered. “You know I’ve never failed to obey before,” she said as Una looked carefully at the quill. The longer Una kept quiet, the more the old woman bowed and scraped before her.
“I would’ve come to you, milady, I swear it. At midnight, just as you require.”
Una frowned at the point of the quill.
Peter couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but now they knew for sure a woman was hunting the Silver Quill from the legends, and maybe it was even Duessa. This, however, was most definitely not the Silver Quill. Even from where he stood, Peter could see bits of gray paint flaking off it. If Peter knew anything about the Dystopians, he knew they probably had a workshop where they made fake Silver Quills and charged way too much money for them. It was time to go. Before this old witch figures out we’re also frauds.
“Milady.” The old woman held one hand out beseechingly. “Are you pleased?”
“Where?” Una’s voice sounded distant, and it wavered a bit as she continued. “Where would you meet me?”
Peter glared at Una as if the force of his thoughts could make her look at him. The real woman would know exactly where they met. What was Una doing? Indy must be wondering the same thing. It was only the slightest of movements, but Peter saw Indy stealthily withdraw a dagger from the belt at his waist.
Jaga kept her head bowed but peered up at Una. “But . . . you know . . . milady?”
“Of course I know,” Una said sharply. “The question is whether you are still on my side.”
The old woman’s head waggled again. “Oh, yes, milady. Yes. Jaga lives to serve.” The flickering firelight made her eyes look like holes. “At blackest midnight. All alone. Just as you asked.”
Una licked her lips. “But you are very old. Perhaps you have forgotten the way.”
“Oh no, milady!” The crone bent low before Una. “I could go to your castle in my sleep.”
Una slid the quill into a pocket inside her cloak. “So you say.” She sounded ruthless. “But your eyesight fails you. How can I know your wits won’t as well?” She wa
ved her hand around the little room. “What route do you take? Or perhaps you have forgotten?”
The old woman whimpered. “Why do you try and confuse Jaga? You chose it yourself. Why do you distrust me, milady? Have I not served you well?”
Una gave a little cough. “You are very clever, Jaga. Of course I mean to test you.” There was a long pause, and Peter could feel her scrambling for words. This was a bad idea. Jaga would have to be a fool to think her lady would keep quizzing her like this.
Peter stepped forward. “These are dark days,” he said. The old woman swiveled her head slowly toward him as though she had forgotten he was in the room. “Her . . . um . . . ladyship must confirm the loyalties of all her . . . companions.”
The old woman sucked in her breath. “Companions? Milady, do you consider me a companion?”
Peter almost felt bad for Jaga. This old crone was done for, however loyal she was, if it came out she was spilling some secret meeting place to anyone.
Una flashed Peter a relieved smile. She turned to the old woman. “Of course I do. But to be safe, I have one last question for you.”
Peter stifled a groan. The last question could be the one that got them caught.
“You could be an enemy in disguise,” Una continued. “How do I know you aren’t someone else who has the appearance of my faithful Jaga?”
The woman gasped in horror and began shaking her head from side to side even before Una was finished.
“Tell me something only you would know. Something secret.” Una’s voice was firm. “Tell me how you get to my castle.”
“I use the key.” The crone’s eyes flashed up toward Una. “For the cemetery.” Trembling fingers reached for the collar of her shirt and pulled out a string, upon which dangled an old-fashioned-looking key.
Una stood up a little straighter and held out a shaky hand. “Give it to me.”
Jaga clutched at the key. “But, milady! You cannot ask this of me.”
Una quirked one eyebrow at the old woman and frowned with displeasure. “I cannot?” Peter didn’t like to see this side of Una. Whether she was pretending or not, he wanted to grab her by the elbow and drag her out of the ramshackle shop.