by Sam Hooker
“We need your help to get the potion,” said Santa. “No one else knows what it looks like!”
“And how does it help to get yourself thrown in here?”
Santa started to answer, but Volgha put up her hand. She turned to look over her shoulder and saw that Lady Sneezeworthy, the viceroy, the duke and duchess, and Sir Henry were all lurking very nearby, obviously trying to eavesdrop. She shot them a pointed look, and they all strained to act naturally, the result of which was a collection of decidedly unnatural poses. She moved Santa farther away from them.
“Matilda told me about the lodestone.” Santa dug into one of the big braids in his beard and produced a pair of slender brass picks. “I’m going to unlock it so you can magic us out of here.”
“That’s a start,” she said, “but I can’t simply ‘magic us out of here’—I don’t have any of my implements or ingredients!”
Santa said a swear word. Then another, and another. “Then what are we supposed to do?”
The interlopers had crept closer, still trying to listen in. Volgha and Santa continued moving around the room, creating a sort of racing circuit around the ample cell.
“Start by getting this thing off me,” said Volgha. “I may be able to reach out to Redcrow, and we can take it from there.” She stopped suddenly and whirled around to face their interloping cellmates.
“What?” she bellowed. “Do you really have nothing better to do than intrude on other people’s conversations?”
“Well, no,” said Lady Sneezeworthy. “It’s been just us for so long, anything new counts as entertainment.”
“And common courtesy,” said Volgha, “that’s just completely gone out the window?”
“Completely,” replied Duchess Constance, still managing to sound entirely proper.
“Oh, fine,” said Volgha. “You can at least stay out of the way.”
“Not likely,” said Duke Alfred, gingerly touching the growing welt she’d left on his cheek. “Not without a price.”
“How would you all like to get out of here?” whispered Santa.
“Really?” whispered Sir Henry, nodding fervently.
“We don’t have time for this!” hissed Volgha.
“We’ve got nothing but time,” said Santa, “unless we use everything we’ve got at our disposal.”
There were a lot of suspicious glances traded around, but they eventually gave way to nods.
“Right,” said Santa. “You all go on about your business, and keep the guards’ eyes off of us. Distract them if you have to.”
Under cover of an argument over a game of cards, Santa managed to pick the lock behind Volgha’s back and free her from the lodestone. In addition to feeling the literal weight lifted, Volgha felt her powers trickling back to where they should be. It was the pins-and-needles feeling she’d get after sleeping on her arm funny. She could feel her link to Redcrow again.
Oh, cawed Redcrow, there you are. How do I find the kitchens?
Several hours passed with Volgha lying on a feather bed of questionable cleanliness, pretending to sleep. The senior denizens of the upper dungeons grumbled swear words over cards and indulged in their standard pomp. Loki sulked in the corner, and Santa occasionally yelled swear words and death threats at the guards to keep up appearances.
Volgha was not actually sleeping, of course. She was concentrating. There weren’t many spells that she could cast without her basket, and those required energy. She was gathering what she could.
Finally, as evening and the changing of the guard were drawing near, Volgha got word from Redcrow. She stood up, stretched, and gave Santa what she hoped was a subtle signal. Santa casually made his way over to her.
“I believe they’ve found the potion,” she whispered. “They’re going to meet us in the wine cellar.”
Santa nodded. “Right. That only leaves us with one problem.”
“Getting out of here?”
“Precisely.”
“That’s where we come in,” said the viceroy.
“How long have you been listening?” asked Volgha.
“Long enough, witch.” Duke Alfred could no more abandon his sneer than his legs, which is to say that it could be managed, but knives and blood would be involved.
“Never mind that,” said Santa. “Have you got a plan?”
“Half of one,” said Lady Sneezeworthy. “Sir Henry is seeing to it now.”
And with that, a loud clang rang out against the bars near the door. They looked over to see that Sir Henry had caught the guard unawares and pulled his head hard against the iron bars. The guard was only stunned, but Sir Henry still had his grip. He quickly knocked the guard’s helmet off with one hand, grabbed the front of his armor more firmly, and pulled twice more.
Bang! Bang! Thud.
“That’s done then,” he said with a big, oafish grin.
“Idiot,” said Volgha, “the guards are due to change at any moment! Why didn’t you wait?”
“Oh,” he said. “That would have been better.”
“Too late now,” said Santa, “get his keys.”
“He hasn’t got any!”
“They’re over there on the hook.” The viceroy pointed toward the door.
A chorus of swear words erupted.
“Good thing I’ve still got these.” Santa held up the picks he’d used on Volgha’s chains. He got to work on the locked cell door. Everyone else stood behind him in a clump, fidgeting in a haughty sort of way that only the aristocracy could manage.
“What’s taking so long?” Duke Alfred demanded.
“Difficult lock.” Santa didn’t look up. “Heavy parts.”
“Someone’s coming!” Duchess Constance exclaimed.
“Play along,” said Volgha. A glamour was the only thing that she could manage with what she had on hand, which was nothing. Her skin turned greyish, her mouth started foaming, and she dropped to the floor and convulsed. Santa darted away from the door and rushed to her side, just as the door opened and another guard walked in.
“What happened to him?” the guard asked, jogging over to his unconscious coworker. Everyone in the cell stood stock still with their mouths slightly open, except for Volgha, who continued to convulse.
“Rats!” blurted Duchess Constance.
“What?” said the guard.
“Big ones,” said Santa. “Bit the guard and our friend here. We have to help her, open the gate!”
“I can’t,” said the guard. “I have to call the Captain.”
“There’s no time,” exclaimed Duke Alfred. “This is the queen’s sister! Do you have any idea what will happen to you if any harm comes to her?”
“King Chamberlain is in charge now,” said the guard.
“And he threw her in the upper dungeons,” noted Lady Sneezeworthy. “Do you want her to die on your watch?”
The guard said a swear word.
“Quickly!” demanded Santa.
“All right.” The guard grabbed the key from the hook. “All of you, against the back wall!”
He wasn’t as dumb as they’d have preferred, but they couldn’t drop the ruse now that they were so close. They all backed up against the far wall. Volgha continued to convulse in the middle of the floor, desperately racking her brain for what she could do next.
Most people would agree that important decisions should be planned in advance, preferably vetted by a committee that has been informed by experts, who would then deliberate on a variety of options before committing to a course of action and seeing it through. Unfortunately, though they had a veritable committee at the ready, they had no time to deliberate.
In the absence of time, why not abandon all forethought and simply act? It would have to do. As soon as she felt the guard’s hands on her shoulders, she switched her glamour to the most vile and nightmarish concoction of physical attributes that her mind could conceive on short notice. Her face rotted away, maggots swarmed everything above her shoulders, and her limbs turned into ta
ngles of snakes. She lunged at the guard and threw him off balance, screaming with half a dozen voices all at once.
That was as far as she got. What she’d fail to account for was the guard’s “fight or flight” response. As bad luck would have it, he was a fighter. Volgha took a mailed fist to the maggot pile, which conjured up a loud cracking sound and the coppery taste of blood. His other fist had her by the front of her dress, and she couldn’t break free.
The guard’s eyes were wide with panic, and he screamed in a falsetto that rivalled Loki’s impression of the queen. He landed two more blows and reached back for another, but before he had a chance to throw it, a rushing red blur wrenched the guard violently aside, and Volgha was sent tumbling to the ground. She let the glamour fade away and tried to will the room to stop spinning. Everything sounded far away, as though it were happening underwater.
She shook her head, sending bloody globs everywhere, and tried to pick herself up. Her vision started to focus in time to see Santa kneeling on the guard’s chest, delivering three quick blows to his face. The guard slumped, unconscious. Santa stood up.
Volgha felt herself being lifted from the ground, her head still spinning. She looked up into the face of Sir Henry.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I think tho,” replied Volgha. That was weird, she thought. Her tongue explored her mouth to find her front teeth missing. She said a bunch of swear words, all of which sounded ridiculous.
Sir Henry set her gently onto her feet.
“Can you walk?” asked Santa.
“Well enough,” said Volgha. “We have to get to the wine thellar.”
“The wine cellar?” said the Viceroy. “Oh no, not me. That’s how we wound up here in the first place!”
“That wath you? The people who broke in and thtole my thithter’th boothe?” Volgha spat a big glob of blood, which rolled down her chin and onto her dress. It was partially concealed by all of the black she wore. A drop of dignity in a lake of throbbing pain.
That’s lucky, said Osgrey. They’ll know the way!
“Yes, that was us,” replied Duke Alfred. “And we’ve learned our lesson. It’ll be a long time before I turn up at court again. Right now, I’m going home to Ibberlin-Going-Backward just as fast as I can manage.”
“Very well,” said Santa, “but we’re off to the wine cellar.” Though he’d shown significant grace in his high heels, he’d cast them off in favor of the second guard’s boots. They were good boots, from the look of them.
“I can get them out from here,” said Sir Henry.
“Good luck to you,” said Lady Sneezeworthy, looking for a way to hug Volgha without getting blood and spit all over herself, but settling for an awkward wave. “I am in your debt.”
“And you can call on us at Ibberlin-Going-Backward if you find yourself nearby,” said Duke Alfred.
“Quite.” Duchess Constance was still looking down her nose, but with a hint of a smile.
The two groups struck off in separate directions, with Santa, Volgha, and Loki headed for the wine cellar.
20
“Thith one,” said Volgha, pulling Loki’s potion from Matilda’s burlap sack. They all breathed a sigh of relief together.
“We got lucky,” said Matilda. “I’d found a passage that ended behind a small watercolor in Chamberlain’s office.”
“And I was little enough to get through it,” said Krespo. “We couldn’t understand what Redcrow was flapping and cawing at, so I just grabbed every bottle I could find.”
Most of the other bottles that Krespo had snagged were booze, but it was no matter. They had the right one.
Thickest bunch of nitwits I’ve ever had to work with, cawed Redcrow.
“Be nithe,” said Volgha.
I’d be nicer if I weren’t so hungry!
“We’ll eat later.” Volgha held the potion out to Loki. “Quickly, drink it tho we can undo thith meth!”
“No,” said Loki. The word had all the petulance of a child who was remaining firm that no more bites of dinner would be taken. It further demanded dessert.
“What?” said Volgha. “You mutht!”
“I can’t. I don’t want to be a god. By all reports, I was a real jerk and nobody liked me. I don’t want to go back to that.” He was holding his ground. He’d be holding his breath in protest soon.
“You have to,” said Santa. “Otherwise, there will be war with the frost giants.”
Loki muttered a swear word. “Well, I can’t be that cause of that! Isn’t there another way?”
Volgha shook her head, which caused another round of pain. “There’th not.”
We don’t know that for sure, said Osgrey. There’s always a chance that we could—
“Not now!” snapped Volgha.
“What do you mean?” asked Loki. “Will there be another way later? I can wait, you know.”
You didn’t seem keen on messing with the minds of gods before, Osgrey, cawed Redcrow. Curiosity getting the better of you?
“There’th not going to be another way,” said Volgha. “I’m thorry.”
“But it’s him! My other half! He’s responsible for this,” said Loki. “Maybe we could solve it without him? Or me, as it were?”
I just know what Loki is like, said Osgrey. If I could spare him from his worse half, I would.
“That would be nithe,” said Volgha, “but now we’re out of time. You have to drink it!”
“But I’ll be my wretched old self again!”
“You can’t run from this.” Santa’s voice was low and calm. “This is who you are, and you can’t outrun yourself.”
“But this is who I am now.” Loki jerked his thumb toward his chest.
“And so is that,” said Santa, pointing to the potion in Volgha’s hand. “Half of you is in that barrel, and not drinking that potion isn’t going to change that. You can fight your other nature, but you can’t avoid it. It’s a part of you. Now drink the potion, undo what your lesser self has done, and then worry about what to do with yourself. You’ve been the villain, now you get to be the hero.”
A single tear rolled down Loki’s cheek. Volgha had no idea that she’d split his personality along with his mind, and she felt sorry for him. Still, too much was at stake to look the other way. What Loki’s monstrous half had done, his gentler half would have to bear the consequences.
“Thank you,” he said, “for bringing me here. For showing me the way. Perhaps I’ll manage to be a better god than I was. But if not, I apologize in advance for the rest of my days.”
“Apology accthepted.”
Loki took the potion and drank it down. He smiled, showing Volgha one last ounce of humanity before a green bolt of light shot into him from the whiskey barrel. He dropped to the ground.
“Was that supposed to happen?” asked Matilda.
Volgha nodded. “He was thuppothed to have left half hith mind waiting in a wine barrel, but he inthithted on whithkey. It’th probably the cauthe of the amnethia.”
“But it was his dominant half this time,” said Santa. “Maybe he’ll be all right?”
“Ow … It was such good whiskey! Why does it hurt so much?” Loki rolled around on the floor, like a snake trying to shed its skin.
“Loki?” Krespo seemed suspicious.
“Yes, Loki,” said Loki. “Please stop shouting! Ow, I should do that, too.”
“Ith it done then? Are you rethtored to normal? Ath normal ath you’ve ever been, in any cathe.”
“Repeat after me,” said Loki, his head in his hands. “Susurrus.”
Volgha rolled her eyes. “He’th fine.”
“No? How about sibilance? Specificity?”
Ha! said Osgrey.
“Quiet you,” said Volgha.
Yeah, show some respect! cawed Redcrow. That’s half the Warden you’re laughing at, and we don’t appreciate it!
“On your feet,” said Santa through clenched teeth. He grabbed Loki roughly by the shirt and dra
gged him upright. “What did you do, cretin?”
“What?” said Loki. “Oh, you mean the riddle?” A look of realization washed over his face. He said a swear word. “I failed! Ow! Odds bodkins, I failed my own challenge! I’m a miserable wretch, a mediocre conman!”
Loki made a pitiful moaning sound, went limp, and slipped out of Santa’s grip. He laid on the ground, moaning like a child who desperately needed a nap, but insisted he wasn’t tired.
“Yes,” said Santa. “You’re a miserable failure. Now you’ve got to get up before you doom us all.”
More pitiful moaning sounds.
“Loki, you have to get up,” insisted Volgha. “You have to undo whatever it wath that you did.”
Loki chuckled. “Wath! Ha ha! Ow.” He went back to moaning. It was truly pitiful to behold.
Santa’s face went red with frustration. His hands balled into shaking fists. He stepped forward and gave Loki a vicious kick to the ribs. Doubling over, Loki groaned. Santa kicked him again, then picked him up and slammed him against the stone wall. He pinned the naughty god there by the throat with his forearm, their noses nearly touching.
“What did you do?” he screamed, with greater fury than Volgha had ever seen in a man. “You’ve doomed us all, you filthy—”
Loki lazily shoved Santa and sent him flying backward. Santa collided with a wine cask, splintering it and sending what smelled to be a delightful, full-bodied red spilling across the stone floor.
“Still a god, you know.” Loki smoothed down his rumpled shirt. He stood there for a second, wavered, and sat down against the wall. He let out another pathetic moan.
I wonder if he could teach me how to shove like that, cawed Redcrow. Might come in handy with my Warden duties.
Volgha’s not the Warden yet, said Osgrey. Don’t get ahead of yourself.
“Oh, what does it matter? Unable to solve my own riddle, and beaten up by a mortal. What sort of god am I?”
“The kind that can fool the greatest trickster of all time,” said Krespo.
Loki looked up. “How’s that?”
“Think about it,” said Krespo. “You managed to think of a riddle so clever that not even the cleverest god in Asgard could figure it out. Who else could do that?”