A Dark Descent

by Lisa Fiedler

  “I can still remember the spell the Brash Warrior used,” Thruff muttered. “ ‘In between heartbeats, with a touch cold as stone . . .”

  “ ‘Why? So you miners will leave me alone,’ ” Shade finished. “I’ll never forget it either.”

  Something about the phrasing of the incantation struck a chord with Glinda, but before she could think further on it, she noticed that a strange look had come over Locasta’s face.

  She was reaching into her pocket, to pull out two purple stones.

  31

  TAKING SHAPE

  The iron gate of the dungeon cell slammed open. Tilda looked up from where she was curled on the floor to see the Wicked Warrior’s shape trudging convulsively toward her.

  Marada’s gauntleted fist shot out, aiming straight for Tilda’s skull, but the Sorceress dodged it and the Warrior’s silver-clad knuckles slammed into the wall just behind the prisoner’s head.

  Taking in the lifeless eyes and dirt tongue, Tilda knew she was once again speaking not to Marada but the fifth Witch. “Took the compass right out of the Warrior’s hand, did he?” she taunted, grinning. “Honestly, for the liege of all Wickedness, you’d think you would have seen that coming.”

  Inside the body, the fifth Witch roiled with rage and Marada’s jaw worked madly, trying to keep up with the fury of Mombi’s words. With each utterance, a shower of dirt and pebbles spilled from the sides of her mouth; a verbal landslide.

  “Is it what I believe it to be? Is that grubby little compass the hiding place of the Elemental Fairy and the Gift of the king?”

  Tilda gave an insouciant shrug. “If it is, then that big, bulky host-body of yours had better be careful. Terra’s prowess is not to be taken lightly.”

  “Where is the scamp?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Tilda replied calmly. “Is his Magic too raw for you to scry for as well?”

  Mombi was now put in the somewhat awkward position of talking to the one whom she was talking through. “Go, Warrior!” she barked. “Go and muster your cattle. March out upon Gillikin in search of the scamp, and employ a hawkish spy with news of the boy’s defection.”

  Marada’s shoulders jerked upward and her hands flopped as though she were trying to remind Mombi that it might be difficult to find a bird willing to volunteer, since she’d eaten the most recent one. This only infuriated the fifth Witch more.

  “Just get word to your sisters in the East and West,” the voice that was not Marada’s screeched, “however you can. Warn them to be on the watch for a purple-haired scoundrel in possession of a battered compass!”

  Marada’s head gave a spasmodic shake, as though to once again fervently disavow any sisterly relationship to Daspina and the Munch.

  “I want that Fairy and the Gift he protects!” Mombi’s voice roared. “Make haste, Warrior, or I shall destroy you myself!”

  Marada expelling the fiend that inhabited her was a sickening separation to behold. The Warrior’s armor clanked and rattled as paroxysms overtook her; she flailed and shuddered until, with one mighty twitch, she ejected Mombi in a kind of full-body belch, spewing her out whole, her head ripping out from Marada’s head, her torso disgorged from Marada’s torso. It happened so quickly that the fifth Witch did not have time to turn herself to smoke, or fire, or lurlquake, or anything else.

  And so she stood exposed in her true form before the great Sorceress of the Foursworn. It would not have been her choice, but there was nothing for it now. Besides, the expression of shock on the Grand Adept’s face was almost worth it; this breach of anonymity wouldn’t matter anyway, once the Gavarias had been sacrificed.

  Tilda could not stop herself from staring. She had no idea what she’d been expecting the Krumbic one to look like, but she certainly had never imagined this.

  Marada, now rid of the Wicked parasite, hunkered there, momentarily stunned. She blinked, spitting soil from her mouth.

  “I want that compass,” the fifth Witch directed softly. “Now go.”

  And Marada went, the pounding of her spurred sandals shaking the stone corridor, the rusted grating of her Warrior’s voice calling her soldiers to arms.

  Not until the clatter of Marada’s exit had faded did the fifth Witch speak again. And she did so in a melodious tone that was chillingly civil.

  “Well, Mistress Gavaria,” she said, propelling herself eerily across the cell without the benefit of touching her feet to the floor. “Now that you know who I am, I suppose we should have a bit of a chat. One revered leader to another, as it were.”

  “Revered,” Tilda echoed. “I believe you mean feared.”

  “It is all the same to me. As long as I am in charge. And before you attempt to inflict some bright-and-shiny Good Magic upon me, I must remind you that this cell is quite heavily enchanted by Wickedness. Nothing will come of your pretty Sorcery here.”

  “And yet, I still managed to get out of Aphidina’s cocklebur dungeon, didn’t I?”

  “Which brings me to the topic of your little girl.” The fifth Witch settled herself on the stone floor directly across from Tilda, so they were facing each other, looking for all the world as though they were two schoolgirls about to play a game of patty-cake.

  Tilda recoiled, but the stone wall against her back prevented her from putting any real distance between them. And still, she could not stop staring.

  Staring, in awe and confusion.

  The Krumbic one seemed to understand—and relish—the fact that the Grand Adept needed to fully absorb the profoundly unexpected sight of her. “Let’s talk for a bit,” she suggested. “You can tell me all about Glinda and her plans to smite my loyal Wickeds, and I will tell you some surprising and interesting things about me—such as, for instance, the fact that I know your mother. And that I am very much looking forward to seeing her again.”

  Tilda felt a shiver of concern. Could the fifth Witch have discovered that Mythra was alive? Or was this just a wise but Wicked bluff?

  “It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other,” the Witch went on. “I was hoping you might tell me where to find her.”

  “Never,” Tilda said through her teeth. “Even if I knew where she was, I would die before I’d share that secret with you.”

  The Witch gave a silky laugh. “Well, you’re going to die anyway, Sorceress. So I really don’t see what difference it makes.”

  Tilda kept her eyes firmly on the Witch’s, which were flashing with dark mirth.

  “But let’s not let the fact that you are doomed prevent us from getting acquainted,” Mombi drawled. “After all, I am a Krumbic shadow of a Shadow, and you are the most powerful and benevolent Magician in all of Oz. I’m sure there is plenty we can discuss. And from that, who knows what might . . . take shape?”

  32

  THE GROUNDSKEEPER

  What’re those?” asked Ben, peering at the stones in Locasta’s hand.

  “Amethysts,” she said. “They were my father’s. I never put it together before, but I realize now that whenever he told me anything Magical, he would be holding them in his hands. They were how I learned about the compass and the shield. When I read the poem in the library, they sort of jiggled.”

  “Are they jiggling now?” asked Shade.

  Locasta nodded, squinting at the stones. “I didn’t realize before how similar they are to my father’s eyes. Same color, same shape.” Steeling herself, Locasta stepped closer to the statue of her father and leaned down to gently fit the oval gems into the place where his eyes had been. The addition of the stones made the statue eerily lifelike.

  They all held their breath, watching as the amethysts began to twinkle. The next thing they knew, a scene had sprung up around them like a dream come to life.

  “What’s happening?” asked Thruff.

  “I believe we’re seeing something your father saw,” said Glinda. “Something he once witnessed, that he wants us to see now.”

  “The setting looks familiar,” said Ben.


  “It’s the Reliquary,” said Locasta. “On the night of King Oz’s defeat.”

  “How can you possibly know that?” asked Glinda, though it was clear that Locasta was right.

  “I know it sounds impossible . . . but I think perhaps I was there.”

  “We’re seeing the past through the eyes of a statue,” Ben pointed out. “Once again, I submit that ‘impossible’ is a relative term.”

  “There’s the groundskeeper from the teakettle’s story,” said Shade, pointing into the flickering scene. “I recognize his purple cap.”

  “And that’s Mythra!” cried Glinda. Her grandmother looked terribly shaken, frightened even, and Glinda knew why: she had, just moments before this moment, been Magically rent into three pieces and nearly sacrificed in a ritual that, if not for her own quick thinking and Oz’s Magic, would have retrieved a Wicked Shadow from the moon. Even in terror and disarray she looked majestic in her white dress and gem-studded belt; its stones—especially the green one that was now nestled in Glinda’s pocket—glistened, despite the dark presence of the smoke.

  It was everywhere, heavy with malice, swirling and sweeping over the Reliquary terrace in a thick, black whorl. Deep within it flared the red eyes of the fifth Witch, the strength of her Wicked Magic increased by her rage. A rage that was directed at Mythra, who stood tall in the face of it, her back to the emerald statue of King Oz as if she would protect him from this enemy cloud.

  They all fell silent, watching as the desperate young groundskeeper struggled to lift a rectangle of lead from the ground.

  “Is that—?” asked Ben.

  “Yes, I think it is!” said Glinda, gaping at the beginnings of her shield.

  The groundskeeper spoke: “Magic, please . . . let this not be more than I can handle!” As he said the words, a handle appeared on the lead slab. He lifted it easily and dashed across the terrace just as a bolt of black fire shot out from the heart of the smoke. Deflecting it with the corner of his makeshift shield, he stayed his course, running so fast that the cap flew off his head, revealing his face at last.

  Shade gasped. Ben’s mouth dropped open. Thruff blinked in amazement.

  And Locasta cried out, “Papa!”

  “So Norr was the groundskeeper at the unveiling party!” Glinda breathed.

  “That’s how he came to be entrusted with Terra,” said Locasta.

  They watched as Norr ran to place himself between Mythra and the smoke, just as she had placed herself between it and the statue.

  “Step aside, lad,” Mythra ordered.

  Young Norr shook his head.

  “The smoke grows more lethal with every passing second! Now, go!”

  Another rope of dark energy exploded out of the cloud.

  Norr flung himself at Mythra and pulled her to the ground. “It’s you she wants!” he shouted in her ear. “You’re the one who has to leave.”

  “I will not abandon this battle just to save myself!” Mythra rasped.

  “You need to stay alive,” Norr urged, “for whatever comes next!”

  For one tense moment, they stared at each other, and then Mythra gave Norr a curt nod and, if Glinda was not mistaken . . . a wink!

  It was all the encouragement Norr required. Moving behind the statue of the fallen king, he pressed his shoulder to it. “I do this with a heavy heart,” he said softly, “it’s not an end, it’s just the start.” Then with a roar, he hurled himself against the heavy statue . . . once, twice, and finally, using all his strength, a third time . . . to send it toppling forward, pinning Mythra to the slate tiles of the terrace.

  Enraged, the smoke spun forth like a black cyclone, enshrouding Mythra where she lay lifeless beneath the rock. The red eyes burned with fury as the fifth Witch conjured a second bolt of dark fire to launch at Norr.

  With his last bit of strength, he held up the shield; the Magic hit dead center, carving a small indentation into the lead.

  The smoke raged again, spinning in on itself so ferociously that the glowing eyes became two sightless blurs against the darkness. It was the opening Norr needed. Clutching the shield, he ran into the vastness of the ruins and disappeared.

  As the dreamlike images faded to a white haze, Glinda and the others caught their breath. But Norr’s amethyst eyes continued to shine, throwing forth another scene.

  This time he was showing them the parlor of a cozy little house in Quadling.

  It was Glinda’s house—ages upon ages before she would ever call it home, but it was as familiar to her here as it had been on the morning of her Declaration Day.

  Tilda was seated by the fireplace, her face tight with worry. The light of the fire made the red pendant around her neck glow, casting red sparks on the scrap of linen in her lap. A woman in a scarlet gown sat in the rocking chair beside her, observing her work.

  “I know you’re nervous, dear, but you will need to make those stitches tighter if you want the Magic to take hold. Particularly there, around the edge of the compass rose.”

  Glinda’s heart nearly cracked at the sound of that sweet voice.

  “Maud!” whispered Shade. “I recognize her from the trapestry.”

  An elegant woman dressed in blue stood behind the rocking chair; she had one hand resting on Maud’s shoulder. In the other she held a blue paper fan.

  “That must be Dottie Jane,” Glinda said. “And look . . .” She pointed to the Winkie gentleman seated across from Tilda, his fingers anxiously smoothing the neatly folded edge of his pocket square. “It’s Dallybrungston!”

  “The Entrusteds,” said Ben.

  “Three out of four, anyway,” Locasta noted.

  There was a tall man pacing the floor, and Glinda gasped when she saw that it was her father. She could not find the words to describe how it felt to see him in the house where she had grown up, or to know that she would only ever see him there through someone else’s eyes.

  When a faint knock came at the door, Tilda yelped and Stanton rushed to open it. He ushered a hunched figure in a woolen hood into the parlor.

  “That’s Mythra,” said Glinda.

  Stepping through the front door behind Mythra, carrying his shield, was Norr.

  “Mother!” cried Tilda, throwing her arms around the Mystic while the knight hurried to draw the curtains.

  Locasta, Ben, and Shade all turned to Glinda at once. “Mother?”

  Glinda shrugged.

  “You were attacked!” said Tilda, noting the cuts and bruises.

  “By whom?” Stanton demanded. “Tell me the name and I shall slay the villain myself. Was it a Witch? A Wizard? A dark Sorceress, perhaps?”

  Mythra said nothing. Stanton whirled to glare at Norr. “Did you see who it was?”

  When Norr kept silent, Stanton drew his sword so quickly that even the five observers in Marada’s zwinger jumped. He held the blade to the groundskeeper’s throat.

  “Now I see where you get it from,” Locasta quipped.

  “Shhhhh,” said Ben. “This is getting good.”

  “Tell me what you know,” said Stanton through gritted teeth. But Norr looked him in the eye and spoke not a word.

  “Stanton,” sighed Mythra. “That is quite enough of that.”

  Looking immediately contrite, the knight lowered his sword. “My sincerest apologies,” he said, offering his hand to Norr.

  “I accept your apology, friend,” Norr replied with a grin like Locasta’s. “These are trying times, and spirits are bound to run high.”

  “Trying times indeed,” said Mythra. “And I fear there are more ahead. The evil we just witnessed is unprecedented in the Land of Oz . . . perhaps anywhere. And the longer it is allowed to fester, the more powerful it will become.”

  Dottie Jane sighed, and Dally nodded gravely.

  “Suddenly we find ourselves with secrets,” Mythra went on, her gaze going to each Entrusted, her voice filled with regret. “It is difficult to say yet which ones should be shared. I will leave that up to the four of you to deci
de . . . after I have gone.”

  Tilda frowned. “Gone?”

  “This enemy is Wicked, but she is also wise. Right now, thanks to Norr, she believes that I am dead.”

  “Dead?” Tilda gasped the word out as if she were choking on it.

  “Yes. And from now on, you must behave as though I am. Spread the word of my demise to any who will listen.”

  “But why?” asked Dottie Jane.

  Mythra shook her head. “That is all I will say for now. My hope is that my exile will be brief; that the good fairyfolk of Oz will rise up quickly, before this Wickedness has a chance to take root.” She reached out to stroke Tilda’s russet hair. “But the longer I remain, the more danger you are in. The last thing I want is for this enemy to know that we share a connection.”

  “Connection! Mother, we can still use our Connection Magic, can’t we?”

  “I must forbid it. Even if we are lucky enough to feel it, we must ignore it. Discourage it, in fact.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “It is better you do not know.” Mythra’s tone did not allow for argument. “You should not be worried about protecting me. You all have more precious charges now.”

  At this, Tilda’s fingers went to the red beryl. Norr’s hand slid into his vest pocket to wrap around something inside. Dally adjusted his hankie, and Dottie Jane fluttered her paper fan.

  None but Mythra took note of these gestures.

  Taking her daughter’s hands in hers, she said, “I know you had dreamed of being Ozma’s Cherished Chamberlain, but for now, caution and secrecy must take the place of dreams. I am sorry. Now, the Paragon Chest, please.”

  Tilda hurried into the bedroom and returned a moment later with the chest; Glinda recognized it as the same one that had provided her with the rope, the ring, the pearl, and the shield. Mythra took it, then leaned close to her daughter and said, “Be as brave as you’ve been and as wise as you are. And when the time is right to act, you will know it. In the meantime—”

  She was cut off by a horrible noise from outside. Norr and Stanton ran to the window and saw a tall Witch in a silk headdress gliding down the peaceful street.