A Dark Descent

  “What do you feel?” Mythra prodded.

  “Heat. Fire, maybe. And a wind, as if from wings.”

  “Rak.” Mythra’s tone was grave. “Listen to me, child. Someone a great distance from here needs you desperately.”

  “Needs me to do what?”

  “To guide this weapon! To join in this fight from afar.”

  “You want me to fight a beast I can’t see?”

  “Illumina can see it. Illumina is there. You must tell whoever is wielding your weapon exactly what to do by doing it yourself. This is Connection Magic at its most powerful!”

  Glinda raised her sword arm and closed her eyes. She imagined Illumina glowing in her grasp, emitting the power of Truth Above All. In the next moment, she sensed the invisible mass of violence that was the Rak attacking with all its might. With a yelp, she thrust her unseen blade into the emptiness.

  And above, a very amazed Locasta thrust Illumina at the beast.

  * * *

  The Rak that was Thruff yowled out in agony when the searing light of Illumina connected with the tip of its wing. Stamping closer, it swung its other enormous wing at Locasta.

  In Mythra’s cave, Glinda parried, swooping the sword downward to intercept the blow.

  And with no conscious effort on her part, Locasta sent Illumina streaking into the path of the dragon’s giant paw, blocking the assault and eliciting another growl of pain.

  When Glinda two-handed her grip, Locasta did the same.

  Together, they lifted the sword over their heads, just as Thruff’s long, scaly tail reeled around to knock Locasta to the ground.

  Glinda went down hard, landing on her hands and knees and losing her grip on the invisible sword. “I dropped it!” she cried, fumbling in vain for something that was not there.

  Mythra’s eyes searched frantically, helplessly.

  Both Glinda and Locasta struggled to gain their feet, ducking the hot cloud of the Rak’s salty, peppery breath.

  Dazed, Locasta scanned the area for Illumina, panicking when she saw that it had skittered several feet out of reach. Suddenly it was being lifted from the ground by unseen hands.

  “Shade!” Locasta reached out and the blade came arcing toward her through the air; she caught it by the braided handle.

  In Mythra’s cave, Glinda reached out, and though she could not see the sword, she caught it, clean. Leaping forward, she aimed Illumina at what she was almost certain was the Rak’s broad chest.

  At the same moment, Locasta felt the force of Glinda’s swing in her own muscles and slammed the illuminated blade hard against the beast’s scaly body.

  Light exploded in a deafening hiss, and Thruff let out a keening wail as the brilliance of the sword seared his scales. The sound of his agony made Locasta’s stomach lurch. She quickly withdrew the sword.

  And Glinda did the same.

  The beast threw his head back and howled, swaying above Locasta.

  Glinda felt the massive force of the motion and retreated. Locasta stepped back and craned her neck.

  Glinda craned her neck . . . and knew that the eyes she could not see belonged to Thruff.

  The Rak snarled, then whimpered. And as the enormous dragon beast began to fall, both Glinda and Locasta whispered in a single, strangled voice, “No . . .”

  But the beast dropped forward onto his belly, his wings outstretched behind him, shaking the ground beneath Locasta’s feet, shaking the ceiling above Glinda’s head.

  The Rak was still.

  Locasta’s hand was empty.

  And Glinda found herself blinking into the brilliant glow of Illumina, returned to the safety of her own two hands.

  * * *

  Staring at the fallen Rak, Locasta was vaguely aware of Shade emerging from the atmosphere. Her cloak was fluttering even before it had fully materialized as she ran to crouch beside the Rak—beside Thruff. She stroked the Rak’s horned head, which was bigger than she was. Pale sparks, not hot enough to burn, dripped from its pointed fangs, and its fluttering eyes were aimed at Locasta.

  They were Thruff’s eyes, exactly as they’d looked when she’d watched the soldier carry him off to the castle.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Thruff, I’m sorry.”

  As the words escaped her lips, the form of the dragon began to fade away until all that remained was the boy, sprawled on the ground.

  When Shade helped him to his feet, Locasta saw that the front of his ragged shirt was scorched black; she could only imagine the severity of the burn underneath. She wished her father were there to help him, and at the same time she was glad that he wasn’t. To see what she’d done to her brother—to see what her brother had forced her to do—would have surely turned Norr’s heart to stone.

  A slight buckling appeared in the ground—but to Locasta’s surprise, the cobbles were not rising at her feet, or Shade’s. The stones pressing up from under the ground were for Thruff. She was further confounded by the fact that there was not just one road of cobblestone, but two. One red, the other purple.

  Thruff seemed startled to see the roads appear, and even more perplexed by the fact that when they had both fully surfaced, he was standing with one foot on each of them.

  The small portion of the Road of Red Cobble that had availed itself to Thruff looked just as it always had—smooth and sure and safe. The purple path was much bumpier, paved with haphazard indigo, violet, and purple-toned stones, all slanted and uneven.

  If he were truly dangerous, Locasta reasoned, the red road would have repelled him. “Renounce Marada!” she implored, her pulse racing with both terror and hope. “There’s still hope for you, I know it!”

  Only now did she notice that Thruff was gripping something in his curled fist. “What’ve you got there, brother?” Locasta asked, striding toward him. “Some charm from your Wicked new friend?”

  Thruff glared at her, but said nothing.

  Emboldened by his silence and the red bricks beneath his feet, Locasta took another step forward. “Whatever it is, don’t do it. Thruff, please. Just this once . . . do what is right, not what is easy.”

  “I tried to do what was right once before!” Thruff spat, wincing at the sting in his chest. “And if you knew what I did, you’d hate me.”

  “I’d . . . what? No! Listen to me. It doesn’t matter what you did. Because I’ll soon have the means to vanquish the Witch of the North.”

  “Locasta,” Shade warned in a voice like slivered ice, “tell him no more. He may use it against us.”

  Thruff’s breath was coming short and shallow, and his eyes were dull with the pain of his injury. “You think you’re going to destroy Marada?” he sneered. “Then what? There are two more, and they are just as Wicked. Do you really think you can save Oz all by yourself?”

  Locasta shook her head. “There are fairyfolk all over Oz who are prepared to join me. You saw it yourself, when you came flying in on that monkey! There are teachers, and apothecaries, and seamstresses and clumsy bears who will fight beside me; there are tree choppers and daughters of wagon-wheel salesmen, and silly girls with chronic cases of hiccups, who have already proven themselves brave enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with me in this fight. But I want my brother beside me too.”

  “You won’t.” Thruff’s eyes flared, and he shot a glance at Shade. “You won’t want me when she tells you what I’ve done.” With that, he lifted the foot that rested upon the sturdy promise of the red cobbles and as they sank away, more purple ones pressed themselves up from the ground, lopsided and jagged. He leaped onto the path and took off, stumbling over the poorly laid stones.

  “Don’t you dare run away from me, you coward!” Locasta screamed, and made to give chase. But the purple path refused her passage and flung her backward, so that she went skidding on the seat of her overalls across the place where the red road had been.

  Thruff looked back only once, just before his rocky trail curved out of sight in the distance. Then, like its red-cobbled cousin, t
he purple path retreated beneath the indigo grasses of Gillikin Country.

  Locasta stared after him for a long moment, then spun to face Shade. “Be glad you’re an only child!” she huffed. And stomped off toward the North.

  27

  THE MAGIC PEARL

  Illumina was metal again when Mythra took it from Glinda’s hand. Her fist closed as comfortably around the jeweled braid of the grip as if she had never let it go.

  “Hello, old friend,” she whispered, turning it this way and that, following the smooth motion of the blade with glistening eyes.

  “I owe you a thank-you for that magnificent sword,” Glinda realized. “I don’t know what I would have done without it.”

  “I’m sure the brave someone who just used it against the Rak would share that sentiment,” Mythra observed. “Have you any idea who it might have been, wielding our beloved Illumina up there?”

  Glinda hadn’t until just this moment, when Mythra said “brave.” “Locasta!” she cried, her heart thudding with joy. “I’m certain of it, for I can’t imagine Illumina allowing anyone else to take such a liberty. Which means she survived the monkey battle! With any luck, they all did!”

  “I am happy to hear it,” Mythra said, twisting her wrist to make Illumina dance in the candlelight. Then she spun it over her head and whirled into a lunge-and-thrust.

  “You’ve missed it,” Glinda observed. “Haven’t you?”

  Mythra expertly flipped the sword in the air, caught it by the handle, and offered it pommel-first to Glinda. “The creator cannot help but love the creation, whether it is a poem, or a world”—she smiled at Glinda with hazel eyes that spoke of Tilda—“or a child. This is how we extend ourselves from our past, through our present, and into our own future, whatever it may hold.”

  “Like you and my mother and me,” said Glinda, accepting the sword and slipping it into her sash. “We’ve inherited much from your spirit, haven’t we? After all, I am said to be your likeness. Was your hair coppery like mine, when you were a girl? And my mother has your eyes.”

  “Enough!” said Mythra sharply. “I did not intend for this to become an exercise in sentimentality. I was simply surprised to see my old weapon, that’s all. There is no time for gushing. Not when we still have work to do.”

  Mythra snatched the pearl from where it lay on the gossamer cloth, slapped it into Glinda’s hand, and began to strut around the cave.

  “You shall enchant it, like the rope.”

  “Enchant it to do what?”

  “That is up to you. This pearl was a gift from the Sea Fairies and as such, it is irreplaceable. The Magic it will be capable of should reflect that. So ask yourself: Is there something this pearl can provide—one thing—that in this world and every other, is so precious as to have no substitute?”

  Glinda considered the question and guessed, “Knowledge?”

  “That’s what Illumina is for.”

  “Friendship?”

  Mythra waved this off with a dismissive flick of her hand. “You have friends. One of whom is trapped in a collide-o-scope as we speak, so let’s hurry this up, shall we?”

  Rolling the large pearl over in her hand, Glinda continued to think. “Great strength, perhaps?”

  Mythra snorted and folded her arms. “You wish to be the strongest of all the fairyfolk in Oz, do you? So the next time you pluck a peachyplum from a branch, you will uproot the whole tree in the bargain?”

  Glinda frowned.

  “Think, Zephyr! What is the one thing, above all others, that a Sorceress needs in order to make good Magical choices, and proceed rightly with whatever she must do?”

  Glinda thought. “The one thing, above all others . . . Oh! The truth! I will always need the truth . . . above all. Always!”

  Mythra’s eyes shone with approval. “Excellent. And how will you achieve this? What will you enchant this precious pearl to do?”

  “Um . . . well . . . sometimes a lie can look very much like a truth, can’t it? And despite her expansive knowledge, her great strength, and good friends to advise her, even an experienced Sorceress can be tricked by the Wickedness of a lie.”

  “I could not agree more,” said Mythra, and there was a note of something dark—like guilt—in her words. “Now tell me, what charm will you give to this gem?”

  “I will enchant it to glow with its own creamy brightness whenever I am in the presence of honesty.” Glinda paused to reconsider. “But then, I would like to believe that most Ozians are good and honest, in which case the pearl would be glowing more often than not. So perhaps the opposite is wanted? Perhaps it would be better for the pearl to react to falsehoods, when someone or something is untruthful.” She smiled. “Yes. I think that is the answer. In untruthful situations, the pearl will turn black. For a lie is a thing of darkness, and the pearl’s Magic should reflect that a shadow is being cast over the light of truth.”

  Mythra looked away, as if the word “shadow” had struck a chord. When she again met Glinda’s gaze, her face was unreadable. “As enchantments go, it’s a sound one. Well-meaning and purposeful. And now, an incantation.”

  Glinda held the pearl in her palm and spoke these words:

  “When in the presence of this pearl

  If ever a falsehood shall unfurl

  The liar will be revealed to me

  For black as shadow this pearl shall be.”

  The pearl shone brightly for a moment, as if welcoming the Magic into itself, then returned to its usual sheen.

  “Did it take?” Glinda asked. “Will it work?”

  “I suppose you will have to wait until someone tells you a lie,” the Priestess reasoned with a shrug. “Now I think it’s high time we get you back to where you came from. Frankly, I’m growing quite bored with your company and am eager to see you gone!”

  In Glinda’s hand, the pearl grew cold and black.

  “Ah,” said Mythra, grinning. “So it does work.”

  For the second time since her arrival, Glinda threw her arms around the Mystic. And this time, the Mystic did not pull away.

  28

  SO MOAT IT BE

  Locasta was still shaken from battling Thruff the Rak.

  It had been a trying journey from the Gillikin border through the vast purple fields and over the rocky hills to the heart of the country, where the Witch’s castle stood. She’d been forced to tie back her mane of purple curls and tuck it into the collar of her old shirt. It itched terribly, but she knew her hair was her most distinguishing feature, and if Marada’s minions were on the lookout, those ringlets would surely be the death of her. Fortunately, her tattered mining clothes and rusted manacles were all she needed to blend in with the other Gillikin citizens. And nobody seemed to take any notice of Shade at all.

  It was almost dark when they reached the valley that marked the edge of the Warrior’s grounds. The castle loomed in the distance.

  “Do you have a plan?” asked Shade.

  “Of course I have a plan.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m going into the castle to retrieve the compass.”

  “That is an objective, not a plan.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “An objective is a desired end result. A plan is a series of well-thought-out maneuvers that takes into account all the requirements and dangers associated with the task in order to achieve said result.”

  “Oh.” Locasta shrugged. “Then, no, I don’t have a plan. But my objective is still to get that compass and perhaps, if time permits, to free my mother and sisters from servitude.”

  When she took a step toward the castle, Shade caught her arm and pulled her back. “Locasta, there’s something you should know.”

  “What?” Locasta urged. “Tell me! What do I need to know?”

  Shade flicked her cape, as though debating what to say next. “The place is riddled with dark Magic and four-footed soldiers with tails and horns.”

  “I’m aware of that, Shade. Why a
re you being so peculiar?”

  “You will not like what you see in there, Locasta. Trust me on this.”

  “I don’t have to like it, I just have to find the compass, and my mother and sisters. Now are you going to help me or not?”

  Shade turned away, her hair swinging like a dark curtain. When she turned back, she looked resigned. “To the moat,” she whispered.

  And as she did, the Road of Red Cobble buckled up from the ground at last, right at the tips of Locasta’s old mining boots.

  “It’s about time,” Locasta remarked. “I guess it’s decided I’m worthy.”

  “Or stubborn,” Shade mumbled. But she stepped onto the road behind Locasta, who was already humming, and followed her up the sloping sides of the valley toward the castle.

  * * *

  When they were close enough to see the castle clearly, Locasta stopped humming. The Witches, it seemed, had made good on their plans to increase their personal guard. Three Gillikin soldiers and their bulky yak and buffalope mounts were minding the stone bridge that crossed the moat. Behind them, the portcullis was securely in place, blocking the way into the zwinger, also known as the outer ward. Thanks to the Road of Red Cobble, the guards would be oblivious to their arrival. But Locasta knew the road would go no farther than the bridge, and getting past the spike-bottomed bars of the iron-plated gate was a challenge she had not anticipated.

  The red cobbles brought them to the edge of the moat, where the water’s glassy surface held a reflection of the half-moon in the sky. Shade swung her cape over it and it rippled. Then the moon was gone and another wavering image appeared.

  Locasta gave a breathless little cry. “My father!”

  “The moat and I share this memory,” Shade explained. “It’s the story of a boy who thought he could reason with evil.”

  She flicked her cape and again the water ruffled; this time it was an image of Thruff’s face that rose up from the depths, to become part of a scene animated by the gentle motion of the water. And it was here that the moat began its tale: