Cinderella's Inferno

by F. M. Boughan

  I blinked at the sharpness of his tone, the pain that slipped through. For the first time since we’d descended, I saw the young man my father used to be—the man who had loved his sweet young bride, who had tried to save the world but had sacrificed his beloved in the process. Yes, it had been my mother’s choice, and yes, to not act would have surely resulted in much greater death, and under no reasonable circumstance should my father blame himself for her passing. He was not at fault, neither were. It had been a mutual arrangement.

  And yet, as the caster, he’d been the one to recite the spells. He had woven the dark conjurings that drew away her life force, and because she wasn’t a paladin with heaven’s favor like William, she could not renew herself with little effort, as William had discovered he could on the day he agreed to be the vessel from which I drew strength for my conjurings. It was why we worked so well together in the days after Celia’s banishment, why we had fought and defeated so many evils in the days that followed.

  Not that William appeared to be renewing his strength as quickly now as he usually did, but then we all seemed rather worse for wear.

  Still, how much suffering did it bring my father to be burdened with hope? After all these years without his beloved, to come down here with me surely renewed the agony of his loss. If we didn’t find Aleidis, if we couldn’t free her from entrapment in this place and bring her back to glory—or better, back to the freedom of the living—it would be like losing her a second time. Death twice over.

  I would not let us fail.

  “They’re the Furies,” I said, stretching to the depths of memory to recall images I had seen in both text and storybook. “The infernal goddesses.”

  “Guardians,” my father corrected. “Though if they’re here, they must have a measure of divine power. Before we approach, we should plan how to proceed. Those gates guard against the deepest depths of darkness. Through there is only bitterness and pain, and little hope of escape.”

  “And here I thought we’d been bursting with hope to spare,” Samia mused. “But I should also hope we’ve not come all this way to turn back at the final barrier.”

  “Not the final barrier,” said my father. “The final gate before the true barriers arise, and not so simple as those that came before. This gate gives us one last chance to turn back.”

  “Simple!” William shook his head. “Apparently I should have paid closer attention during my studies.”

  “The worst of mankind is through there,” my father said. “And womankind. All kinds.”

  “Delightful.” Samia patted her pouch with one hand and placed her other upon the hilt of her sword, and I grew even more grateful to have her by our side. “Shall we proceed?”

  So we did, and I wish I could say we walked with renewed confidence and determination toward those monstrous Furies, but in truth we were so tired, so spent and consumed with thirst, that our steps remained tentative and sluggish. I doubted I was the only member of our party who couldn’t stop thinking about the wall of fresh-scented water at our backs. The spray that rose as the water fell hadn’t killed us when we breathed it while crossing the bridge, so it had to be safe for consumption. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as we drew close enough to see the flash of the Furies’ pointed teeth, the beady eyes of their snakes, and each finger and toe of the body upon the spike.

  “We come with peaceful intent,” said my father as we approached—but the Furies’ lips curled and they bore their fangs at us, hissing and spitting. The head of each snake also rose and hissed, some striking at air or even at the breasts of the Furies, who endured it without any show of pain.

  “We seek passage through these gates,” he said, but they paid his words no mind. What had Minos said? I had tamed a guardian already. I had also commanded a ground full of corpses to free us and forced a vengeful spirit into action on our behalf. I would see us through these gates.

  I stepped forward, limbs trembling, stomach roiling. The Fury in the center spread her wings wide, and with one beat began to ascend. Had she been warned of our coming?

  I gathered my will and infused my voice with command. “Stand down, guardian. Step aside and allow us to pass unharmed.”

  The Fury to the right spoke with a harsh, guttural voice that grated my already pained inner ears. “Beyond these gates are the chiefs of heresies, and their followers, of every sect. Day and night they cry laments so grievous no mortal can stand to hear it. They are tormented by flames so torrid that their bones melt like butter. What makes you believe, O mortal, that you can pass through these gates and survive?”

  Oh, but I am a stubborn creature and prone to obstinacy, so instead of pleading our case with grace and patience and honeyed words, I began to laugh. I laughed and laughed, until the coughing fit took hold and I couldn’t breathe for exhaling all the air in my taxed lungs.

  “What is this?” hissed the Fury to our left. “Are you so foolish that our warnings are but a trifle to you? We are bound to judge your condition before allowing passage.”

  “Judge me, then,” I said. “And find if I’m fit to walk among the darkest of souls, if I will find haven among the worst condemned, or if my purity means I will be consumed by horrors.”

  “She asks for judgment,” said the Fury directly before me. “A mortal. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “More than mortal,” William said, and my heart gladdened at his words. “You’ll find you get more than you bargained for with this one.”

  I eyed him with mild amusement. “Do you speak from personal experience, Your Highness?”

  He shrugged, but with a hint of a smile on his lips.

  The Fury stepped forward, and as she drew closer, I had to resist the urge to flee. Her vipers eyed me with either curiosity or hunger, I know not which, and a few raised their heads in such a way that I feared they would bend and strike me at such a close distance. Her eyes, bloodshot and wild, narrowed at mine. As with Minos, I felt a tugging at my thoughts, and once again endured the sense of being laid bare before one of hell’s creatures, as though she endeavored to peel back pieces of my soul to see beneath the façade. I did not want it, did not like it, and though I knew it was necessary to pass through the gate, instinct took over and I pulled all of my mind out of her reach, drawing it as swiftly into myself as fingers that have accidentally brushed hot coals.

  The Fury blinked, shook her head, and hissed. “What are you?” Her gaze swung between us and she backed toward the safety of her sisters. “You shouldn’t be able to do that.”

  I felt a surge of pride at her statement. “I’m unlike the others you’ve encountered, for I am no hero.”

  She bore her teeth once again. “There is a darkness within you. It curls its tendrils around your heart and mind like scorched fingers.” I did not enjoy that statement, however. “You may pass, but the others—”

  “Will come with me,” I said, and though the Furies hissed in anger, they refused to approach or make any gesture to stop us. I decided to test these guardians. I moved forward. They flinched back, recoiling at my advance.

  Ah, yes, I thought. This will do nicely.

  “After me,” I said to our party, and the gate swung open as though it too couldn’t stand to be near me. I crossed the threshold, followed by William and my father, but as Samia’s foot hovered over the entrance, ready to cross over, a loud voice boomed with authority, as if the air itself had spoken.

  “WAIT.”

  The entire assembly paused, Furies the same, faces raised and searching for the source of the voice.

  A figure, too bright to gaze upon in the desolation of the underworld, strode toward us. He emerged from the wood and crossed the rapid flow of the waterfall without wetting his feet, even though he had not bothered to tread upon the bridge. He paused, withdrew a water skin, and dipped it in the water. I might have salivated, had I any moisture to spare.

  “Samia may not cross,” he said, halting a distance fro
m our party. I felt a keen awareness of having heard his voice before, but I couldn’t say from where or to whom it belonged. The brightness about his person obscured his features, preventing me from looking directly at him lest my vision become one bright blur of light. I did know this, however: he didn’t belong here.

  My suspicion was confirmed without asking, for both William and Samia gasped with some measure of recognition. They each dropped to one knee, head bowed. I glanced at my father, who shrugged. We remained standing.

  “Rise, children,” he said. “I’m not the One whom you serve. I am merely one called to care for those of His children who care for his earth. After all, it wouldn’t do for the Protectors of Light to be without protection of their own, would it?”

  There was laughter in his voice, but neither William nor Samia joined in as they stood. Rather, their faces reflected a reverent fear, as though awed and terrified by the being before them.

  “What would you have us do?” William asked, and I wondered if that was his right as royalty.

  “You, young prince, can do nothing. See where your feet stand?” William looked at his boots and shifted his weight with unease. “I’m afraid that you’re meant to see this through. Samia, however, remains uncorrupted—”

  “Corrupted!” I shouted, perhaps unfairly, and certainly out of turn, but who was this stranger to call my beloved corrupt? “His soul is pure and true, and he is the delight of his people. He has never shirked his duty and serves the Almighty with every waking breath.”

  The shining figure nodded, it seemed thoughtfully, but then spoke again with a deep sadness. “Yes, he does. But you do not.”

  23

  The Departure

  I nearly asked to be thrown upon an iron spike myself. Had I damned William’s soul too?

  “Please,” I said. “Take him. If it means his soul can be saved.”

  “It’s not such a simple thing,” said the figure, and more than ever I felt certain, so certain, that I had heard his voice before. “Consider instead that Samia didn’t serve with you and the prince during your time in the wilderness. She didn’t slay demons by your side. She fell prey to hunger in this place but resisted all other temptations and proved her virtuosity in the Living Wood. It’s not for me to judge a soul, Ellison.” I gasped at the sound of my name on his lips. “I’ve simply been sent to collect the one here who is untested and the most vulnerable to what lies ahead, beyond those gates. You travel to the darkest depths, where she cannot yet follow.”

  For the first time since we began our journey together, Samia’s shoulders drooped. She held her lips parted in a soft expression of disbelief, and when she looked back at us, it was with anguish.

  “I cannot follow, Your Highness,” she said. “If that is the Lord’s will.” William nodded once, reluctant, confused. “But you need only ask, and I’ll do it anyway. I would be proud and honored to die by your side. I believe you’ll be a wise and good king when it is your time, and I want to ensure that time is able to come.”

  I saw it then, the ferocity that drove her, the truth behind her words. She said she would defy the Almighty to serve the future king if he only asked it, and I believed she would do this. Perhaps not the greatest show of piety before one of His representatives, but I admired her audacity. She loved William, but not the same way I loved William. They shared a bond I would never understand, that I could never be a part of, and jealousy—that wicked, insidious monster—threatened my undoing then and there. But because William loved her too, he would never demand the kind of sacrifice she offered, and so he did the kindest thing. He turned his back and strode down the path toward Cocytus.

  It seemed cruel then, but I know now that it was the only way to ensure she didn’t break free of the visitor’s influence and cross through into lowest hell. Instead, she lowered her eyes and turned to leave.

  “Thank you,” I said, and she paused to listen. “Thank you for assisting, for your willingness to come here. Now it’s your turn to rest, to watch and wait for our return, because William will need you once this is over. He’ll need a friend who understands the same loss, to grieve with a spiritual sibling who can provide comfort in a way I cannot.”

  Samia didn’t reply for a moment, instead taking in the space around us. How far she had come. How we needed her and how vulnerable we were without her.

  “Take care of him,” she finally said. “If you promise to see him home safely, I promise to ensure there is a safe home for him to return to. The king will not be pleased to see me, especially as I return alone.”

  “If he tries to hang you,” I said, “remind him that a necromancer has his son, and she is too impulsive for her own good.”

  She did smile then, and I knew we finally understood each other. “I will. Go in God’s grace, Ellison.”

  “And to you, the same.”

  She nodded to the shining visitor, who tossed his water skin toward us before stepping into the stream. He led her into the waterfall, and in an instant, they crossed through its surface and were gone.

  24

  The Abandonment

  My father and I followed quickly after William, rushing through a long corridor hemmed in on either side by tall stone walls. I was eager to give him the water first, as he seemed in greatest need. At the end of the corridor I saw the outline of my beloved waiting for us—or perhaps, I thought as we drew closer, frozen in fear. The air around us warmed once again, growing hotter and more oppressive as we approached.

  A broad plain, full of burning tombs, stretched across the landscape. Many of the stone lids were lifted or slid aside, and some were collapsed on the ground next to the arks. Flames leapt from within, and screams arose from deep within the tombs, shrieks of torment and agony, sometimes begging for mercy, sometimes groveling for a swift oblivion. But oh, those poor souls had already reached oblivion, and the end of their existences in the physical world was met with an eternity of punishment for their vile lives.

  I began to tremble, and I did not notice until my whole body shook with immobilizing terror. These depths were to be my reward, I was certain, for using a power expressly forbidden by the Almighty. Though I used it to protect and save and serve, I had almost deluded myself into believing my deeds would outweigh my disobedience.

  I didn’t realize how deeply I cowered at seeing my eternity before me until my father wrapped his arms around me and drew me close. His chin rested atop my head and we stood that way for a time. He too saw what I did, surely.

  When the screams became so stifling I thought I might simply turn myself over to my fate then and there, my father spoke words only for me. “The Lord looks at the heart, daughter.” He held my face between his palms, and I saw a hardened weariness in his, a truth that he clung to and which guided him from day to day. “All the ways of a man are clean in his own eyes, but the Lord weigheth the spirits. That is how I live. What we do may not be purely good or welcome, but we act when needed because it’s the right thing to do, even at great personal cost. Especially when there is nothing for us to gain.” He dropped away and pointed to our right. A set of stairs rose and fell into shadow. “That is the way you and William must go.”

  I startled. “You mean all of us.”

  He cast his eyes to the left with a saddened sigh. Stairs lay there also, shrouded in darkness, save for the occasional tongue of fire lapping at its surface. “There’s something I must do. Something I couldn’t do before.”

  “You can’t.” I shook my head with violent fervor. “Not now. Not when we need each other the most.”

  He smiled, kindly and fatherly. “You need me less than you believe, daughter. Remember who you are. I’ll meet you on the shores of Acheron. Remind Charon that the fare has been paid, and if he demands another coin, I think you know what to do. I’ll meet you among the waiting throng, and I hope I’ll also see my precious Aleidis by your side. But if not?”

  I swallowed, my parched throat clenched shut. I
did not trust myself to speak.

  “If not,” he said, “it’s all right. I would rather have a living daughter returned to me than have you perish and bear the loss of both.”

  “Can’t we go with you?” I whispered. “Can’t we help each other in turn? Why not work as one?”

  He shook his head. “Where I go, you cannot follow. I won’t allow it.”

  I nodded, but I read the intent behind his words.

  “Promise you won’t follow me, Ellison.”

  I said nothing.

  “Promise me.”

  Still, I remained silent.

  “Promise me.”

  His voice cracked. His eyes were rimmed with red, the coming tears of a father who feared for his child.

  “What about you, if it’s so dangerous?”

  “I’ve lived a long life,” he said. “Yours has hardly begun. Make the promise.”

  I bit my lip until I tasted blood. “I promise. But you must promise to do all that is within your power to come back to me when you’ve finished.”

  He nodded. “I promise.”

  “Good,” I said. “Then … Godspeed, father.”

  “Always,” he replied. “I love you.”

  And then he too was gone, and we were truly, utterly alone.

  25

  The Second Descent

  What else could we do but follow the path laid before us? I offered William the water skin first—my father had refused to take even a sip before parting—and he drank deeply until there were but a few measly drops remaining. I swallowed those down, realizing I didn’t crave more. We were better off for it, as the water gave us the energy to traverse the steps as they rose up and down, rising and descending past the burning tombs and the screams of those under torment inside. I was glad when we eventually left it behind, though it meant further unknown lay ahead. Why hadn’t we found a single trace of my mother? Why had no clue, no hint of her, been revealed?