The Sweetest Spell

by Suzanne Selfors

  We’d descended into a small cavern. A lantern flickered from a stone alcove. Water dripped nearby. Billy stood beside me. His face, blotched with dirt, was turned up at me, his eyes questioning our next move. I suppose that’s how I used to look up at my older sister, before she’d gotten sick. Waiting for her leadership in all matters, from stealing Nan’s biscuits to sneaking into town. “Come on,” I said, grabbing the shovels.

  Only one tun nelled from the cavern, and it was tall enough to walk through. Lanterns here and there guided our way, as did the distant sound of hammering. The hammering actually steadied my nerves. It meant that other people were down here—living people, breathing people. Maybe I wouldn’t be buried alive.

  Soon the tunnel opened into another cavern. Lanterns hung from nails that had been hammered into the stone wall. I raised my hand to shield my eyes, squinting against the sudden rush of bright light. Then my nightmare came true. “Watch out!” someone hollered. The hammering stopped, followed by the sound of falling rocks. I pushed Billy against a wall, covering both our heads with the shovels. Silence settled, then the same voice called, “Anyone hurt?”

  A series of noes followed.

  “That you, Billy?”

  A young man walked toward us, red hair hanging past his shoulders, a red beard covering his neck. Billy rushed forward and wrapped his arms around the man’s waist. “Wish I could say I’m happy to see you,” the man said, patting Billy’s back. “But I’m not. What are you doing here?”

  “They brought me here, same as you,” Billy said.

  “Are you Billy’s brother?” I asked.

  “Aye. And who are you? You’re not from the Flatlands.”

  “Owen Oak,” I said. “From the Wanderlands.”

  Red-haired men, all holding shovels, picks, and hammers, gathered around us. I guessed there were forty or fifty of them. They all had a similar look—their homespun clothing tattered beyond repair, their faces gray with dirt, their red manes and beards matted. “I’ve come to find Emmeline’s father,” I said, my gaze traveling across their tired faces. “Emmeline Thistle’s father.” Murmurs arose and they parted slightly, allowing a man to make his way toward me.

  “I’m Murl Thistle,” he said. He was bone-thin and hunched in the shoulders. The resemblance was clear in the wide-set eyes, but nothing else about him reminded me of Emmeline. And though the eyes had the same shape and color, they lacked Emmeline’s sparkle. His eyes, so dull and lifeless, belonged to a dead man. He clutched my shoulder with his long fingers. “Has something happened to Emmeline?”

  I’ve never been much of a storyteller. I don’t like the long-winded versions of things. But this was such a horrific story, it deserved respect. So Billy and I sat and the others settled around us. I told them of the rain that had pummeled the Flatlands and how the river had flooded. Billy confirmed, adding his own tragic story. I described how Emmeline had been carried into the Wanderlands and how my parents had cared for her. I spoke of their tax-collector who’d come by raft and who’d said that most of the families had made it to higher ground and safety. The men were comforted by these words, but I told the truth that I’d kept from Emmeline—that many bodies had washed downriver.

  A man leaped to his feet. “We must get home!”

  “What do you suggest?” another man asked desperately. “Everything we’ve tried has failed.”

  “There’s no way to escape this place,” another said. Murmurs of agreement filled the dank air.

  “Wait,” I said, waving my hands for silence. “You haven’t heard the entire story. It’s about Emmeline. She’s wanted. She’s the most wanted girl in all of Anglund.”

  “Emmeline?” Murl Thistle asked. “Wanted?”

  “Yes. She can make chocolate.”

  Like Emmeline before them, none of the men knew what I was talking about when I said the word. I was about to explain when a quiet clearing of the throat drew everyone’s attention.

  All heads turned toward an elderly man as he struggled to his feet. The only hair on his head were the scraggily patches that grew on his ears. Loose skin hung on his neck, which jiggled when he spoke. “It has happened,” he said, his voice raspy with mystery.

  “What has happened?” I asked.

  “The legend has come full circle.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  The old man leaned on a shovel, his bony elbows sticking through holes in his shirt. “There has always been a legend about chocolate, but it was forbidden and the storytellers who used to tell it were killed long ago. It is dangerous to speak of it, even now, but I fear I’m the last to know.”

  “Speak it,” a man urged. “There is no one here to punish you.”

  “What about the stranger?”

  “I’m Emmeline’s friend,” I said. Surrounded by a sea of red hair, I was the misfit in this group. They had no reason to believe me, but I hoped they would. “I will not betray her.”

  “I’ve spent many days with him,” Billy said. “We can trust him.”

  The men nodded, agreement rising among them. The old man’s knees creaked as he steadied himself with his makeshift cane. “The legend says that we were once called the Kell, and we were first to make our homes in this land.”

  “Hold on a minute,” I interrupted. “That can’t be true. The books say you came as invaders.”

  “What books?” someone asked.

  “All the books,” I said. “All the schoolbooks, all the history books. They all say the same thing.”

  “We have no such books,” the old man said. “We only have our story, and it goes back to the beginning when our people shared this land with no others but the animals. That is where the legend of chocolate begins, with the animals.”

  “Tell it,” a man said.

  “Our ancestors, the Kell, learned how to tame the wild horse and the wild boar. But they could not tame the wild wolf. One day, the queen of the wild cows came to the Kell village and spoke to the first chieftain. Said the cow queen, ‘My kind can no longer live safely in the forest, for the wolf eats our young. If your people will let us live in your villages, we will freely give our milk. And when my life nears its end, I will give your people a magical spell—the sweetest spell of all.’ ”

  “The chocolate,” I whispered.

  “The cow queen kept her word and just before she died, a magical spell was given to a Kell milkmaid, who then gave it to other milkmaids. The spell allowed them to make a special food from cow milk. It was eaten at feasts and weddings.”

  “That is why you do not eat cow meat,” I realized.

  “It has long been forbidden,” the old man said. “In honor of the cow queen.”

  I didn’t know what to believe. Perhaps the invading Kell had made up the story because they were embarrassed about their own history. Perhaps the story made them feel better about their powerlessness. Father had said that legends were half truth and half story. Honestly, I didn’t care about the past. I didn’t care who had been here first, and who had taken the land from whom. All I cared about was getting back to my family. Bringing Peddler to justice.

  And seeing Emmeline again.

  But my thoughts were scattered by the earsplitting clanging of a bell. Billy and I stuck our fingers in our ears and looked at each other with surprise. The men all got to their feet and stared up at the cavern’s ceiling. The bell clanged again. “What’s going on?” I asked Mister Thistle.

  “They are summoning us to the surface,” he said.

  “Really?” I jumped to my feet. “But I thought I’d be down here a few weeks.”

  Leaving their tools behind, the men left the cavern and headed up the tunnel, toward the ladder. I would have been first in line, but Mister Thistle held me back, his hand pressing on my shoulder. “Where is my daughter?”

  I hadn’t mentioned the kidnapping. “King Elmer sent for her,” I said, which sounded so much nicer. And it was true. “He wants her to make chocolate for him. But Emmeline wants to buy your freedo
m. I’m sure she’ll make a deal with the king.”

  “She should forget about me,” he said. “I deserve nothing from her.”

  Though I yearned to run through that tunnel and scramble up the ladder, I took a steadying breath and looked into Mister Thistle’s weary eyes. “She loves you. I’m sure of it. She wants to bring you home.”

  “I don’t know why she would love me. I cast her aside when she was born.”

  I had only one answer, and even though I didn’t know Mister Thistle and didn’t know his daughter very well, the answer felt true. “She loves you because you are her father. We forgive the mistakes of the people we love.”

  “She has her mother’s heart,” he said, tears pooling on his lower lids. I turned away from his sudden surge of emotion.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  But when we reached the ladder, the men were standing around. A voice bellowed from above, “Only the boy from Wander. Send him up and no one else.”

  Why did they want me?

  Mister Thistle put a hand on my shoulder. “Good luck to you, lad.”

  When I finally reached the surface, the relief I’d expected didn’t come. Below, the air had been cool and crisp. As I crawled into the sunlight, I inhaled a huge lungful of yellow particles, then broke into a fit of coughing.

  “There he is!” Soldier Wolf grabbed my shirt sleeve and pulled me to my feet. He slapped my back, which sent me into another coughing fit. “Good thing you’re leaving or you’d be getting wet lung right quick.”

  “Leaving?” I wiped spit from my lips. “You said I’d be down there for weeks.”

  “That was before I learned you could barefist fight,” Wolf said. “Trying to keep a secret, were you? One-eyed Henry told me you

  were the champion of Wander. Then he reminded me that the king’s tournament is just around the corner. I’ve been trying to figure a way to get into the king’s good graces. If I bring two bare-fist champions to his tournament, I’m certain to be pardoned.”

  Henry had proven to have a brain in that seeping head of his after all. To enter the king’s circle was the highest honor for a barefist fighter. Though I’d often imagined it, I knew my chances were slim at best. Mother would never have supported such a venture. But on that day, standing in the late afternoon glow of the mineral fields, I couldn’t have asked for a better change of fate. Not only would I be getting out of this death trap, I’d be delivered straight to Londwin City, where Emmeline was sure to be.

  “I’ll fight as your champion,” I said, “but I’ve got one condition.”

  Soldier Wolf’s easygoing demeanor fell away as his face tightened. “What do you mean, condition?”

  “I want to bring two dirt-scratchers with me.”

  “What for?”

  “To get them out of here.”

  He folded his arms over his glistening chest. “You can bring one.”

  Billy wouldn’t last long in this place, but for the time being he was better off with his brother. At least there was food and water here. There was nothing waiting for him in the Flatlands. “Agreed. I’ll bring one.”

  “Why do you care about a dirt-scratcher?”

  “He’s a gift for a young lady. The man I want to bring is her father.”

  Wolf grinned. “You’re in love with a dirt-scratcher girl?”

  “No. Not in love. But I care about her. It would make her very happy.”

  “You say you’re not in love, but look at you. I can see the longing in your eyes.”

  “That’s yellow dust,” I said.

  He slapped my back again. “I agree to your condition. You can have your gift. I don’t want it said that I kept a man from winning the woman he loves.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  There were five chambermaids who kept my rooms tidy, laid out my clothes, brushed my hair, and filled my bath. Like a flock of birds they flitted around me, braiding my hair and winding it atop my head so it fit perfectly beneath my bonnet. Stuffing my fancy shoes with just the right amount of soft fabric to cradle my foot. At first it felt as if I had sisters, but they never spoke to me. I didn’t know their names or where they’d come from. They smiled and did their work. But as soon as they stepped outside my rooms, they found their lost voices. The silence reminded me of those first days with Lara when I’d been desperate for conversation.

  “Good morning,” I said as I climbed out of bed. A maid slid a pair of slippers onto my feet while another draped a robe over my shoulders. I sat at a little table that had been set with breakfast. Tea was poured, a napkin placed on my lap, salt sprinkled onto my boiled eggs, a honey cake cut into bite-size pieces. While I ate, the chambermaids made the bed, fluffed the pillows, and put fresh flowers into the bedside vase, even though the old ones were perfectly nice.

  Life at the palace was warm, comfortable, and delicious. How many days had passed since I’d been given these rooms? I’d lost track, distracted by luxuries I’d never imagined. But the happiness wouldn’t be complete until Father joined me.

  As soon as I finished morning meal, the chambermaids cleared the table and dressed me. Each day I was given a clean yellow dress and white apron with matching bonnet. And each day, soon after dressing, the Royal Secretary knocked on the door.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  He always carried a bundle of parchment. And he always kept a white quill tucked behind his ear. “Good morning,” he said, expressionless. His lips were stained purple to match his ruffled shirt. Each morning he escorted me from my rooms to the kitchens, which lay in the palace basement. We always took the same route—a narrow stairway where we never passed another person.

  “Any news today?” I asked as I followed him down the stairs.

  “It’s a very long journey to the mineral fields,” he replied. “But do not fret. The scroll has been sent. I saw to it personally. I’m sure the other dirt-scratchers will be on their way home very soon.”

  “And my father?” I asked, gripping the railing. Going downstairs was never easy for me. “Don’t forget about my father.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Your father.” His pointed shoes clicked against the stairs. “I’m certain you will be reunited soon.”

  “Where will he stay? Can he have one of my rooms?”

  “Her Majesty will choose a suitable room for your father.”

  It couldn’t happen soon enough. Who could have ever imagined that a girl from the Flatlands would work in the palace? And live in four rooms? And have chambermaids? How proud my father would be of his unwanted daughter.

  “Have you heard anything from the man who brought me here?” I never got the chance to say good-bye to Griffin.

  “As I told you, your friend took his reward but left no message.”

  I knew Griffin had been eager to get back to the Flatlands. I understood his urge to leave right away, but I wished I could have thanked him for his help.

  At the bottom of the staircase, the Royal Secretary pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked a door. Then we stepped into my churning room.

  It was a simple room, with no windows. One door led to the narrow stairway, another door led to the kitchens, but I was not allowed to go there. A churning bucket, filled with fresh cream, waited next to a stool. There was a table of food—bread, cheese, honeycakes—anything I could possibly desire. This was my work, to sit there and churn. Every time a new batch of chocolate was ready, I rang a little bell and a kitchen boy came in and carried the bucket away.

  “I will return for you at midday,” the Royal Secretary said. “Remember, you are forbidden to leave this room.” Then he locked the door and walked back up the staircase.

  There I sat, the door to the staircase locked, the door to the kitchen bolted from the outside. Why did they feel the need to lock me in? Did the queen think I’d run away? I’d agreed to work for Their Majesties in exchange for all that I’d asked. I was here to stay. I’d provide a nice life for myself and my father. In time, I’d
begin to call this place home.

  That day’s kitchen boy was new, and he smiled shyly at me after he’d unbolted the door to collect the first bucket. My arms began to ache as I finished churning the third bucket. Hopefully I’d get stronger with time. I rang the bell, then rang it again, but the kitchen boy did not appear. I waited. Where was he? That’s when I noticed that the door to the kitchens was cracked open. He’d forgotten to bolt it. “Hello?” I called. “It’s ready.” The bucket needed to be delivered before the chocolate hardened. So I grabbed the handle and carried it out the door.

  And I stepped into the vast underground world of the royal kitchens.

  Though I knew I wasn’t supposed to leave the churning room, I also knew that the chocolate was precious. Surely an exception would be made for me to leave under the circumstances. I passed a room filled with dead animals. Many had been skinned and were curing. A wild boar hung near a row of chickens. Partridges, unplucked, lay in a pile on a table. A cow’s head sat at the table’s end. I gasped and turned away from the barbarity. To think we Flatlanders were considered primitive. I still hadn’t gotten used to the fact that the outside world ate the very creatures that had saved my life.

  There was a room filled with vegetable and fruits. Another where servants ground grain into flour. There was a room with a great oven where the air sweltered. The cooks, red-faced and sweaty, stirred enormous pots. Kitchen boys ran back and forth with buckets of coal, feeding the roaring fire. Cauldrons bubbled, knives chopped. No one took notice of me. I should have asked for help, but the scenery mesmerized me—I wanted to see more.

  The kitchen floor began to tilt uphill until it reached ground level and opened onto a small courtyard. A wagon filled with potatoes drove into the courtyard, parking next to another wagon filled with cheese.

  “You’re not supposed to be out here,” a voice said. I turned to find a familiar kitchen boy looking up at me. “You should go back.”

  “I have some chocolate,” I said, holding out the bucket.

  He took it, then hurried away. I was about to walk back to my little churning room when a soft sound caught my ears. Mooooo.