by Marissa Burt
“Feel here,” her mother said, pressing her hands down into the sand. Snow reached to touch the silvery-white granules, but her fingers felt only air. It was the queerest sensation. For all her eyes saw, she was running sand between her hands, but there was nothing there. She looked up at her mother, who had something close to a smile on her face.
“We’ve found it, Snow,” she said in a whisper. “The way out.”
“Out where?” The old man drew closer. “This is the door to Nowhere Else. It doesn’t go out.”
“Yes, of course, kind sir,” Snow’s mother crooned. “But the dreamers must be waiting for you. Shall we look for them?”
The man wagged his head up and down and grinned. “Yes, yes.” His gnarled fingers traced an arch across the face of the wall. “Wait and see.” And then he stood back and stared at the spot.
Nothing happened. Or at least it seemed that way. But when Snow looked up at her mother and then glanced back, it was different. Parts of the stone were fading away, the dark gray rock melting to reveal a yellowed surface beneath. After some time, the wall was entirely gone, and in its place were two towering gates, covered with creamy carvings of sleeping creatures.
“The Ivory Gates. They mark the boundaries between sleep and waking, enchantment and reality.” Her mother ran her fingers across the surface. “This is the way through the illusion.”
The old man reached out to stop her hands.
“Not for you, kind sir,” her mother said. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
As though she had pushed him, the old man plopped down to the ground.
Snow stepped around him. “I’ve never heard of any Ivory Gates,” she said, peering at a carving of a weathered gnome dozing under a spreading tree. “Why are they all sleeping?”
“Sleep is the symbol of illusion,” her mother said. “‘Let this be but a dream,’ remember?” Snow thought of the carvings in their cell.
“We are the sleepers.” Her mother took a deep breath. “But now it is time for us to wake. Are you ready?”
Snow’s throat felt dry. Who knew what they would find on the other side of those gates? The Red Enchantress? The clawed guards? A way home? She licked her lips. “I’m ready.”
Her mother nodded and pushed each of the sleeping figures as though they were buttons, tracing a clockwise circle around the carving. Then, she placed both hands on the twisted knot of carved thorns that stuck out from the center. She spread her fingers wide and leaned her weight against the door. There was a great whooshing sound, and a crack of flickering light broke the darkness of their unnatural sky. Snow squinted against it as they passed through the Ivory Gates into a decrepit castle interior. Snow whirled back to the desert, which she could see through the archway. The mounds of sand melted into a forgotten garden of dry grass and scraggly weeds. As the illusion disappeared, the red landscape became clear. Beyond the garden the land dropped off out of sight, and across the gap, a dense forest grew.
Snow’s mother didn’t waste any time. “Stay close and keep quiet,” she ordered the madman as she closed the Ivory Gates, shutting out the forest and leaving the trio alone inside the castle. “That goes for you too, Snow,” she whispered. “If I’m to get us out of here in one piece, I need you to obey without question.”
Obey? Snow’s temper flared. “Why don’t you just enchant me?” she said. “You seem so good at it.”
Her mother arched an eyebrow. “I will if I have to,” she said, which made Snow swallow more angry words, but she still glared at her mother’s back as she followed her out of the empty room and into a crumbling corridor. As they crept down abandoned hallways, Snow wondered why the Red Enchantress had even bothered with an illusion in the first place. The actual castle was almost worse than the empty desert. It looked like no one had lived here in ages. The stones underfoot felt as though they would crumble into dust, and the same decaying smell of mildew that had filled their cell permeated the air.
Snow didn’t know how her mother decided which way to go, or if she was just as lost as Snow felt. At the doorway to the next room, Snow’s scalp prickled, and she stopped. The musty odor was stronger there, making her gag. Snow covered her mouth with her elbow and tried to calm her roiling stomach. When her mother noticed, she spun around, hooked Snow by the elbow, and dragged her forward, one finger up to her lips to command silence. The madman was pulling at Snow’s mother’s dress, whimpering and trying to tug them back the way they had come. But with one well-placed whisper, her mother drew him after her.
A few steps in, they passed a low table, shrouded in darkness. Snow could make out the shape in the center. She would have to be a fool to mistake it for anything other than a dead body. Cocooned in some gauzy substance, the arms and legs were wrapped tight like a mummy’s, and the slender shape looked as though it was waiting for something. Her mother’s sharp yank on her sleeve made her realize she had stopped moving again. She allowed herself to be pulled forward, past several more of the awful coffin-tables, until they reached another door.
After that room, the madman didn’t bother to contain his whimpering. Every sniffle wound Snow up tighter. She didn’t know how much longer before she’d explode. They had already gone up two staircases, and it was at the corner landing of the third flight of stairs that they heard the voices. Her mother froze, one hand extended behind her in warning. Not that Snow needed it. She grabbed the madman around the neck, clasping a firm hand over his mouth. If her mother’s enchantment couldn’t stop his mewling, Snow would.
The voices were growing louder now, and Snow froze when she recognized one of them. “We will celebrate tonight,” the Red Enchantress said. She sounded happy. “Heart’s Place has fallen. This so-called Resistance will crumble, and the characters of Story will welcome your rule, Fidelus.”
“There will be time for feasting later.” The words were ordinary enough, but the gravelly sound of Fidelus’s voice made Snow’s mouth go dry. “After we find the last Element.”
The footsteps stopped. “You worry too much.” The Enchantress’s voice sounded coy. The hall grew quiet, and Snow tightened her grip on the madman. He had stopped squirming. In the silence, Snow was sure her breathing would give her away. She heard the whisper of words. A giggle. Snow thought she knew what they were doing. Her cheeks flamed. More kissing.
“Later, my Duessa.” The man’s voice again, but there was no laughter in it. “Any word of the Scroll of Fire?”
Snow’s mother’s spine stiffened, and for her, it was as good as a gasp.
“None of the Taleless can say. All the Villains who once knew the Warlock say he never found the Scroll,” Duessa said. “We did discover his grave, though.” She was very close to the staircase now, and Snow shut her eyes tight, hoping against hope that the Red Enchantress and her lover were headed anywhere but down the stairs.
“Did he have a family?” The man asked as the pair drew even closer. Snow felt like crying. All she could think of was the sound of her mother’s scream when the hooded guards had begun to torture her. The footsteps were right around the corner. Snow could feel the wind of their passing as they continued on down the hall.
“They died long ago,” the Red Enchantress said. “Don’t worry, my love. We will find the Warlock’s Apprentice. And we will find the Scroll.” She gave a low chuckle. “I can be very persuasive. All will be well.”
“Yes. It will be well,” the man said. “After we rewrite Story.”
All of a sudden, the madman began thrashing in her arms, and it was all Snow could do to keep hold of him. Her mother whispered something in his ear, but even the charm of her words couldn’t overcome his distress. He screwed up his eyes and whipped his head from side to side. The next moment, Snow’s mother made the same movement she had in the desert, and the man went limp and silent. Snow held her breath. Had he given them away?
“Take me to the Tale Master,” Fidelus was saying, “so I can question the newest Taleless.” Snow let out the breath she had be
en holding.
The Red Enchantress’s laugh was low. “When they see you . . .” Her words were drowned out by the sound of a door closing. Snow’s mother waited a few heartbeats, then she crept up to the top step. Snow followed, tugging the limp form of the madman with her, and peered over her mother’s shoulder. They were alone.
Snow’s mother stared at the pair of black doors at the end of the hall and seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. “We’ll come back for him”—she nodded toward the old man—“but you must follow me now. Silently.” Snow didn’t like the sound of that. She liked it even less when her mother led her the way the Red Enchantress had gone, but Snow knew better than to make a sound.
The hallway on the other side of the black doors was just as desolate as the ones they had been through earlier. There were fewer windows here, and the handful of sconces in use did little to brighten the way. Snow was about to risk it and tell her mother they should be going in the opposite direction, but then she heard the sound of people talking. The Red Enchantress and her companion had joined another, and Snow had no trouble recognizing his voice. Tale Master Elton.
Whenever someone spoke, Snow and her mother inched forward a few quiet steps. They didn’t dare do more. Not with the stone floors and not with their enemies so close. Finally, they reached an archway and, after a few moments of silent gesturing, situated themselves at an angle from which they could peer into the room without being seen. The Red Enchantress stood at the opposite end of a large space. Elton knelt on the floor at her feet, and the man who must be Fidelus circled around them, his form a mass of shadows that kept shifting in and out of view.
“Someone in Story is telling tales,” Fidelus said as he scanned a piece of parchment. “They are writing about your broken oaths and the lies Tale Master Archimago told them.”
Elton sighed heavily. “My office has been mobbed with questions about the Muses’ oaths. Now the characters will want proof that what I say is true.”
“Nonsense. The characters won’t have time for questions, once we write Story’s End.” The man tore the paper in two and handed both halves to Elton. “I am nearly ready, but you must complete the second phase immediately.”
“I must?” Elton looked as though someone had slapped him across the face. “But it is you who—”
“Don’t be a fool,” the man said. He lifted his index finger, and the strips of paper burst into flames.
Elton dropped them with a whimper.
The Red Enchantress began a low laugh. “You want to be their savior, don’t you?” she asked. She drew Elton to his feet and pointed at something out of Snow’s view. “Don’t you remember how it was after the first Unbinding? They adored Archimago. Made him their Hero. When we save them from Story’s End, who will they look to next?”
“You never said I’d have to slaughter characters.” Elton shook his head. “You didn’t tell me the Taleless would destroy Heart’s Place.”
“Let the Taleless do as they will,” Duessa said. “The more trouble they cause, the better. When the Taleless come for them, the terrified characters will flock to King Fidelus.”
“Frighten them; yes, I can do that.” Elton shook a strand of greasy hair out of one eye. “But must the Taleless kill them?”
“Oh, come now, Elton. Don’t be squeamish.” Fidel-us’s laugh sounded like steel scraping over stone. “Are your hands not already red with spilled blood?” He grabbed Elton firmly by the chin, and squeezed his cheeks hard so that he couldn’t look away. “You belong to me, and you will do as I say. Send the Taleless to the Ranch, so that we can squash this insufferable rebellion once and for all.” He pushed Elton’s face away with a sound of disgust. “But first. How many Tales do we have today?”
“Ten, my lord,” Elton said, his words nearly a whisper. “The number of Taleless we have already ripped out is many. And that’s not counting the others who now roam our lands.” He licked his lips. “The laws of Story say—”
“Curse the laws of Story.” Fidelus’s voice was hard as broken ice. “Do you think I care about any of it?” He thrust out a hand, and a stream of black fire shot through the air and scorched the stone wall next to him. “That is what comes of the laws of this Story. Do not think to question me. You are the only WI left.” He snapped his fingers. “You must work harder.”
Elton licked his lips. “But I’m also Tale Master.” He wiped his forearm across his brow. “And with the destruction of Heart’s Place and all the questions, I am doing the best—” The sound of glass shattering on stone cut him off.
“Enough!” Fidelus’s anger sliced the air. “One Villain still lives who knows where Amaranth hid the Scroll. Find me the Warlock’s Apprentice, or I’ll give you to the Taleless and be done with you.”
Elton looked from Fidelus to the Red Enchantress.
“Have you brought the book?” the Red Enchantress asked.
Elton nodded and drew out a tiny book from his coat pocket. The binding glimmered in the darkness of the room. He laid a piece of paper atop the glittering book and examined it closely. Snow could see his hands shake.
“Now. Perhaps we will find the Apprentice today,” Fidelus said in an eerily calm voice. “My sources tell me the Warlock was a regular visitor to the Villain in this Tale. Rip it open.”
“Yes, milord.” Elton pulled a white cloth from his pocket and blotted his forehead. He opened the book, and a faint glow shone around him, much like the light Snow remembered from entering the examinations. Elton began to read from the book aloud, but it was some strange language, and Snow couldn’t understand the words.
There was a resounding crash, and the room filled with a blinding glare. Snow covered her ears, but she couldn’t block out the echoing sound. Her eardrums throbbed with the ringing. When she could stand it, she looked up. A shimmering sphere hung in the air in front of Elton, who clutched the book to his chest.
Fidelus sighed with delight. “Excellent, Elton. Excellent.” He ran a finger across the smooth circumference. Then he brought his hand back, and gave a loud cry as he smashed his fist into the circle’s center. The luminous surface shattered into a shower of pieces, leaving a ragged, gaping hole. Tendrils of silvery mist seeped over the edges, trickling down to the floor.
Snow could see Fidelus’s countenance now. His profile was striking: a strong face, a high brow that sloped to a straight nose. Angled cheeks and a chin that looked unnervingly familiar. The face creased into a smile. He pulled hard and drew out a misty shape that slowly came together into a silhouette.
“Hello, there,” Fidelus said. “Who do we have here?”
The mist solidified into the shape of a woman, who, if not for the glowing light, might have looked like any ordinary character. But Snow’s mouth went dry with horror. She knew with certainty what the man was doing. Elton was right. It went against all the laws of Story. Fidelus wasn’t just ripping open already bound Tales. He was ripping characters out of them.
“I am Morgana,” the Taleless said in a haughty voice. “And who, may I ask, are you?”
“Well met, Morgana.” Fidelus laughed, a low, rough sound that grew louder. “We will find you a woman’s body, but first you must tell me why the Warlock of Amaranth was a frequent guest in your castle.” He turned toward a low bench under a window, the shade drifting along beside him.
The Red Enchantress hissed in her breath. “Someone is coming through the forest,” she breathed as she stared off into the distance. “It must be Jaga. I should’ve killed her the last time she brought me fake quills.” She glanced over to where Fidelus and Morgana sat. “You’ll have to continue without me. That stupid hag has unlocked the enchanted door.”
Snow’s mother jerked hard on her elbow. “We’ve seen enough,” she whispered, and then she jolted into action. With the next breath they were through the black doors and back at the sleeping madman’s side. Her mother touched his face and woke him with a word. Pressing one hand on his spine, she propelled him along in front of
them. “Hurry!”
Snow picked up her skirts and ran after her mother. Her own fear at what she had just seen was magnified by the wild-eyed looks her mother was casting back over her shoulder. Who was this Fidelus? “They’re ripping open Tales?” Snow gasped as her mother paused at the place where two hallways met and quickly led them down the smaller one.
“No time for questions,” her mother said sharply. “I told you to obey. Do you want to get us all killed?”
Whatever anger Snow might have felt was swept away by the fear in her mother’s voice. The only other time Snow had seen her mother look this afraid was when the Red Enchantress was about to torture her.
A great clanging sound jolted through Snow, and she nearly screamed. Her mother, too, was frozen in her tracks.
When Snow could find her voice again, she gasped out, “That’s the sound. I heard it before, when I arrived. We must be close.”
They raced toward the noise, sprinting through one huge room where a skeletal throne towered over them, leering skulls perched in a row atop it. And then they were out. An open courtyard stretched off to a portcullis that led to freedom. The grating sound came from an ancient drawbridge, which they saw was even now being raised, inch by mechanical inch. Two misshapen men stood at the wheel, pushing with all their weight to bring up the heavy gate. They were so engrossed in their task, Snow’s mother was on them before they saw her.
A twist of her mother’s wrist, and the men crumpled to the ground. The bridge clattered down with a thud. Her mother went first, then the madman, and finally Snow, as they all raced out of the castle and into the blackness of the night.
Chapter 9
Peter leaned against the building wall. He had never been so embarrassed in his life. After Una had danced off with some stranger—how could she be so foolish?—an Evil Stepsister had snatched him up, and he had spent the last half hour with Esmerelda, who stomped on his feet and prattled on about what a good partner he was. He had been lucky to get away from her, and now he would be happy to never dance again. Peter was rubbing an aching foot when he heard a familiar voice.