A Dark Descent

by Lisa Fiedler

She could still hear the shrieks and cries of her neighbors echoing through the little shantytown as the soldier whose dagger Thruff had stolen threw the unconscious boy over his shoulder and began marching back toward the castle.

  “Wait! Stop! Wait!” The words felt as if they were being torn from her throat.

  The Witch had stopped dead in her tracks. “You dare to give me an order?”

  “Not an order, Your Maliciousness,” Locasta had said, hastily adjusting her tone. “A most reverent request.” Then she’d dropped to her knees, ignoring the malodorous muck seeping through the lilac cotton of her nightshirt. “If I offer you something, will you give him back?” Withdrawing a treasure from her pocket, she held it up for the Witch to admire, and forced down the lump rising in her throat. “He’s my brother. He’s all I have.”

  “He is not all you have, clearly, if you are in possession of this fine bauble,” the Witch had countered. “It’s gold. Solid gold.” She examined the thing as though she were trying to decide if the brightness of the gold would clash with—or worse, outshine—the silver of her gauntlets. “Where did you get it? Did you steal it?”

  Locasta shook her head.

  “Too bad. I’d be impressed if you had.”

  Locasta had extended the treasure a little farther toward the Witch. “Take it,” she persisted, looking at Thruff dangling from the guard’s shoulder; his eyelids fluttered open to meet hers briefly before closing again. “Take it in exchange for my brother, and I vow he will never bother you again.”

  “Very well,” said the Witch, plucking the object from Locasta’s palm with her thick forefinger and stubby thumb. “I shall accept your levy offering.”

  “And give me back my brother,” Locasta clarified. “Right?”

  “Wrong, dung beetle. Very, very wrong.”

  “But—”

  Marada had laughed then, and it was a sound like rust and rot. “Did you think I would deign to barter with a mine-rat like you?” she’d roared. “I am the Wicked Warrior Witch of the North and your brother is a spoil of war!”

  With that, she had turned her back on Locasta and tromped off down the path, the spurs of her sandals spewing muck.

  Locasta had remained on her knees in the mud long after the Witch and her soldiers had disappeared from view; long after her neighbors had retreated into their tents and shacks and lean-tos, slightly more broken than they had been the day before, slightly less of who they might have become if the Witch had never come to rule Gillikin in the wake of Good King Oz’s passing.

  She’d kept her eyes on the castle in the distance until she heard the faint clatter and clunk of the portcullis closing. It was then she knew that Thruff had accomplished exactly what he’d set out to do. He was with the Witch.

  He had gotten his wish.

  And the Witch had gotten their father’s compass.

  Locasta had surrendered it for nothing, without knowing how truly, incomparably valuable it was.

  It had taken all she had not to curl up in a tight little ball right there on the path and weep. But Locasta—who was the daughter of Norr, who was the Entrusted of Terra (though at the time she hadn’t known that, either)—did not curl nor cry.

  She got to her feet. And with steady strides on sturdy legs, she stomped back to her miserable little house. There she’d tugged off her soiled nightdress, put on her mining clothes—patched purple overalls and a threadbare shirt—and set out for Quadling Country.

  Her father had once told her—almost in passing, almost as if it didn’t matter much at all—that if she ever found herself in trouble, she should make her way as cautiously as possible to the South, where she should seek a pretty young teacher-Sorceress who would bring her to the Grand Adept. Locasta hadn’t really understood at the time; she’d been too preoccupied with admiring the amethyst stones he’d been holding in his hands. The same stones she carried in her pocket now.

  For luck.

  On that trek from Gillikin to Quadling she’d traveled under cover of darkness, napping during the daylight hours in the thick shadows of tamorna trees, and waking at dusk to feast on the delicious tamorna fruit that dropped from their branches like gifts from the Land of Oz itself.

  It was from one of these naps that she awoke to find she’d somehow shed her shabby mining clothes and that they had been inexplicably replaced by a most terrific sort of warrior’s garb—a hooded tunic of pale violet with leather knee breeches tucked into tall, strapped boots. Discouragingly, her manacles had not vanished with her overalls (that had not happened until Tilda Gavaria had turned them to gold), but there was no denying that the tunic and trousers were a great improvement. And despite the fact that she could not explain it, all in all it had been a most restful and productive sleep.

  Sleep. The mere thought of it brought forth a huge yawn. And no wonder; she’d barely dozed at all last night, planning her stealthy exit. Consulting Tilda’s embroidered landscape, she determined that she had already traversed several miles of Quadling terrain.

  Ahead she spied a small patch of poppies, which the map identified as the Dreaming Field. Sounds like an exceptional place to rest, she thought, and was instantly overcome with the urge to close her eyes. But it was not all the fault of the poppies. It was also the work of someone else. Someone who was leaning down to tickle her cheek with one of the bright red flowers, which he’d yanked up by the roots.

  With a start, Locasta opened her eyes. Then she jumped to her feet and pulled Glinda’s sword from her sash. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Look closely,” the stranger said. “Don’t I look familiar to you?”

  Locasta studied him through narrowed eyes.

  “Picture me less animated,” he advised, flashing what he had once described to the owner of the sword she was wielding as his disarmingly crooked smile. “Imagine me carved in stone. And make it obsidian; I always did look fabulous in black.”

  Warily, Locasta continued her examination of the stranger in his strange garb—he wore fitted gray trousers and a tight shirt that seemed to glow from within, as if he’d ventured too close to the stars and some of their light had rubbed off on him.

  And he was carrying a scepter.

  “You look a bit like the Timeless Magician from the Arc of Heroes,” said Locasta.

  Eturnus beamed. “And with good reason. I’m him.” He gestured to the blade she was aiming at him. “I helped your friend forge this little beauty, you know. She doesn’t remember meeting me, of course. And neither do you. If you did, you’d be thanking me for that fashionable-yet-battle-ready ensemble you’re sporting.”

  Locasta looked down at her clothing, then back up at the Timeless one. “You did this?”

  “I did, the last time you decided to go traipsing about through unwelcoming countrysides unescorted. And since you’re up to your old tricks, I might as well be up to mine.”

  Locasta narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I’ve come to escort you.”

  “To where?”

  “To a place where only I can take you,” Eturnus replied with a wink. “To a place that is farther than you can imagine and closer than you think.” With that, he took Locasta’s hand.

  “Lurl Ly Lee, Listen and Be

  Lurl Ly Lo, Question and Know

  Lee Lily Lurl, Time Shall Unfurl

  Lee Lolly Lawl, Truth Above All!”

  Then he waved his scepter in the air. “To the past!”

  “So much for my nap,” Locasta muttered, and Eturnus let out a jovial crack of laughter.

  It was the last thing she heard before everything went light.

  21

  THE PARAGON CHEST

  For a long time, Glinda sat on the hard chair in Mythra’s cave, unable to form words.

  The Mystic—her grandmother—made excellent use of the silence, clearing the untidy table of its crusty bowls and sticky cups by simply employing a grand flourish of her arm. Where the clutter disappeared to
was anyone’s guess. Then she removed the shawl from her shoulders, twirled it once over her head, and brought it down in a billow—not of itchy wool but of sheer, sparkling gossamer. This she draped over the scarred wood of the tabletop.

  That done, she closed her eyes and recited a simple incantation:

  “Magic work at my request

  Bring to me the Paragon Chest.”

  The musty air seemed to gather itself together as though the cave were drawing a deep, dank breath. A moment later the cave exhaled, and this became a solid object. An exquisite wooden chest, sitting upon the gossamer cloth in the center of the table. Both were almost exact replicas of the ones Tilda had used when she’d presented Glinda’s Magic to her on Declaration Day.

  Well, thought Glinda, I see my mother comes by her traditions honestly.

  “Yes, she does,” said Mythra, addressing the unspoken observation. “The tamorna doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “So you’re really and truly my grandmother?” Glinda’s voice was a mix of astonishment and glee.

  “I am.”

  Unable to contain herself, Glinda jumped up from her chair and threw her arms around the Priestess. “This is so wonderful! Wonderful in large amounts. I have always wished for a grandmother!” Looking up at Mythra’s face, she wondered how she hadn’t seen it immediately; of course this revered Mystic was her mother’s mother. They had the same eyes—that lovely shade of greenish gold, crackling with intelligence. “What shall I call you?” Glinda blurted.

  “Call me?”

  “Well, ‘Grandmother’ seems terribly formal. ‘Nana,’ perhaps? Or maybe that’s too precious.”

  Mythra was looking at her with an expression of startled disdain.

  “Oh! I have just the name!” Glinda cried, throwing herself back into the hug. “It’s perfect! Dignified yet affectionate. Sophisticated but sweet. Yes! I shall call you . . . ‘Grand-mamá’! What do you think of ‘Grand-mamá,’ Grand-mamá?”

  Extracting herself from the embrace, Mythra fixed Glinda with a stern glare. “Do I look like someone’s Grand-mamá?” she demanded in an icy voice. “No. I most certainly do not. You may call me Mythra, or Priestess. One or the other, both if you wish, but never, ever Grand-mamá. Is that understood?”

  Glinda managed a nod and the subject of endearments was closed.

  Now Mythra swept her hand over the chest. “Do you know what a paragon is?”

  “Someone or something that is regarded as a perfect or quintessential example of some worthy quality,” was Glinda’s prompt reply. “At least, that’s the definition I was taught in a class called Approved Vocabulary for Girls.”

  “That is a ridiculous name for a course of academic study,” Mythra opined tartly. “But you are correct.” She tapped the lid of the trunk. “Inside this chest you will find four Magical Paragons. Items that will become exemplary representations of the craft of Good Sorcery.”

  Glinda nodded to indicate she understood the importance.

  “As a Sorceress-in-training, you have more to learn than you can even begin to imagine. And the timing could not be worse, what with everything else with which you have to concern yourself. Think of all the things weighing on you at this moment.”

  Glinda hardly needed to be reminded of her distress: Oz’s future, her mother’s safety, her friends in the aftermath of the monkey battle, which she was certain they had lost. Each of these on its own was upsetting; combined, they were almost too much to bear, and suddenly she could think of nothing else but her worries. Panic swooped down on her; misery rose from the pit of her stomach.

  “Now,” barked Mythra, “open the chest!”

  The Sorceress-in-training did as she was told, and the next order came in a shout so harsh that Glinda nearly jumped out of her seat.

  “EMPTY IT!”

  With a yelp, Glinda reached into the trunk. Her hand immediately clunked against something large. Shaking the sting from her knuckles, she gave the thing a yank, then winced when a bolt of pain shot through her shoulder. She gave another tug but the object, whatever it was, did not budge.

  “Problem, Zephyr?”

  “It’s much too heavy.”

  Mythra’s nostrils flared with disgust.

  Biting back her embarrassment, Glinda made a third attempt; this time she climbed onto the chair, reached down into the chest with both hands, and gave a mighty heave. But again, the weighty object remained where it was.

  “I suppose it never occurred to you to use a spell?”

  “I didn’t realize that was allowed.”

  “You are undertaking your Magical training, yet you did not imagine that Magic would be permitted?”

  Glinda’s cheeks flushed. “I suppose not. But you said yourself I’ve got a lot on my mind. I’m worried about my friends. I’m scared for Oz.”

  The Priestess let out an impatient sigh and dipped her hand into the chest. When she withdrew it again, there was an enormous rectangular shield balancing on the tip of her pinky finger. She let it drop to the ground, where it made a hollow clunk that practically rattled Glinda’s teeth.

  The shield appeared to be made of lead, which to Glinda’s way of thinking seemed thoroughly illogical. The face of it was dull gray and unadorned, except for a small round indentation in the exact center, about the size of the glass cap on Roquat’s collide-o-scope.

  Ben. Trapped and spinning, with no hope of rescue.

  “Lift it,” Mythra commanded.

  But the memory of Ben set Glinda’s mind roiling with other images: Locasta left behind to fend off those horrid monkeys; Shade, unseen and unheard from; Tilda, a fugitive from the Wicked fifth Witch. Glinda hunched down in front of the shield and wrapped her arms around it. Now that she knew she could use Magic, she quickly composed a spell:

  “Grant me a gift, the gift of a lift!” Then she heaved.

  And heaved.

  To no avail.

  Ignoring Mythra’s scowl, Glinda stepped back to examine the shield from the other side and saw that there was a handle—a rod bolted across the upper half. She slid her fingers under it, grasped tightly, and tried to lift again, shouting out the command, “Shield, YIELD!”

  But the ridiculous hunk of lead remained on the ground.

  “Imagine that you are engaged in battle,” Mythra prompted. “Tell me, who is your opponent? Right here and now, who is your foe?”

  “The fifth Witch,” Glinda replied automatically, grunting the words as she tried yet again to pick up the leaden shield.

  “But the fifth Witch isn’t here,” Mythra retorted. “So who exactly are you fighting? And if you wish for this training to continue, I strongly advise you not to identify me as your enemy.”

  Glinda was glad for the warning, as that was to be her next answer.

  “Time is my enemy,” she guessed, squeezing the handle tighter and giving it another good hoist. “I am racing against time to defeat the Witches.”

  “Nice try, but Time is everyone’s enemy,” Mythra sneered. “It is also our dearest friend. Now, lift again, and whatever you do, do not imagine the guilt you will be forced to endure should you fail in your quest to bring down the Wicked reign.”

  Well, thanks for bringing that up! thought Glinda, for she could suddenly imagine nothing else. She jerked on the shield as hard as she could, but still it would not move.

  “Think, Glinda!” Mythra was circling her now, like a vulture. “You’re engaged in a battle and you don’t even know who you’re fighting! Think! Who do you need to shield yourself from?”

  Glinda huffed. “I need to shield myself from . . .” She wheezed. “From . . .”

  She didn’t know! The name of her enemy evaded her! Probably because she could no longer think of anything beyond the crushing thoughts of danger and loss that pummeled her. Her breath came in shallow gasps, and her eyes were welling with tears, even as she planted her feet on either side of the infernal shield and pulled, desperate to raise it even a fraction of an inch off t
he ground. But the weight of her emotion bearing down on her made the shield even heavier.

  And in that moment, she understood; the answer exploded from her like thunder.

  “I must shield myself from my own fear! I am my own enemy because I am afraid! Afraid, and sad, and guilty and anxious.”

  To her supreme shock and unbridled relief, the shield rose slightly in her grasp.

  “Yes!” said Mythra. “It’s true that you are in the midst of great internal turmoil, but when has a hero ever been free from such distress? You fight because you are afraid, because there is so much to be lost. A hero fights when the stakes are at their highest, so naturally she comes to the battle with a tortured mind and tormented heart. But you must find a way to carry the fear with you into the fray, without allowing it to distract you from your goal.”

  Glinda groaned, still straining under the weight of the lead. “How can I do that when all I can think of is what might be taken from me if I lose?”

  “Give your fears to the shield, and it will protect you from them. Give voice to that which threatens to hold you down as if you were made of lead and let the shield bear it into battle for you. Shield yourself from yourself, Zephyr. Now . . . start talking!”

  Glinda gritted her teeth; her muscles were trembling, but she did not let go. “I’m afraid my friends were lost in the monkey battle. I’m afraid the Foursworn Stronghold of Truth has been burned to the ground or, worse, has fallen into the hands of the fifth Witch.”

  As she spoke, the shield grew lighter. She lifted it as high as her knees. “What if I can’t rescue Ben from the Nome King’s collide-o-scope? What if even after I have been taught all the Magic I can learn, I still cannot defeat the Witches?”

  With every fear she named, she lifted the rectangle of lead a little higher—it was taking on the weight of her worry, but growing lighter at the same time; lighter and lighter until it was almost weightless and she was finally holding it at proper shoulder height.

  She smiled, awaiting Mythra’s praise.

  But the praise did not come.

  Just a quick, curt nod as Glinda laid the shield on the table beside the Paragon Chest.