“Enchantoids,” the fake Queen whispered. “Back out slowly.”
“Seriously?” My voice echoed through the room.
The door slammed shut. I glanced back and realized it had been closed by a hovering scrub brush.
Not-Eliandra brandished her scepter like a rifle, whirling it from one enchantoid to the next as if warding off cannibals. “Back!”
A fat sponge trailing water like a slug zipped straight for us. Not-Eliandra punted it into a column. “Back or I’ll slay you.” She waved the scepter in the air. “Big magic. Magic go boom! Keep back!”
All the cleaning implements stopped working and pivoted, as if noticing us—brooms and buckets dripping suds and gray water, brushes, clotheslines that dropped their linens and untied from columns, clothespins assembling into pinched-together clothespin men, washbasins, wringers, dustpans, feather dusters, sponges, and splotchy towels. A static-lightning arc of fear jolted through me—a distant childhood nightmare suddenly and fully remembered. “Oh no,” I whispered.
The nightmare had come after watching Fantasia as a boy. It had recurred for years.
“Inch carefully after me,” Not-Eliandra said under her breath.
They stampeded for us all at once.
“Never mind—run for your life!” she hollered.
We sprinted for the chamber’s right side, praying for an exit behind one of the columns. Clacking buckets and slopping-wet mops gave chase. We rounded a pillar and something snagged my ankles, both of us hurtling to the floor. I glanced down and realized a clothesline had snared our feet.
“How smart are they?” I shouted.
“I never stopped to ask them their thoughts on current events.” She fired her scepter and exploded a mop into blackened splinters. “Untie us!” She fired again.
I struggled with the wash line, which fought me like a python and coiled around my wrists, binding hands to feet. “Um. Help.”
“Remain utterly still.” She leveled her scepter at the rope binding my wrists.
I winced, but before Not-Eliandra fired, a wet towel plastered itself to her face with a smack! and started squeezing like the facehugger from Alien.
“Mwwfubber!” I could guess her meaning.
A mop cracked its handle across my temple. My vision went spotty. It cracked again and the chamber swayed around me.
For a peaceful moment, everything was quiet and dark.
I came to on my back. Slick flagstone scraped against my shoulders and backside. Dragged by my wrists beside the struggling pseudo-Queen, I realized we’d been tied side to side. Her staff of office lay abandoned by the column. A dozen mops, pulling on the wash lines that bound us, drew us toward a washbasin the size of a hot tub, which buckets had busied themselves filling with soapy water.
“Crap. They’re gonna drown us!”
“Ooh eenk?” she said through a gag made from the wet cloth that had attacked her. She managed to scrape the cloth against the flagstone, applying enough friction to pop it free. “I’m rather out of options here. Tell me you’ve a clever wizard plan.”
“Is crying a plan? Is that a wizard thing?” The inexorable march of the mops summoned vivid thematic notes from L’apprenti sorcier until I swore I could hear it resonating off the stone arches and columns. It seemed a perfect match to the movements of the enchantoids trying to murder us. “This is all Walt Disney’s fault.”
“I’ll be sure to write Sir Disney a stern letter once we make it out alive,” Not-Eliandra said.
“Orcs, dragons, and witches I survive. What does me in? Freaking floor-cleaning paraphernalia. All those years I made fun of my cat for running from the vacuum cleaner.” I shook my head sadly. “I owe Buckles an apology.”
“The jokes aren’t helping.”
“It’s my fear reflex. When my friend Dak was in surgery, I almost drove his parents—” A loofah pounced and wedged itself into my jaw. I gagged.
“Bite down,” Not-Eliandra shouted. “Or it chokes you to death.”
God, I hate this world. I bit down.
The mops made a ramp using a wringer, its rollers pulling us up the incline. We both tried to scoot down as we reached the lip of the basin. The rollers worked against us, and no matter how much the fake Queen and I wriggled, they nudged us inch by inch over the rim—first shoulders, then backs, losing more ground every moment. I glanced into the basin, where a dozen wet towels and sponges circled in the water like hungry sharks.
This is the end. I die with a floofy sponge in my throat.
The rollers pitched us over. We hit warm water with a mighty splash.
It smelled faintly of lilacs.
Just when the towels gripped my head and shoved me under, the basin burst apart. Water gushed from the massive hole in its side. The fake Queen and I surfed across the floor on a three-hundred-gallon wave.
Across the room, Ronin battled in her grinning demon mask. She twisted between enchantoids, wielding the Queen’s staff in one hand and her gleaming sword in the other, working them over like a tornado of sharp. A half-dozen scrub brushes and sponges leaped for her. She twirled that blade. Woodchips dusted the floor.
A wash line whirled through the air like a dragon with wings made of silken sheets. Ronin sliced it in half, dropped the scepter onto the toe of her boot, and grasped the dead wash line in her freed hand. She whipped it around a retreating mop, yanked the mop back into melee range, and drove her elbow into the shaft, snapping it in half. Then she popped the staff back from her foot to her hand and fired it into a bucket, blowing it open. If the gallons of soapy water splattering the stone columns had been blood, the scene would have been rated NC-17.
“Did sh—” I choked off the pronoun, unsure what Not-Eliandra knew. “—did he just kill that one thing with that other thing’s corpse?”
“He does that from time to time,” she said.
We scooted to a broken broom handle and Not-Eliandra used it to saw at our bonds. The moment the wash line frayed, it loosened and slithered away, wounded.
The surviving enchantoids retreated. When it was just us and Ronin, she unclipped her mask and glared at me with an intensity that suggested this was entirely my fault. It probably was.
Chapter Five: Still Technically Fails the Bechdel Test
Not-Eliandra stared at Ronin. “Where did you come from?”
The ninja stripped off her mask and held out my darkened ghost stone. Her face didn’t make Not-Eliandra double-take, so I figured the fake Queen already knew Ronin’s sex. She instead shot a quizzical glance at me when I failed to react, probably wondering why I’d called Ronin a “he.”
Ronin told us she’d been floating through the palace, closing on us all day, when the commotion from our fight had announced our location. Part of me found that too convenient, but what was the other explanation? Had she been there all along, spying? Why hadn’t she sprung into action sooner? Perhaps she’d wanted to see how I fared in a scrape.
I felt guilty for nearly dying. All the courage I’d mustered during the witch battle had evaporated. Was it possible to perform so badly that one lost experience points? That’s what it felt like. Battle had given me nightmares, but subtly boosted my confidence—I’d gained levels. Now I’d lost them again.
Negative levels. Like I was playing old-school Dungeons & Dragons, before they got rid of all the weird game mechanics that were no fun precisely because they were like real life.
“You glided to safety after being teleported to the palace heights?” Not-Eliandra asked.
“Yes,” Ronin said.
“What of Tammagan and my Akarri?” Not-Eliandra asked.
“Also—and this is critical—how is Leonardo?” I asked.
They both glared.
“My turtle. I left him with Kyra. Is my turtle okay? Did he make it? Yeah, and Tammagan and the Akarri, totally. How are the Akarri and my turtle doing?”
“All are well,” Ronin said.
“Hey, wait,” I said. “Why aren’t you naked?
”
Their glares intensified and Ronin set both fists to her hips.
I cleared my throat. “Allow me to clarify, um, ladies. When I used the stone, I lost my clothes.”
“Perhaps you’re not well studied on the use of rune stones. What sort of qualifying exams do wizards have?” Not-Eliandra asked, her smirk a subtle twist of the knife.
“It’s magic,” I said. “Predictability is not its defining feature.”
“It has rules,” Ronin said. “Rules you haven’t bothered to learn. You are a clumsy creator. You fumble at the keys like a child.” She presented her blade, its gleaming metal tarnished by a slate-colored smudge.
“What’s that?” I asked. The enchantoids hadn’t leaked gray fluids while dying.
“My blood,” Ronin said. “A small amount bonded my weapons and clothing to me, allowing me to carry them along.”
Admittedly, that was a neat trick. But I was also bothered by the fact Ronin apparently bled liquid rock.
“Fortuitous,” Not-Eliandra said. “With a few drops of blood, we can use the stone to escape together.”
“No,” said Ronin. She showed the stone again. Whereas once it had glowed bright red somewhere in its glassy core, it was now opaque. “The stone has darkened, which means its energy reserve has diminished. I used it for nearly a day. It will recharge, eventually, but using it across three bodies will drain it faster.”
Not-Eliandra checked her staff of office. “The stone in my scepter is fading too. We need a plan. Magister, can you make a new ghost stone?”
Ronin shook her head. “Bad idea.”
I frowned at her. “Come on, it would only take a minute to pump one out.”
“You misunderstand your power again,” she said. “Each time you replicate by rote, it steals a portion of your power forever. Do it long enough and there would be none left.”
“Fine. I’ll think of something else.” I shifted to dig for my sketchpad.
Ronin caught sight of my temple. With heart-stopping suddenness, she seized my jaw. “You’re injured.” Tilting my head to the side, she probed the goose egg with sterile assessment.
I winced. With combat over, everything hurt again.
“Hold still,” she said, but her fingers eased off the lump. Instead, they traced my skull in search of fractures.
“It’s fine,” I said, uncomfortable.
“Look at me,” she ordered.
I did.
“You may have a concussion,” Ronin said.
Her eyes were pretty. It was strange that I liked them, since they lacked the smiling crinkle at the corners that I usually went for. But her eyes had a power like gravity. There was nothing in this woman but intensity, and it sort of scared me.
But holy smokes, it was a ticklish kind of scared.
“Do you have a headache?” Ronin asked.
The germ of masculine pride that lives inside me wanted to say “Nah,” and then probably swagger or strike a match off my boot—you know, do something cancerous and awesome. However, Ronin’s eyes drilled straight to the truth center of my brain. “A little.”
“Be careful.” She released me, but it wasn’t her hands that had held me. I had to wait for her to glance at Not-Eliandra to breathe again.
“How about an acid that melts through walls?” Not-Eliandra suggested.
“No,” said Ronin.
I found my voice again. “I could—”
“Do you know how your magic behaves while you’re concussed?” Ronin asked.
I threw my hands up. “No! I don’t know any of this. What happens?”
Her narrowed eyes plucked the outrage from my lips. “I have no idea. Nor do you. A head injury could make your summoning unpredictable.”
“Then what the hell should I do?”
She gestured to a chair. “Rest.”
I held up a finger to argue, intent now on giving her a piece of my mind. But the set of her shoulders told me it would be a long argument. A wave of exhaustion washed over me at the prospect and my hand dropped limp to my side. “Fine. But not because you told me to. Because I want to.” I sat and didn’t sulk. Much.
Ronin and Not-Eliandra assessed one another.
“You let the enchantoids corner you,” said Ronin. “Sloppy.”
Not-Eliandra rolled her eyes—a curiously childish gesture from a woman who swung between stately, brilliant, and savage. “Missed you too, mom.”
I snorted at the joke. When the fake Queen kept her gaze steady on Ronin, though, realization reset my brain—it rewrote all the players in front of me. “Wait.” I pointed at Ronin and then Not-Eliandra. “Hold on.” How is that even possible if Ronin’s ears aren’t pointy?
Ronin never flinched from the fake Queen’s stare. “She isn’t serious. She chafes at the very idea that I’m her mother.”
“She’s definitely not my mother,” Not-Eliandra said. “She didn’t give birth to me; she found me on the street. Of course, with those smothering maternal instincts, sometimes it’s hard to tell.”
“Why did you raise Queen Eliandra’s double?” I asked Ronin.
She frowned and Eliandra shrank an inch, chastised. “Explain,” Ronin growled.
“I wasn’t certain I could trust Magister Grawflefox.” Eliandra motioned airily to me. “He suggested I wasn’t the true Queen, and I… declined to correct him.”
Ronin sighed and rubbed the root of her nose, the same motion Eliandra had used earlier. “Your mercurial relationship with the truth wearies me.”
“It’s also what keeps me alive in court,” Eliandra said, an accusation in her voice. “Besides, it’s not like you’re a paragon of honesty.” She pointed at me. “You know all about his magic. How?”
Good question.
“Because I’ve fought his magic before.”
“When?” Eliandra asked.
“It was once Dracon’s magic.”
Eliandra’s glare centered on me. “Explain,” she said to Ronin, her tone suggesting it had better be good. There was nothing ticklish about the fear Eliandra’s stone-cold eyes filled me with.
“Dracon arrived in the realm thousands of years ago with the power to create using pen and paper. His power diminished over the ages from abuse, though he still possesses a wealth of artifacts and magic left over from the height of his era.”
“And why do we suffer the magister to live?” Eliandra asked. “Was Dracon not once a hero? What stops Grawflefox from following in the traditions of his people?”
“My people?” I asked. “My people are basically tall hobbits who like the woods, fireworks, and reading indoors on windy days. We’re from eastern Ohio. No one from Ohio has ever conquered anything except a case of Yuengling, I promise.”
“Besides,” Ronin said, “there is only so much dream power in this world. His presence siphons the last of Dracon’s strength.”
Eliandra nodded as if finally understanding what shape I was and how I fit into her puzzle. “So Grawflefox lives because he keeps Dracon weak.”
“He lives because I say so.”
The Queen folded her arms. “Fine.”
It was strange to see her take orders, even from an adoptive parent. “Did Ronin rule before you?” I asked, genuinely confused.
Eliandra rolled her eyes. “Of course not. You think I was born with a crown on my brow? I cut my teeth in Cobbler’s Row, stealing food and slicing purse strings—until, one winter night, I cut the wrong purse and Ronin held me dangling by a wrist.” She considered the compact, deadly woman across from her. “I hid my ears back then, but she knew me for what I was. Dracon had a bounty on all elves; had someone else found me, they’d have sold me for a tidy sum, as they had my real mother.”
Ronin stood with hand capping the pommel of her sheathed blade, allowing the story to be told without contribution.
“Dracon wanted the elves for his own uses,” Eliandra said. “But elves must rule Korvia by ancient tradition, and after assassinating the old queen, he denied th
em an heir. For six years the throne stood empty, the nation ruled by a temporary council. Dracon aimed to install one of his own slaves as ruler. Ronin saw potential in me—I was the last free elf in all of Korvia.”
“Not your only virtue,” Ronin said. “Also smart, talented, and almost as quick as me.”
Eliandra grinned at the praise. “She also recognized my burning hatred for Dracon. So she taught me customs, languages, politics, and social graces. Together, we’ve transformed Korvia into a military power capable of destroying the dragon lord forever.”
It clicked. “You’re a queen, but with levels of rogue and—I guess—barbarian.”
The Queen bristled. “I am no rogue. I am a lady.”
“That’s exactly what a rogue would say.”
“A rogue might also cut out your tongue to keep you from repeating it,” she said.
My mouth clicked shut.
Eliandra and Ronin briefly discussed Tammagan and the state of the sky ship. I examined them, realizing I still didn’t have the Queen wholly figured. I’d met Regal Eliandra, Barbarian Eliandra, Know-it-all Eliandra, and Lies-for-fun Eliandra. What was this all of a sudden—Daughter Eliandra?
Was there any goddamn thing in all of Rune, I wondered, that had turned out the way I’d intended? A queen of lies, a palace with its own ecosystem, a river of murderous elementals—my bumbling fingers had made a mess of everything. Ronin’s right about me. I’m no good at this. I sank, defeated, into my chair. My arms dangled, gravity sucking on each fingertip separately. Voices droned around me and I lost track of time until someone shook me. I roused, Ronin’s hand on my shoulder.
I scrubbed at my face. “I need a nap.”
“Not here,” she said, eyeing the enchantoid debris around us.
“Then what now?” asked Eliandra. “We’re down a wizard.”
“He isn’t heavy.” Ronin dragged me from the chair and draped my arm over her shoulders.
Once I’d stood, the blood flowed and my focus sharpened—as did the throbbing in my skull. “What about the dungeon?”
“Can you guide us?” Ronin asked.
“Sure. But there’ll be traps and probably some monsters. A few puzzles, which won’t be hard since I created them. Once I’m there I’ll remember the particulars.”
Mistakes Were Made (A Pygmalion Fail Book 2) Page 6
