The School between Winter and Fairyland

by Heather Fawcett

  “B-but—” she stuttered. “But this should be on the other side of the castle!”

  “That door we went through is a portal,” Cai said. “The gwyllions must have smelled it. There are portals scattered all over. I know the school so well it’s like having a map in my head.”

  “What a jumble your head must be,” Autumn said.

  Cai frowned. “But what are we doing here?”

  Autumn turned to the three gwyllions, who had alighted at the foot of the dark stair leading to the Silver Tower. This is the way to the broken tower, she said. You promised to take us to the tower that isn’t broken.

  Poor blind child, the gwyllions said. One is two, and two is one. The Lords and Ladies led you right.

  Cai’s eyes widened. “Oh! A folding spell. Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Autumn stared at him blankly.

  “Remember how I said the cloud tower was folded into the sky?” Cai went on. “That’s how those magicians hid it, long ago. Well, maybe there’s another tower folded into that tower. Basically, it would mean that the two towers are in the same place, but on different magical planes.” He mimed folding. “Have you ever made a paper crane? It’s like that. Folds inside of folds.”

  Autumn was silent. “I think I need to sit down,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” Cai said. “I know it’s strange. The castle’s a mess of magic, like I said—spells upon spells, half of them forgotten or tangled up in strange ways.”

  “Magicians!” Autumn groaned. “You even need housekeepers to tidy your enchantments.”

  She rubbed her eyes, feeling indescribably lost. This wasn’t her world. This was so far from her world that she wouldn’t be able to see her world with a telescope.

  “So the other tower is here?” she said, focusing on the part she had understood. “Can we get to it?”

  “I’ll try,” Cai said.

  He turned and murmured to his staff. It sputtered fitfully before glowing brighter. Strands of starlight spilled over the stairway threshold, but it was strange starlight with tiny filaments of shadow threaded through it.

  Cai gave his staff a shake.

  “Have you been having trouble with your magic?” Autumn asked, keeping her voice as calm as possible.

  “Not trouble exactly. But some spells are harder.” Cai’s mouth tightened. “I’m sorry.”

  “Will you ever stop apologizing for things you didn’t do?” she said frostily. Cai hadn’t chosen to turn back into a monster on the one night she needed him the most. But she couldn’t help wondering how many gwyllions had survived the boggart’s flame, and if they would be in a mood to let them pass through the cloud tower unchallenged. It seemed unlikely.

  In the end, though, Cai seemed to finish whatever spell he had been casting. The starlight soaked into the threshold, leaving only a faint luminescence. The gwyllions hissed and took flight, disappearing up the dark staircase. Cai went next, beckoning her on.

  Autumn swallowed. If there was one thing she knew, it was that you should never let monsters lead you anywhere. And yet here she was.

  Autumn’s grip tightened on her walking stick. It was a strange thing—neither the moss nor the mushrooms that sprouted along the grain of the wood seemed troubled by the loss of their damp forest home. In fact, Autumn had spied several new mushrooms poking their heads out of a knothole. For some reason, the stick gave her courage. She was going to find Winter, no matter the danger.

  I’m coming, Winter, she thought. I’m coming.

  The stairs were just as Autumn remembered. The Silver Tower was the same, too—there were the empty floors and the empty furniture covered with sheets. They climbed and climbed until they reached the floor with the common room and the gaping fireplace.

  “This looks the same,” Autumn said. “We’re still in the Silver Tower, Cai.”

  “No, we’re not. Look.” He took her hand and pulled her through the enchanted fireplace.

  “Oh!” Autumn exclaimed when they reached the other side. She spun around, specks of lingering magic floating off her cloak. This cloud tower was unbroken—there was the winding staircase leading up and up, and the patchy stone walls. There was no rubble, no leaning walls. And Autumn remembered, suddenly, that the boggart had broken the common room windows in the Silver Tower—and yet the common room they had just passed through had been undamaged.

  “This really is a different tower,” Autumn murmured.

  Cai looked around. “Where did the gwyllions go?”

  Autumn had no answer to that. The only sound came from the wind, and the shadows were only shadows. She took Cai’s hand.

  As they climbed, other differences became apparent. This tower, whatever it was called, was more decayed than the Silver Tower. The wind and clouds rippled through it, and sometimes the tower would groan ominously.

  Light gleamed above them. “What’s that?” Autumn said.

  Cai leaned against the wall, breathing hard. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He nodded but didn’t meet her gaze. “I can keep going.”

  “Not what I asked.” She hefted his staff and took his arm. “Come on.”

  They climbed the last few steps. To Autumn’s astonishment, the light seemed to be cast by lanterns. They reached the next floor, and the wind died away.

  Autumn froze. They were standing in a luxuriously furnished circular room. A massive desk scattered with glittering papers anchored one end, facing the wall so that the occupant could gaze into the night sky. The floor was a stone mosaic of Eryree, the Gentlewood, and the wintry expanse of the Boreal Wastes. Several of the stones appeared to be gold, or perhaps the mosaic was enchanted. Dark, silken curtains fluttered in a soft breeze, and lanterns drifted in midair.

  “What is this doing here?” Cai said, as if the room was a stray cat that had wandered inside unexpectedly. “This looks like Headmaster Neath’s office. Doesn’t it?”

  “How would I know?” Autumn said. “You think he’s inviting me up for tea and a chat all the time, like he does with you?” Then she stopped dead. “Wait, Cai—I’m not allowed to be in the headmaster’s office! None of the servants are, except the head housekeeper.”

  “Calm down,” Cai said. “The headmaster never leaves the masque before dawn. Besides, I don’t think this is really his office.”

  Autumn’s fear ebbed, and she could think again. “You’re right. His office is in the Northmost Tower, isn’t it? Is this another one of the gwyllions’ illusions?”

  “I don’t think they’re powerful enough for something like this.” Cai tapped one of the lanterns as it floated by. “No, I think this is a reflection spell.”

  Autumn groaned.

  “It’s sort of the opposite of a folding spell,” Cai said. “A folding spell hides something inside something else. A reflecting spell creates two of something, in different places.”

  Autumn’s head hurt. “Why would any decent person need two of an office?”

  Cai walked over to the desk and flipped through the papers. “Well, the headmaster keeps this one a secret. I’ve been in his other office a hundred times, and he never mentioned it. Maybe he uses this one to cast enchantments he doesn’t want anyone knowing about.”

  “I guess not.” Autumn shivered. “He hid it inside a tower hidden inside another tower. But what sort of magic is he doing, if it has to be kept secret?”

  Cai was frowning at the papers. “What is this? Spirit magic? Spells for ensnaring the soul? Why would he … ?”

  Autumn traced the spine on the huge book the headmaster had left open and facedown on his desk. “The … Long … Winters … of … Eryree,” she sounded out slowly. “The Long Winters? I remember Gran mentioning those.”

  Cai nodded distractedly. “We study them in history class. They started eighteen years ago, lasted five. Five years in a row when the snows started in September and kept on until June. All sorts of monsters came south from the Boreal Wastes looking for food, including th
e Hollow Dragon.”

  “Hmm.” Something about the dates tugged at her, though she didn’t know what. She flipped The Long Winters over and found a messy but recognizable sketch of the Hollow Dragon staring back at her. The headmaster had filled all the empty spaces of the page with tiny, crammed-together notes that Autumn couldn’t read. She closed the book.

  Something drew her away from Cai. A feeling she recognized, which made her heart pound and her throat clench. Across from the desk there was a half set of stairs leading down to a glass observatory. It was shrouded in cloud, which parted to reveal the sweep of the mountain and Inglenook far below, awash in light. Someone was lighting fireworks, which opened and closed like eyes. Above the fireplace in the wall was a large mirror with a gilt frame.

  And before the fire were half a dozen people seated calmly in armchairs.

  Autumn didn’t recognize the faces she could see. There was a girl with two long braids, and an older man in a magician’s cloak. None of the people moved, or seemed to notice her. Her heart beat like a bird trapped in her chest as she walked to the chair closest to the fire and beheld the slender figure seated there.

  She cried out. Instantly, she was at Winter’s side, and pulling him into her arms.

  “I knew you were alive,” she sobbed. His hair, identical to her own, tickled her cheek. “I knew. I knew.”

  “Autumn.” Cai was at her side, drawing her back. “Autumn. Look at him.”

  “What?” She was going to shove Cai through the window. Why was he pulling her away from Winter? But even as she thought it, her mind was registering how Winter hadn’t moved or spoken, the strange chill in his skin. His eyes, open but glassy.

  “What’s wrong with him?” She crouched before her twin. “Winter, it’s me. It’s Autumn. I found you, like I promised I would.”

  Winter’s boots were gone, as was his cloak, and his tunic was torn. Autumn took off Gran’s cloak and wrapped it around him, trying to rub feeling back into his arms. He was so cold! And something else was off—what was it?

  “Cai,” Autumn murmured. “He’s smaller than me—look!” She pressed her palm to Winter’s, stretching their fingers out.

  Cai nodded. He was murmuring some spell that brought color to Winter’s cheeks. “He hasn’t aged since he disappeared. He’s alive, but frozen in time.”

  Cai moved among the other seated figures, shining starlight in their faces. He looked pale but determined—a hero going about his hero business. Only the picture was off. He had removed his gloves, and the shadows swam beneath his skin. They looked less like shadows and more like waving leaves, as if the forest was inside him.

  “That’s Master Arte,” Cai said, motioning to the man. “He vanished into the Gentlewood three years ago.”

  Autumn barely heard him. She couldn’t stop looking at Winter.

  “Cai, this isn’t him,” she said. “It’s just his body.”

  Cai nodded. “That must have something to do with the headmaster’s soul-snaring spells.”

  “You think he’s trying to put Winter’s soul back into his body?” Autumn gazed at the still figures around the fire. “But where did his soul go? How did they get like this?”

  Cai shook his head, perplexed. His starlight gleamed off the mirror over the fireplace. He took off his fancy cloak and used it to clean the glass. “Call Winter with the Speech.”

  Autumn didn’t hear him at first. Her despair was a knot in her chest pulling painfully at every inch of her. “We’re nowhere near the bay window.”

  “Maybe that doesn’t matter, if he can move between places. Remember the spellprint down in the kitchens.”

  Autumn was on her feet in a heartbeat. She banged her palms against the mirror, shouting Winter! over and over again.

  Cai grabbed her arm. “You’re going to break it.”

  Autumn shoved him off. Winter!

  She punched the glass. A crack appeared, and she felt a distant pain in her knuckles. She ignored it. Winter!

  She gathered up everything inside her, like she had with the Hollow Dragon. She gathered it up and wove it into a net big enough to cover all of Inglenook and cast it wide.

  Winter.

  The ground shook. Cai stumbled. Autumn, panting and sweaty, felt a moment of terror. Had she done that? She looked at the mirror.

  Winter gazed back at her.

  Autumn, he cried, I’m here!

  I know! Autumn pressed her hands against the glass. I’m going to get you out. Just hold on.

  Winter pressed his palms against hers. What did you do? I can’t feel the other mirrors. I think I’m trapped in this one.

  I don’t know, Autumn said. But it doesn’t matter which mirror you’re in. Cai and I will get you out.

  Cai? Winter’s mouth fell open. Cai Morrigan is here?

  Yes, and he’s going to rescue you, Autumn said proudly. He rescues everyone. “You are going to rescue him, aren’t you?”

  “I’m going to try,” Cai said, gripping his staff of starlight. Autumn felt a rush of relief and pride that Cai was there, that he was her friend and was going to help her.

  The Dark, Winter said. His voice was fragmented.

  What? Autumn said. But Winter was looking over his shoulder at something and didn’t respond.

  “I need to know what did this to him,” Cai said. “If it was magician or monster. I need to know where the spell began so that I can follow its trail.”

  The Dark, Winter said. Can’t run. Stuck …

  What?

  To Autumn’s horror, the mirror went black. When it cleared, Winter was still there, but there was something … on him. That was what Autumn thought she saw, anyway. A thing of darkness that could barely be called a thing, wrapped around him like a smothering blanket. It had no shape, nor any beginning or end; it was simply dark, and yet somehow it was terribly alive.

  Winter! Autumn cried.

  Cai had seen the darkness too. His incantation dashed watery waves of starlight against the glass. But the light was dulled by the new shadows woven through it, and when it dripped away, the darkness remained. Now Winter was so faded that he could barely be seen. It was as if the darkness was eating him—not piece by piece, but shade by shade.

  “Cai, do something!”

  Cai began another incantation. This time, bursts of starlight filled the air like bees, buzzing and crackling. Cai lifted his staff, and they exploded against the glass, a cacophony of light. But the darkness remained, and Winter grew dimmer. Autumn couldn’t hear his voice anymore. She pounded and pounded on the glass even as it cut her hands.

  Cai let out a cry of frustration. He threw his staff aside and plunged his hands into the mirror.

  It was like watching someone dive into a November lake skinned over with ice. The mirror cracked but didn’t come apart. Cai grabbed hold of something—Autumn couldn’t see what, through the light and the strangeness of it all—and pulled.

  Autumn’s eyes were dazzled, and she tried to blink it away. Cai had taken a step back. Before him hovered … something. A ripple in the air, a tendril of clear smoke.

  It was Winter. Autumn knew it in her bones.

  “Autumn, stay back.” Cai’s voice was strange.

  She stared. “Cai, what—”

  Silly children, a dark voice crooned. Autumn looked up, a scream rising in her throat. The roof of the observatory was clustered with monstrous shapes—the three gwyllions perched on the metal beams between the glass panels, staring down at them. With them were half a dozen more, all staring, a terrible eagerness in their eyeless gazes.

  The Lords and Ladies will take what is theirs, the gwyllion said. Vengeance.

  The white-haired child will be devoured, soul from skin, another added contentedly. But the Lords and Ladies need not dirty their own claws.

  No, sirs and madams, a third chimed in. The hungry child will do it for us.

  Her own friend! the first gwyllion exclaimed. What a delightful vengeance it will be. The Lords and Ladies
are creative in their vengeances.

  Most creative and noble.

  Horror bloomed in Autumn’s heart. “Cai?” she whispered.

  “Stay back,” he said. Autumn drew in her breath. If she hadn’t known the figure standing before her was Cai, she would never have recognized him. It wasn’t just the leafy darkness rippling beneath his skin—it was his eyes, which held a terrible hunger.

  And Autumn knew then that Cai wasn’t the sort of monster who ate hearts or tears.

  He was the kind who ate souls.

  “Cai, no!” Autumn cried. Winter’s soul drifted about, a slightly fuzzy patch of air. That was what had made Cai change—the sight of the soul, or the smell of it. (Do souls have a smell? some part of Autumn wondered dazedly.) Now his hunger had taken control of him.

  She lunged for her walking stick—she didn’t know what she intended to do with it, exactly, only that she needed it. Cai, she shouted, stay away from Winter!

  She struck the floor with her stick as she said it. Cai blinked, and some of himself returned to his eyes. But then he looked back at Winter’s drifting soul, and it was gone.

  Cai, stop! Autumn struck the floor again. But it was like when she had tried to command him in the Silver Tower—she felt as if she was banging her fists against a stone wall. Whatever Cai was, he was something stronger than her.

  No.

  Autumn drew herself to her feet. She would not give up—not now, not ever. In desperation, she called to Winter in the Speech. She could sense him, confused and adrift, not understanding where he was. He floated toward his body, then stopped, as if he didn’t recognize it.

  I’m here, she said, reaching for him blindly. Trust me. We have to do this together.

  The ripple in the air that was Winter seemed to shiver. Cai stepped forward. He didn’t touch the ground at all now but glided like the boggart.

  Autumn gathered her strength and Winter’s together, and found that it added up to more than she could have ever imagined. Then she let the command fall like a clap of thunder.

  Back.

  The word thrummed through the air and into the floor. Cai flew backward. He struck the glass wall of the observatory, cracking it, and slid to the ground.