Solomon's Journey

by James Maxstadt

  Vaguely, he heard Willow start to chant. Somewhere, in the corner of his mind, he recognized a few of the words she was using. Magic was magic, after all, it was simply a question of how it was used.

  But surely, she was no match for Malachi. No one was.

  Then, unbelievably, his throat opened the tiniest bit. A thin trickle of air flowed into his lungs. He drew in as much as he could, then let it out again, afraid he wouldn’t be able to repeat it. He could though, and did it again, deeper this time.

  His heartbeat slowed, became more normal, and the pain started to lessen as the fire in his stomach began to cool.

  He turned on his back, aware of the tears streaming from his eyes, and watched Willow. Her eyes were closed, and she held her hands over his chest, not quite touching him. From that spot, he could feel warmth, not an angry heat like the one in his stomach. Warmth that came from a thick blanket on a cold night, or from being held in his mother’s arms all those years ago, when he was small.

  A memory that he hadn’t had in a long, long time. It made him smile, thinking of those times. Long before the magic in him blossomed, and so long before Malachi found him.

  His head was no longer pounding, and he found that he was breathing normally. His chest didn’t hurt, and his tears stopped.

  Finally, Willow’s chant quieted, and she opened her eyes.

  “Not a Soul Gaunt,” she whispered, “but just as evil. Now, will you tell me?”

  “Can I?” he croaked. He wanted to, but he couldn’t face that agony again. One more time would kill him, regardless of Willow’s power.

  “Yes,” she assured him. “Whoever did this to you, I have their spell at bay. I can’t remove it, not without killing you, but I can nullify it.”

  Darius struggled to sit up, finding it easier than he expected. Willow was truly amazing.

  “I belong to a different House,” he began.

  While he spoke, Willow left his side and returned to the window, looking out over the forest. At first, Darius was terrified that the pain would return, but it didn’t. Whatever she had done was working. Something in his chest twisted and snarled, but quietly, not able to work up into a true fury.

  When he was done, she turned back to him.

  “This Malachi, the head of your House, he did this to you?”

  “Yes, so that Shireen, and Solomon if he returned, would think a Soul Gaunt was still around. It was supposed to distract you all, leaving me free to infiltrate both Houses, rather than just staying in place at Whispering Pines.”

  “And Jocasta, the one you say has taken over Whispering Pines?”

  “She knows none of this. Jocasta is…well, she’s hard to figure out if I’m being honest. I can’t get into her head, so I can’t tell what she’s really thinking. But, I believe she wants what’s best for Whispering Pines, she just doesn’t care what that means for anyone else.”

  Willow nodded. “Yes. Shireen is much like that. Some people, not many, but a few, have a natural defense against anyone playing with their minds. Solomon most of all. His mind is like a fortress, and he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.”

  “Yes! That’s exactly what Jocasta is like!”

  Willow sighed and looked out the window again.

  “Malachi’s plan. What is it?”

  “I have no idea,” Darius replied. “He seems to be angry at the fact that the Greenweald didn’t recognize his greatness due to his low birth, or some such nonsense. He’s going to destroy the whole thing with help from some mysterious friends, who he’s then going to turn on.”

  “It’s working,” she said quietly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Out there.” Willow nodded out the window. “There is something here, some infection that I can’t counter. It’s turning normally good Folk, good soldiers, into something else. Something cold and mean.”

  “Then it’s started…”

  “Yes.”

  Darius sat back and thought.

  “What about Jocasta?” he finally said.

  Willow turned her head to him. “What about her?”

  “Maybe she can hold it off. If we can get her to come to Subtle Hemlock, maybe between the three of us…”

  “And you think she would? Given what you told me of her?”

  Darius shrugged. “I don’t know. Do we have a better idea?”

  Willow considered him for a moment, then moved closer.

  “Why do I trust you?” she asked.

  “For the same reason I told you everything.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m not like Jocasta, or Solomon, or even Shireen. You were inside me, you felt it.”

  Willow blushed slightly.

  “I’m not as you see me, Darius.”

  “No? Maybe not. Maybe you’re much more. I’d like to find out, when this is all over.”

  She pursed her lips, a slight smile playing about the corners of her mouth.

  “Perhaps,” she said. “For now, we will go to Whispering Pines and speak to Jocasta. Maybe she will see reason.”

  Darius nodded. “One thing first. Can we make sure Samuel is going to be all right?”

  Chapter 62

  The white mask lay on the ground, face up, as if it were staring at her. Celia had dropped it in her haste to remove her gloves and get any of the slime from that thing well away from her. Nearby, the dead hunter lay stiff and motionless, what passed for its face frozen into solid dirt.

  Night was falling fast, and the alley was growing darker by the second. It was time to move on, to head back to Greta’s house and tell her and Friedrich the news about their daughter. She doubted they were still harboring much hope, but it was still a thankless task that she didn’t want to do.

  She took the mask, although she couldn’t have said why. It felt like nothing more than a cold piece of porcelain. She looked at it in the gloom, one of the only bright spots in sight. How could something so innocent, so benign seeming, hide such a horror?

  Again, no one accosted her on her way back. Not only was the news of her escape from the manor common knowledge, but now she had killed a hunter as well. No one in Dunfield was going to challenge her again.

  She slowed as she reached what she had begun to think of as home. Her legs felt stiff and heavy, and they dragged as she walked. From down the street, she could see the soft glow of the lights from inside shining through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. Now that it was dark, Friedrich would have lit them.

  She stopped, watching the friendly waver of the light.

  Then she looked down at the mask in her hand.

  Who said that Lyssa was gone? For that matter, what of the person the red hunter had been, or perhaps been based on? It was made of mud and worms and filth. Maybe the actual person hadn’t been turned into that thing. Maybe they were used as a model of some sort.

  If that was the case, the answers were inside the manor. Maybe in one of the locked rooms she couldn’t get into, or…down the stairs, to that heavy wooden door she couldn’t budge.

  In the dark, Celia smiled. Now who was holding out hope? She was grasping at straws, sure, but if there was any chance at all that Lyssa was still alive, then she had to try. Celia couldn’t dash the hope of the girl’s parents while still thinking that maybe, just maybe, there was a way.

  “All right then,” she muttered to herself, and turned away from the beckoning light of home.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The manor was completely dark, the door firmly shut once again. There was no sign of movement, although the aura of menace that she felt looking at it was still there.

  “No tricks this time,” she said, and started forward.

  It occurred to her as she marched toward the large house that she was going in again unarmed. If there were still Hunters in there, she’d face them with nothing but her fists. But she didn’t believe any were present, or they would have come out with the red one. All the others had left Dunfield, and she didn’t expect them to be
back before dawn at the earliest. She had plenty of time.

  Climbing the steps quickly, she didn’t stop when she reached the door. Instead, she reared back and kicked forward as hard as she could. The door held for the briefest of instants, then sprang open, slamming into the wall behind. Inside, was that same dark room as before, made even more ominous by the dim light of the night.

  Looking up, Celia could see no light leaking out of any of the boarded-up windows. Inside, she’d be in pitch blackness, and at the mercy of whatever could see better than her. Unarmed was one thing, blind was quite another.

  She walked back down the steps and up the street, searching for some sign of light from another building. Finally, she saw a glimmer from behind heavy drawn curtains. She banged on the door and waited. Inside, she heard the furtive noise of someone trying to be quiet, but not succeeding very well.

  “Hello? Please, open your door. I mean no harm.”

  There was the scurry of movement and the curtain in the window twitched slightly.

  “I just need a light. Please, can you help me?”

  The door rattled when she knocked again, and Celia knew she could easily kick it in. But she had no desire to terrorize the people within. She merely wanted a way to see once she was inside the manor.

  After a moment, there was still no answer. Celia sighed and moved away from the door. Further down the street she could see the glow of another occupied house, but what was the point? The people of Dunfield were too beat down to trust her.

  Nothing for it then. She’d have to chance it and hope her memory of the layout of the place was strong. Squaring her shoulders, she turned back to the manor.

  Behind her, there was the creak of a door opening.

  “Are you really going in there again?” a voice asked.

  Celia turned back. A young woman watched her warily from the barely opened door. She was ready to slam it shut again at the first sign of trouble.

  “Yes,” Celia answered, but moved no closer. “I think I might know where those things come from.”

  The woman stared at her, then slowly opened the door a little further, enough to pass out an oil lamp, already lit. Behind her a small girl watched with huge eyes.

  “I don’t have much,” the woman said, “but take this.”

  Celia cautiously reached forward, not wanting to move too fast and spook her. She took the lantern and looked back at the woman. She recognized her from somewhere. After a moment, it occurred to her that this was the same woman she had helped at the vendor’s cart several days ago. It seemed like a lifetime.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The woman nodded, her eyes flickering to the mask in Celia’s other hand. “Thank you. For everything. I hope you’re right. And…be careful.”

  She smiled shyly before shutting the door. A moment later the light behind the curtains went out. The woman may have been grateful for past help and was willing to part with an oil lamp but wanted no further part in what Celia was doing.

  Still, now she had light to see by.

  She returned to the manor, climbed the steps and crossed the open threshold before she could think too much about it.

  The room was the same as last time. Blank, with nothing but a door across from the entrance. Celia strode across the room and opened it, finding it unlocked this time. Whatever force or entity was in charge was letting her further in.

  Holding the oil lamp high, she saw that the three doors lining the hallway were now open as well. She shivered, waiting for something to emerge, but all was silence.

  Slowly, she moved down the hallway, staying close to the wall. Behind her, the door to the front room stayed open, as did the main entry door. Still, nothing moved.

  All of the rooms were like the front room. Empty, but for a window, boarded up, with some boards on the inside and others across the exterior. There was no furniture of any sort, just a thin layer of dust on the floor.

  She continued to the door at the end of the hall and opened it. As before, the staircase spiraled around both up and down from here, only this time there were no lights burning overhead. Everything beyond the reach of her oil lamp was in darkness.

  She took the stairs down, listening hard for the sounds of doors anywhere else in the manor opening or slamming shut, but there was nothing. The silence was complete, except for the noise of her footsteps moving down the wooden stairs.

  At the bottom was the same small landing with the heavy wooden door. It was the only option, unless she wanted to turn around and go back up the stairs.

  No, whatever was here was behind this door, she was sure.

  She reached out and pulled the handle, but as before the door was stuck fast, without the slightest hint of give. She set the oil lamp and the mask she still carried down and tried with two hands, putting all her strength into it, but it still didn’t budge.

  Celia stepped back, trying to think of something, anything that she could try.

  Her heel brushed up against the oil lamp, setting it rocking. In a near panic, she reached down and grabbed it, stabilizing it before it had a chance to tip over. As she did, she saw the mask lying on the ground.

  Without conscious thought she had set it face down. Now, as she looked at it, she noticed that she could see the floor through the spots where eye holes would be, if the mask had any. It was dim, not as clearly lit as the rest of the floor was by the light of the oil lamp, but it was there nonetheless.

  She frowned and picked it up. Turning it around, it was still featureless and pristine white, almost shining in the gloom. When she turned it around the other way, she could see a vague outline of the stairway.

  The sight made her uneasy and she felt a queasiness in the pit of her stomach. Well, that wasn’t unusual when dealing with whatever was going on in Dunfield.

  She turned back to the door. The view of it grew clearer through the mask, and she swore she saw it move a fraction of an inch.

  Moving forward, she brought the mask closer to her face. The memory of the stinking slime and the white worms within it returned and she almost retched, but she fought off her disgust.

  Yes, the door definitely moved.

  She forced herself to put the mask up to her face.

  She could see the door clearly, as if it were in the bright light of day. She reached out and touched the handle and the door swung open.

  Then, something moved on her face. It was a soft, tickling sensation, like something lightly brushing her cheek. It was immediately followed by what felt like a sheen of moisture on her brow which she knew it wasn’t her own sweat.

  With a cry, she ripped the mask from her face. For a brief moment it stuck, and a scream escaped her before she pulled it away. It might have been her imagination, but she thought she saw a thin, wriggling tube-like… something… pull back into the material of the mask itself.

  She wiped her hand across her forehead, feeling the moisture there, but now it very well might have come from her.

  She dropped the mask and reached up, pinching her cheeks. Her face felt numb for a second, then tingled and she could feel her fingers working across it.

  The door swung shut with a boom.

  Chapter 63

  What was her problem? Jocasta stared in the direction Shireen had run off. Jamshir still stood in the hallway, tears streaming down his face as he stared at the dead thing at her feet.

  “What was this thing?” she yelled.

  “I told you!” Jamshir screamed back. “It was one of my statues! Why did you kill it?”

  Apparently, the one-time ruler of the Greenweald— Jocasta couldn’t even realistically consider him as such anymore— was so far gone into madness that he didn’t even see the problem with a statue that came to life and then turned to hard-caked dirt when it was killed.

  “All right.” She took a deep breath, raising her hands to rub at her temples. Her headache still remained, although it did seem to be receding. “Let’s try this again. If this was a statue, why w
as it moving?”

  Jamshir stopped crying and moved closer. “Why wouldn’t it?” he asked, as if it was her question that was unreasonable. “They all do, when it’s getting dark outside and then again when it’s getting light.”

  “And you don’t find that strange?”

  “Strange? Of course, it’s strange. That’s why it’s so wonderful! Who else has such things? It’s only fitting that they were only given to me.”

  Jocasta nodded. Now they were getting somewhere.

  “And who gave you such a gift?”

  “Ah…” Jamshir’s tone changed, became sly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t tell you.” Then he burst out into his annoying high-pitched giggle.

  “The secret House, right? The same ones who helped you bring in those Soul Gaunts.”

  “What secret House? I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Jamshir was like a small child telling a lie and not being able to pull it off. He exaggerated his words, his eyes roamed around the hallway, never lingering on the dead thing on the floor.

  “Have it your way.”

  The main tree of Glittering Birch was huge, with hallways and rooms spreading off into all different directions over several floors. Jamshir only took her to the room with the statues one time, but that was enough. Jocasta had navigated her way through uncharted seas, among islands that none of the Folk even knew existed. She had an excellent memory and sense of direction. She’d find her way back to the room and see what was going on with the remaining two “statues”.

  “Where are you going, my dear?” Jamshir reached out and grabbed her arm.

  Jocasta looked down at it, then back up at the mad ruler. “I’m going to admire your other two statues.”

  “Oh, you can’t do that. They’ll be out and about right now. Besides…” He drew closer to her, putting his mouth near her ear. She flinched from his foul breath. “I have a better idea for what we can do…”