A Dark Descent

  Even with her eyes on the ground, Glinda could feel the Mystic shaking her head.

  “Drew a sword on your friend, did you?”

  Glinda snapped her gaze up to meet Mythra’s glittering eyes. “How could you possibly know—?” She stopped short. “Connection Magic?”

  Mythra nodded. “Tell me . . . did it not occur to you, while you were ticking off your victories, that it might also be useful to inform me of at least one of your failures?”

  Glinda hesitated, then shook her head.

  “There you have it, then. The reason you grew so incredibly tall was because you refused to admit to any shortcomings at all.”

  “Miss Gage would call that a metaphor.”

  “Miss Gage, whoever she is, would be right.” Mythra surprised Glinda by offering her a hand up. “Your strengths will not need nearly as much coaxing as your weaknesses will need mending. But Magic, the caliber of which you are hoping to master, will not tolerate arrogance, ever. Confidence, yes, but overconfidence? Never!”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Now then, Zephyr, let the training begin.” The Mystic motioned to one of the chairs. “Sit.”

  Glinda sat.

  “There is more to learning than just acquiring and improving one’s skills. It requires a shifting from one state of being to the next, a step forward from the you of just a moment ago, toward the you of this moment. Being is becoming, Glinda. It is time for you to shed.”

  Glinda’s mouth dropped open. “Shed?”

  “Don’t look so squeamish!” Mythra admonished, lowering herself gracefully into the chair across from Glinda. “I won’t be requiring you to peel away large patches of skin, or cast off limbs or anything quite so grotesque as that. A symbolic shedding is all that’s required.”

  “Does clothing count?” asked Glinda, her fingers toying with the tail of her red sash. “In the Makewright’s lodge, I shed my old school uniform and replaced it with these new clothes that Locasta made for me, which is why there aren’t any ruffles on them.”

  Mythra curled her lip as she eyed Glinda’s outfit. “I suppose a wardrobe change will suffice.”

  But the Mystic’s earlier allusion to shedding limbs had Glinda thinking about poor Nick Chopper, with his tin arm and legs. She felt for the Munchkin boy and was glad he was currently off on the yellow brick road of Discovery in the safe company of her mother.

  Without warning, Mythra gasped and pressed her hand to her heart. “You were just thinking of someone.”

  “Yes. I was thinking of Nick Chopper, the Munchkin woodcutter.”

  “No! Someone else.”

  “Oh.” Glinda swallowed hard. “My mother.”

  Mythra sprang up so quickly she nearly knocked over her chair. “Who is your mother?”

  “I—” Glinda was confused. “I thought I told you. She is a very powerful Sorceress from Quadling.”

  Mythra seemed to be trying very hard to remain in control of herself. Her next question came out in a voice that was both anxious and hushed. “But what is her name?”

  “Tilda! Her name is Tilda.”

  For several seconds, Mythra stared at Glinda, her hazel eyes wide, her handsome face slack-jawed in profound surprise. “You are Tilda’s daughter?” she whispered at last. “Truly?”

  When Glinda nodded, Mythra’s expression softened by an almost imperceptible degree. “How very, very . . . unexpected.”

  “But I told you the Sorceress who sent me to you was a former associate of yours. Tilda was your associate, wasn’t she?”

  “That is one way to put it,” Mythra mused with a faraway look in her eyes. “What is your father’s name?”

  “Sir Stanton of Another Place.”

  At this, Mythra’s face lit with a broad smile. “Of course! And how is he? Is he well?”

  “He’s . . .” Glinda’s voice broke. “Gone.” To Mythra’s credit, she looked as sad to hear it as Glinda was to say it. “May I ask why you’re so surprised to learn that Tilda is my mother?”

  “Because . . . ,” said Mythra, leaning down to slip her thumb beneath Glinda’s chin and lift her face so their gazes met, “I am Tilda’s mother. Which means that you, young Sorceress in training . . . are my granddaughter.”

  19

  IN THE DUNGEON

  The hawk was delicious.

  As tender and succulent as any the Krumbic one had ever tasted. It helps to eat them alive, she thought. And stuffed . . . not with nuts or cornbread dressing, but with news of the enemy. As this bird had been.

  Earlier, the hawk had presented himself to Mombi. He told her of the battle in the South, which he had watched from the top of a red spire. And being that he had no particular affiliation to any of the three Wickeds, his account of their failure was both unbiased and reliable. Especially with regard to the scamp who had stolen her Golden Cap.

  The hawk had told her that while Glinda Gavaria had not been captured—in fact, she had disappeared without a trace—there was another who took part in the fray who just might be of interest.

  According to the bird, Glinda was in the company of a plummy-haired girl called Locasta, a Gillikin with a feisty nature. Marada confirmed that the brat with purple curls was the sister of the scamp, Thruff.

  Mombi had not needed to listen to the hawk anymore after that. She’d used her teeth to sever the bird’s talons first (succulent), and had then bitten off his head (juicy).

  All in all a delightful meal, though the feathers had tickled going down.

  And now it was time to visit Marada’s dungeon to confer with the little bumpkin. It would not do to greet him in her own form, for her appearance tended to distract, and she was extremely mindful of her mystery. So she slipped herself into the bulky body of the Brash Warrior Witch (whose innards were as cold as Mombi had expected) to impose herself upon the scamp as his sovereign.

  * * *

  He was being held in the Warrior’s moldering dungeon, where he’d been tossed after his shameful performance at the academy battle. He was not alone. There was another captive seated beside him on the cold stone of the floor. When the clanking of Marada’s armor filled the gloomy passage that led to their cell, the second prisoner gave Thruff a gentle nudge.

  He awoke from his stupor, displeased but not surprised to find himself chained to a wall.

  “Do not be afraid,” the second prisoner whispered close to his ear. “She will sense it and it will only cause her to be more dreadful.”

  “I’m not afraid,” the boy whispered back, eyeing the heavy chains around his cellmate’s wrists. “And who are you?”

  The prisoner smiled, and every memory Thruff had of his mother came slamming back into his heart.

  “I am Tilda,” she said, and the name sounded like springtime. “I am Glinda’s mother.”

  At this, Thruff looked mildly amused. “You’re supposed to be powerful. How is it you’re caught?”

  “My capture was the result of a difficult choice,” the Sorceress said on a sigh. “The lesser of two evils, you could say.”

  “I didn’t know evil could be anything less than what it was,” Thruff observed.

  “You are a bright lad,” said Tilda, “so listen to me carefully: the one who is approaching will only look like the Witch of the North. But her form will be inhabited by one who is far more despicable and cruel.”

  To Tilda’s amazement, the boy grinned. “She who became the quake? Don’t worry. I know how to handle her. I’ve already—”

  It was then that the body of Marada came clomping into the cell, and he was silenced by a kick of her spurred sandal. The order came swiftly and eerily:

  “Bring me your sister,” said Mombi with Marada’s mouth.

  Thruff appraised her with eyes like jewels. Her movements were puppetlike; her tongue had turned to a clot of dirt, and when the Warrior’s mouth opened to speak another’s commands, instead of spittle, pebbles spewed out. Her irises were the dull, lifeless gray of stones.

  ?
??Why is it you cannot get her for yourself?” he asked.

  Mombi did not like to be questioned, and worse, she detested admitting to her shortcomings (few that they were). Marada’s reflexes itched to attack, and Mombi’s own instincts agreed. But if she tore the boy to pieces, how would he do her bidding? And so she answered:

  “I could not scry for her, even with a dark mirror, for unlike Glinda’s natural gifts, which I traced effortlessly, your sister’s Magic is too raw to track. But I believe you can get close to her.”

  “What do you want with her?” Thruff demanded. “She’ll never turn to your side. Believe me, I’ve asked her.”

  “I do not wish to recruit her, you audacious little imbecile. She will be bait and nothing more.”

  “Bait,” Thruff repeated. “For Glinda.”

  Mombi nodded with Marada’s head; the gesture was so weird and unnatural that Thruff felt his stomach turn a little. “Why do you need Locasta to lure her?” he asked, as though he didn’t really care. “Won’t her mother be bait enough?” Then he turned an apologetic expression to Tilda and whispered, “No offense.”

  Marada’s body jerked forward so that her lifeless eyes were level with his. “Because her mother’s presence here is a secret.”

  Thruff did not like the sound of that. It would annoy him greatly if the Krumbic fifth Witch did away with this Tilda. There was something warm about her eyes. Hazel, he thought the color might be called. His mother’s had been lavender blue. At least, that’s what Locasta had told him.

  “And Glinda?” he pressed. “What of her?”

  “Perhaps I shall roast you on a spit and serve you to her as her last meal.”

  “So she is to perish?”

  This time, the Witch inside the Witch did not seem to feel the need to answer him. Beside Thruff, Tilda had gone cold, not with fear, but with fury.

  “There is something I believe the Witch Marada has that I would very much like,” Thruff announced. “If you think with her brain for a moment, I believe you will know what it is.”

  Mombi let Marada’s thoughts ooze to the surface. Then she nodded.

  “If I bring you my sister, will you give it to me?”

  Mombi’s irritation at this request turned Marada’s eyes darker than midnight in a mineshaft. “Are you under the impression that this is a negotiation, you insolent little dragon dropping?”

  “Isn’t it?” the dragon dropping challenged. “You wouldn’t be here if you did not require my assistance, and since there is nothing you can do to me that could be worse than my life so far, well, yes, I do think I am in a position to bargain.” He shrugged. “The rawness of Locasta’s Magic is not an obstacle for me.”

  Mombi felt Marada’s hands clench; the Warrior’s foot ached to kick the boy between his eyes. But it was not Marada’s impulses that counted. Marada was not in charge. Mombi was.

  “Very well,” she said. “The item you desire shall be traded to you upon delivery of your sister.”

  “Locasta is strong and cunning, and treacherous with her fists, not to mention fairly good with what little Magic she has. What if she will not come with me?”

  “If she wants to fight you, you must say these words: Zizzle. Umph-scutch. Wurdlin. Dink. They will enchant you into something quite menacing. Your sister will have no hope of beating you then.”

  You don’t know Locasta, thought Thruff, but he repeated the words back to the Witch. “Zizzle. Umph-scutch. Wurdlin. Dink.” It sounded the opposite of menacing to him. It sounded ridiculous. But then again, the incantation to ignite the Golden Cap had been laughable too, and that spell had certainly done its job.

  Mombi again leaned down with her borrowed body to where Thruff crouched upon the rushes rotting on the dungeon floor. After a few graceless jerks and twists of Marada’s burly arms and stubby fingers, Thruff’s chains were unlocked. Mombi would have preferred to blow the cuffs to bits with her Magic, but given her agitated state, she could not trust herself to resist aiming for the boy’s skull instead. Marada certainly would have enjoyed that. But Mombi understood consequences. She could not destroy Thruff of Gillikin.

  At least not until after he had delivered Locasta, who would in turn lure Glinda.

  And when that time came, the Krumbic one would take immense satisfaction in crushing this insolent pup, his mutinous sister, the daughter of the Sorceress, and whoever else happened to get in her Krumbic way.

  When he stood up, his chains jangled to the floor. “Show it to me,” he said. “The thing I’ve requested. So I know that it will be waiting for me upon my return.”

  The Witch made a jerky dance twirl (which caused the joints of her armor to grind) and then extended an open hand to the boy. In Marada’s calloused palm lay a round golden case with a clasp. Thruff felt his chest tighten at the sight of it, and it took all the willpower he could muster to keep from shooting out his grubby hand to nab it right before her eyes.

  “If you succeed in this task,” said the Witch, closing the fingers of Marada’s gauntlets loosely around his prize, “you will have played a part in something more Wicked than anyone of your piteous ilk could even dream.”

  Thruff looked bored. “You don’t know what I dream,” he said. Then, in a thoroughly uncharacteristic gesture, he threw his arms around the Witch and hugged her. “Thank you,” he said, his voice husky with gratitude, “for trusting me with such an important chore.”

  Marada’s body recoiled from the embrace as though such a show of affection might prove to be poisonous. Mombi, burrowed there among her guts, actually found this quite funny. “Begone now; go look for your sister.”

  They didn’t see him slip the stolen item into his pocket. Sauntering across the cell, Thruff tossed a hank of purple hair out of his eyes and called over his shoulder, “You have greater need of me than you know, Witches.”

  Mombi let out a Marada-esque grunt. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that I do not have to look for Locasta. I just have to listen . . . for the humming.”

  20

  TIME SHALL UNFURL

  Dawn had not yet broken when Locasta crept out the back door of Madam Mentir’s with Tilda’s Magical map in her grasp.

  “Road?” she whispered, wiggling her toes, then digging in her heels.

  But as Miss Gage had predicted, the red cobblestones did not appear.

  In truth, she didn’t blame them. This was a risky journey she was embarking on. Her only consolation was that her passage through Quadling would be safe. It was what might happen when she got to the Centerlands that worried her, and the Gillikin border, where surely Marada’s soldiers would be grazing watchfully, ready for a fight.

  She might be able to dance them into a temporary trance, or bribe them with her father’s amethysts. The thought of losing those precious stones was loathsome, but growing up in Gillikin, she’d learned that sometimes, an ugly bargain must be made.

  As she ran across the back lawn of the academy, she averted her eyes from the toolshed. She couldn’t look at it, not yet. It was the place where her best friend had vanished, so for Locasta, the shed had become nothing but a bad memory.

  Make that another bad memory. And she had plenty.

  As her boots hit the dirt road, the worst one of them all came somersaulting into her mind like a cruel acrobat. She was very small, standing on the stoop of her shack, watching her mother and sisters being chained together—wrist, to wrist, to wrist—by Marada’s soldiers, then marched off toward the castle.

  Thruff, wrapped in a flimsy purple blanket, had toddled after them for as long as his little legs would hold him. Then he fell down on his rump in the mud, poked his thumb in his mouth, and murmured, “Mama? Swisters? Mama?” over and over. It was perhaps his first stab at Magic—a singsong spell designed to bring his mother back to him, so she could sweep him into her arms and hum him off to sleep.

  It hadn’t worked.

  And since Papa had already gone to the mines and would not return until dark, it had be
en skinny little Locasta who’d squished her way down the stinking, muddy lane to lift her brother and carry him back to the shack, where she fed him a meager porridge and told him in her best brave voice that Mama and the big girls—the swisters as he so sweetly called them then—were all with the Witch now, where they would likely remain forever. And if he were smart (which he was, even then—dauntless and daring but smart), he would just forget about them.

  Because Locasta had known, even at that tender age, what the Witch could do to them. But she didn’t tell Thruff. All she’d said was, “Mama is with the Witch.”

  It occurred to her now that it might be her own fault that he’d decided to skew Wicked. Maybe by telling him that Mama and the swisters were “with the witch,” she’d unwittingly implied that they had aligned with Marada of their own accord; that they had volunteered themselves in the name of Wickedness. Maybe all this time he’d just been waiting to grow big enough to run off and become Wicked too.

  As Locasta tramped through the Woebegone Wilderness—correction: Good Fortune’s Forest, according to the linen map in her hand—her dark recollection of Mama’s departure melted into another memory of another dawn, just as wretched but much more recent.

  The day of her last Levying. The day before she’d fled Gillikin in search of the teacher-Sorceress and the Grand Adept, Tilda Gavaria.

  How could a thing that is demanded be offered? Anything we have to give you is already yours.

  Locasta could still hear Thruff sassing the Witch, and she could still see the flash of silver as Marada’s mighty gauntlet came down on the back of his head. But despite the pain it must have caused him, his sister knew it was exactly what he’d been hoping for. That had been his way in; an invitation (for an invitation from Marada could never be anything but violent) to the castle, where he would use his angry charm to win a place in the court of the Warrior.

  She could still hear the shrieks and cries of her neighbors echoing through the little shantytown as the soldier whose dagger Thruff had stolen threw the unconscious boy over his shoulder and began marching back toward the castle.