by Terry Brooks
Yet she would be deceived, Nightshade promised herself. One final time.
She let Mistaya do what she wished with her magic and her lessons on the first day of Holiday’s journey to the Deep Fell. She let her practice what she would, encouraging her, complimenting her, putting her at ease. Only one day remained, Mistaya was told. One—and then she would be going home. Nightshade prowled the hollow restlessly, barely able to concentrate on anything but the approach of the event she had schemed to bring about for two years. She wandered off into the mists, playing out the moment over and over in her mind, seeing it happen, anticipating the joy it would give her. Holiday dead. Holiday gone at last. It had become for her the sole reason for her life, the single purpose for which she existed. It had become for her as necessary as breathing.
At night she went out in the form of a crow, flying over the land to where the play-King slept in the company of the sylph and his Guards. She would have lighted on his face and pecked out his eyes if she could have done so, so great was her hatred. But she knew better than to take chances after employing so much care. She would not cheat herself now of the end she had devised for him. She made certain of his distance from the Deep Fell, of the time she would need to prepare, and flew back again to wait.
The following morning she waited until Mistaya had eaten her breakfast before approaching her. Darkly sleek and vaguely menacing, she swept up to the girl with a smile and a light touch of one slender white hand against her cheek.
“Your father comes for you today,” she advised in her most compelling voice.
Mistaya looked up expectantly.
“He should arrive by midday. Are you anxious to see him?”
“Yes,” the girl answered, and the undisguised anticipation in her voice set the witch’s teeth on edge.
“He will take you back to Sterling Silver, back to your home. But you will not forget me, will you?”
“No,” the girl said softly.
“We have learned a lot together, you and I.” Nightshade looked off into the trees. Mistaya had withdrawn from her since coming back down into the Deep Fell. She had distanced herself as only children could, barely tolerant, clearly marking time. It was a bitter recognition for the witch. She had expected better. “There are still many secrets to learn, Mistaya,” she offered, trying to win back something of what she had lost. “I will teach them to you one day if you wish. I will show you everything. You need only ask.” She looked back at Mistaya, eyes liquid. “This can be your home, too. One day you may wish to come live here with me. You may decide that this is where you belong. We are very much alike. You must know that. We are different from others. We are witches, and we will always be each other’s greatest friend.”
She almost meant it. There was enough truth behind the words to make it so. But fate had decreed long ago that it could never be. Her hatred of Holiday, so obsessive a presence, so monstrous and driving, had determined that it must be otherwise.
Mistaya’s eyes dropped hesitantly. “I will come back to visit you. When it is safe to do so.”
Nightshade’s smile was cool and fixed. “That time may come to pass sooner than you think. I have arranged for Rydall to withdraw his challenge to your father. He will be here when your father arrives. Once he is gone from Landover, there no longer need be any barriers between us. Your father and mother will agree, I am sure.”
Mistaya’s brow wrinkled. “Rydall will withdraw? For good? He has given up completely?”
“I have persuaded him it is best for all concerned.” Nightshade’s eyes narrowed. “Magic can accomplish anything. This is what I have tried to teach you.”
Mistaya looked down at her clothes and brushed at them while she spoke. “I have learned a lot from you,” she whispered.
“You were a good student,” Nightshade praised. “You have great talent. Do not forget that I first told you so, that I revealed to you what no one else would, that I helped you discover who you really are. No one else would have done that for you. Only me.”
There was a moment of awkward silence. Nightshade could feel a shift in the balance of things. “I have something for you,” she said to the girl.
Mistaya’s eyes lifted. Nightshade reached down into her robes and brought forth a silver chain and pendant. The pendant was carved in the shape of a rose, the petals carefully detailed, the stem and thorns intricately worked into the metal. She took the chain and pendant and placed them about Mistaya’s neck.
“There,” she said, stepping back. “A gift to remember me by. So long as you wear it, you will never forget our time together.”
Mistaya lifted the pendant from her breast and held it gently between her fingers. There was surprise and gratitude in her green eyes. Her child’s face shone. “It is beautiful, Nightshade. Thank you very much. I shall wear it always, I promise.”
A handful of hours will be enough, the witch thought to herself, keeping her smile carefully in place. Long enough to meet your loving father and embrace him one final time. Long enough for the pendant’s hidden magic to cause the rose thorns to prick the play-King’s skin and for their deadly poison to seep into his body. You can do what you wish with my gift after that. After it has served its purpose.
After you have served yours.
Questor Thews came out of the light of his magic in a wash of dizziness that very nearly toppled him. He staggered momentarily as the brightness faded, trying to gain his balance. Then, finding his feet on solid ground once more, he steadied himself, blinked away the last of his discomfort, and took a quick measure of his surroundings. To his relief he discovered that he was back in Landover. A scattering of pale moons dotted the midday sky, visible through the heavy screen of tree limbs. Stalks of Bonnie Blue poked out of scrub and from between moss-covered trunks. Familiar smells reached out to him. There was no mistaking any of it. But despite being back in Landover, he was no longer in the lake country. The look of things was all wrong for that. He was somewhere else, somewhere farther north …
“Jumping junipers, that is just about enough of that!” an irate Poggwydd snapped, grabbing a tight hold of Questor’s sleeve. The wizard jumped at the unexpected contact. “I don’t know what you did to get us back here, but I believe I’ll simply walk next time! Next time, did I say? Bite my tongue! Next time? Beat me with a switch if there’s ever a next time! Hah! Not likely! Not for this fellow!”
Scrunching up his face as if to cause his features to disappear completely, he released Questor and wheeled away in a snit. “Good day to you, sir! Good day, good day!” Then he stopped dead in his tracks. “Gracious me and mercy on us all, what’s happened to him?”
He was looking at Abernathy. Landover’s scribe sat on the ground next to an aging hickory, staring down at himself. He was a dog once more, a soft-coated Wheaten Terrier, shaggy and unkempt beneath his clothing, fur sticking out everywhere, ears perked, glasses perched awkwardly on his long nose. His liquid brown eyes seemed both startled and sad as he studied his human fingers, all that remained of his old body. Then he shrugged, looked up at Poggwydd, and sighed.
“What seems to be the trouble, Poggwydd? Haven’t you ever seen a talking dog before?”
Poggwydd’s wrinkled, furry face went through a series of bizarre contortions as he huffed and spit in an effort to speak. “Well, I … Well, of course, I … Humph! Mumble, mumble! Well, you certainly weren’t a dog earlier!”
Abernathy climbed slowly to his feet and brushed himself off. “How much earlier do you mean?”
“Just a little bit ago! Just before we were gobbled up by the wizard’s magic! You were a man, confound it!”
Abernathy’s smile was rueful even for a dog. “That was just a disguise. This is the real me. Can’t you tell?” He sighed again, and his eyes locked on Questor. “Well, you were right, Questor Thews. Congratulations.”
Questor gave a quick nod in reply. “Yes, it appears I was, thank you. I must say again that I wish it could be otherwise.”
“We all wish things could be otherwise, but this is the real world, isn’t it? Or as real as it gets for us.” Abernathy looked around in puzzlement. “Where are we, anyway?”
“I was just about to ask our friend,” the wizard replied, looking in turn to Poggwydd.
The G’home Gnome seemed startled by the question. He glanced right and left momentarily as if to confirm his suspicions, then cleared his throat officiously. “We’re right back where we started, is where we are. Well, back where I started, anyway. This is where that little girl found me, minding my own business, not causing anyone the least amount of …” He trailed off quickly as he saw a dark look creep into Questor’s eye. “Ahem! What matters to you, I imagine, is that we’re just a mile or so from the Deep Fell.”
“I don’t understand,” Abernathy ventured, coming over to stand next to them. “What are we doing here? Why aren’t we back in the lake country?”
Questor Thews was rubbing his chin furiously, twisting his whiskers into rat’s tails while thinking the matter through. “We’re here, old friend, because Mistaya’s here—down in the Deep Fell with the witch. This is where Poggwydd saw her last. Nightshade took her back to the Deep Fell, and there’s no reason to think she isn’t still there. We’ve been brought here to save her, I believe.”
“I don’t understand any of this!” the G’home Gnome declared abruptly. “But that’s fine, that’s just fine, because I don’t want to understand any of it! I just want to be on my way. So good-bye to the both of you and good luck!”
Once more he started away, this time heading east, away from the witch’s lair.
“Don’t you want to know what happens with Nightshade?” Questor Thews called after him.
“I don’t want to know another thing about any of this!” The Gnome did not slow his pace. “I already know more than enough! Much more!” He scuffed at the dirt furiously, raising dust with his feet. “Do me a favor, please. If you find that little girl, give her my regards and tell her I never want to see her again. Nothing personal, but that’s the way it is.” His voice rose dangerously. “I hope she is a King’s daughter! I hope she becomes a Queen! I hope if she ever goes for another walk, she does it somewhere else! Good day!”
He disappeared into the trees and was gone, a hunched ragtag figure leaving in his wake a scattering of rude gestures and indecipherable mumbles.
Questor dismissed him instantly and turned to Abernathy, eyes intent. “You know what we have to do, don’t you?”
Abernathy looked at him as he might a small child. “I know perfectly well. Probably better than you.”
“Then we had better hurry. I have an uneasy feeling about things.”
And he did, too. It was hard to describe but impossible to discount. The feeling had been with him in the High Lord’s old world: a need for haste, to get back into Landover as quickly as possible so that something could be done to prevent whatever it was that Nightshade intended. Now the feeling was even stronger, a growing certainty that the trap around Holiday and his family was about to close and that only he and Abernathy could prevent it. Perhaps it was a bit conceited and overdramatic to assume responsibility for so much, but Questor Thews needed to believe that there was a reason for Abernathy’s sacrifice, that there was a greater good being served. His magic might have cost Abernathy his human identity, but it had gotten them back into Landover, to where Mistaya had last been seen and was probably captive still, and that had to count for something. Nightshade had told them that Rydall was her creature, that she had set in motion a chain of events that would crush Holiday, and that Mistaya would be the instrument of his destruction. Somehow the witch was using the little girl to get at the High Lord. If they could reach her in time, perhaps they could still make a difference.
They hurried away through the shadows and midday heat, off to the rescue. Gnats swarmed around them, drawn by their sweat, stirred by their passing. Questor brushed the gnats away, preoccupied with his thoughts. A horse would have been a welcome sight just about now, but then Abernathy wanted nothing to do with horses, so maybe going on foot was for the best. They crossed a stream and passed through a glade dappled crimson and yellow with wildflowers. Finches darted from cover and sailed off into the blue. Abernathy was breathing hard, but Questor did not let up on the pace. He was in some pain himself. He pushed his old bones harder, ignoring his aching joints. He forced himself to walk more quickly. He gathered up his robes and clambered down slopes and along pathways through the tall grasses and past the thorny scrub.
“Questor Thews, slow down!” he heard Abernathy gasp, for the scribe was trailing steadily farther behind by now.
The wizard never considered it for a moment.
Ahead, the mist and gloom of the Deep Fell were already in view.
HOLIDAY HEART
Mistaya was sitting with Nightshade on a grassy rise at the south edge of the Deep Fell when her father and mother rode into view. Bunion preceded them, edging out of the midday heat like a spider emerging from its hole, crouched down warily against the sun-scorched earth. King’s Guards flanked and trailed them, armed with lances and swords, all metal and flash in the brightness. The company slowed as they saw her, reining in the horses, easing to a halt. Mistaya could see the tension etched on her father’s face, could see the movement of his eyes as they swept the empty stretch of grasslands separating him from his daughter and came to rest finally on Rydall.
Marnhull’s King sat atop his black charger a short distance to her right, concealed in his black armor and cloak, his visor pulled down, motionless in the shadows of a broad-limbed chestnut. He had been waiting there when Nightshade and Mistaya had climbed to the rim of the hollow. He had done nothing to acknowledge them. He had failed to move or speak a word since. He did nothing now. He was as still as stone, facing directly back toward Landover’s King.
Nightshade rose, and Mistaya stood up with her. Ben Holiday’s eyes flicked back to his daughter instantly. Mistaya wanted to run to him, to call out, to do or say something, anything, but Nightshade had forbidden it. Let me speak first, she had warned. The negotiations between Rydall and your father are in a very delicate state. We must be careful not to disrupt them in any way. Mistaya understood. She did not want to do anything to endanger her father. She just wanted to go home. She had been thinking about it since she had returned to the Deep Fell after meeting Poggwydd. She had grown steadily more anxious since, excited but a little afraid as well at the prospect of seeing her parents again after so many weeks. Now she felt a surge of emotion rise inside her chest, tightening her throat, bringing tears to her eyes. She had not realized how much she missed them, she guessed. She had not known how badly she would want to go home.
“High Lord!” Nightshade called out suddenly. “Your daughter is here with me, safe and well. She is ready to return home. I have gained King Rydall’s promise that she may do so. He has agreed to withdraw from Landover. There will be no more threats, no further attacks. You need only promise that you will seek no retribution against him for anything that has happened.”
Mistaya waited expectantly. There was a long silence, as if her father did not know how to answer, as if what he was hearing was entirely unexpected. She saw him look at her mother and her mother speak softly in response. Bunion moved restlessly between them, teeth gleaming, eyes fixed on the witch.
“What about Questor Thews and Abernathy?” Ben Holiday shouted back.
“They will be returned as well!” Nightshade answered.
Abernathy and Questor? Mistaya glanced up at the witch questioningly. What were they talking about? Had something happened to the wizard and the scribe? Weren’t they safely back in Sterling Silver? Wasn’t that what she had been told?
Nightshade smiled down, her face distant and shrouded within the hood of her black robe. Nothing to worry about, the smile said. Do not concern yourself.
“I will seek no retribution if everyone is well,” she heard her father agree, but she did not miss the troubled
tone of his voice. She looked back across the space that separated them, an empty, burned-out stretch of grassland fronting the shadowy depression of the hollow. Her father seemed a long way off.
Nightshade put a slender white hand on her shoulder. “You must go to your father now, Mistaya,” she advised. “When I tell you to do so, walk out to meet him. Do not deviate from your path in any way. Go directly to him. No one else. Do you understand?”
Mistaya was aware suddenly that something was happening she did not understand, something hidden and possibly dangerous. She could sense it in Nightshade’s words, in the same way she could sense so much about the witch. She hesitated, wondering what she should do. But there was nothing she could do, she knew. Nothing but agree. She nodded silently.
“High Lord!” Nightshade called out once more. “Your daughter is coming to you! Dismount and walk out to meet her. Come alone! That is the agreement I have made.”
Again Mistaya could see her father hesitate, thinking it over. He was not sure of this, she could tell. There was something bothering him, something he could not seem to reconcile. She thought perhaps she should try to reassure him, then realized that she wasn’t sure of things herself, that she was troubled as well. Her green eyes shifted to find Rydall. Marnhull’s King hadn’t moved. She looked quickly to Nightshade. The witch was still and expressionless.
Her father dismounted slowly and began to walk forward. Bunion started to go with him, but he sent the kobold back with a wave of his hand.
“Go now!” Nightshade whispered quickly in her ear. “Give him a special hug from me!”
Mistaya moved forward reluctantly, still pondering her confusion, still wondering what was wrong. She shuffled through the dry grasses with small steps, watching her father advance, watching him draw steadily closer. She glanced back at Nightshade, but the witch did not respond, a tall and dark etching against the hollow’s steamy mist. Mistaya brushed at her hair where it fell across her face, and her green eyes flicked right and left. Her father came on, steady and watchful. She saw a worried, uncertain smile form on his lips. She could see his eyes clearly. There was relief mirrored there—as if he had not expected to see her again. A rush of confusion swept through her. Why was he looking at her so?
