A Dark Descent

by Lisa Fiedler

  “Now then,” said the Mystic, lighting more candles. “Shall we see what else this trunk contains?”

  22

  GOOD NIGHT, GOOD KNIGHTS

  The Timeless Magician’s laughter was still ringing in Locasta’s ears when the air fell in on her, crashing forth from all sides—from above like a waterfall, from below like a geyser, from left and right like rain in the wind. The sky spun overhead, while a yawning cavity of light opened up beneath her feet. But she did not fall into the past; history rose up from its depths to surround her, claiming her into its passage. She felt the tickle of days, the caress of months, the sturdiness of years as these fragments of eternity melded together to whisk her backward through Time. She was engulfed in a silence so profound it became a noise all its own. Ages and eons sidestepped themselves, allowing her to pass through the enormously minuscule space that divided then from now. There was no dimension, but all dimension; Locasta thickened into it and dissolved out of it as she traveled to what was.

  At last she felt solid ground beneath her boots. Around her the atmosphere faltered, as though it were still piecing itself together.

  “Give it a moment to catch up,” the Timeless one advised, materializing at her side. “I trust you recognize the place. You were here just the other day.”

  Indeed, she had been. “It’s King Oz’s Reliquary!” she said. “The ruins are unmistakable. Although they look far more . . . fresh . . . than they did when I first saw them.”

  “That is because we have arrived on the very night of the unveiling party,” Eturnus clarified, “not long after the king’s tragedy. His home has only just destroyed itself in an act of grief and solidarity.”

  Locasta felt a pang of loss as the dust of the demolished castle continued to settle around her. “Why am I here?” she asked.

  “To see,” Eturnus answered. “To know. Not all, but enough. I tried to accomplish this earlier, via the zoetrope and the teakettle, but I hadn’t counted on being interrupted.”

  “The zoetrope?” Locasta was shocked. “That was you?”

  Eturnus grinned. “I hope you’re okay with coming into this tale in medias res. Which is to say, with the action already in progress.”

  “It’s history,” Locasta pointed out. “How else would I come into it?”

  “Good point. And I’ll be forced to skip around a bit. So how about you just think of this as your own personal highlight reel, hmm?”

  “Whatever that is,” Locasta muttered.

  “Now watch.” Eturnus twirled his scepter toward the Reliquary terrace.

  As Locasta stared, the past caught up to itself. Time brought forth a glimmering, which became a young groundskeeper making his way onto the Reliquary terrace. Pulling his cap low over his eyes, he examined the broken pieces of the castle—bits of shattered glass, chunks of stone, even a large rectangle of lead that had broken away from the roof. He struggled to lift the heavy remnant.

  “Did you catch that?” Eturnus asked.

  “Catch what? All I saw was a gardener picking up a piece of lead.”

  “Exactly!” The Magician abruptly moved the scepter to his other hand and began to turn himself in a slow circle, then another, and another. To Locasta’s shock, the atmosphere spun with him and as it did, the groundskeeper, the roof tile, and the terrace all began to blur, to smear, like a painting left out in the rain. But rather than dripping downward in a wash, everything was blurring sideways—or perhaps forward—toward whatever event would—or was it had?—come next.

  Completing his rotation, Eturnus rested the scepter on his shoulder and gave Locasta a lopsided smile. “And that is why I am called E-turn-us,” he boasted. “Because that is the trick I am able to perpetrate on Time. I turn eternity to my will.”

  Now a second scene wavered out of the blur. Locasta watched as a tall, handsome figure stepped out of and into a moment he had never left—the precise moment where she and Eturnus now waited.

  A knight.

  “Sir Stanton of Another Place!” Locasta cried, running toward him.

  But he made no sign of acknowledgment, and when Locasta reached the knight, she ran right through him as if he were no more than a morning mist.

  “We can’t be seen or heard here,” Eturnus explained as Locasta made her way back to him. “We are trespassing, you and I, on a portion of history to which we have no chronological right.”

  She scowled at him. “Is this dark Magic, then?”

  “Time Magic occupies a bit of a gray area in the craft hierarchy,” was his cagey reply. “Now, pay attention. You’ll need to know this stuff.”

  The knight had just spied a piece of something silver lying on the ground, and he strode across the terrace to retrieve it. Locasta realized he was already holding three similar chunks of silver in his arms.

  “What are those?” Locasta asked.

  “King Oz was not the only brave soul to be destroyed this night,” Eturnus reminded her. “His beloved Regents were defeated in their attempts to defend him, and those scraps are what’s left of their armor, all that remains of the Archduke of Munch-Kindred, Lord Quadle, the Viscount Gilli, and Sir Wink. Now listen. I think you’ll like how Glinda’s father pays tribute to those Good knights.”

  Gathering the four pieces of armor close against his heart, Sir Stanton whispered over them in a voice like velvet:

  “Let this immortal Night of knights

  Be hidden among celestial lights,

  As orbits spin, and worlds collide

  In darkness these four knights shall hide

  Till once again, they’ll show their worth

  On the night of Princess Ozma’s birth

  Let Magic do what Magic does

  Let Ozma be what Oz once was

  For all that’s true, and all that’s right

  Depends upon this hidden night.”

  With that, he flung each broken piece of armor into the sky, where they tumbled upward toward the moon. Locasta flinched, certain they would fall back down to the terrace with a crash . . . until she saw several tiny Fairy arms reaching out from the blue-black blanket of the night to catch them. She gasped with relief and delight.

  “We have Mythra to thank for that,” Eturnus said, smiling. “When she saw the Elementals go into hiding, she wisely dispatched several lesser Fairies to stand in for them in their absence—an absence she had hoped would be far more temporary than it’s turned out to be. Even so, this is why the sky over Oz and all its lakes and rivers are still filled with the Magic of Fairy spirits. The ground teems with them; some have taken themselves into the fires, though the flames did not burn at full brightness until you and Glinda set Ember free. As long as Poole, Ria, and Terra continue to hide, the streams will not splash as freely, the breezes will not blow as sweetly, and the Ozian ground will not feel truly solid beneath our feet.”

  Locasta watched the brigade of Fairies lift the pieces of armor higher and higher, and soon the silver objects had been set in place around the moon. Four new celestial bodies, more substantial than planets and brighter than stars, now formed a sparkling constellation of courage, forever to be held aloft in the cradling arms of the air Fairies. Locasta watched as ever so slowly, they began to fade to do as Sir Stanton had decreed: hide.

  “Time to fast-forward again,” Eturnus announced.

  “Fast what?”

  The Timeless Magician switched the scepter to his other hand and repeated his turning Magic until they were once again looking at the groundskeeper. Locasta understood that a small swath of Time had passed since her first glimpse of him—and it was clear that whatever had occurred in the interim had not been good. He was facing away from her now, his shoulders hunched with sadness, his cap lost, and he was holding the lead roof tile, which had somehow become a shield. Locasta thought she noticed a small round dent in the center of it. So intrigued was she by this detail that it was a moment before she realized the groundskeeper was looking down at a figure dressed in white. She was sprawled o
n the ground . . . and pinned beneath the heavy emerald statue of King Oz!

  “Who is that?” Locasta cried. “She’s hurt. Dying, perhaps.”

  “Is she?” Eturnus waggled his eyebrows and grinned. “Or is she wise beyond wise, brave beyond brave, and—oh, let’s just call it what it is—unbelievably sneaky?”

  “But who are they?” Locasta demanded. “And what does any of this mean?”

  If he gave her an answer, it was drowned out by the crashing in of the atmosphere, which was again breathing Locasta in, pulling her into Time and out of Time. The Magic enfolded her and the silence had its say. . . .

  In the space of a lifetime divided by a heartbeat, Locasta felt herself falling out of a dream and back into a gentle sleep.

  She would not be aware until she awoke that the Timeless Magician had saved her the treacherous trip through the Centerlands by delivering her right to the Gillikin border, where she would sleep in the purplish grass, forgetting all that she had learned until the time came for her to know.

  Eturnus could only hope that that time would come soon.

  23

  A HOW, A WHY, AND A WHEN

  Breathless from her experience with the shield, Glinda again reached into the Paragon Chest. She removed the remaining three items, which were a coil of rope, a beautiful ring of rosy gold, and finally a glimmering pearl of inordinate size.

  The pearl the Sea Fairies had given her.

  “This is mine!”

  Mythra looked down her nose. “So it is.”

  “You took it from my pocket?”

  “I did.”

  “But how? When? Why?”

  “Your first question should not even require a response, but I shall give you one anyway. The answer is Magic. In this case, a simple sleight of hand, when you weren’t paying attention.”

  “So this is a lesson about paying attention?”

  “Do you need a lesson in paying attention?”

  Glinda frowned; if Locasta were there, she would have rolled her eyes.

  “As to when,” the Mystic went on, “well, what exactly did you think I was doing in that corner earlier? Fixing my hair?”

  Glinda eyed Mythra’s tousled silver mane and made a little face. “Obviously not.”

  Before she’d even gotten the words out, Mythra’s eyes flared and Glinda found herself gently but firmly pinned against the far wall of the cave.

  “I will be requiring an apology,” said Mythra tautly. “In my world, Zephyr, you will treat the mentor as you would the Magic—with respect.”

  Glinda murmured, “I’m sorry,” and the Magic released her. Chastised, she returned her attention to the rope, the ring, and the pearl.

  On closer inspection, she saw that the ring’s pinkish gold band was adorned with careful cutouts—a filigree design just like Miss Gage’s silver scrying mirror. The setting held a large pink tourmaline blazing with facets, which caught the light from Mythra’s candles.

  “What does it do?”

  “It goes on one’s finger.”

  “No, I mean what sort of Magic does it do?”

  “It’s a ring, Glinda. It does not do Magic. However, a Sorceress may breathe Magic into it and use it for Magical purpose.”

  “Breathe Magic into it,” Glinda echoed thoughtfully. She slid a glance at the Mystic and briefly considered blowing a puff of air at the ring. But she knew it could not be that easy.

  “Sorcery is first and foremost an enchanting art form. And before you misconstrue, I do not mean ‘enchanting’ as in ‘delightful.’ It often is delightful, but that is not the point of this exercise. A Sorceress is a Magician who enchants, and enchantment relies heavily on wisdom and intellect.”

  “Yes, my mother told me that.”

  “The best Sorceress realizes that intelligence is her greatest tool, and prefers to express her intellect and her Magic through useful things. A Witch will dance or use gestures to bring forth Magic. A Wizard employs great Magical illusions. A Makewright will put Magic into a thing, then set it free to live on its own, often with no further participation from him. But a Sorceress assembles a fine and mighty collection of instruments to which she gives her Magic, and unlike the Maker, she keeps these Magicated items close at hand. Occasionally she finds cause to bestow one on a needful being in her sphere of concern, but typically they belong to she who forged them.”

  “ ‘Magicated’ sounds like ‘educated,’ ” Glinda observed. “The Sorceress imparts her Magical wisdom to an item to make it capable of more than it was before. She Magicates it.”

  Mythra seemed to be resisting the urge to smile. “There are many ways to ‘Magicate’ an implement. One is to invoke power from another source and invite it to share itself with the object. Another is to recite an incantation. Sometimes it is a combination of both. For a Sorceress with great natural talent, it is possible to simply hold an object in her hands and command it to take on the Magic that is required.”

  She closed the lid of the chest, rested both elbows upon it, and wiggled her fingers. Then she rolled her hands over each other three times and slapped them flat against either side of the trunk. “And then . . . there are potions.”

  The next thing Glinda knew, the wooden chest had become a sturdy iron cauldron resting between Mythra’s hands.

  “To make this ring useful, you must coat it, or ‘plate’ it with Magic, as a goldsmith might plate a charger or a chalice. I will guide you in creating the potion, as it must be properly blended in order to work.”

  She handed the cauldron to Glinda and gestured to the murky puddle on the floor. “Fetch just enough water to cover the bottom.”

  Glinda did, wrinkling her nose against the odor as she scooped the stagnant water into the cauldron. When she returned to the table, there were no less than one hundred different vials, jars, flagons, and bowls arranged upon it, each containing a different powder or a liquid in an array of colors such as Glinda had never seen before.

  “What’s the first ingredient?” she asked eagerly.

  To which her mentor replied without hesitation, “Something only you can provide.” With that, Mythra reached into the folds of her white gown and withdrew a gleaming dagger.

  “What are you going to do with that?”

  “What do you think I’m going to do with it?”

  “I d-d-don’t know,” Glinda stammered. “You said the potion called for something only I could provide.”

  Mythra stepped closer. “And you immediately thought a section of a finger, perhaps the tip of your tongue?” The point of the blade was now hovering between Glinda’s eyebrows; she had to cross her eyes upward just to see its lethal edge.

  “No!” Glinda shrieked, covering her face. “Please!”

  Mythra promptly lowered the dagger and as she did, a satisfied smirk appeared on her face.

  “Why would you frighten me like that?” Glinda rasped, her heart still pounding thunderously.

  “Because I want you to remember how it feels to face a foe whose only goal is to do you harm. Monumental harm. For while I may be frightening, I am nothing compared to those vile Witches, who would gladly remove the flesh from your fingers, the tongue from your mouth, and, depending on how much they fear you, THE HEAD FROM YOUR BODY!” Then, like lightning, Mythra’s hand shot out and wrapped around a lock of Glinda’s coppery hair. Glinda squealed as the blade sliced through it.

  The moment the task was complete, the dagger vanished in a sizzle of silver dust and Glinda nearly crumpled with relief. “So the potion requires a lock of my hair?”

  “No, I just thought your bangs could use a trim,” Mythra replied drolly, handing the section of beautiful red hair to Glinda. “Yes, it requires your hair! Now add it to the cauldron.”

  Glinda dropped the wispy handful into the depths of the pot. The minute it hit the water, there was a loud pop and a stinking splat of brown slime erupted from the cauldron to spatter in her face.

  Mythra folded her arms across her chest and ma
de a tutting sound.

  “Uhhhhhcccch!” Glinda moaned, wiping the goo from her eyes. “What did I do wrong? You said put it in. I put it in.”

  “But did I say how to put it in?”

  Glinda frowned. “There’s a ‘how’?”

  “There is always a how!” Mythra bellowed. “And a why and a when! This is a Magical plating potion you’re preparing, not a root vegetable stew!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Glinda. “I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t know,” Mythra said impatiently. Then she tapped her left elbow and the dagger reappeared. In a flash, she’d cut off another clump of Glinda’s hair.

  If she keeps this up, I’m going to be bald, thought Glinda as she held the handful of hair over the cauldron. “How do I put it in?” she asked obediently.

  Mythra gave a small nod of approval. “One strand at a time.”

  So Glinda painstakingly divided each copper filament from the lock and let it flutter into the cauldron one strand at a time. As she did so, Mythra strutted around the cave.

  “Now, stir.”

  Glinda glanced around the table for a spoon and saw a long wooden one lying between a bowl of pink powder and a flagon of lilac liquid.

  She reached for it and got burned, not badly, but just enough to hurt. “You could have warned me!” she said, bringing her scorched finger to her lips

  Mythra kept strutting. “I would have, if you had asked for my help with the stirring.”

  “Who needs help stirring?” Glinda challenged.

  “You, apparently. Now think: What did I just tell you?”

  Glinda continued to suck on the burn, which was swiftly swelling into a blister. There is always a how, a why, and a when. “Why did the spoon burn me?”

  “Because I enchanted it so that only I can command it. Would you like my assistance?”

  “Yes,” Glinda muttered.

  “Then ask for it!”

  Glinda clenched her fists. “Will you please help me with the stirring?”