Story's End

by Marissa Burt

  “But your enchanted voice. He’ll do what you say without you threatening him.”

  Her mother laughed. “We shall see if he is”—she patted the man’s head—“willing to cooperate.”

  The madman seemed to think Snow was the one more likely to help him. “You’re a good girl, I can tell you are.” He wiggled in her mother’s grasp. “She’s hurting me. Help a poor man, won’t you?”

  “Leave my daughter alone.” Her mother’s voice was steel. Snow felt a warm flush come over her. She had never heard her mother say those words before. “No more games,” her mother said in that same hard voice. “I can free you from Duessa’s enchantment.”

  The man stopped wiggling.

  “If you tell us the truth,” Snow’s mother said.

  The old man’s tongue darted out over his lips. “How do I know you will keep your word? How do I know you won’t betray me to him?” He rolled his eyes toward the trees. A sour smell filled the air, and Snow stepped back. The man had wet himself.

  “Listen well, old man.” Her mother reached forward and grabbed his shirtfront. “Trust me or not; it’s your choice. I give you my word in truth: If I betray you to Fidelus, let death come for me. And if you lie, it will go ill with you. Let Story witness our oath.”

  The man’s eyes were open too wide, his expression like that of a fey animal. “You know the old ways,” he said.

  “Do you agree?”

  The man was very still for a moment. Snow didn’t understand what exactly was happening, but it seemed to be more than a simple promise. She hoped with all her heart that her mother knew what she was doing.

  The old man’s voice was soft when he answered. “So be it.”

  Snow wasn’t sure what she expected. Another spell, perhaps. Or some outward sign of the solemn vow the pair had just taken. But there was nothing. Just the same unending forest and the rasping sound of the man’s breathing. Snow’s mother’s face was pale, and the half-moons under her eyes had deepened into purple. Her voice cut through the silence. “Now tell me truly. Who are you?”

  The old man sat up. The film was gone from his eyes, and he had stopped trembling. “My name,” he said, and even his voice sounded different, “is Archimago Mores.”

  After Archimago had told them what he had done as the old Tale Master, her mother had walked in silence for some time. Snow wished she would say something. She couldn’t believe the story Archimago had spun. The discovery that all she knew about the Unbinding was a lie. The knowledge that Fidelus had betrayed Story back then and was planning to do so again. The upending of everything Snow had ever thought about the Muses. The Muses! Despite her exertion, she felt chilled at the thought of it.

  Her mother had seemed unsurprised when Archimago described how he and the Red Enchantress had lied to all of Story.

  “Does Fidelus really have the Silver Quill and the Dragon’s Ink?” her mother asked, but Archimago didn’t know the answer and had no memory of the conversation they had overheard in the castle. The old man seemed confused about the time. He remembered nothing of their journey or the prison and kept talking about the Unbinding as though it had just occurred.

  “We need to recirculate the old Tales,” he said. “It was wrong of me to lock them away. Once the characters read what the Muses actually wrote, they’ll trust them again.” Explaining to him that more than fifty years had passed and that Duessa and Fidelus had succeeded in defeating the other Muses shook his newfound clarity of thought.

  “What do you know about WIs and their power to rip open Tales?” Snow’s mother asked.

  “The Muses should have never brought WIs from the Readers’ World into Story.” Archimago shook his head and ducked under a low branch. “Even the WIs who remained loyal to the Muses were not smart or careful enough to wield the power that would rewrite a bound Tale.”

  “Is that what Elton was doing?” Snow interrupted. “Rewriting Tales?” The fact that WIs could rip open a bound Tale was shocking enough. Snow had been taught little of WIs or any of the things from before the Unbinding, but she had thought that no one in Story could change a Tale—until now.

  “It’s possible.” Snow’s mother was looking at Archimago thoughtfully. “Ripping characters out of Tales would change the entire plot and influence all the other characters in the Tale. The repercussions are endless. Which is one of the reasons it is forbidden.”

  A cunning smile appeared on Archimago’s face. “You are very clever, milady. Rewriting a Tale would be a powerful feat indeed, would it not?”

  “And one that threatens the very fabric of Story,” Snow’s mother said coolly.

  “Quite true. Quite true,” Archimago said, nodding his head. “Rewriting. Editing. Erasing. Powers best left to the capable. And not all of the WIs are capable. The newest one is a complete idiot.” Archimago pushed a clump of stringy hair off his face. “He has no idea how to assist the Muses. In fact, he was such a little boy when he first was Written In that he could barely write a word. Fidelus is training the WI himself; oh, what is his name?” But the detail escaped him, and the only other thing he could tell them was that Fidelus had killed all the other known WIs one day in a forest. No matter how else Snow’s mother phrased the questions, he had no more information to give.

  They didn’t say much after this, only stopping once for a brief rest. Little sleep and no food did not make hiking through a forest, let alone a densely overgrown one, easy.

  Snow had a brief reprieve when they came to a quick-flowing river that cut across the path. Archimago thought there was a stone bridge, but he was having trouble finding exactly where.

  “Is he telling the truth?” Snow asked her mother after the old man disappeared through a thicket of brambles.

  “I believe that what he is saying is true,” her mother said in a weary voice, “but I don’t think he is telling us everything.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” Snow said.

  “I’m not sure he even knows what truth means anymore.” Her mother flexed one foot gingerly. “His memory of things before his enchantment is probably reliable. Everything after that will be incomplete, like reading one page out of a Tale.” She eased her foot back to the ground and worked the muscles in the other. “But you mustn’t forget, Snow. Archimago was once a leader in Story. Just because he is old and frail now doesn’t mean he isn’t as wily as a fox.”

  “Do you think Archimago knows what”—Snow dropped her voice to a whisper—“he’ll do now that he’s free?”

  Her mother frowned. “You mean Fidelus? Most likely he’ll do whatever he was planning to do before the Unbinding.” She waved Archimago over as the man stumbled back into view. “Which is why Archimago’s old memories are more valuable than I could have dreamed.”

  “This way,” the man said. “It’s still there.” Snow squinted at the man’s dirty face as he led the way over the stone bridge. He looked nothing like the statue in the Tale station. He had no resemblance to the hero she had heard described in Backstory class. Now that he wasn’t perpetually stooped over, Snow could see that the man was tall, but he was so thin that he looked frail despite his height. Snow thought she could probably knock him off into the river with one good shove. And it would only be what he deserved. Archimago had lied about everything. And all in the name of his love for his Red Enchantress.

  “We’re close now.” Her mother’s voice was muffled by the sound of the water. “I recognize this place.” They passed through a clearing where three giant stone boulders leaned against each other, forming a crooked archway. Archimago looked back toward Duessa’s castle, a pained expression on his face.

  “You can feel her pulling you.” Snow’s mother wasn’t asking a question.

  Archimago rubbed his grimy sleeve across his forehead. “She is a strong woman.”

  “She is an Enchantress.”

  The Tale Master closed his eyes, and with what looked like a great deal of effort, turned away from the forest behind him. “She is my tru
e love,” he whispered.

  Snow wished she had pushed him into the river when she had the chance. “How can you pretend that makes any difference? Loving her is no excuse.” Snow felt hollow inside. “Because of you, people died.”

  Her mother laid a quieting hand on Snow’s shoulder. “People do all sorts of foolish things for love.”

  “The girl speaks truly.” Archimago looked at Snow with red-rimmed eyes. “But she’s also never been in love.” His voice was bitter. “Duessa stole my heart, and then used me up. And yet I would do anything to win her favor.”

  “Take courage.” Snow’s mother said. “If you wish it, you will yet live free.”

  “Some freedom that would be.” Archimago’s laugh was forced. “I know what I’ve done.” He threw a hand out toward Snow. “She’s right. I’m responsible for so much destruction. Many deaths.” He covered his face with his hands. “And even after all of that, I still want her.” His voice broke. “It would be better if I was dead.”

  “Death is never better than life.” Snow’s mother gently pulled his hands away from his face and looked into his eyes. “And the restoration of things is best of all. Don’t give up hope. You may yet make things right.”

  Archimago didn’t have a chance to answer, because once they were farther from the sound of the river, they heard voices. Two cloaked forms were standing some distance away. The taller figure’s back was to them, one arm extended toward the girl opposite. For a heartbeat, Snow thought she recognized the girl’s face. But that’s silly. Una wouldn’t be wandering through the Enchanted Forest. She was no doubt snug in their room in Grimm Dorm. Then, the other face came into view, and any thought of Una flew from Snow’s mind. The Red Enchantress.

  Archimago whispered a pained, “Duessa!”

  Quick as a flash, Snow’s mother yanked them both off the path and into the thick undergrowth. They raced through the woods, any pretense of silence gone, hoping only for speed. The trees were older here, looming up to the dark canopy.

  Snow hadn’t noticed when it began, but a misty fog appeared at her feet and snaked through the surrounding undergrowth. The air was wet on her throat, and she knew she would have to stop and rest soon.

  The fog was rising, and Snow felt like she was running through webs of smoke. She found an extra spurt of strength and barreled forward after her mother’s form. As she reached the top of the path, a thick cloud wrapped around them both. But this wasn’t smoke at all. Snow struggled vainly to free herself. Every move she made bound her fast. No matter which way she pulled, no matter how she kicked and fought, she knew they were stuck, wrapped tight in a stringy white web.

  Chapter 12

  Una stood only an arm’s reach away from Duessa. Time seemed to slow. She could hear the distant rush of a river and the crash of scurrying creatures in the underbrush. Mixed in with the panicked thought that she had been caught was a desperate desire to please the owner of the voice. She had to say something. Had to give the Enchantress some reason she had sneaked through her secret door. Which was when Una remembered the old woman and what she had given her. “Um,” Una managed. “Are you Duessa?” She pulled out the painted quill she had hidden in her cloak and thrust it toward her mother. “I’ve brought this for you. From Jaga.”

  Unreadable emotion flickered across the Enchantress’s face. Una stared at her features. Her mother had the same pale skin and violet-colored eyes as Una, though Duessa’s were a different shape, more catlike. Her long, dark hair fell back in waves from the pointed peak at the top of her forehead. Her very red lips were pinched together as she considered Una.

  Una wished she hadn’t listened to Kai. This had been a bad idea. She should be back at Bramble Cottage. Duessa didn’t care who Una was. She didn’t know that her own daughter stood in front of her. A spell would shoot from her hands and destroy Una before she could explain. She gripped the dagger she held in the folds of her skirt.

  There was a calculating look in Duessa’s eyes. “This isn’t the Silver Quill, as you well know.” Duessa dropped the quill to the ground. “What is your name, girl?”

  Una’s mouth opened before she could stop herself, and the words tripped willingly off her tongue. “I’m Una,” she said. “Your daughter.”

  Duessa stared at her. A tiny smile flickered along Duessa’s perfect lips, and her pointed eyebrows arched up. Una saw something strange in her eyes, but the moment passed, and Duessa’s whole face softened.

  “My daughter?” Her voice was a gentle whisper. “My Una?” One wet tear trickled down her cheek, as Duessa let her hands fall to her sides. “Come here,” she said, and opened her arms wide.

  Una could see beyond Duessa, could see faceless figures who hovered under one of the ancient trees, but it all looked so, so far away. Everything around them faded beside the vision of her mother’s perfect face. Una wanted her mother to speak to her again, wanted to hear her lovely voice. Una wanted to tell her all her secrets, all the things she’d wished she could tell the mother she’d never had. And underneath the impulse, Una’s heart skipped with happiness. Her mother did want her. Her mother wanted her. The dagger fell forgotten to the forest floor as she rushed toward Duessa and into her red embrace.

  “I’ve missed you so,” Duessa said, in just the way Una had always desired to hear it. “Ever since they took you from me, I’ve longed for this day.”

  “Really?” Una asked as her mother patted her on the back.

  “I couldn’t find you.” Duessa released Una and looked into her eyes. “I was all alone. Your father—” Her voice tightened at this, hardened for a moment, and then was soft like liquid again. “I felt mad with grief and despair. I ran through the forest as hard as I could, until I couldn’t run anymore. I wanted to scream and shout and reverse time so that I could stand next to him once again.” She sounded sad, and she drew the back of one hand up to her eyes. As she looked away, Una could see her profile: straight nose, unlined skin. “I had made you a little nest nearby in the woods.” She hooked her arm through Una’s and began to walk. “I didn’t mean to leave you, dear girl. You were everything to me. You were ours, together.” Her eyes were earnest, begging Una to understand.

  And Una found herself patting her mother’s hand and smiling back at her. How lovely it was to know her mother and father loved each other so. Had wanted to be together. Had wanted her. She nodded. “Go on.”

  “I found the place easily enough—the soft feathers that lined your cradle, the pine branches I had laid carefully just so. But you were . . . gone.” Duessa led Una across a bridge that arched over rushing water. For a fleeting moment, Una had the thought that they were going in the wrong direction, that there was somewhere else she should be heading, that someone was going to be mad she was out this late. But her mother called her name gently, and the nagging feeling evaporated.

  “And what happened next?” Una wanted to be able to ask all the questions she’d always wondered. What had she been like as a baby and when had she first started crawling and what were her favorite foods and what did she say that made her mother laugh? The things she had heard other kids recount in those horrible classes where you had to bring pictures and tell everyone about your family. She clasped her hands greedily. “Tell me what it was like, when we were a family.”

  Her mother took the edge of her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “It pains me so to talk of it, child. Must you ask so many questions?”

  Una bit her lip. Of course she had been thoughtless. She had barged into her mother’s private memories to satisfy her curiosity. She had poked at her poor mother’s bruised heart. She squeezed her arm. “Oh, I am sorry, Mother.” The word felt nice on her tongue. “I don’t mean to pry. We don’t have to speak of that.”

  Her mother gave her one of her rare smiles, and Una thought she understood how an immortal had fallen in love with her. Her mother was everything Una had hoped she would be: charming, beautiful, and happy to see her.

  “Let’s talk about you, dear,” he
r mother said. “Tell me how you came to Story.” In front of them, a many-turreted castle perched on the hilltop like some giant bird brooding over her nest. The towering structure glistened wetly in the moonlight, and the path in front of them widened to a road that ran straight toward it.

  Una wasn’t sure what to say. Wanting to know about her family was one thing; telling her mother things about other people was quite another. Faces flickered through her memory: a boy with dark skin and hair that flopped over one eye sitting across the campfire from her, a furry cat cuddled in her lap contentedly, a friend arguing with her in the middle of the Hollow District. Peter. More images flashed before her mind’s eye. She was at Bramble Cottage with Peter; he was hovering protectively at her side while they walked by the harbor; he was examining the door of Elton’s study, trying to break in; his hands were reaching into the compartment under the floorboards to pull out Archimago’s confession—it all came back to her.

  This wasn’t just her mother before her. This was the Red Enchantress, Duessa. The one who had destroyed all of the Muses’ books. The one who had scripted the countless lies about what had happened. The one who had worked tirelessly to bring the Enemy back to Story. And she had used Una to do it.

  Una pulled back from her mother in horror. “You made me open the book.”

  Her mother’s laugh was a little trill of affection. “Why, Una, dear. No one can make you do something like that.” She looked deep into Una’s eyes. “You know I’m right, child, don’t you?”

  Una’s mind went blank. What had made her say such a thing? She had been silly. Her mother was right. Una was the one who had opened the book with her own two hands. She had been curious to know about Father in the same way she had come here finally to meet Mother. She had done it. She alone.

  They were almost to the castle now, and a great drawbridge dropped with a thud, spanning the protective moat. Until now, any memory of that moment in the garden had filled Una with guilt, but here with her mother she felt nothing of the sort. In fact, she felt proud. Because of Una, Father was alive. Because of her, he was free again. She did a happy little skip as she followed her mother across the bridge and into the castle.