by Zac Gorman
Yet during the battle, there’d been no sign of the Eyes in the Dark. Perhaps it had simply all ended too quickly—the whole thing had only lasted mere minutes after Thisby and the monsters arrived—but she suspected there was more to it than that. She’d met him down there in the darkness below the mountain, wherever they had been, and she knew he was far too large to fit through the gate himself, which she’d assumed had been his plan. Maybe it had been the magic that had held him in place, but then again, Roquat had figured out some time ago that the magic on the Darkwell had been broken, and surely he’d informed the Eyes in the Dark about it. So what, then, had kept the Eyes in the Dark at bay? Was the gate even necessary, or was it just a prison holding the Deep Dwellers in? And if so . . . why? Maybe—the thought crept into her mind uninvited—just maybe, the Eyes in the Dark had actually done the right thing in trying to destroy it, even if he’d gone about it the absolute wrong way.
No, for now they were better safe than sorry. It made more sense to keep the Darkwell in place, and that meant the Deep Dwellers had to stay right where they were. She’d have plenty of time later to figure out a better solution. The dungeon was safe now—well, at least as safe as a dungeon full of monsters could be.
When things seemed as if they were under control, Thisby brought a blackdoor bead over to Iphigenia, who was still sitting up now, propped against Thisby’s backpack, talking to Mingus. Iphigenia smiled.
“One last one,” said Thisby. “This one’ll take you all the way back up to the Castle.”
Moments ago, Thisby had gotten word that a rather angry General—leading a rather large army—had finally managed to break the Master’s resolve when she insisted that she be let into Castle Grimstone. Undoubtedly, the Master was buying time at the moment, stammering and trying to find a way to say “We lost the royal twins” that wouldn’t result with him losing his head in turn. The thought made Thisby want to stall a bit, but all things considered, the Master had come through and made the blackdoors for her when she really needed them.
“Can I stay here a moment?” asked Iphigenia.
“Is it your stomach?” asked Thisby.
Iphigenia laughed a little bit. Admittedly, it did hurt to laugh.
“No. I mean, it hurts, sure. But I’m all right. I just want to sit for a minute.”
Thisby sat down beside Iphigenia, who stared straight ahead.
“Has anyone found Ingo yet?” Iphigenia asked after some time.
“I don’t think so . . . but Catface is looking,” said Thisby.
“It’s okay. I don’t think he made it.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It’s a twin thing. It feels a bit like losing your arm.”
She paused.
“Well, losing a finger at least.”
Thisby didn’t know what to say. There wasn’t really anything to say. She looked over at the Princess in her bloody dress, her hair disheveled, her face smeared with mud, and expected to find her crying. To look defeated. Yet somehow Iphigenia looked stronger than ever. It was the strength of a Queen. Maybe more than that.
Thisby felt the Good Feeling.
That was what she called it anyway. The Good Feeling always started somewhere in her chest—or maybe it was her back, it was hard to be sure—and it burst out racing through her entire body like a wave of energy, repeating in short tingly ripples until it faded away. It was a feeling that was more than happiness, more than joy, it was an elevation of spirit, it was her heart singing. She sometimes thought that it felt like the real her was trying to get out. Like her happy ghost was banging against the cage of her chest. Other times it felt almost like something was pulling her in a particular direction, like a magnet had spun around her internal compass and suddenly the needle was pointing her toward exactly where she needed to go. All she knew was that once she had the Good Feeling, she never wanted it to end.
Needless to say, Thisby smiled.
“What now?” she asked.
It was Iphigenia’s turn to smile.
“I don’t know. I suppose I go back to Lyra Castelis and continue to prepare to be Queen. It could be years until I ascend to the throne. Decades, even.”
“And in the meantime?”
Thisby was wondering how to broach the subject. Iphigenia as well.
Neither of the girls had ever had a friend before—well, not a human one, anyhow—and watching them attempt to navigate the subtle and complex social bonds of friendship was a bit like watching a monkey trying on a hat. They shuffled in their seats, wondering what to do next; Thisby clutched the blackdoor bead tightly in her sweaty palm.
“Well . . . ,” said Iphigenia, breaking the silence. For a moment it felt as if she wasn’t going to finish her thought, but when Thisby didn’t bail her out by speaking out of turn, she felt compelled to continue.
“I suppose I should be going,” Iphigenia said as she stood, smoothing out the folds of her dress. The futile attempt at straightening her filthy and bloodstained dress would’ve made Thisby laugh if she hadn’t felt an immense weight in her chest at Iphigenia’s announcement.
“I suppose,” mumbled Thisby in agreement, without sounding like she agreed at all.
Thisby handed Iphigenia the blackdoor. She briefly imagined herself running over to the Darkwell and dropping the bead in through the holes of the temporary grate. “Now you can’t go! You’ve gotta stay!” she’d yell. It was a stupid thought, and it embarrassed her.
Iphigenia threw the blackdoor bead at the ground and it burst open, the portal crackling to life before them. Through the doorway was an empty room in Castle Grimstone, looking strangely lifeless, like a dusty oil painting. There was no noise, no heat from the other side. Just stale air and some dust motes drifting through a grayish sunbeam that formed a cross on the black marble tile.
Iphigenia took a deep breath, but did not step forward.
“Iphigenia . . . ,” said Thisby.
The Princess turned.
“I think I’d really like to write you once in a while,” she continued. “Do you think that would be okay?”
Iphigenia nodded.
“And I’d like you to write me, too.”
Iphigenia nodded again.
Iphigenia stepped through the blackdoor and turned back toward the gamekeeper. They watched each other for some time. From a distance it almost appeared as if the girls were looking into a mirror, yet their reflections couldn’t be more disparate. On one side was the mousy gamekeeper standing on the edge of the Darkwell, and on the other, a princess, standing in an empty castle. They both waved good-bye in unison.
“Thisby, I . . . I’m happy that we met,” said the Princess.
But before the poor girl on the other side of the mirror could respond, the blackdoor snapped shut, and Thisby was alone.
How long she stood there, she wasn’t certain. But after some time, Thisby walked over to Mingus and her backpack, hefted the enormous bag up onto her shoulders, and began the long walk back.
As they walked, she hooked Mingus back to his usual spot on her backpack, where he dangled just over her shoulder, glowing a soft, comforting blue.
“Are you okay?” he asked after some time.
Thisby smiled. She’d been doing more of that lately than she would’ve expected, given the circumstances.
“I’m fine, you?”
“Tired.”
“Me too.”
On the walk back, Thisby hummed a mindless tune and thought about everything she’d have to add to her notebooks over the next few days. It was going to be hard to keep track of it all. But she’d try her best. She always did.
Chapter 29
Thisby Thestoop climbed the same ladder she climbed every day, up three hundred and four rungs back to her bedroom. She set down her bag and unhooked Mingus’s jar, carried him over to her desk, and locked the jar into its dedicated spot.
Mingus slid out and into a large glass enclosure that sat atop her desk. Attached to the enclos
ure were a series of clear glass tubes supported by brass rings that wrapped around the entire room. It was one of the many gifts the Master had given her since she’d refused to take his job and agreed to stay on as gamekeeper. It was also one of the only ones she hadn’t sent back.
After the incident at the Darkwell, many of the dungeon’s residents had pushed for Thisby to ascend to the Master’s role, but she’d rejected their offer, as flattering as it might have been. She preferred to stay down in the dungeon where she felt she belonged, much to the delight of the current Master. Of course, Thisby had a few changes in mind that went along with her refusal, but the Master was happy to meet her demands if it meant he could keep his job—and his head, as was customary when relinquishing the position.
There was a knock at her door.
“Come in!” said Thisby.
The door swung open to reveal Grunda standing there, smiling. Of Thisby’s few demands, one of them was the instant and permanent appointment of Grunda to Roquat’s old position as liaison to the castle. It went without saying, perhaps, but she was doing a much better job than her predecessor.
“It’s time . . . Master,” she said politely with a wink.
“Don’t call me that!” chided Thisby.
Despite her refusal to formally accept the role of Master of the Black Mountain, many residents of the dungeon wouldn’t let it go, much to her annoyance.
Thisby preferred being gamekeeper. It was what she knew, what she’d trained her whole life for, where she could do the most good. She didn’t want to live in the castle and deal with the local lords and ladies whose foolish children went adventuring down into the dungeon and never returned. She liked her life as gamekeeper and didn’t want anything to change . . . well, almost anything.
“It’s time to put the book away, we have to go!” she called to Mingus, who’d taken to using the little mechanical arms the Master had installed on Thisby’s desk for him. Since his experience in the Deep Down, he’d even begun adding to her notebooks himself at times, using his knowledge of growing up in the Deep Down to round out some of her notes on the subject. She even caught him doing little cartoons in the margins.
As she passed out of her bedroom, Thisby slid the notebook back into its proper spot on her shelf. Over the past couple of months while she was waiting for the repairs on the Darkwell to be finished, she’d lovingly copied each book by hand into nice leather-bound volumes. It was a treat for herself after surviving the ordeal. She’d donated her originals to a small library that Grunda had organized for future generations of gamekeepers—not that anybody was in a hurry to replace her; it was just that after all these years, it felt like time to share some of the things she’d learned.
The repairs to the Darkwell had gone about as well as Thisby could’ve hoped. They managed to source some of the extra blackweave needed for the repairs from the City of Night, and by the time the work was finished, you’d hardly have known it was ever broken in the first place. Combined with Grunda’s and the other goblins’ magic, as well as the newly restored gate, the Darkwell was as secure as it had ever been. Restoring order to the dungeon after the invasion was a lot of work, but it was good work, and Thisby was happy to do it.
Thisby had told Grunda about her encounter with the Eyes in the Dark, at least what she could remember of it. She’d felt so disoriented after their encounter that she often felt as if the whole thing were a terrible dream. It made Grunda nervous, and for a few weeks she’d insisted that Thisby wear a good luck necklace until the next full moon, but truth be told, there wasn’t a whole lot that could be done about it—except for making a trip into the Deep Down to confront him—and so life soon returned to normal.
Thisby made her way up to the castle and knocked on the door. She and Grunda were escorted inside by two polite ghouls in leather jerkins bearing the newly designed sigil of Castle Grimstone—the design had been Thisby’s suggestion as well. The sigil was shaped like the Black Mountain and inside it there were four symbols that Thisby thought best represented the dungeon; a claw, a skull, a sword, and a door. Mingus insisted that the symbols had to mean something, but Thisby wasn’t convinced. In the end, he’d suggested that maybe the claw represented the monsters, the skull represented the Master, the sword represented the adventurers, and the door represented either the Deep Down or magic in general, but Thisby didn’t really care what they meant. For her, it was what they stood for that mattered, and what they stood for was a new beginning.
For as much as had stayed the same in the Black Mountain, a lot had changed as well. Access to the castle was no longer strictly forbidden to creatures who dwelled in the dungeon, and the Master had to personally hear the complaints of any creature, no matter how big or small, if they wished for their complaints to be heard. The Master hated this, of course, but he made do since it was still preferable to the alternative of “gruesome death.” Just barely.
A small crowd was already waiting at the gates of the castle when Thisby and Grunda walked out onto the grounds. Thisby was feeling anxious about this whole thing and started to wonder if it was too late to back out. She wiggled her pinky toe over the top of the toe-which-comes-next-to-the-pinky-toe and fidgeted with her well-starched tunic, smoothing out the folds.
“Psst! Thisby!” whispered Mingus.
She looked over at Mingus’s jar and saw that he’d put in his “surprised eyes,” which were big white circles with tiny little black dots for pupils. Thisby laughed and felt a little better. It was a new joke that he’d added to his repertoire last month, and somehow, she hadn’t gotten sick of it yet.
Thisby was wearing her best dress clothes, which doubled as her only dress clothes. They weren’t exactly comfortable, but she figured she could make do for now. She had a pair of new, nonpatchwork leggings decorated with little embroidered T’s for Thisby that some of the goblins had made for her as a gift for the special occasion. She’d even managed to get her hair to lay flat by combing it through with some dire slug ooze, which had been quite the ordeal, as Thisby had an awfully hard time sitting still and Grunda wasn’t exactly practiced at combing hair gently.
The gates to the castle opened, and an extravagant carriage decorated with ornate gold scrollwork rolled in. Two well-dressed servants hopped down and rushed over to the doors, taking little bouncy steps. The carriage doors opened.
Iphigenia took the coachman’s hand and stepped down to the ground, although she might as well have been floating above it. Her dress was green and gold, with little stones that lit up, reflecting the sunlight and created the aura of a sunrise breaking over a field on a spring morning. It was fit for a queen . . . well, a future queen, at least.
“Thisby!” she called.
The air of formality and ceremony deflated at once as Iphigenia rushed over to Thisby and wrapped her arms around her. Thisby’s anxiety melted away. It was as if nothing had changed since the last time they’d seen each other. They’d sent letters back and forth for months, but there was no easy way for the Princess to come visit, as busy as she was, and as far as Thisby visiting her, well, that had been out of the question . . . until now.
“Are you ready?” Iphigenia asked.
“I guess so,” said Thisby.
One of Iphigenia’s servants attempted to take Thisby’s backpack from her, but Iphigenia just laughed and waved him off.
“I think she’ll keep it! I’m not sure you could lift it anyway!”
They climbed aboard the carriage, and Thisby looked back at Grunda as the door swung closed. It was Thisby’s first time leaving the dungeon, and it was almost as frightening as walking into the Deep Down had been. She was only going to be gone for a few weeks, but she was already terrified thinking about the state the dungeon would be in when she got back. At least she had Grunda there now to keep an eye on things.
Iphigenia looked at Thisby from across the carriage and beamed at her.
“So, what’s the castle like?” asked Thisby.
“Oh, you
know . . . it’s full of monsters trying to kill you and people trying to steal your gold. You should feel right at home.”
Thisby smiled and the carriage rolled on.
Life in Nth was far from perfect—just visit Three Fingers one day and ask how the town got its name, ugh—but based on the voices coming from that carriage, nobody would have ever known. High atop the Black Mountain, the Master sulked in his chambers, dreaming of how things used to be, and far, far below, in the place where light cannot touch, the Eyes in the Dark waited, dreaming of the same. But there, in that carriage, two girls were dreaming of how things would be from this day forward.
Iphigenia looked at Thisby from across the carriage and beamed at her.
Excerpt from Thisby Thestoop and the Wretched Scrattle
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Chapter 1
It was raining, because of course it was. Never before in the history of rain had a downpour been colder, grayer, or drearier than it was that night, and honestly, it was all getting to be a bit much. Even the ravens who were normally game for the whole “dark and stormy” bit felt uneasy with the excessive use of clichés, and so, as the hearse-black carriage rumbled past, they decided to flap from their regular perch atop a gnarled yew tree to what they considered to be a far less derivative spot on the roof of a nearby cobbler’s shop.
The coachman blinked his hooded lantern several times at the gatekeepers in a series of dots and dashes, which in turn caused the large wrought iron gates to yawn open with the loud squeal of metal rubbing metal. Beyond the gates was a sparkling white castle, or at least what should have been a sparkling white castle had it not been for the gloomy overcast sky of that particular night, which instead shrouded the building in a sort of bilious green pall. Even the lights which flickered from inside the castle windows—normally so happy and inviting—looked downright macabre, like two candles placed inside the vacant eye sockets of a giant’s skull. Out in the distance two ravens cawed derisively.
