by Lisa Fiedler
Aphidina rose from her throne, clad in a gown of apple-red silk. In Quadling Country, only Aphidina and her favorites were permitted to wear such sumptuous fabrics. Rumor had it that when her silkworms had exhausted themselves, she ate them, dried, for breakfast.
Her gown was embroidered in a floral pattern that bloomed before Tilda’s eyes, the flowers stitching themselves from bud to blossom in an ever-changing design.
Aphidina circled the hostage slowly, squinting her green eyes, unbothered by the fact that the train of her exquisite gown was trailing through the muddy puddles of Bog’s sweat. She completed her tiny orbit and stood scowling into Tilda’s face.
The Grand Adept could smell the dank, mulchy odor of the Witch’s breath. She forced herself not to recoil. On Aphidina’s left cheek was a small black mole—a beauty mark—which was in stark contrast to the porcelain whiteness of her skin. When the mark began to slither, Tilda realized it wasn’t a mole at all but a plump, wet slug, inching its way toward the Witch’s mouth and leaving a silvery trail of slime along her cheekbone as it went.
“Do you know why you are here?”
“Of course,” said Tilda. “I am here because you fear me.”
The Witch hissed and posed a second question: “Do you know that I can turn you into a stinkweed or a root vegetable with a flick of my wrist?”
Tilda might have dared her to go ahead and try, but at that moment the slug slid between the Witch’s lips and disappeared into her mouth. Aphidina’s head gave an eerie bob, her chin dropping to her chest.
Behind Tilda, Bog flinched. And with good reason.
For when Aphidina’s head twitched upright again, Tilda saw that the Harvester’s bright green irises had disappeared and had been replaced by miniature swirls of dark smoke. In her mouth, her tongue had turned to flame. Now the strange eyes trained themselves on the spot just below Tilda’s collarbone.
“Where is the Fairy Ember?” demanded a voice that wasn’t Aphidina’s.
Tilda felt her lips quirk up in a smile. Now they were getting somewhere.
“Where he and the others have always been,” she replied. “Safe from your quartet of Wicked underlings. I should think you would be grateful for that.”
“Why would I ever feel gratitude to you, Foursworn?”
“Because while the Fire Fairy is hidden, this Haunting Harvester through whom you speak is safe from him.”
When Aphidina’s body flinched, Tilda knew her remark had struck a chord.
“Yes, I know that yours is the voice of a power far more malevolent than that of the Witch of the South. You are the fifth Witch, the one who found your way into the Magic of my midnight vision.” Here Tilda smiled. “How unsure of yourself you must be to feel the need to skulk as you do, keeping to the shadows and allowing others to take your chances for you. Or perhaps you are simply a coward.”
“I am neither unsure nor afraid,” the voice assured her. “And if you had even an inkling of the havoc I intend to wreak upon Oz, you would understand why I choose to protect myself. I must, for I am the only being potent enough to execute that which must be done.”
“And what exactly is that which must be done?” Tilda inquired.
Searing heat rolled off the Witch’s body in waves. “You are too curious by half,” said the voice. “And I am too shrewd by twice that. You will not get the answers you seek!”
Aphidina’s form lurched toward Tilda, her head bobbing downward so the fiery eyes could examine her empty throat.
“Where is the stone?”
“What stone?”
“I saw it! Did you think I would not guess its significance?”
“Congratulations to you on your powers of deduction,” said Tilda. “And to think, it only took you a few measly centuries to figure it out.”
With a roar and a puppetlike jerk of her arm, the Witch shoved Tilda to the floor. This put the shell of the Harvester nose-to-nose with Bog.
“She wore a pendant of red stone,” she said in a shrill voice. “Did you take it from her? Do you dare to steal from me?”
The muck thing trembled. “No, Highness. I did not touch it!”
“Then where is it? She had it last night beneath the moon.”
“There was a child,” Bog stammered, his words spattering brown droplets that ran down Aphidina’s blank face. “A girl! She wore it. It near blinded me!”
“And where is she?”
“I arrested her, but she escaped.”
“Failure!” The flaming pupils flared as the Witch’s body shook in a spasm of fury. “To sand, mud!” she proclaimed. Instantly the moistness that was Bog went dry, caking into a stinking pillar of silt. It held his monstrous shape briefly, then burst in an explosion of smell.
Again Aphidina’s body convulsed as she bent to face Tilda, still sprawled on the ground. More corms and roots and wild vines slithered up from the dirt floor to secure the Grand Adept.
“I will have that pendant, and the Fairy who resides in the depths of it,” the voice promised. “I will yank it from your daughter’s neck if I must, and along with it, her head.”
Tilda felt a shiver in her soul but managed to give the voice a cool smile. “That is doubtful,” she said. “For she is among allies. Mighty ones.”
This earned her a slap to the mouth from the Witch’s flapping hand. “Is that what you think, Foursworn? That I and my Wicked Ones will not be able to hunt down a little girl and whatever pathetic Good Magician she will run to in your absence?”
Tilda rose to her knees and squared her shoulders. “That is exactly what I think,” she lied.
This time Aphidina’s hand delivered a fisted punch, straight to Tilda’s belly.
Tilda swallowed her howl of pain and glared at the Harvester, hoping to determine the identity of the evil being the slug had delivered to speak from inside her.
But as she peered into Aphidina’s eyes, the smoke that had obscured the irises billowed and shrank away.
The Witch blinked; her piercing green eyes had been restored. When she opened her mouth, Tilda saw that the tongue of flame had vanished.
Struggling to regain her wits, the Witch Aphidina touched her blistered lips and looked down at the muddy hem of her gown. The embroidery of her dress had ceased to bloom and, worse, the blossoms that had opened seemed to have died on the vine, fading and withering until they were nothing more than a haphazard pattern of colorless knots.
Tamping down her panic, Tilda gave the Witch a condescending snicker. “If I had embroidered such flowers,” she assured her, “they would never have shriveled.”
Aphidina hitched up her gown and stamped her foot, and Tilda found herself plunged into the hollow interior of what seemed to be an enormous cocklebur pod.
And she wasn’t alone.
17
THE MINGLING
A road of cobblestones, as red as a summer sunset and as solid as steel, had pressed itself up from below the ground at the toes of Glinda’s boots, unfolding into a lane that extended only a yard or two ahead.
It didn’t offer much in terms of distance, but was an option she hadn’t had just a heartbeat before. And so it seemed only logical that she should choose it.
She placed the heel of her right boot onto the red pathway and took a step, then another. And another. With her fourth step, she would reach the end of the road.
But the moment she came to the last cobble, another several yards of cobblestones pushed their way up from the ground, stretching forward even as the ones upon which she’d just stood seeped silently back into the dirt, disappearing behind her without a trace.
Glinda tiptoed to the end of this second section of cobbles and sure enough, a third segment rose up from the forest floor. It was clear that as she went along, each new segment would extend just a bit farther than the one before it, as if with every yard she traveled, the road was coming to trust her—and she it—more and more.
Glinda quickened her steps and the road kept up with her. Noth
ing could stop it! It wound around broad stumps and under bent saplings; it even made a bridge of itself to carry her across a narrow creek.
As her boots tramped out a steady rhythm, the cobblestones erupted onward until they delivered her into a clearing, bordering a small lake. Her heart leaped at what she saw on the far side: the old Makewright’s lodge, abandoned and forlorn.
She had to look twice to be sure, for the ramshackle structure was nearly hidden under the lush greenery of climbing wisty-mysteria vines; its roof sagged precariously under a heavy growth of ivy.
And then she spied something else.
In the clearing that separated her from the lake and the Makewright’s cabin, the air had begun to dance. Shadows of light darted to and fro, first transparent, then nearly dimensional, then gone again in the flutter of an eye. The flickers were fusing to themselves, and what was mostly mist melded to become solid at last.
What materialized before her was a gathering of fairyfolk. Not just Quadlings, but Gillikins, Winkies, and Munchkins as well. A more bizarre and unexpected congregation Glinda had never witnessed. She counted a dozen in all, and from the looks of things, they were preparing for combat. Most brandished swords; others wielded crude slingshots or clubs, while a few carried bayonets or pistols with carved ivory handles.
And beneath them was the Road of Red Cobblestones, sprawling wider to accommodate their numbers.
Her first panicked thought was that an all-Ozian war had broken out, but she soon understood that the mood of this assembly was not a hostile one. If anything, there was a great sense of alliance.
One of the Winkies—dressed head to toe in a shade of yellow that put one in mind of dill-o-daffles—noticed Glinda gawping at the edge of their circle. Raising his hand, he called for his comrades to stop thrusting, parrying, and clanging their weapons.
When the metallic clamor had ceased, the Winkie turned to Glinda and asked, “Are you new?”
Glinda cocked her head and frowned. “In what sense of the word?”
A Gillikin smiled and twirled his purple mustache. “What he means is, do you intend to become a member of our corps? Have you come to train for battle?”
“I don’t think so,” Glinda answered. “And if I may, sir . . . what battle?”
The participants exchanged serious looks.
“The battle against the Wicked Witches, of course,” said a Munchkin (this Glinda deduced from his cobalt-colored breeches and matching vest). “There has long been war on the horizon. On all of our horizons.”
“There is only one horizon,” Glinda pointed out.
A Quadling grinned and twirled his sword. “Precisely.”
“We Revos intend to be ready when it happens,” said a Winkie woman.
“What is a Revo?” Glinda inquired.
“A Revolutionary. And we are a Revo Mingling. Although we hail from so-called enemy countries, we are all of a mingled mind-set. Which is to say that we are aligned in our ambitions to topple the Wicked regime. For ages, we’ve operated in secret under the auspices of a secret society called the Four—” The Winkie paused and cocked her head. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“It’s all right, Samiratur,” a Munchkin said. “If she can see us, that means she possesses the true heart of a rebel. If the road itself has deemed her worthy, then so it must be.”
Glinda could not deny that she’d been brought to this spot by a path of red cobblestones that rose and fell like ocean waves. But how could a road—and a hidden one at that—measure one’s worthiness?
“If the Road of Red Cobble has led her here,” observed a Munchkin lad, every bit as charming as Nick Chopper had been, and with the same bright eyes, “it is for good reason.”
“And what is more Good than reason?” the Quadling propounded. “Or more reasonable than Good?”
The Winkie, Samiratur, considered these opinions. She looked quite fetching in her loose yellow trousers and blousy shirt, with a pleated cape hanging from her shoulders to just below her waist. “My friends are correct,” she said at last. “We need not keep our secrets from you.” She turned and nodded to the mustachioed Gillikin. “Go on then, Fwibbins, tell her what we do.”
“From time to time, we gather along the Road of Red Cobble to teach and learn the ways of warcraft,” Fwibbins explained. His hands were scarred and rough with calluses. His wrists were bound in the same ugly, rusted shackles Locasta wore.
“Have you ever tried your hand at swordplay?” asked the Quadling. “Or even held a blade?” He was holding a narrow, gleaming blade in his hands, and he seemed well versed in how to use it. Glinda had seen an illustration of such a sword in Leef’s Particulars of Pointy Combat reference book; she seemed to recall that the accurate name for this weapon was “spadroon.”
When Glinda shook her head, a Munchkin girl stepped forward and smiled; Glinda saw that her teeth were not uniform in size, and every third tooth was adorned with a twinkling blue stone. The girl and her Munchkin compatriots were much smaller than the others, squat and roundish. But there was nothing diminutive about their energy. Glinda sensed a collective spark in these spunky souls that belied their tiny stature.
The girl’s sword was called a saber, and it was curved in a way that made Glinda think of fine calligraphy.
“You may use my blade,” the Munchkin girl offered.
Glinda recoiled. Seeing a sword in a book was one thing. Up close was quite another. “I believe, given the choice, that I would prefer to wield my wits rather than a weapon,” she said.
A purr of agreement rippled through the Mingling.
“It would be a far better Lurlia indeed,” said the Quadling with the spadroon, “if only we could attack with blades of thought. Not to injure, but to enlighten.”
“Yes,” said Glinda, picturing such a marvelous weapon: a sword of smarts, a blade of brilliance forged of vision without vengeance. The image came to her so clearly it was as if this sword of light were hovering before her eyes. Instinctively she reached for it, then realized it was just the sun’s rays filtering through the trees.
“Perhaps it is not the armament, but she who is armed that matters most,” said Samiratur.
Again the Munchkin girl held out her sword.
Glinda hesitated, took the saber, and examined it—the weight, the curvature, the way its handle fit so comfortably in her grip. She eyed the edge of the blade. It was so sharp it almost wasn’t there. But her admiring of the saber was interrupted by a sudden pounding in the distance, like the thudding of enormous feet.
“Aphidina’s hybrids,” Samiratur cried, her face paling. Or perhaps not so much paling as disappearing, fading from view. “Seems she’s had a bumper crop, from the sound of it.” As the footsteps drew nearer she turned her face, which was becoming less substantial with every passing second, to Glinda. “You must take cover.”
With that, the Mingling dwindled to a flickering of light. The last thing Glinda saw was the tip of the Munchkin girl’s saber, glinting into nothingness.
Then, from behind her, a hand clapped firmly down upon her shoulder.
Glinda opened her mouth to shriek, but a second hand clamped over it, trapping the scream inside.
Whirling around, she found herself blinking into a pair of crackling purple eyes.
“Not a word,” Locasta warned, her voice a chilling whisper. Ducking down behind a large stone, she pulled Glinda with her.
Through the trees Glinda spotted the source of the pounding: a tremendous creature in a thousand shades of green approaching the clearing, creeping like ivy on a trellis, making its way through the forest. As it moved, its gigantic feet instantly took root in the moist soil, forcing the beast to rip them out of the ground with every step. New shoots spun out from its neck and knees and belly like lariats, lashing and whipping.
“What is it?” Glinda’s voice was a hushed croak.
“A Lurcher,” Locasta answered grimly, “grown by Aphidina in the Perilous Pasture. She plants
ordinary seedlings, then fertilizes them with the ground-up bones of her most ferocious Quadling soldiers. That’s what causes them to grow so mean, or so I’ve heard.”
Glinda’s mouth went dry. “She uses the bones of dead soldiers?”
Locasta slid her a look. “I never said ‘dead.’ ”
The Lurcher was stomping nearer. Glinda could hear the swish and slither of new growths slicing through the air. She could feel the vast green shadow falling over her.
And that was when she saw the snow.
18
BENJAMIN CLAY OF NEW YORK COLONY
Snow.
In late spring? A moment ago it had been clear and warm. “What’s happening?” Glinda asked. “Why is it snowing?”
“I don’t know,” said Locasta, raising an arm to block the whipping of icy flakes against her face. “This isn’t my Magic.”
“Your Magic?”
Locasta did not reply; she was tracking the approach of the hideous vine creature, who moved with slow, steady power. The roar that ripped from deep within the gnarled body was the sound of growth—fast, ferocious, unnatural growth. Lurching with every step, it trudged onward even as the blustering winds pushed against its reedy chest.
The snow fell harder. Glinda’s coppery hair lashed at her face, its frozen tips biting at the skin of her cheeks and forehead. Locasta’s plum-colored curls were so coated with ice and snow that they looked completely white. Glinda could feel the snow deepening around her booted ankles; in the next heartbeat it had reached as high as her knees.
“It’s a blizzard!” Locasta hollered above the charge of the wind. This was no exaggeration; the storm was blocking out everything but the Lurcher on the march. “They sent the blizzard to destroy the vine creature!”
“Who sent it?” Glinda shouted.
“The Wards of L—!”
A green shoot snapped down from the Lurcher’s shoulder and wrapped around Locasta, binding her arms to her sides. Then, with a jerk, it snatched her off the ground and swung her into the sky like a kite. The plant monster was so unspeakably tall that Glinda could barely make out Locasta’s tiny form, whirling above its head.
