by Deva Fagan
I snorted. “I don’t need frills and fripperies. I just need a good night’s sleep. We’ve got a long way to go.”
“Right.” Barnaby jerked his thumb at the map spread out on the table between us. “It’s a long trek from the soot stain to the charred hole.”
I suppressed my sigh. Secrets of the Mistveil hadn’t fared well in the fire. I’d puzzled out a few intriguing but maddeningly unclear phrases:
…no doom, but a ruse to gain…
…saw his mistake and tried to recover the…
…lands stripped of their magic to serve her…
…retreated to the lowlands where yet remained…
…knowledge to break the curse of the chalice…
The only really useful thing that had survived was a map in the center. Unfortunately, half the map was now charred, riddled with holes, and stained with soot.
“It’s not that bad,” I said. “We’ve still got the important part.” I pointed to the gray-and-purple swath of the bayou, with the twisted thorn mark at its center. I bent closer, taking note of the rather large number of unpleasant illustrations scattered across the page. And that didn’t even count the ones that were burned away.
Well, I didn’t expect it was going to be easy. But at least with this map we had some hope of navigating. “We just need to get here.” I pointed to a red spot on the rim of a blackened hole. “That town’s the closest we can get, right where the Sangue runs into the bayou.” I squinted, trying to make out the name. “Something’s Edge, I think it says. There, next to the picture of the funny-looking house.”
“Veil’s Edge,” Barnaby said. “And that’s a paddleboat, not a house. We’ll take the western highway. Get there in less than a week, which is good, since I don’t fancy being out on the road for the Night of a Thousand Frights.”
I sighed, lowering my head into my hands. The rice and sausage had lost their savor. “So we’re fine as long as I don’t accidentally burn down every town between here and Veil’s Edge.”
“Don’t look so glum,” said Barnaby. “For what it’s worth, you did terrify the poor shopkeeper. Wouldn’t your granny be pleased with that? Striking fear into the hearts of the Uplanders and all?” He refilled my cup of tea and pushed it toward me. The spicy steam stung my eyes. “That flaming green inferno spell was brill—”
“I don’t need your sympathy,” I snapped.
Barnaby leaned back. “Right. Bog-witches don’t need help, or praise, or a kind word, or any of that stuff.”
I did, though. That was the worst part. But Barnaby wasn’t my grandmother. He was probably just trying to be charming. I fumed silently.
“I, on the other hand, quite enjoyed it,” Barnaby went on. He produced a gold coin from somewhere and balanced it on the tip of one finger, making it spin, dazzling me with glittering flashes.
“You mean you enjoyed the gold coins and the new clothes.”
“I won’t say I didn’t. But…” Barnaby caught the coin and tucked it away. He looked into the distance. “It felt…good, I guess. When they all thanked me. To have everyone crowding around like that, thinking I was someone fine and noble.” Then he grinned. “You see, you ought to try kindness and courtesy. They’ll get you more in the end.”
I set down my teacup. “So, when you say nice things, it’s only to get what you want? Like when you said those things about me—about my spells, I mean. You didn’t really mean it. It was no different from tipping your hat to some girl on the street. You were just being polite.” I felt oddly raw, like a freshly shucked clam.
Barnaby groaned. “I did mean it. But, filthy fens, I don’t know why I’m bothering. It’s flipping crazy to try to make friends with a bog-witch.” He looked away, toward the front of the inn.
Friends. The word twanged inside me. What should I say? I opened my mouth to tell him I didn’t need friends, but nothing came out.
This was ridiculous. It was probably just too much molasses pie. “I’m going to my room,” I said, finally. I needed some time alone. I could practice my curses—or maybe not. I did rather look forward to sleeping in the goose-feather bed, and it would be a shame if it got accidentally toasted.
I had half risen from the bench when Barnaby gave a strangled yelp.
“What?” I said, looking toward the front of the inn. I didn’t see anything unusual. The grim innkeeper was wiping out mugs and glowering at the smoldering fire. Several people hunched around the bar, listening to a woman telling a tale in between puffs on her long pipe.
Then I noticed him. A tall man in a long gray coat, his face shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat. Perfectly nondescript, yet once I saw him I had trouble pulling my gaze away. The man leaned across the bar, speaking to the innkeeper. Something under the brim of his hat glinted.
“Barnaby, do you know— Barnaby?” I stared at the empty bench on the other side of the table. Where had he gotten to? And how had he left the table without my noticing?
“Shhh!” came a hiss from somewhere near my feet. I started to bend down.
“No, don’t move!” Barnaby whispered. “He’ll see.”
I set my elbows back on the table. “Who is he?”
“Filthy fens, I’ve got to get out of here…What’s he doing now?”
“He’s got some sort of scroll,” I said, observing the man over the rim of my teacup. “He’s showing it to the innkeeper.”
“Blast him to the pits. Why can’t he leave me alone? Prunella, you’ve got to distract him. If he sees me—”
“He’s looking this way.”
Barnaby scuttled deeper into the shadows under the table, pressing himself back against the wall.
“It’s all right, he’s not coming over.”
“Not yet.”
“Why don’t you just try kindness and courtesy?”
“If you knew what he’s done…Oh, forget it. You’re probably enjoying this.”
All my sarcasm drained away. I could hear the edge of fear in Barnaby’s voice. I squinted again at the man in the gray coat. He was speaking to the pipe-smoking woman now. My breath caught as he lifted his head. He had a lean, hunting, hungry look. Set in one eye was a round gold-rimmed lens. I squinted and caught a shimmer in the air.
“That monocle,” I gasped. “It’s enchanted. Who is he?”
Barnaby groaned unhelpfully.
Whoever he was, it was clear that sooner or later he would make his way to our corner. I didn’t think even Barnaby could remain hidden then. He was right. We needed a diversion. I rubbed my sticky fingers together thoughtfully, looking toward the hearth. Fire had betrayed me. Perhaps smoke would serve me better.
“Do you think you could find your way out of here if you couldn’t see?”
“Why? I mean, yes, I’ll go for that door to the kitchens, then out the back. There’s an alley beside the stables.”
“I’ll meet you there,” I said, furling the map and tucking it away. Then I drained the last of my tea, stood up, and marched to the hearth.
“You there,” said a cold voice behind me. “Have you seen this boy?”
I hurried my steps, pretending I had not heard his question or seen the curling parchment he held out. I caught the flash of a single word—WANTED—inscribed above a drawing of a boy who looked very much like Barnaby, although with longer hair.
Was Barnaby indeed a criminal? I trembled, half of me wanting to turn back, to ask a hundred questions. But there was no time, not if I wanted to gain Esmeralda’s grimoire. That was all that truly mattered.
I knelt beside the fire. Ashes drifted across the wide stones. I swept my sticky fingers through the fine gray powder. The thunk of boot heels told me I didn’t have long. I took a deep breath.
A steely hand seized my shoulder, pulling me around just as I finished muttering the incantation. “You do not walk away from an official of the queen, girl.”
I stared up into his brilliant blue eyes, pitiless as a clear winter sky. The golden rim of the monocle circumscribed my wo
rld for a brief, endless moment. My hands felt as if they were caught in ice, unable to finish the last gesture to complete my spell.
Then his blue gaze slipped down, taking in my ashy fingers, the chicken foot that had worked its way free to dangle openly yet again. “A bog-witch?” His mouth fell open. Now he was the one with fear in his eyes. I twitched my fingers.
The next moment, swirls of thick black smoke filled the inn. The hands gripping my shoulders loosened. I wrenched away.
Shouts of alarm filled my ears. Thuds and grunts and wails echoed through the choking blackness. I threw myself down, creeping along the floor in the direction of the front door.
Once outside, I scrambled to my feet and ducked around back to find Barnaby coughing and sputtering, his white collar dark with soot. We didn’t stop running until the tallest towers of Withywatch had fallen below the horizon.
Chapter 4
“The first thing I’m going to do when we get to Sweetwater is find a tea shop and drink three mugs of iced hot-leaf,” said Barnaby, running one hand across his forehead. “Then a nap. No,” he said, looking down at himself, “then a bath, then a nap.” He shook his head. “I didn’t get half so grubbed when I was—” He stopped. “That is, this adventuring business makes it hard for a fellow to stay presentable.”
“You look perfectly fine,” I said. “And well you should, after I used up all my soapstone on that cleansing charm.” I had been rather pleased with how well it had worked. Between that and the smoke I’d summoned at the Tipsy Coon, I was feeling considerably more confident. “But you could go back and have a drink and a wash at that spring I found.”
Barnaby made a choking noise. “That water was half mud. We’re too close to the Bottomlands.”
“It tasted fine to me,” I said. “Green and alive, like the bog.” In fact, I’d lingered there far longer than necessary, breathing in the damp air, thinking of home. I had already used up my ginger leaves and the pyre root and all the soapstone, and I’d only been in the Uplands for two days. The bland patchwork of green and gold fields dragged at me. I made myself dizzy staring, searching for a hint of magic. But there was none. We might be close to the Bottomlands, but I was in an alien world.
“Green like pond scum,” Barnaby said. “I’ll wait till we reach the village. I hear they’ve got the best well in the Uplands. Folks come from all around to drink the water. They say it’s magic and it’ll cure anything that ails you.”
Somehow I doubted an enchanted well would give me warts and make my curses work properly. But I was looking forward to a rest, and something to fill my belly. We’d been tramping along the western highway for hours, after a restless night camped out in a cornfield, with Barnaby jumping up at every little rustle, convinced the man with the enchanted monocle had found him.
No matter how I wheedled and pried, the most I could get out of Barnaby was that the monocle let the man see things beyond normal sight: magic and enchantments and spirits. He refused to tell me anything about why the fellow was pursuing him, and I abandoned the effort when he became grouchy.
Now that we were well on our way, walking under a cloudless blue sky through the green meadows, Barnaby had regained his airy cheer. Perhaps a bit too much cheer.
“Do you always whistle?” I asked.
“What’s wrong with whistling?”
What was wrong was that his silly little tune made my steps bounce, as if I were trotting across billowing clouds. I felt ridiculous. Who ever heard of a bog-witch skipping along past meadows full of daisies and coneflowers? I forced my feet into a more appropriate stalking gait.
“There, I see smoke.” Barnaby pointed toward a gap in the thicket of oaks that ran along the next rise. I was about to follow when I spied something else, above the oaks. Three black forms flapping through the air, circling above the highway.
“What is it?” Barnaby asked.
“Nothing.” I forced myself to keep going. “The crows.”
“Crows? What, some sort of bog-witch bad omen?”
“No. My grandmother likes them. She even has this crow-skin spell where she can turn herself into one. And remember that charm in the asparagus bed?”
“For the rest of my life, thank you very much. But there must be thousands of crows in the world. Not to mention that we’re in the Uplands.”
“The charm would still work if she created the skin in the Bottomlands,” I said. “But you’re probably right. She did throw me out.”
She wouldn’t bother keeping an eye on me, I told myself. Would she?
One of the birds swooped down, cawing raucously over my head. It winged away to join the others, who now perched in the branches above. As we passed beneath, beady black eyes fixed upon me. I wondered what Grandmother would think if she heard I was traveling around with a boy set on recovering the lost chalice and becoming the hero of the Uplands.
By the time we reached the first cottages of Sweetwater, the crows were nothing but distant black specks. I didn’t have long to ponder whether I felt glad or sad that they hadn’t followed me.
“Something’s wrong,” said Barnaby. He’d stopped whistling as we passed into the central square.
“What?” I glanced around, taking in the cheerful whitewashed buildings with striped awnings, the large stone urns decorating the street corners. “It’s not your friend with the magic monocle again?”
“He’s not my friend. And with any luck he’s still a day behind us.” He gestured around us. “But look at the people. They look…afraid. And there should be more of them. And what’s with the flowers?”
We had just passed by one of the urns. A scruff of withered brown protruded from the top. A single faded trumpet flower hung sadly from the dead vine. I stared across the street to where two men hunched, talking in low, grumbling voices. An old woman hustled past, her dark cloak shielding the two small children at her side.
“There’s a tea shop,” said Barnaby. “Come on.”
The sign above the red-striped awning showed a jaunty blue teacup, but from the looks of the place, no one was drinking much hot-leaf here. The proprietor was a leathery-faced woman with her hair tied back so tightly it made my own head hurt to look at her. Barnaby, of course, turned on his charm as he swaggered forward between the empty tables.
“Kind lady, might I prevail upon you for an iced hot-leaf? I’ve heard such tales of the brews here at the Blue Cup. I’ve been longing to sample them.”
To Barnaby’s credit, she did smile. But it was a weak, pitiful thing that did not reach her eyes. “I wish I might oblige you, lad. But there’ll be no more tea in all Sweetwater, not until the curse is put to rights.”
“The curse of the stolen chalice?” said Barnaby. Two spots of crimson lit his cheeks.
“That very one. Ever since the Mirable Chalice was stolen, misfortunes have been our lot here in Sweetwater. The seeds rot in the fields. Folk are struck down with the wasting. And worst of all, the well’s gone bad.”
“Bad? You mean it’s dried up?” Barnaby slumped onto a stool at one of the tables.
She shook her head. “The water’s poison. It tastes as foul as fens, and it’s as dark as night. You see how the flowers take to it.” She gestured to the urn. “And so there’s not a drop of tea in all Sweetwater. Just a bit of milk, all the goats can manage. Would you like some? Or I’ve a bit of last year’s cider to spare. We haven’t had many visitors lately, not since word of the curse got round. It’s a real pleasure to have you here, young Master…?” She trailed off questioningly.
“Barnaby, just Barnaby,” he said, smiling and slipping a silver coin onto the table. “And I’ll have some of your cider, please.” He looked to me.
The proprietor followed his gaze. She frowned. “I beg your pardon, Master Barnaby. Is this person a friend of yours?”
Barnaby mumbled something noncommittal. I forced a smile onto my lips, thinking of pitchforks and torches. “Ah…um…hello…”
The sight of the woman’s face tur
ned my words to stone. Her lip had curled. Over her shoulder, Barnaby mouthed the words “chicken foot.” Blast the thing, it had gotten loose again! I tucked it under my scarf and plowed onward. “Prunella Bogthistle.” I dipped a sort of half-bow, the best I could manage.
“Bog…thistle? A Bottomlander?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the Bottomlands,” I said, fire coming into my voice and into my heart.
She stepped back a pace, passing her hand across her eyes, warding against evil. “A bog-witch,” she spat. “So you’ve come to add to our suffering, have you?”
I wanted to turn and run back to that spring that had smelled like green living things, but what sort of bog-witch would I be then? Grandmother would never let some Uplander say such things. I drew myself up tall and haughty, wishing I knew a curse that would drive that horrible look from the woman’s face.
“No need for alarm, fair lady,” said Barnaby, stepping between us. “Prunella’s from the Bottomlands, yes, but she’s…um…a good bog-witch. She’s…here to lift the curse. With me. We’re traveling together.” It seemed to cost him some effort to get the words out, but he grinned at me afterward.
I stared at him. The tea-shop proprietress pursed her lips, raking a doubtful glance over me. “All well and good, lad. But we don’t want any more trouble here. We’ve troubles enough without her sort coming round.”
Barnaby pulled me down onto the stool beside him, giving my elbow a tweak as he did so. “Just play along,” he whispered. Then, more loudly, “We’re on a quest for the lost chalice. And we will gladly do all we can to aid you in lifting this curse from your well.”
The woman sniffed. She stepped back behind her counter, then returned with two cups. She set one before Barnaby, brimming with cider. The other she deposited beside me. I peered into it, just able to make out the glimmer of liquid down at the bottom. Fine. So much for kindness and courtesy.
“So the well has been cursed for a while now?” Barnaby asked, after he’d drained half his cup.
The woman nodded. “It’s been three months, and there’s many who say we ought to pack up and leave. But it’s only the chalice that’s kept doom from the Uplands all these years. If it’s gone, where can we go? Nowhere will be safe if the evils of the bog rise up against us again.” She narrowed her eyes, looking at me.