A Fiery Friendship

  “Soooo . . . ,” said Locasta, “you’re expecting to get your answer from a bunch of statues . . . that aren’t even here?”

  “What makes you so sure they aren’t here?” said Glinda with a coy smile. “The party was an unveiling, remember? But the zoetrope never told us what was being unveiled. Except for Ben. Ben saw the statues even though we didn’t.”

  “Then where are they?” Locasta asked, motioning around the Reliquary.

  “We know the castle destroyed itself to avoid the agony of watching its king’s passing,” Glinda reasoned. “Perhaps his artwork could not bear to look upon such loss either. What if the statues retreated to a place where they wouldn’t have to see?”

  Glinda crossed the Reliquary and stopped in front of the largest of the seemingly haphazard stones. It was a vibrant green, flecked with black; it gleamed in the rays of the sun that filtered through the doors behind it.

  She crouched down, placed the slender stack of cards on the floor, and flattened her hand upon the top one. Then she swept them into a perfectly arcing fan—just as her mother had done.

  “Now what?” Locasta asked.

  “Be patient,” said Glinda. “I know you like your Magic to happen quickly, but this Magic has art mixed in.” Glinda motioned for Ben to join her. “Will you read the cards please? Out loud.”

  “Me?” Ben blushed, flattered to be trusted with such a noble task. “But I’m not Magical. I’m from New York.”

  “You are also a sculptor,” Glinda reminded him with a knowing smile. “We have stones but are in need of statues. As your wise friend Michael once told you, it is your job as the sculptor to free them.”

  Ben laughed. “Michelangelo. And he isn’t exactly a friend of mine.”

  “Nonetheless, the counting song told us, ‘Count by three to set them free,’ ” Glinda reminded him. “Your arrival made us three, so it only stands to reason that you are here to set the statues free.” She pointed to the cards. “Just read the epithets on the cards, and invite the enchantment of this sacred room to guide you.”

  Ben cleared his throat and read the first inscription aloud. “The King Uniter.”

  As the words rang through the chamber, a tiny chip appeared in the smoothness of the emerald stone. The chip announced itself with a puff of stone dust, then gave way to a deep crack that became a gouge. Pieces broke away in smooth slivers and splintery fragments, spilling down the sides of the stone like pebbles sliding down a mountain. And precisely as the mysterious Michelangelo had promised, the figure inside the stone began to emerge. Ben was sculpting it, not with a chisel and mallet, but with words.

  “It’s working!” cried Locasta.

  “The Queen Ascending,” Ben read from the second card. And sure enough, the gleaming pink quartz stone beside the emerald one began to chip away at itself from within. Glinda caught a glimpse of a plump cheek and a high, smooth forehead buried in its rosy depths.

  “Ozma,” she whispered to the princess in the stone, as if she were greeting an old friend.

  Ben continued reading the cards, pronouncing every title with the proud resounding eloquence of a seasoned orator: “The Light of Night . . . the Priestess Mysterious . . . the Timeless Magician.”

  And as he named the stones, their statues began to break their way to the surface. The hunks of granite, marble, and obsidian again revealed from their depths the statues they had once been.

  “The Plural Preceptor, the Architect of Worlds, the Lonely Traveler,” recited the boy from New York. Faces, torsos, and limbs seemed to climb out of the travertine, alabaster, and limestone. Masterpieces one and all, each sculpture had an aspect all its own—one was a figure poised for battle, another was tranquil in repose, yet another struck a playful pose, while all around them a shimmer of multicolored stone dust billowed and sparkled in the gingery glow of the softening afternoon light.

  When the last detail of the eighth statue in the Arc of Heroes had been sculpted, the sweep of cards on the floor vanished.

  Ben whirled to face Glinda. “Do you see them now?”

  Glinda’s smile affirmed it, and he turned to Locasta. “Do you?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Locasta murmured, taking a cautious step backward, then another. And another. “I see ’em plain as day.” Her eyes went to the window, where the sun was slipping lower in the late afternoon sky. “What’s left of it, anyway.”

  The eight stone effigies stood in a gently curved line with their backs to the glass doors, facing the mosaic of poetry embedded in the slate tiles, giving the impression that they were reading the words on the floor.

  Glinda felt a thrill remembering what the Queryor had said: one of these magnificent pieces of artwork was a reflection of her own spirit, a kindred being with an essence and a life force that mirrored her own.

  But which one?

  Despite the distance Locasta had put between herself and the statues, she seemed to sense what Glinda was thinking. “So which one do you think knows the secret to freeing the Fire Fairy?” she asked.

  But Glinda was not about to give a hasty answer. These eight figures were the hand that she’d been dealt, and it was time for her to make her wager.

  In the entire history of Oz no gamble would ever matter more.

  33

  SHADOW OF THE SORCERESS

  They huddled around the Makewright’s notebook to consult the Queryor’s answer, which Ben had inscribed there.

  Follow the arc that all heroes tread.

  To achieve your goal, you must formally acquaint yourself with she who is your own spirit’s likeness, cast in the permanent purity of stone.

  You will have but one chance to recognize her; if you miss her once, your paths shall never cross again.

  Her name has been laid low but her strength is Truth Above All, and this cannot be overshadowed.

  She resides in a castle unbuilt, the very place where your current undertaking was born.

  Look to the west for a falling star, and you will light upon that which she calls herself.

  Take all that she has to offer you, and a true friendship will be forged.

  In life we must play the hand we’re dealt.

  Some answers can only be found in the shadows.

  They congratulated themselves on the parts they’d deciphered thus far: they had correctly discerned that the place where their quest had been born was the Reliquary, and from the phrase, play the hand we’re dealt, Glinda had been able to make the connection between the cards and the arc of heroes.

  Ben dipped the quill into the tiny (yet seemingly bottomless) pot of ink he’d toted from the Maker’s cabin and crossed out these points.

  “I think the most important part is here,” he said, pointing to the line that read: You will have but one chance to recognize her; if you miss her once, your paths shall never cross again. “It seems to be a warning.”

  Glinda agreed. “If I approach the wrong statue on my first try, I won’t be given a second chance.” She looked to the newly carved statues, which were going pearly in the waning sunlight, and she felt a charge of realization. “We can eliminate four possibilities right now!” she said. “The Queryor repeatedly uses ‘she’ in his answer. So all the male beings can be eliminated.”

  This immediately took King Oz, the Timeless Magician, the Plural Preceptor, and the Lonely Traveler out of contention, simplifying Glinda’s choice by half. As she examined the four female statues, she saw that each pedestal bore not only the title from her card, but her name as well. The Queen Ascending, of course, was Ozma. The Light of Night, as Glinda had recognized upon first seeing the illustration, was Elucida the Moon Fairy. The Priestess Mysterious claimed the name Mythra, while the Universal Dowager, Architect of Worlds, was Lurline. Glinda was suitably impressed, for Lurline was the Queen Fairy who had created Lurlia. That would certainly qualify her as a hero.

  Ben tapped the quill against the page and said, “Look. It says you must ‘take all that she has to offer you.’ But only thr
ee of them are holding objects that they could give to you.”

  This was indeed a sage observation. The statue of Ozma carried a dainty circlet crown, the same headpiece she wore in the illustration on her card. Mythra—whose craggily carved but dignified face indicated her to be the eldest of the heroes—had a sword raised in her marble fist. The detail of the blade’s beautifully wrought handle was particularly exquisite, encrusted with faceted jewels that would have twinkled with color and light had they not, like the priestess herself, been rendered in white marble.

  The creamy alabaster figure of Lurline held in one of her pale hands a wand—or at least Glinda guessed it was a wand, for what else could the slim baton-like item be? Around her wrist was looped a wreath of leaves and boughs, pulled from the endlessness of Nature and fashioned into a perfect infinite circle. Even in the stillness of alabaster, the dowager exuded a powerful creative force, for the great purpose of her Magic was to build, to bring about from nothing everything.

  The Light of Night—Elucida—had been cast in gray granite, heavily flecked with gleaming silver mica. This gave the statue an outward sheen, making her appear as if she were emanating light from within. But Elucida’s hands were empty. She had nothing to offer . . . not in the literal sense anyway.

  Glinda surmised that Elucida was not the statue she was looking for.

  “We’re down to three,” said Locasta as Ben crossed the “offer” clue off their list. Then he handed the journal to Glinda.

  Her eyes raked the words, reading and rereading. So much of so little, it seemed. Words that meant nothing until you discovered how to hear what they were not saying.

  She gave a little jump when Shade appeared from out of nowhere beside her.

  “This,” said the dark-eyed girl, her finger tracing one of the phrases Ben had scribbled: cast in the permanent purity of stone.

  Glinda raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Purity,” said Shade, her hand disappearing back beneath her cape. “White.”

  “She’s right!” said Ben. “White is often considered a symbol of purity.”

  “So that leaves her out of the running.” Locasta pointed to the statue of Ozma, which was sculpted from pink stone. “With no disrespect to the Ascending Queen, of course. Pink’s nice too.”

  Glad as Glinda was to have narrowed the field by one more, there was a pang of disappointment in learning that Princess Ozma was not the one to whom her spirit was bound. She felt faintly ashamed for even entertaining the notion. It was overreaching to think she might one day walk in the slippers of a queen. And yet deep down she had a powerful feeling that someday she might earn the chance to walk, if not in Ozma’s shoes, then closely beside her. Proudly, and with great responsibility.

  Now Glinda stepped back to observe the two statues carved from white stone—one of pure snowy marble, the other of pale alabaster.

  She remembered how, on the playing card, the artist’s trick of forced perspective had made the Priestess Mysterious look as though she’d been submerged beneath the papery surface.

  But here, in three dimensions, she did not shrink away; rather she stood tall, looming larger than even Lurline, who had been carved in a restful state, reclining. Glinda imagined the Dowager Architect taking a well-deserved moment to catch her breath after the laborious task of inventing the Lurlian world, which her stony eyes seemed to be admiring and adoring even now.

  Looking back and forth from statue to statue, Glinda recalled the Queryor’s words. “Her strength is Truth Above All,” she quoted. “The clue says she cannot be overshadowed. Do you think that could mean something as simple as we’re looking for the tallest one?”

  “Seems logical to me,” said Ben. “And listen . . .” He read from his notes in the Maker’s journal. “ ‘A true friendship will be forged.’ ” He nodded eagerly toward the statue of the priestess. “Look what she has to offer you.”

  “A sword! Swords are forged.” Glinda clasped her hands over her heart, which was racing madly. “It has to be her! Mythra, the Priestess Mysterious, is my spirit’s likeness!”

  A hush settled over the Reliquary as the magnitude of this set in.

  “What do you think ‘formally acquaint yourself’ means?” Locasta wondered.

  Ben shrugged. “Maybe it wants Glinda to, you know, introduce herself. To the statue.”

  Glinda quirked up one eyebrow. “Introduce myself?”

  “Formally acquaint,” Ben repeated, pointing to his notes for emphasis. “How else would you interpret it?”

  Having no better idea, Glinda sighed and stepped up to the statue of the priestess. Feeling silly, she cleared her throat, curtsied, and said, “It is an honor and a pleasure to meet you, Mysterious Mythra, Hero of Oz. I wish to introduce myself. I am Glinda Gavaria, of Quadling Country, and, it would seem, a kindred spirit.”

  Glinda’s cheeks burned. She knew she looked ridiculous, talking to a statue. But nonetheless, she held her curtsy and waited.

  “I don’t think it’s working,” said Ben at last.

  “Neither do I.” Glinda straightened up. “But how else does one formally acquaint oneself with another?” She felt a surge of dread, because the Queryor had been clear about no second chances.

  “I’m not used to making acquaintances,” Shade admitted. “But I have seen others do this.” Her cloak fluttered back, and Glinda saw that she was extending her right hand.

  Extending it for a handshake.

  Locasta gasped. “Of course!”

  “It has to be,” Ben agreed. “It’s polite to shake hands with someone when you meet them in a formal setting!”

  Filled with hope, Glinda again approached the statue of the Priestess Mysterious.

  And reached out her hand.

  34

  ILLUMINA

  The sword came away from Mythra’s grasp even before Glinda touched the cool stone of the statue’s hand.

  It was the purest of offerings, given and taken in the same breath. Generosity and gratitude executed in a single gesture, a promise of hope for the future of Oz, in the form of a marble sword.

  But it was not marble for long. As soon as Glinda’s fingers closed around the handle, the blade turned from cold white rock to gleaming metal; it was set in a braided golden hilt, encrusted with colorful gems.

  Glinda’s mouth dropped open at the sight of that which had come so easily into her keeping. Turning to her friends, she whispered, “Do you see the sword in my hand?”

  Ben began to reply. He got as far as the “Ind—” in “Indeed,” but then said no more.

  Similarly, Locasta managed to execute the downward half of a nod, but did not complete the gesture.

  Shade may have intended to answer “Yes,” but didn’t. Or couldn’t. She’d just begun to twirl her cape, when the heavy gray fabric ceased its motion mid-sweep and went still. Still as stone.

  “Shade?” Glinda prompted. “Ben?” When she got no response, her voice rose to a frantic shout. “Locasta!”

  But for once, Locasta did not shout back.

  She had frozen in place. The girl so filled with fire was chilling away, not so much like a statue of stone as an artifact formed of halted time. Stopped, like a clock.

  Beside her, Ben and Shade were in a similar state.

  “No!” Glinda cried out to the Magic of the Reliquary. “Please bring them back!”

  As she pleaded, she sensed a flicker of movement from one of the statues. A glance at the name on his obsidian pedestal told Glinda that this was Eturnus, the Timeless Magician, who seemed to be awakening from a long but fitful sleep.

  He was alive!

  Glinda stared as Eturnus stepped from his platform to stride toward her. He had a ready smile and a pair of snapping eyes and was dressed in what was surely the strangest garb Glinda had ever seen. In fact, his apparel was altering itself even as he walked, tailoring a strange new ensemble out of the robes that had, just seconds before, been chiseled in stone. This new clothing was tightly fit
ted and made of a shining fabric Glinda had never seen before. Along the sleeves and down the sides of his trousers pulsed slender panels of glowing light—pink, pale blue, and a vibrant light green!

  Before she could ask what he’d done to Ben, Shade, and Locasta, he shook his head and grinned more broadly, as if he found the whole situation wildly entertaining.

  “Don’t worry about them,” he said with a careless flick of his long chin in the direction of Glinda’s friends. “They’ll be fine. And I only need a minute of your time.”

  Glinda was clutching the sword in both hands, gripping the handle so tightly her knuckles had turned white. “A minute to do what?” she managed to croak.

  “A minute to show you how to operate that incredible piece of hardware you’re now clinging to for dear life,” he explained with a chuckle. “Oh, and by the way, if you’re thinking about using it to run me through, well, I’d strongly advise against that.” He gave a smug little toss of his head. “I’m basically un-smite-able.”

  “I have no intention of smiting you! You’re a Hero of Oz.”

  “Wellll,” Eturnus drawled out the word and waggled one hand dubiously, “that sort of depends on who you ask. Not to mention when you ask them. That is the trouble with wandering the coiling caverns of constancy ad infinitum, ad nauseam, and in perpetuity: you open yourself to a multitude of opinions, based rather unfairly upon the mode of the time in which these opinions are formed. Which is why I have also been accused of being a besotted romantic fool”—here he cast a smitten glance at the Princess Ozma statue—“a mad scientist with a mystical bent, a tragic figure too smart for his own good, a pompous daredevil, a tortured soul, a brash manipulator of time”—he paused to take a breath—“and last but not least, a royal brat with a disarmingly crooked smile and a charmingly roguish manner.”