“No, wait a minute,” whispered Youngster. “Let’s leave the food out here—and any extra luggage. We’ll need to be as light and quick as we can, and if we don’t make it back soon, we won’t need any of the rest, anyway.”
“You could have put that more cheerfully,” Stephen grumbled, but he unloaded his share before returning to the cave.
The cave was narrow but smooth, and sloped steadily downward. There were no pitfalls or forks or dead ends; this passage had not been naturally formed; someone had directed the force of the water that had carved it.
No prizes for guessing who.
After perhaps ten minutes of walking, the path opened out into an enormous cavern, water-smoothed and faintly glowing with some natural bioluminescence. Filling the cavern’s base, beginning at the end of the path, lay an enormous pool, diamond clear and faintly green. It might have been shallow enough to wade or fifty feet deep; it was impossible to tell, with such incredibly translucent water. It was not, however, bottomless; Stephen could see the bottom quite easily, in fact. Like the water—or because of the water—or the water because of it—it was greenish, but also with hints of beige. Also like the water, it was intensely, eerily beautiful.
There was not a fish to be seen.
Upon the lake something moved, and there was a twinkling light, harsh and artificial next to the pale glow of the cavern. A lantern! Someone was poling a ferry across the cavern, heading directly toward the companions. The poling figure was strange and hunched, not at all like the Blue Lady. Its head was covered in a dark hood and it slumped so that its face was shadowed and only flickers of its horrible, wrinkled countenance flashed in the lamplight.
No, not wrinkled; scarred.
“Is it just me,” Stephen muttered, his voice booming across the cavern and echoing back to him, “or is that Letitia?”
“Letitia’s dead; the Blue Lady killed her,” said Youngster, but he was staring at the figure and his voice was unsure. “That’s not her; it can’t be. It looks like a—”
“A witch,” said Stephen. And, indeed, for the first time, Letitia looked every inch the wicked witch of fairytale.
The witch poled the rest of the way to shore and threw back her hood, revealing luxurious blond hair. “Get in,” said she, “and I’ll ferry you across to the Land of the Soon-to-be-Dead.”
“But you’re dead!” Youngster exclaimed.
“Not yet,” said the witch.
“We saw your head! We held your head! You are definitely dead. What are you—illusion? Lich?”
“That head wasn’t mine,” cackled the witch. “It was a ruse, designed to attract your attention, to distract you, to push you into premature grief that you might be easier prey . . . and as a joke, of course. The Blue Lady has a wonderful sense of humor, and loves jokes. She searched the land until she found a girl who looked enough like me, after death, to convince you.”
“You’re working for her,” said Stephen. “For the Blue Lady.”
“For the Fairy Queen, actually—but through her, yes, for the Blue Lady. It’s a temporary arrangement, but not a bad one.”
“Traitor!” Youngster cried. “How could you betray us like this—first to the Fairy Queen and then the Blue Lady?”
“Quite easily, actually,” the witch replied coolly, “when the alternative was losing my life. I’m very attached to my life, and intend to stay that way. Better yet, when I bring your heads back to the Fairy Queen, she will reward me generously for my service. She will grant me permanent glamour, and anything and everything else that I desire—and my desires are far beyond what you poor fools can imagine.”
“You’re worse than the witch who was your mistress,” Youngster snarled. “You have no heart at all!”
The witch inclined her head with a smile.
“What will you do after you have your glamour and heartless heart’s desire?” Stephen asked. “Live as a witch? Find a cabin in the woods, like your old mistress? Move in with Robin? Chase the Green Man or someone more inhuman still?”
“I shall live as I see fit,” said the witch, “and how I see fit is none of your concern. Get in the boat; the Blue Lady is coming, and you’d be fools to arrive after she has. She does not look kindly upon latecomers and being made to wait, and will increase the agony of your deaths tenfold for the insult.”
They got in.
Under their extra weight, the ferry rode low in the water. Stephen peered over the edge, looking for the infinite depth and peculiar creatures that had hitherto proclaimed the Blue Lady’s presence, but saw none of it. With temerity that startled him, Stephen trailed his fingers in the water, feeling it. It felt cold but beautifully clean, and came up utterly clear when he cupped it in his palms, to taste.
“The Blue Lady likes her privacy,” said the witch, noticing he made observations, “and despises competition when it comes to meals.”
“Good thing you count as neither company nor rivalry,” noted Youngster. “Which would make you . . . nothing at all.”
“You are three men going willingly to your deaths, preparing to be eaten by a pitiless monster,” retorted the witch. “Which would make you . . .”
“Brave,” finished Craggy.
The witch snorted, but offered no further rebuttal. She continued poling, until the ferry bumped against their destination—a small island in the center of the pool. No, not quite an island; its surface rose only to about an inch below the water, so that no part of it was dry or inaccessible to the Blue Lady.
“Get out,” said the witch.
Built incongruously on the island was a sagging house. It was large and wooden and sturdily built, but hopelessly waterlogged and stinking of rot. There were no proper windows, only holes hacked in the side, and the door was so warped and bloated by water that it stuck outside its frame, unable to fit inside. The witch motioned them into the house.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” she instructed, in a parody of hospitality. Without waiting for them to obey, she turned away to work at a fire in a raised hearth, some two feet above the watery floor. The witch lifted a long spoon from its hook and began stirring something hot and foul smelling in an enormous old cauldron.
Like the rest of the island, the floor of the house was coated in about an inch of water, except for one far corner, where the floor plunged away, so deep that Stephen could not see the bottom despite the clarity of the water. Indeed, he had the uncomfortable feeling that it might have no bottom.
In accordance with the fairy Snork’s legend, the walls of the house were covered in cages. The cages were small and golden and very elegantly and delicately built, but Stephen could feel the magic on them, strong magic, magic that would render the cages indestructible against all mundane means. Stephen experimentally twitched the magic—or tried to. It repulsed his careful touch with a violent shock—a warning from its creator: touch not, lest you be destroyed.
He would not be able to remove this enchantment, would not have been able to remove it even with his powers at full and his protective magic in place; it was stronger than the wards on Robin’s Haven and upon Robin’s shed; it was the strongest magic he had felt anywhere, except in the presence of the Fairy Queen.
Inside each cage crouched a single small animal. There were field mice and swallows and squirrels and a beetle or two. When they saw Stephen watching them, they leapt to their feet and pressed their paws or claws or feelers against the bars of their cages, and chirped or squawked or chattered at him, in wordless but definite warning: Beware the Blue Lady!
On a side table of stone stood three empty cages, waiting for three new occupants.
“Enchanter?” Youngster asked tremulously, “if the Blue Lady were to die, what would happen to the spells she’s performed?”
“It depends on what kind of magic they are. Some permanent magic will last decades after its creator’s death—like my enchantments on Dog, or those enhancing your weapons. Temporary enchantments will fail soon after, and channeled magic wi
ll fail immediately. Why?”
“I just had a thought,” said Youngster. “I thought that if the Blue Lady’s specialty is transmogrification, then she probably wasn’t the one to enchant these cages to be indestructible.”
“A fair supposition. These enchantments are permanent, and would almost certainly have been performed by a human enchanter—not a fairy creature. But I don’t—oh, yes, I do see. That would be very . . . messy.”
“If I had enough time,” said Youngster, “I could pick the locks on those cages. But I couldn’t do it now, not with Letitia watching.”
“What are you talking about?” the witch demanded, turning to glare at them. “Stop muttering over there. If you want to say something, say it loudly so we can all hear.”
“We were just insulting you,” Stephen told her. “Nothing to worry about.”
The witch snorted and returned to her cauldron.
“Manacles,” said Craggy.
“Yes—excellent!” Stephen exclaimed, fishing them out of this pockets and handing them to Youngster. “Snap these on the Blue Lady’s wrists, and they’ll delay her, maybe long enough for you to open the cages. It’s iffy—iron is inimical to all fairy creatures, and might burn through her wrists before you can finish—but it might work.”
Youngster took the manacles and thoughtfully tucked them in a pocket.
Abruptly, the noise stopped. All the animals that had been clawing and head butting their cages to alert their visitors to danger hushed and fell back, huddling and quivering and terrified.
Stephen shoved his torch into a wide crack in the wall and gripped his shovel in both hands. Craggy retrieved his broadsword and Youngster his short swords. They stood back against the door, following the gazes of the terrified animals, to the deep drop in the far corner of the room, and waited.
The water bubbled.
XXIV
“‘Oh no, no,’ said the Fly, ‘kind sir, that cannot be;
I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!’”
—Mary Howitt
The Blue Lady rose from the water, arms outstretched, claws upturned. Stephen’s grip on his shovel tightened until his fingers tingled, and he consciously had to force himself to relax.
The Blue Lady lowered her arms and stood upon the surface of the water, her jellyfish umbrella skirt pulsing gently against the surface tension, aiding her balance. She looked at them, one after the other: Craggy, Youngster, Stephen. Her gazed halted on Stephen and she cocked her head cheerfully, mockingly. “What dire enchantments have you created for me, Enchanter?”
“I’ve made many enchantments,” said Stephen, “and a few of them are dire. Do you want me to list them? I’m not sure I can remember them all.”
Youngster shot him an incredulous look.
The Blue Lady laughed. “I mean, what dire enchantments have you created with the sole and unshared dual purposes of ensnaring and defeating me? I have never killed an enchanter before. I have killed enchantresses and sorcerers and sorceresses and witches and dozens of wizards, but never an enchanter—or at least not more than one or two. It seems like all magic-users try the same thing: they pull out a magic sword or magical potion or magical pendant and believe the magical element alone will protect them. Do you believe that your magic will protect you?”
“It never has before,” said Stephen. “Why should I expect it to begin now? Usually, it’s what I’ve done with the magic that protects me; I rely on my own immense and indubitable brilliance rather than the efficacy of so fluid and ineffable a substance as magic. On the few times my unbelievably brilliant brilliance fails me, I hide behind people with big swords, which seems to work almost as well.”
Behind him, Youngster stifled a half-laugh, half-sob. Must be stress, Stephen thought. I’m funny, but not that funny.
“In keeping with this,” Stephen went on, “I have considered a few enchantments that might have positive efficacy upon your fishy self. I’ve considered enchanting your living flesh to burn and crumple; I’ve considered raising the water against you, or evaporating it from around you; I’ve considered forcing your cages to explode so that their inhabitants might spring forth and attack you with tooth and claw; I’ve considered lighting your pretty dress on fire; I’ve even considered levitating you to the ceiling and seeing how long you can survive without water, and whether you flop and gasp for air like a fish.”
“Silly boy,” said the Blue Lady. “I have both lungs and gills; you cannot suffocate me.”
“You would say that.”
The Blue Lady had no eyelids, yet Stephen got the distinct feeling that she was narrowing her eyes at him. “I grow weary of this conversation,” she announced. “I have decided that, far from a welcome change, enchanters are in fact the least interesting of all magic folk.”
The Blue Lady lunged forward without further warning, but Stephen was ready for her. He ducked away, leaping over her tendrils, swinging the shovel. His blow was glancing at best, but where the iron blade touched the Blue Lady’s scales, they sizzled and burned. The Blue Lady hissed and flinched away, claws outstretched. Craggy was waiting for that: he snatched the red-hot iron poker from the fire and thrust it into the delicate material of her jellyfish skirt. The Blue Lady shrieked and swiped her clawed hand at Craggy’s face. It caught the scarring and ripped his cheek away.
Craggy didn’t make a sound, but his eyes filled with tears as he thrust again with the poker, parrying her next swipe and swinging his sword at her with his other hand. It connecting, scraping against her scales, raising sparks, and bounced away, chipped.
“Aim for the skirt!” Stephen yelled. “Or the gills!” He didn’t think Craggy heard him, however, for halfway through his shout the clamor of animals began again, louder than before, excited and dreadful—for regardless of which side won, their deaths were imminent.
Stephen swung his shovel again, missed, and had to jump to avoid the creeping tendrils of the Blue Lady’s skirt. He plunged the blade of the shovel down upon the tendrils, and severed several—but then they caught on, and were swifter than he, darting at him and withdrawing, recoiling and striking and recoiling before he could again harm them. Stephen backed up further, nearer to the fire, and bumped into the witch. She lifted her gaze from her cauldron long enough to glare at him, but didn’t say anything and didn’t stop stirring.
It must be volatile, Stephen thought, dazed. She can’t leave it or lose concentration.
Youngster snatched the torch from its gap in the wall and swung it at the Blue Lady, but her hand caught it and threw it, sizzling, into the water, nearly taking Youngster’s hand with it. The house dimmed slightly, now that the only source of light originated from the fire, but Youngster didn’t hesitate: he drew his swords and struck and parried. But the Blue Lady’s reach was longer, and she had an armor of scales, and Youngster lost ground with every step. The Blue Lady was pushing him to the deep pool—where he’d be helpless!
Stephen ran forward, meaning to distract her, but the tendrils weren’t done with him, and he had to leap onto the table to escape.
Then Craggy was there, sword in one hand, poker in the other. He slashed the sword and opened a long gap in her skirt and, in the same moment, struck at her gills with the poker—but the Blue Lady ducked under his guard and clawed him, pressing him back, back toward the fire, against the wall. Craggy jumped and ducked and struck at her, but he was off balance and his blows went wide.
In that moment, the witch moved. She ladled her spoon full and flung its foul potion at Craggy’s face.
Craggy fell back, knocking his head against the wall, roaring in pain. He dropped his sword in his rush to scrape the potion off his face, and only barely managed to keep a hold of his poker. Where the potion hit unbroken flesh, it hardened harmlessly; but where it hit the cheek that the Blue Lady had torn away, it sizzled and smoked and stank.
The Blue Lady screeched her victory, surging forward to finish him off—but Youngster was there, swords
flashing with enormous speed, driving her away from Craggy—and toward Stephen. Stephen sung his shovel at the Blue Lady, then ducked past her—only to find himself next to the witch. She sneered at him and plunged her spoon back into the potion to retrieve more of it—no!
On instinct, Stephen swung the shovel. The blade cracked against her skull, knocking her forward into the fire. She slumped limp into her boiling potion and collapsed, taking the cauldron with her, so that it tipped over her head and flowed over her and into the water around her.
The scent of burning human flesh rushed into the air.
The Blue Lady noticed Stephen’s momentary distraction and sent her tendrils at him, but he was already moving, sprinting at her and swinging his shovel. He caught her side, and the iron of the blade burned her scales, but did not pierce them.
Stephen’s momentum carried him on past the Blue Lady and Youngster, to the far end of the room—and into the pool! Before he knew it, water was covering his head and sucking at his heavy robes. He thrashed, kicking the water, seeking air. His shovel fell from his grip, and Stephen let it go. It was his only iron and his best weapon against the Blue Lady, but it wouldn’t do him any good if he drowned.
The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter Page 32