by Lisa Fiedler
“A lurlquake,” she murmured, reluctantly impressed, for she knew this was no ordinary tectonic shift. This was Mombi, the Krumbic one, announcing her presence.
And she certainly knew how to make an entrance.
“Keep buffing,” Marada told the boy, who did as he was told, even as the floor shook violently beneath him.
Chunks of the paving stones spilled into the widening crack, and a stench exploded from below. Was this what it was like for the mine workers, in the cavernous depths? Marada wondered. All steam and stank and gaseous belching? She certainly hoped it was.
“Greetings, Brash Warrior.”
Immediately Marada dropped to her knees in a gesture of reverence. Her eyes shot to the corner, where the boy was still hard at work, spit-shining the silver gauntlets as though nothing even remotely unnerving was afoot. Brave little idiot.
Of the quake, she inquired, “To what do I owe the honor of this visitation?”
A belch of hot smoke exploded from the shattered floor. “Marching orders! You will deploy your horned and hooved and woolly army to Quadling Country for the purpose of capturing the young Foursworn rebel Glinda Gavaria. It will be an aggressive campaign, as I have already issued this same command to your sisters-in-arms.”
“They are not my sisters,” the Warrior growled, then choked out humbly, “but I will endeavor to tolerate the presence of Ava and Daspina and do my best to enjoy the war.”
“You misunderstand me,” the lurlquake intoned in a way that made Marada feel as if it were wagging a finger at her. “You will not be joining your cattle beasts for this attack.” The expulsion of gassy odor that followed told Marada exactly what Mombi thought of her army of draft animals.
“But I am a Warrior,” Marada protested. “That’s what I do . . . I attack.”
More gas rose from the broken floor, and cracks began to snake up the stone walls. “Not this time you don’t,” the quake retorted. “But you mustn’t feel slighted. The Witches of the East and West will be sending their armies, but they too are forbidden to take part. I cannot risk you turning on one another in battle. If you’ll recall, that is precisely what happened the last time I sent the three of you and your fallen sister to collect a prize, and you failed spectacularly.”
Marada flinched, wishing she had her Silver Gauntlets back, if only to conceal the angry twitching of her fingers. It had been ages since the murder of King Oz, and she’d nearly succeeded in wiping the shameful recollection from her mind completely. But leave it to this Krumbic tremor to bring it all back—the vivid image of the moment in which the Warrior and the other three Wickeds had divested the fading king of his armor. In their selfish excitement, they had neglected to gather the Gifts they’d been sent for, and they had been paying for that mistake ever since.
“How unfortunate that you don’t have an army of your own to carry out this mission,” Marada grumbled. “Then you would not have to rely on ours.”
There was a vicious shudder as the fault line widened between the kneeling Witch’s calloused knees; she struggled to straddle the chasm without falling in.
“Oh, but I will have an army,” the quake retorted. “And to that end, I require from you a particular trinket. A Golden Cap, which you bullied away from some simpering miner some time ago. Do you recall it?”
Marada made a quick mental accounting of the offerings she’d collected from desperate Gillikins over the years and could not for the life of her imagine why Mombi would want that one. When she’d acquired the cap, Marada had wondered how the miner had come to be in possession of such a peculiar piece of headwear. She’d asked him that very question with a blade to his throat, and his answer was that he’d uncovered it deep in the northernmost mines of Gillikin. Her only motive for accepting it was that it had seemed quite precious to him and she liked robbing her slaves of the things they cherished most. Having no interest in it herself, however, she’d tossed it into a chest and promptly forgotten all about it.
Until now.
“It is an unsightly gemstone-studded bonnet made of velvet, the color of which puts one in mind of jaundice. Ridiculous earflaps, if memory serves. Oh, and some poetical nonsense inscribed on the underside. ‘Ep Kak’ something-or-other. In my estimation, it is not only hideous but monumentally useless as well.”
It was at this point that the boy stepped out of the shadows and handed the Silver Gauntlets back to Marada as indifferently as if they were a handkerchief he’d borrowed and soiled with snot.
A murky cloud billowed up from the roiling guts of Lurlia, sweeping toward the boy for a closer look. “Who have we here?”
“Just some scruffy little pickpocket,” Marada said, slipping the gauntlets on and clenching her fists inside them. “Gillikin garbage, nothing more.”
“I am Thruff,” the boy proclaimed. “Son of Norr.”
The malodorous vapors took a moment to inspect the urchin, swirling around him as if he were a thing of great interest. “How angry you are!”
Thruff shrugged, as though he saw no reason to dispute it. For it was true; his rage all but crackled off him in sparks. Marada noticed her gauntlets had never looked better.
“What does this Golden Cap do?” he asked the quake.
Marada stiffened, fully expecting that in the next moment she’d be sweeping his bones off the floor. How dare he presume to question the fifth Witch! Didn’t he know she could slay him with a blink of her eyes, or implode him by simply blowing him a kiss? Marada very much disliked the possibility of having Gillikin guts splattered across her throne room.
But to the Warrior’s surprise, the quake seemed impressed by the urchin’s nerve and went on to enlighten him with uncharacteristic patience:
“The cap is an ancient thing A wedding gift that went awry—or so the legend goes. It grants the one who wears it the power to control a staggeringly unique army.”
Marada’s bloodshot eyes nearly popped out of her head. To think she’d had this remarkable item in her keeping all this time, and had never had so much as an inkling of its Magic. Had she not still been kneeling, she would have stomped her oversize feet in fury.
“Control is a great power indeed,” Thruff noted, his mouth quirking up into a lopsided grin. “And who better to wield such might than you, quake?”
“You are a wise lad,” the quake allowed.
The Warrior’s guts clenched at the issuance of such praise for the little upstart who should have been, at that very moment, clinging to a fraying rope and being lowered into a deep hole in the world. She wanted to slap the insolence right out of him. Or kick him hard in his bony rib cage. Where did this malnourished little bumpkin get off exhibiting such gumption? Perhaps she should consider employing tighter, rustier manacles in the future.
“Thank you, Your Seismicness,” the scamp replied.
Marada had had enough. “Shut up and go fetch the cap!” she boomed. “And be quick about it or I’ll break you in half.”
She told him harshly where he could find it, and he scurried off through the antechamber. When he was gone, she rose from her knees and lumbered across the broken room to her throne. Whatever brittle chunk of a thing it was that throbbed in the place where her heart should be was aching. To think, a battle—a real weapon-slinging, enemy-bashing, land-decimating battle—was forthcoming . . . and she was not invited.
And what of this silly yellow hat? Rightfully, it belonged to her. Shouldn’t that count for something? Settling into her chair, she addressed the chasm in her floor. “So the cap commands an army, you say?”
“Not the cap itself, you witless Warrior. The one who wears it! If you had been sporting it when I arrived, that honor would be yours, and I would have been powerless to take it from you.”
Marada sank in her stony chair. “Not even by brute force? Because that certainly seems like something you would do.”
Another violent fault split open across the floor. Marada took that as a “no.”
“Once the cap is donned,
it cannot be taken by another, not by any means. The wearer is gifted with three opportunities to lead the most ruthless army in all of Oz. This right endures until the cap is removed by the wearer.”
Marada scowled, wishing the quake would depart and leave her to regret her ignorance in private. But she knew this Krumbic upset would not go without her treasure.
“Where has that dirty-elbowed little yak turd got off to anyway?” she spat. “Thrufffffff of Gillikin! Demonstrate your miserable presence at once.”
And so he did, returning instantaneously from where he had been listening in the antechamber. He flashed a triumphant smile.
Marada’s eyes went wide as a commotion arose outside the narrow windows—fierce chattering, a frenzied flapping of giant wings, and hundreds upon hundreds of furry tails, whipping and snapping in the stormy sky.
The quake shook with fury, but even the quivering of the castle could not keep the hard line of Marada’s mouth from bending into a vindictive grin.
Because Thruff, the eavesdropping, pickpocket scamp, had placed the Golden Cap upon his head.
And there was not a blasted thing the Krumbic one could do about it.
6
MEMORIES, AND KNOWLEDGE, AND WISHES GO BYE!
Glinda dashed to the Grand Drawing Room and shook Locasta awake.
For this she was rewarded with a very nasty glare. “This better be important, Glimpy. The sun is barely up!”
“It’s very important,” Glinda assured her, hurrying to where Ursie was curled in an overstuffed chair and shaking her, too. Ben was stretched out on the plush carpet, under a blanket, with his trusty knapsack at his side. “Wake up, Urs. Benjamin, Shade—” Her eyes scanned the large space. “Where’s Shade?”
“Who knows?” Feathertop muttered sleepily from the depths of the urn. “Out spying somewhere would be my guess.”
Ben let out a great yawn. “What’s all the commotion? It’s barely daylight.”
“We’re going to the cellar.”
Locasta was suddenly wide awake. “You mean the dungeon,” she corrected, leaping up from the couch to begin strapping on her boots.
“Why?” asked Ursie, rubbing her eyes.
“Because we need to talk to Madam Mentir. She’s the only one who might be able to tell me why the Witches are planning to steal the Moon Fairy. And if I ask her, it might be considered learning. So I need you to come and ask her for me.”
This statement was met with three wide-eyed, slack-jawed stares.
Locasta stopped strapping. “What did you say?”
“I said I need you to ask Mentir—”
“Not that part. The other part . . . about stealing the Moon Fairy!”
“Oh, that.” Glinda felt her face flush scarlet. “I guess I never did tell you how Aphidina discovered my mother was a Grand Adept, did I?”
“No,” said Ben. “You didn’t.”
“But please,” said Ursie, raising an eyebrow. “Do enlighten us.”
“Yeah,” said Locasta with a ferocious yank on her bootstrap. “Enlighten us. And fast.”
“Well . . .” Glinda drew a deep breath. “The night before Declaration Day, my mother summoned a Magical vision with the help of Elucida, the Moon Fairy. The vision was of all four of the Wicked Witches working together in what my mother coined a ‘confluence of evil.’ They were standing together in a circle as though they were four points on some giant compass.”
“Compass?” Locasta repeated, her voice catching.
Glinda nodded. “They seemed to be united in the performance of some Wicked ceremony . . . to steal Princess Elucida from the moon.”
Ursie gasped. Ben went pale. In the urn, Feathertop gave a little chirp of disbelief.
“And you never thought to mention this vision before?” Locasta hissed. “Since it turns out it was the whole reason we went on the quest for the Fire Fairy in the first place?”
“I didn’t see any pointing in scaring anyone,” was Glinda’s defensive reply. “More than we already were, that is.”
“That’s understandable,” Ben conceded, slinging his knapsack across his chest. “But Glinda, if there’s anything else we should know about this vision, now is the time to reveal it.”
Glinda swallowed hard. “Not that I can think of,” she hedged. Though of course, there was something else, something hugely significant—and that was the fact that she, her mother, and an unknown third party appeared to be unwilling participants in the Witches’ dark Magic.
“All right, then,” said Locasta with a nod. “To the dungeon.”
* * *
Two former Quadling soldiers, now proud and loyal members of the Foursworn army, were guarding the door to a small, dank storage area in the academy basement.
“Allow me!” said Locasta. Pointing her foot at the door, she circled her ankle once to the right, then back to the left. Then she shook her shoulders and spun on her toes.
The door dissolved into a heap of shavings and splinters.
“Or you could have just used that,” said Ben, indicating the iron key that hung from one of the soldiers’ belts.
“I could have.” Locasta grinned. “But what fun would that’ve been?”
Glinda peered through the doorway into the dimly lit space beyond. Recalling how the headmistress had summoned her on the morning of Declaration, she shouted in an icy tone, “Madam Mentir! Approach!”
From out of the shadows, Mentir rushed forward, forcing a friendly smile. “Glinda! My favorite student! How lovely your hair looks this morning! Whatever was I thinking when I asked you to braid it?”
Ursie giggled. “Someone’s certainly changed her tune, hasn’t she?”
“I want you to tell me what Aphidina and the others were planning to do with the Moon Fairy,” Glinda commanded.
At this, Mentir looked astonished. “You know about that?”
Glinda’s response was a slow nod.
“Well, I always knew you were one of the truly intelligent ones,” Mentir gushed. “And I’ll be happy to tell you everything I know about the Ritual of Endless Shadow if only—”
“Ritual of Endless Shadow?” Glinda echoed. The menacing name brought up goose bumps on her arms. “Is that what it’s called?”
“Yes, yes, it is. But for ages, we Wickeds have feared that the ceremony would be impossible to execute, what with the death of she who had the Magic and the Elemental Fairies concealing themselves and all.”
Glinda’s heart crashed in her chest. “So the ceremony has something to do with Elementals?”
“Of course it has something to do with them,” Mentir crooned, looking smug. “It has quite a lot to do with them, in fact. And if you’ll just extend to me your official pardon and grant me immunity from punishment for a lifetime of Wicked wrongdoing, I will be happy to explain it all to you.”
“Do you really think you’re in a position to negotiate?” Locasta snarled, lunging for the headmistress and clamping her hands down on her shoulders.
Mentir recoiled from Locasta’s touch. “Take your hands off me, you filthy Gillikin brat!”
“I will, when you tell Glinda what she wants to know.”
“Very well, I’ll tell her!” cried Mentir, composing herself. “The purpose of the Ritual of Endless Shadow is to—”
Her next words were drowned out by a wild screech from the far corner of the shadowy room as Misty Clarence, the Dean of Disastrous Decisions, came barreling out of the gloom.
“Traitor!” she wailed, pointing a trembling finger right at Mentir’s forehead.
Glinda’s gut seized because she recognized this gesture; she’d seen it too many times not to. This was how the dean had always begun the process of Youngifaction. “No! Don’t!”
But Misty was already chanting in a voice like boiling oil:
“Old you are, but young you’ll grow
And what you knew, you will not know
You shan’t succeed in this betrayal
For Youngifaction does
not fail.”
One of the soldiers jumped forth to cover Misty’s pointer finger, but it was too late. The headmistress’s wrinkled skin was already pulling itself taut across her cheekbones, and in a violent series of jerks and creaks her whole body contracted, her waist cinching in so quickly it nearly choked the breath from her shrinking lungs. Smaller and smaller she grew, and less and less important she became. They watched as her power bled away with her adulthood until she stood before them a puny, pinch-faced little girl.
Ben looked stunned. “Um . . . what just happened?”
“She’s been Youngified,” Glinda choked as the Fledgling-size Mentir squirmed a tiny finger up into her nostril. “She’s forgotten everything she ever knew.”
“Like the rules about nose picking in public, for instance?” Locasta observed with disgust.
“Like what she was about to tell us about the Ritual of Endless Shadow,” Glinda clarified, crushed.
“Where am I?” the mini Mentir demanded, sticking her pinky up her other nostril. “And why is my hair unbound? Where are my hair ribbons?”
“Now what do we do with her?” asked Ben.
“Well, we can’t leave her in the dungeon,” Glinda said with a sigh. “She’s a child.”
“I have an idea,” said Ursie, turning to the soldiers. “Please bring the headmistress directly to the Hitherinyon homestead. She’ll make a perfect little playmate for my young charge Gertzsplatch.”
“And for the love of Oz,” Locasta muttered, “somebody give her a handkerchief.”
As Glinda watched the soldiers lead the mite-size Madam Mentir away by the hand, she noticed a most peculiar thing.
Shimmering around the child’s head were several tiny, crackling flashes, like miniature lightning bolts.
Locasta saw them too. Whirling on Misty and narrowing her eyes, she asked, “What’s with the fireworks?”
“That is the stuff of Mentir’s youth,” Misty replied haughtily. “Memories, and knowledge, and wishes, all reduced to static electricity, thanks to the power of my Wizardry.”
“I never noticed any ‘static’ when you performed all those Youngifactions at Declaration Day ceremonies,” Glinda challenged.
