by Kaylee Rymer
A tear dripped from the girl’s eye, but Weegel pretended not to care or notice. It had to be said.
Next, she closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddery breath. “If... if I give you the necklace, you really promise to let me stay?”
“Of course. I’m kind that way.”
She released a slow sigh and unhooked the necklace. Weegel’s heart pumped faster.
The girl glanced down at the necklace. After a brief moment of hesitation, she tossed it across the table, and Weegel caught it in his hand.
His cold northern dream spread out before him once again. Finally, the search for his people was back on.
Weegel pocketed the necklace away. “Our deal is done. You may now do as you please.”
She peered up. Candlelight danced upon her eyes, and for a moment it looked as if she wanted to kill him. She spun around and dashed out the cave.
“You’re despicable!”
“And you’re gullible. A perfect match!”
Her footsteps rebounded down the tunnel. He’ll go after her later. Right now, he wanted to be alone with the necklace.
Weegel grazed the diamonds with his thumb. “Missed me,” he said.
8. Ivora
Ivora’s feet echoed off the walls.
The tunnel seemed to go on for an eternity.
She didn’t care where it led, so long as it was far away from the worcog. The brute had got his grubby hands on her necklace again, and after everything Father went through to get it back.
Ivora’s chest ached at the thought of her father, and she pressed on, eager to see the light of day.
Father wasn’t around to help her anymore. Ivora was alone in the world now, and she had to learn how to fend for herself.
One day, she would get her necklace back. After all, the worcog can’t keep his eyes on it forever.
A bright light shone up ahead, and Ivora’s heart soared. A light at the end of the tunnel.
She almost fell to her death when she emerged on the other side. Ivora reared back, her chest heaving. The valley spread out far and wide, a vast sea of green, and her head swirled.
A vicious wind almost knocked her off the cliff, and she felt along the wall until she found the tunnel.
She knelt down and buried her nose into her nightdress, and her mind wandered back to Belle.
Somewhere out there she lay dead and cold, and Ivora sobbed. She could never leave the mountain. Not with the wolf still at large.
It looked as if the worcog had her right where he wanted.
HOURS PASSED BY THE time the worcog found her. Once again she met no sympathy in his eyes, only cool detachment.
Ivora’s stay with the worcog would only be temporary, just enough time for her to come up with a plan to defeat the wolf. She had decided she would not be a prisoner to either wolf or worcog. Ivora would prevail.
The worcog led her to her room, his oil lamp bobbing in his hand. Shadows danced around the tunnel as Ivora glimpsed a trail of trickling water and a jutting rock. Twice she tripped on a stalagmite.
He came to an abrupt stop before the mouth of a cave, and with a quick glance in her direction, he disappeared inside.
Ivora followed him inside and stopped dead in her tracks. A large animal lay in the middle of the floor, and for a moment she thought it was the wolf. But then the light washed over the cave, and Ivora sighed. It was not the wolf but a pile of furs.
Thank goodness.
She looked around the cave and shuddered. The walls were bare and lifeless and devoid of any comfort.
The worcog moved towards the door.
“Wait...” she called.
He stopped, keeping his back to her.
“Where... where will I sleep?”
The worcog released an exasperated sigh. “On the furs, obviously.”
Ivora glanced at the furs. “But... without a quilt?”
“Yes. I don’t have much else in the way of comfort.”
He headed out the door again.
“But what if I get cold?”
“That’s not my problem.”
“But...”
The worcog whirled around, and Ivora flinched when she met those angry golden eyes.
“I said, no. Either sleep on the furs or don’t. I don’t care.”
He swept out of the room. Ivora scowled at the back of his head. “Beast...”
He paused at the threshold, and Ivora’s heart thrummed in her ears. At first, he didn’t do or say a thing. He just breathed through his nostrils, absorbing her insult.
Why didn’t she keep her mouth shut?
Finally, he turned. His pupils had thinned like a snake’s, and she gulped.
The worcog stepped towards her, and she backed away. He stopped several feet away, gazing down with those empty eyes.
Ivora quivered under his stare, but she held her chin high, refusing to be intimidated.
A small smirk curved his lips, and he leaned down to pick up the lamp. He made a start for the door, and Ivora panicked.
“Wait... don’t... don’t take the lamp... please... I’m... sorry.”
The worcog faced her again, and his smirk morphed into a sneer. Shadows settled into the crevices of his face, and Ivora’s skin prickled at the sight of him. Under the gloomy light of the lamp, he really did look like a monster.
“Afraid of the dark?” he said.
Ivora scoffed. “No.”
His mouth stretched, and now he revealed those terrible fangs. “Then your eyes will adjust.”
He disappeared, taking the warmth of the lamp with him.
Ivora felt her way in the dark, and lay down on the furs, shivering. Only the sound of her pounding heart kept her company now.
She closed her eyes, but it made no difference. Everything was still too dark.
If only she could tell herself that monsters weren’t real, but it was no good. They were real all along. One just left the room.
She fought off images of the worcog’s sneering face, and images of the wolf. Then the lady on the stairs made an appearance, and Ivora curled into a ball.
Eventually, she fell into a restless sleep, and the horrific visions morphed into nightmares.
IVORA AWOKE WHEN THE snapping jaws of a wolf jumped out from the darkness, and she jerked upright, feeling her heart pounding.
Just a dream, it was just a dream.
She rubbed her eyes and tried to make sense of her surroundings. A dirty, barren cave had taken the place of her bedroom, and she panicked.
Where was she?
Reality hit her full force, and she almost vomited, collapsing onto her makeshift bed.
Hold on a moment. The cave. It was no longer dark.
Ivora looked to her right. Someone had placed an oil lamp next to her bed. Had the worcog crept up during the night and put it back?
Wiping her cheeks, she rose from the furs and stretched. A folded up dress lay in the corner of the cave.
She rushed over and bent down to touch the material. Pure silk. There was also a pair of pumps, made of the same silk, and a velvet cloak.
Ivora dressed and spun around, enjoying the flowing sound of the material. The dress had a dark blue bodice with elegant floral patterns, and it was more than she could take.
How in the world could the worcog know she loved blue? A mere coincidence, perhaps?
She skipped out the cave, her spirits elevated. But then she remembered the deal she made with the worcog the previous evening, and her mood deflated.
Of course. How could she forget? She’d made a bargain, and the dress was the price.
Somehow, the dress became tainted, and she had half a mind to rush back up the tunnel and take it off. Yet the memory of her stained nightdress convinced her to keep it on.
Suppose it would be a disservice to the necklace if she refused to wear the dress. Ivora may as well get her money’s worth. And she could always keep both when she stole the necklace back. By then she’d be long gone, and the worcog would ne
ver find her.
She tiptoed down the tunnel, trying to avoid the stalagmites. Soon she spotted a warm glow and found the main cave. The worcog was nowhere in sight.
So she moved on and searched the rest of the mountain. Just how big was the worcog’s lair, anyway? It seemed to go on and on with no end in sight. Tunnel after tunnel, cave after cave.
It wasn’t until the fifth cave when she found a room full of clothes. Expensive garments filled the hollow space, and Ivora couldn’t believe what she was seeing. All obviously stolen. There were more silk dresses.
She walked out the cave, unable to look anymore, and headed off down the mountain.
Ivora reached the end of one tunnel and met a great white waterfall. She narrowed her eyes against the spray and peered down into the valley. A silver stream glistened in the sunlight, and purple heather coated lush green hills. A true work of art: Ivora wouldn’t mind painting it one day.
Cupping her hands, she placed them under the fall and took her fill. So fresh, it cooled her dry, hoarse throat.
Suddenly, she had the urge to relieve herself and crossed her legs. She had to get out the mountain, fast. But was she ready to brave the wolf?
Ivora dashed down the tunnel. Sunlight seeped out from a hollow further down, and she slipped through the hole. Except she wound up in another cave.
The sunlight poked through cracks in the ceiling above, stretching white beams across the cloudy cave. Dust swirled in her wake as she moved her way across, the urge to relieve herself all but forgotten.
Towers of books reached towards the ceiling, and junk littered every corner: Ivora spotted a spinning globe, a battered grandfather clock, and an unused telescope.
She squirmed at the mess; the worcog had no sense of organisation whatsoever. One sneeze and she’d knock down a book tower.
A desk sat in the corner. Unlike the cave, it was free of clutter. Rolls of parchment lay on top, and a jar of ink and several quills.
Ivora picked up a scroll and skimmed her eyes over the worcog’s handwriting. His scrawl was long and slanted, and she bubbled with jealousy. She placed it back and searched the book titles. They were a variety of history books and other scholarly articles, but no fiction.
She spotted the golden spine of a familiar book and breathed in a mouthful of dust. She coughed, banging her chest, then gazed back at the book.
It had to be the same volume.
Reaching up onto her toes, she carefully removed the book from the tower, her heart thrashing inside her ribs. The tower remained intact, and she released a sigh.
The shining gold font brought back childhood memories of staying up past her bedtime; the book was the same as the one she’d had growing up. The title read “One Thousand Fairy Tales Retold for the Young and Old.”
She flipped through the pages and found the tale. Mother used to read it to her all the time.
The main character was a beautiful queen by the name of Morhianna. The queen had once flourished in the realm, bringing human and fae peacefully together. But then humanity had become corrupt and twisted in their ways, causing her to recede further and further, and thus taking all her love and magic with her. She would only return when one human restored her faith, bringing her love and joy back to all living creatures.
“What are you doing?”
Ivora startled and slammed the book shut.
The worcog lurked in the shadows, his glowing eyes seeming to float. He stepped into the light, and Ivora’s insides squirmed. On his back lay a dead deer. It gazed vapidly at the ceiling, and she looked away, a lump in her throat.
“I... was reading,” she said.
He walked towards her and she recoiled, trying not to vomit. The stench of death clung all over him.
He snatched the book from her hands, flipped through its pages to make sure they were all accounted for, and slammed it shut. Then he threw the book aside and glowered her way.
She turned to meet his frosty stare.
“Get out,” he breathed.
She obliged, glad for the chance to escape the smell of blood, and rushed down the tunnel.
His footsteps echoed behind her. She picked up her pace, eager to get away, but he caught up. Now he was right at her heels.
“Would you move along? Some of this blood’s dripping down to my undergarments.”
Ivora paused. “What?”
“Move!”
She backed up to the wall, allowing him passage. The deer’s head wobbled on his shoulder as he passed, its glassy eye never leaving the ceiling.
Ivora followed down after him, keeping her distance, yet she was curious to know where he was heading.
After a few beats, he stopped and turned. “Are you my shadow now?”
Ivora furrowed her brows. “No.”
“Then stop following me.”
She was about to retort, but he shot off again.
Ivora sighed. “Wait...”
He looked her way again, yellow eyes cold and impatient.
Her mouth dried up. Where does she even begin? “I’m... sorry about what I said last night.”
His hardened face softened, and he gazed awkwardly to the right.
“And... thank you for returning the lamp, too. You didn’t have to do that.”
His upper lip twitched, and for a moment it appeared he was trying to smile. Ivora grinned, hoping it would help him.
A few more uncomfortable seconds passed, and then he moved off again. She raced after him, panting heavily. “Hold on... can you point me the way out? I need to go outside.”
“Nature calling?” he said.
Ivora’s cheeks flushed. “No!”
A smile definitely formed on his lips the second time, and she shook her head. He was disgusting.
They arrived at a fork in the tunnel. The worcog pointed to the left opening. “That one will lead you to the foot of the mountain.”
Ivora gazed down the tunnel. It looked to be miles long, but as the worcog said, nature called.
“Are you going down the right tunnel?” she asked.
He shifted the deer up on his back. “Yes.”
“What’s down there?”
“The pantry.”
Ivora gasped in mock surprise. “You have a pantry? How interesting.”
The worcog’s eyes simmered beneath the lamplight. Ivora had never wanted anything more than to rip her tongue out.
He headed for the right tunnel.
Ivora waved her hand. “Hold on.”
The worcog sighed and spun around. “What?”
She twirled her thumbs together. “Erm... what’s your name?”
His eyes widened, and he stumbled for words. Then he swallowed and uttered a pair of strange syllables.
Ivora stepped closer. “Wiggle?”
“Wee-gul.”
“Oh... Weegel.” She considered the name. “That’s a nice name.”
“No, it’s not.”
Ivora buttoned her lips. Why did she bother?
He met her gaze again. “Is there anything else you want?”
She thought for a second. “No. I’m Ivy, in case you were curious.”
For now, she would give him the short version.
Weegel watched her for a while. Ivora played with a strand of her hair, uncomfortable under his scrutinising gaze.
“The dress suits you,” he said.
She blushed and turned away. “Just... something I found lying around.”
He smiled with his eyes as he made a move down the tunnel. He stopped at the threshold, and after a brief pause, he slipped a hand into his pocket and passed her a knife.
“Go around to the north side of the mountain,” he said. “Wild heather grows in abundance this time of year. When you get back, go to the dress room, find some linen, and stuff it with heather. That way you can make yourself a comfy bed.”
Ivora stared down at the knife. Her reflection gazed back up from its shiny surface.
Weegel vanished at last.
“Thank you,” she said.
His small voice echoed back.
Smiling happily to herself, she pocketed the knife away and moved down the other tunnel.
Maybe her time in the mountain wouldn’t be so horrible after all.
9. Weegel
Weegel waited with bated breath as the goblin studied the Westwind seal. One eye was amplified by a magnifying glass, giving his distorted face an even more alarming appearance.
The goblin’s clawed fingers gently caressed the diamonds, and it was more than Weegel could bear. Even the sound of the goblin’s raspy breaths was enough to set him on edge, and his old, musty scent made him want to gag. Suppose he shouldn’t be too harsh — the goblin was over a hundred and fifty years old. White tuffs of hair stuck up on his bald, liver-spotted head, and his face seemed to be etched into a permanent scowl.
Finally, the goblin finished and fixed Weegel with a cool stare typical of his kind. However, the master pawnbroker appeared to be a little icier than usual today.
“Two hundred suns.”
Weegel felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach, and he shook his head in disbelief. “No. That seal has to be worth at least two thousand.”
“Two hundred. That’s my offer.”
Weegel leaned over the desk. The goblin wasn’t much shorter than he was, but a sour look in the old timer’s eyes confirmed he would not tolerate Weegel’s nonsense. After all, he had lived through three goblin wars.
The number of wars Weegel had seen: zero.
Weegel took a deep breath and met the goblin’s amplified eye. “I don’t think you understand. That is a Westwind seal. One of the oldest, noblest families in the kingdom.”
The goblin bared his yellowed teeth. “I don’t care if it belonged to the king of the bloody sugarplum fairies, two hundred suns.”
Weegel raised a brow. Sugarplum Fairy?
“The family’s dead,” he went on. “It’s rare.”
“Two hundred.”
“They lived on the back of a giant sea beast for crying out loud. That has to amount to something.”
“One hundred.”
Weegel’s eye twitched. The goblin’s black beady eyes were set. No matter what he said, the old timer would not change his mind.
