The Word Changers

by Ashlee Willis

  “Author!” she said aloud, though it sent bursts of pain erupting in her head. “If you wrote this story, you can hear me. I’m sure of it. I’m one of your characters now, whether you wanted me or not. So help me! Can’t you write something that makes this story turn out for the best? I thought,” she faltered, her voice breaking. “I thought you wanted to help us.”

  It felt like talking to herself, and again, she had to choke down the urge to cry.

  Then she noticed that she could see. Only a little, but enough to make out hazy shapes. She searched around and saw that her cell had a tiny barred window, and the light was coming from it. The moon shone through it and cast a misshapen square of light onto the dusty floor in the corner of the cell. The moon must have been there all along, she thought; it had just been behind the clouds. She stared at it, enormous in the night sky, and two eyes seemed to gaze at her from its surface. One of them winked at her.

  Posy’s eyes widened. So was this it? Was this the chance the Author was giving her—this small square of light? She knew she had no room to complain. She had to spend her energy on using this chance for the best. She looked at the place the light fell. There was nothing there. Dirt, straw, something that looked disturbingly like bloodstains, dried and blackened upon the uneven stones. She walked to the corner, every muscle in her body crying out. She stubbornly ignored the pain and got to her knees upon the hard cold floor. She ran her hands through the filth there, rubbing her palms against the floor for a sign—any sign. She reached up to the bars of her cell, shook them, twisted them, beat at them with her fists.

  The moon disappeared behind a cloud once again, leaving her in darkness. Posy felt tears on her cheeks. That was it? That was the chance she had been given? Her body sagged in disappointment, and she sat with her back against the stone wall. That’s when she felt it. Only a slight movement, a tiny noise—barely discernible. She turned quickly and ran her palms across the wall she had just been leaning on. Yes, the stones were crumbling there. A larger portion of the rock teetered back and forth like a loose tooth in a giant’s mouth. She jammed her fingers into the crevices around it and pulled. Nothing happened.

  “Fight,” a voice said, just as it had when she fought her way up through the water of the Glooming. But this time the voice was hers. The Author didn’t need to urge her to take this chance, not this time. She kept tugging at the stone, kept scraping her nails at the tiny crumbling rocks around it until she could feel a warm trickling and she knew her hands had begun to bleed. Even then she didn’t stop. At last, the larger stone gave way with a loud scraping noise and fell onto the floor of the cell.

  The moon peeked out from behind the gray night clouds, and Posy cast her eyes up to its eyeless face once again. “Thank you,” the words came on a breath. She found there was just enough room to squeeze through where the stone had been lodged. A moment later, she stood panting outside of the prison.

  But where to go now? she asked herself with mounting apprehension. She had been carried to this place unconscious. She had no idea where she was.

  Why, that’s easy, dear, said a strangely familiar voice. Posy felt a gentle cloud of mist settle around her.

  “You!” Posy exclaimed, relief flooding her.

  Yes, I, the mist admitted cheerfully. Now, I will take you wherever you want to go, but I must tell you, I suggest you make your way to the tower, to where the owl performed his magic to bring you here. That’s the only way you’ll ever be able to get back, you know. I’m sure of it. Why, I was there the day he pulled you from your own world.

  “Oh, well ... I don’t know.” Every part of her wanted to rush to Kyran’s side as soon as she was able.

  This may be the only chance you have to visit the owl’s tower alone, the mist encouraged.

  “Yes, very well,” Posy said at last. “You may lead me to the tower. But,” she added with conviction, “I have no intention of going home yet.”

  * * *

  The black cave echoed with the steady drip of icy water. A musty, damp odor hung in the air. Once again, Falak shivered and regretted that he had gotten so used to life at the castle, with his own large dark rooms and a roof over his head. It had made him soft.

  “Now.” He turned his large eyes onto the small group of owls with him. “If I give the signal, you each will lead your group into the battle for attack. But only if I give the signal. We do not wish to be part of this war if someone else can do our fighting for us.”

  “Yes, indeed,” snickered one of the other owls.

  “We need the king dead for certain, and if possible the queen, the prince and the princess as well. But the king must be our first priority. We will wait and see how the battle goes between him and his offspring, and if he is killed in the battle—well, it’s one less thing for us to worry about.”

  A chorus of agreeing hoots answered him.

  “But if the battle seems to be going in the king’s favor, we will need to finish things ourselves. You know what to do when I give the signal.”

  Owlish heads bobbed up and down in eager comprehension.

  “Well, then,” Falak finished. “Let us be on our way. There will be no sleep this day.”

  They made their way, one by one, to the narrow opening of the cave and dropped off the ledge into the gray of early morning. As they glided downward, more owls spilled from crevices in the mountainside and followed them, blackening the blushing horizon with shapes like winged arrows, flying toward the battle.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The Battle Begins

  Sneaking through the castle had been easier than Posy supposed it would be. She guessed that the Plot’s upheaval and impending war were reasons enough for things to be awry. The halls were blessedly devoid of servants as the mist led her upward toward Falak’s tower. Lack of food, exhaustion, and the aches in her body and head made her feel a sort of nervous confusion. She wasn’t sure what she would do when she reached the tower. The mist had said she needed to find the way she had arrived so that she would have a way to return to her own world. But she wasn’t at all sure she even wanted to return. She could barely remember her own world, and the ones there that loved her. She did see Kyran’s face, clear and sweet as a song in her head, and it was more real to her now than any other family she had known.

  Hurry, hurry, dear, the mist urged. There is no one about, that is true, but it is only a matter of time before your absence in the dungeon is noticed.

  “Oh.” Posy hadn’t thought of that. She rushed up one last twisting staircase, recognizing the tower in which she had once visited Falak. It seemed so long ago now. She pushed the heavy door open and peered cautiously into the great high-ceilinged room.

  Here, here, called the mist as it floated soundlessly across the room toward the towering row of shelves on the far wall. There must be something here somewhere.

  Posy felt her jaw drop as she walked across the room. The shelves were crammed full of glass bottles of every shape and size, filled with liquids and gasses of every color she had ever seen—and some she hadn’t.

  Do you see anything that looks familiar?

  “Familiar? How do I know?” Posy felt herself becoming desperate, and a little irritated. How was she to find what she needed? Nothing was labeled. Even if it had been, it probably wouldn’t have helped.

  You won’t know until you look, the mist said sternly.

  “All right, all right,” and Posy leant in toward the shelf, wishing she had remembered to take a torch from one of the walls. Only moonlight guided her now, coming from a high round window far above. But, she thought suddenly, moonlight had just led her to escape from the dungeons. She supposed it would be better to trust it than to complain.

  That’s when something on one of the tall shelves caught her eye. It was much too high to reach, and almost too high to see. But it captured her attention for some reason. It was a small round bottle with a sort of blue vapor swirling slowly within it. She knew immediately she had to see it better. A
fter casting a critical eye over the ledge of the shelf, she put her foot on it and lifted herself to reach the bottle.

  Ooh, have you found it, dear?

  Posy stared into the bottle as if in a trance. She saw everything there, amidst the curls of blue fog. Not this world, but her own. She saw her town, her house, her own bedroom, and her parents and sister. Memories swam by in the bottle, jumped out at her like things alive, ready to pull her into them. They threatened to overcome her, and washed across her body like waves, making her shudder.

  “Yes,” she answered past the lump in her throat, tearing her eyes away from the visions. “I’ve found it.”

  Let’s leave this place, then, quickly.

  “Yes, all right,” Posy agreed. She reached for a cloth lying on a table she passed and wrapped it around the bottle, then stuck it into the pocket buried in the folds of her skirt.

  “What are you, exactly?” Posy asked suddenly, directing her question to where she had last heard the mist.

  Whatever do you mean, dear?

  “I mean, are you a sort of magic? Falak gave me a potion to take to make you appear.”

  Oh, no. That potion was not to make me appear. It was for you, so that you could hear me. For I’ve always been here. I suppose you could say I’m the spirit of the Kingdom. I don’t go beyond the Borders anymore than the characters do. And nowadays I don’t even go much beyond the castle walls.

  “Why is that?”

  I don’t really know, darling. I only go where I’m wanted, I suppose. Where I’m needed. And the characters have forgotten me these many years. I’m afraid they have despaired—and it’s ever so hard to hear me above the sound of despair, you know. So here I’ve stuck, in the castle. I used to guide people to greater things, but Falak has made me into ... well, now all I do is guide people through the corridors of the castle.

  “Does the king hear you?” Posy asked.

  Oh, not anymore. I don’t speak to those who don’t wish to hear. Even if I did, they wouldn’t be able to hear me. The longer they block out my voice, the less likely they will hear me at all.

  “I see,” Posy answered, feeling a sadness she didn’t understand. “I am sorry.”

  Oh, think nothing of it, dear, the mist returned with cheer coming back to its voice. I have a feeling changes are afoot.

  * * *

  It didn’t feel much like an escape, for Posy saw no one as she left the castle. It was like a ghost palace, guards nowhere to be seen, the villagers locked up tight in their houses. She had to leave the mist behind, but she thought she would be able to recognize things enough to know her way, even in the chill semi-dark of early morning. She crept through the courtyard, out into the castle grounds near the stables where she had first met Kyran. The thought gave her a pang, as she remembered him as he had been then. Her hand sought the lump in her dress that was the bottle.

  Posy kept a sharp lookout all around her as she continued, and she was soon beyond the castle grounds. The bottom of her skirt brushed the dewy field as she crossed it, and her eyes searched through the fog for the line of trees that was the edge of the Wild Land.

  The sun had begun to rise at last, its weak rays burning away the fog hovering like a blanket over the fields. As the haze disappeared, Posy saw what she was looking for, and more.

  She caught sight of the Border, and she saw the king’s army. How many were there? A thousand, at least. No wonder the castle was empty of soldiers. She shivered. They were all standing battle-ready, facing the dark of the forest, waiting for something. They were silent and still, as an army of statues, and her spine tingled as she watched them. What did they watch for? And then she saw.

  “Kyran!” Posy’s voice screeched in her ears, but she barely noticed. She was running now, her breath coming in short gasps of panic. She saw Kyran and Alvar on horseback, emerging from the edge of the trees like spirits. She knew it must be them. She recognized Kyran’s slender body and black hair, the way he held himself and turned his head. And no one but Alvar had such broad shoulders. Yes, it was them. The battle was beginning, and she was too late.

  “Stop, stop!” she screamed from the hilltop, and realized she was weeping. If this was how it was all going to end …?

  A familiar sound—like a cry— came from above, and sharp claws wrapped around her shoulders. Then she felt her body being lifted. She looked up through her tears and saw one of the giant swans that the Author had called to the glade. It was carrying her as if she weighed no more than a leaf. Downward toward the battle they swept, past the king’s troops, over Kyran’s slowly emerging army. The swan dropped her gently onto a wide thick branch of a tree, then it was gone. She wrapped an arm around the trunk for balance and looked through the thinly-budding branches to the battlefield. She had a clear view from here. She looked down the trunk of the tree and felt her arm tighten around it. She was much too high to get down unaided. Her eyes swept the field around them and, some distance away, she saw a small lake on the outskirts of the trees into which a river from the forest emptied. It had begun to sparkle like diamonds with the rising sun, and Posy had to turn away from its brilliance.

  She watched as if in a dream as Kyran and Alvar rode out ahead of the army, and the king rode out ahead of his. The three men met midway and began speaking. Posy wished she could see Kyran’s face now. She could see Melanthius’, and it was carved in stone.

  It wasn’t long before Kyran and Alvar turned from the king and began riding back toward their men. The look the king threw at their backs was one of rage. He looks like a child ready to throw a tantrum, Posy thought, and shivered to think that this man held so much power.

  Then the king did an unspeakable thing—something even Posy would not have thought him capable. Before Kyran and Alvar could make it back to their own army, with their backs still turned to him, Melanthius drew his sword and bellowed, “Attack! Attack!” He spurred his great horse forward as his army surged up around him.

  Kyran turned swiftly, and Posy saw the surprise on his face, but he was ready in a moment, his own sword drawn. “For the True Story!” Alvar roared, and the men and creatures of the army cried back. There were a great many more in their number than Posy had remembered, and she was glad of it. A great clattering and creaking signaled their movement forward as they went to meet their enemies.

  Posy watched from her tree. She had never felt this helpless. It was as if she was watching a play. If only she weren’t stuck here. But what could she do? She saw the king’s men in their strong shining armor, their helmets pulled low—a faceless army—and she knew she would never have been able to fight them. She watched now as Kyran did just that, swinging and hacking. Nothing Posy had ever imagined about battles did justice to what she saw now. It made her stomach churn, but her eyes wouldn’t turn away from it. Swords slashing bodies, blood running thick, anguished cries of pain.

  She had seen the centaurs fight the ipotanes, but it had been different from this. Now it was human flesh, and somehow her skin seemed to feel it too. Every nerve in her body was attuned and watching. Would these people come back to life when the Plot began again? They were fighting on the very edges of the Border ... hovering at the perimeter between the Wild Land and the Kingdom. Now on one side, now on the other. Who knew what would become of them?

  It stretched on and on, or at least seemed to. What an eternal clashing of metal! Would the blood ever be washed from her eyes? Two or three times Posy had to lean out from her branch to be sick. She could feel the tears running down her face, but she didn’t bother wiping them. Only more would come.

  At last, she began to see a change in the battle, but not the one for which she felt every inch of her body straining, hoping. The creatures of the Wild Land were fighting with their souls, she could see that—but it wasn’t enough against the numbers in the king’s army. And they began to fall behind. She sought out Kyran in the throng of gore and saw exhaustion wiped across his face with the grime and blood of the battle. Her heart soared w
hen she saw he appeared to be unharmed ... and then plummeted when she realized one stroke of another man’s weapon could be the end of him. She wouldn’t be able to bear losing him.

  A horn sounded. Posy lifted her eyes to see where it had come from. Out of the lake behind her, a man's head and upper body had risen. He held a silver horn, and slung over his naked back was a bow and a quiver full of arrows. A merman.

  Then many more heads began to rise from below the water ... dozens, scores, hundreds! Both mermen and mermaids, armed with bows and arrows. They lost no time taking aim. For one panicked moment, Posy wondered for whom they fought. Then she saw they aimed for the flanks of the king’s army, well away from any action where an arrow might hit one of Kyran’s men.

  Thank you, thank you, breathed Posy, and she thought she must have been speaking to the Author. Even amidst this death and impending defeat, there was hope, and a change only the writer of this story could have made.

  A multitude of arrows arched through the air and rained down on the enemy like deadly falling stars. Before the king’s army had a chance to regroup and defend themselves from a different angle, many of them were dead. King Melanthius turned bright red, and then pale, as he watched his men fall, and something like panic flickered across his face. Posy could see it even from a distance. It was perhaps more due to the king’s panic than the loss of his men that the battle now turned against them.

  A cry struck up amidst the fighting, and before long, so many men were shouting it that even Posy could hear it: “The Border is broken! The Border is broken!”

  What? Posy couldn’t wrap her mind around what it might mean. She watched as men fell on this and the other side of the trees, and it dawned on her. Death had been permanent only in the Wild Land before. Now it had spread to the Plot as well. Any who died in this battle would not be seen again. She knew with a terrible certainty that it must be true, and slow dread crept through her heart at the thought of it.