by Zac Gorman
The gates slammed shut behind the carriage as it rattled onward toward the Castle, slick cobblestones shining like black marble in the advancing torchlight. It trundled along until it came to rest in front of the towering drawbridge of Lyra Castelis. The attendants who’d been traveling alongside the carriage climbed down off their horses and opened the carriage door, allowing a very tall, very elegant shadow to exit the vehicle.
The shadow’s face was indiscernible beneath the upturned collar of a dark, fur-lined cloak and wide-brimmed hat, but whoever it was moved like a ballet dancer. At first glance, it seemed as if the figure was untouched by the rain, simply stepping in between the drops with such ease that it seemed curious as to why everyone else didn’t just do the same. Upon closer inspection, however, raindrops could definitely be seen pattering gently on the shadow’s wide hat, collecting in small pools before choosing an edge from which to run off in a thin trickle. It was something of a relief to see the figure touched by rain, proof that it was at least corporeal.
Shaking themselves awake from the spell caused by watching the figure, the carriage attendants remembered their mission and ran after the shadow, their mostly-decorative swords rattling in their hilts. The castle guards, looking much more professional than those two struggling to keep up, swung open a set of small wooden guest doors nested within the gargantuan drawbridge and bowed ever so slightly as the shadow whooshed by them without so much as acknowledging their presence.
Inside the castle, the world transformed. The earthy smell of rain was instantly replaced by the scent of warm baked bread and stale floral arrangements, the light transitioned from its uneasy, rainstorm green to the pleasant orange glow of a crackling hearth on the first cold night of autumn, and the rush of rain becoming a gentle pitter-patter accompanied by the distant twinkling of harp strings. In other words, it was nice. What wasn’t nice, however, was the shadowy figure, who suddenly looked extraordinarily out of place where only moments ago it’d looked perfectly at home.
The shadow strode down the hall on long, bowed legs, the dark cloak trailing behind, flapping like an angry bird. Castle guards stared but did not make any motion to interfere as the figure walked right down the vaulted hallway, past the marble statues, the priceless paintings, and the brightly polished suits of armor, through the large oak double doors inlaid with jewels and twirling, decorative golden bands, and right up the dark red carpet to where Parlo Larkspur, the King of Nth, sat upon his throne. Beside the King was a young girl, seated in her own—albeit significantly smaller—throne. They both watched the shadow approaching with rigidly fixed smiles that barely concealed their displeasure at its arrival.
“Welcome to Lyra Castelis, my dear Marl.” The King beamed. “I trust that your journey to Oryzia was as comfortable as could be expected given the weather?”
Marl removed her hat and bowed. “Yes, m’lord.”
The shadow was suddenly no longer a shadow but a regular human woman, tall and thin and fairly androgynous. If she’d been a man, you would’ve called her pretty, as a woman you might call her handsome. Either way, it was fair to say that she was striking. Much more than what would’ve been expected from her entrance. Her green hair cascaded down past her shoulders, her nose was long but pleasantly sloped, and her eyes tilted down gently at the outer corners a bit, creating a sort of charming, sleepy countenance. All these factors combined to create a face which was not so much traditionally beautiful as it was a challenge to ignore. The only things off-putting about the stranger were the dark purple circles under her eyes, which made them look deeply bruised and tired. They were the eyes of someone who read far more often than they slept.
Marl smiled gently. One of the guards came up to take her cloak.
“Please,” boomed King Larkspur, who boomed more often than not even when he didn’t intend to, “allow me to introduce . . .”
“Your daughter,” said Marl with a soft lilt.
With a flick of her wrist, Marl politely waved away the guard that carried off her sopping wet cloak and hat.
The King did not look perturbed by the interruption, as perhaps he should have. Rather he simply beamed proudly at his daughter and then back toward his rather unusual guest.
Beneath her cloak, Marl was wearing expensive robes as black as the night sky; the cloth was black, the trim was black, even the stitching was black. In fact, the only thing that Marl wore which was not black was a golden bracelet that dangled off her right wrist. It was in the shape of a dragon biting its own tail.
Marl smiled again, this time a bit apologetically.
“Forgive my interruption, m’lord, I only meant that of course I’m familiar with the lovely, brave, and famous Iphigenia Larkspur, Crown Princess of Nth, Chosen Heir to the Throne.”
Iphigenia sat absolutely still as she studied the stranger. At last, with great effort spent to show no emotion whatsoever, she nodded curtly in Marl’s direction, who returned the nod graciously before continuing.
“I suppose you would like the news, m’lord.”
King Larkspur nodded. With a wave of his royal hand, several guards, including those who had arrived with Marl, excused themselves from the chamber and closed the door behind them with an ominous ka-chunk! that resonated throughout the throne room. When at last they were down to the minimum number of necessary and trusted guards—which it turned out was exactly four, for some reason—Marl proceeded.
“In Umberfall, they’re plotting against you and your kingdom every day, m’lord. I hear the whispers in the capital, both in the streets and inside the palace walls. But what they have in ambition, they lack in numbers. Their army is sturdy enough to defend a fortified position but far too small to make the journey south through the mountains. They’d lose too many soldiers in the process, exhaust their resources, and by the time they were on the doorstep of your kingdom, they’d be as good as dead. As long as the Umberfalians are trapped north of the mountains, we can rest easy.”
Iphigenia looked over to her father, who seemed pensive as he stroked his salt-and-pepper beard that, as of late, had become more salt than pepper. Her father was a robust man but Iphigenia had seen him begin to wear around the edges since last year. Since Ingo’s death.
The death of her brother had sent shockwaves through the kingdom but nowhere had it been worse than inside Lyra Castelis itself. Not only her father but everyone who lived within the castle had loved Ingo—wonderful, brave, charming Ingo!—and the fact that he’d died a traitor was more than the royal family could bear. For months, her father had lived in outright denial, refusing to admit what Ingo had done, but over time, in the face of no other options, he came to accept the truth. At least, that’s what he said publicly, officially denouncing his son and having his name stricken from the Larkspur family history—a punishment reserved exclusively for traitors.
Between Iphigenia and her father however, things had yet to return to normal. It was likely that they never would. Although it was awful to admit, Iphigenia couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere deep down inside there was some small part of her father that blamed her for what happened in the Black Mountain. After all, if she’d never been born, things would’ve worked out just fine. Ingo would’ve been King, and everybody would have lived happily ever after. But she was born. Much to the displeasure of seemingly everybody.
“Of course, we must consider all possibilities . . .” Marl said, letting her words hang ominously in the air. The chamber felt oddly colder.
The King leaned forward in his great throne so that it creaked beneath his not insubstantial weight. Along with showing his age, his diet had begun to catch up with him as well. The King’s brow furrowed and his eyes widened in a pantomime of worried confusion. Iphigenia was embarrassed for him, that he was playing so easily into Marl’s game, letting himself show his emotions like a child. Marl seemed to be reveling in it.
“What do you mean?” asked the King.
Iphigenia rolled her eyes.
Since be
ing back in the castle—and having everyone treat her as if she was somehow responsible for her brother’s death—Iphigenia had felt a bit more like her old self again, whatever that meant. All that she knew was that she’d been growing more impatient with people in the castle and their absurd political games lately, particularly since Thisby’s visit.
The visit had been wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, that the residual happiness had lasted for weeks even after Thisby’s carriage pulled away from the gates of the castle. It was like eating slices of leftover birthday cake; the memories of her visit had sustained Iphigenia for some time but by now whatever scraps remained had long since gone stale. She’d even gotten to the point where it made her feel slightly sick to her stomach to even think about their time together, not knowing how long it would be until she could see her friend again. Her only friend. Iphigenia chased the thought from her mind.
“There is a chance, however slim, that the Umberfalians could make it through the mountains and into Nth.”
The King was eating out of Marl’s hands now. His brow was fully knitted and he tugged at his beard as if in deep contemplation.
“But how?” he asked.
“There is one path in that we haven’t considered. One shortcut into Nth. Through the Black Mountain.”
The emphasis Marl placed on the words “Black Mountain” made it seem as if she’d expected the King to gasp, but he didn’t. Instead, his face just sank, and Iphigenia saw the same defeat in his eyes that she’d seen over and over again since she’d returned home from the dungeon. When her father learned about Ingo’s death, she saw that look on his face for the first time. Now, it happened too often to count. Something about it made her sick. She wanted to feel empathy for her father’s suffering but she had no pity for Ingo, and to see that pity in another, especially her father . . . it was unbearable. A king was meant to be strong, to punish the wicked. And here was her own brother, his own son, more wicked than any, and yet he pitied him. He pitied himself.
Iphigenia couldn’t stand to look at him and so she turned to Marl. She’d had enough of sitting quietly now.
“The Black Mountain wouldn’t sit idly by and watch an army pass through. Especially not an Umberfalian army,” she said with what might’ve passed for a sneer. “Anyone stupid enough to try to pass through the dungeon would be dead before they reached the halfway point . . .”
Iphigenia hesitated.
“. . . I should know,” she finished.
It came off as a bit of a boast, and Iphigenia would be lying to say it wasn’t intentional. She’d survived the dungeon. She’d seen the absolute worst that it had to offer and came out with barely a scratch on her—the scar from where her brother had plunged his knife into her stomach had faded completely over the last few months, thanks to the magic that saved her. She’d been to the Deep Down, to the place where even the monsters feared to go, and she’d come back to tell the story. No one else in this room could say the same. Probably no one else in the entire kingdom, save Thisby.
Iphigenia could feel her father’s eyes burning into her. He hated when she brought up the events in the Black Mountain. He hated it even more when she was proud of what she’d accomplished.
“And what if the dungeon were to let them through?” asked Marl.
“They would never do that!” shouted Iphigenia. “There’s no way! I know them! I know—” she stopped.
Marl bowed low, green hair closing like drapes over her long face.
“Forgive me, m’lady. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn, it’s only . . . I have reason to suspect we might not be so secure in that belief.”
About the Author and Illustrator
Author image by Sam Bosma
ZAC GORMAN is a cartoonist and author from Detroit, Michigan. He worked as a storyboard artist on the Emmy-winning series Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon Network) and was nominated for the Annie Award for Character Design for his work on Welcome to the Wayne (Nickelodeon). He wrote for the Rick and Morty comic series published monthly by Oni Press. Thisby Thestoop and the Black Mountain is his debut novel.
SAM BOSMA is a sentient orb discovered in an abandoned mine, of average height and build (for an orb). He is also the award-winning creator of the Fantasy Sports comics (NoBrow Press), and has fashioned illustrations for the New Yorker, Scholastic, Hulu, and the Cartoon Network show Steven Universe. He currently lives and works in Los Angeles.
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Copyright
THISBY THESTOOP AND THE BLACK MOUNTAIN. Text copyright © 2018 by Zac Gorman. Illustrations copyright © 2018 by Sam Bosma. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.harpercollinschildrens.com
Cover illustration by Sam Bosma
Cover design by Joe Merkel
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017934813
Digital Edition APRIL 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-249570-9
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-249567-9
1819202122CG/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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1 Three royals dying in your dungeon would be worse than that even. Or four. The only thing worse than one royal dying in your dungeon would be y = x + 1, where x ≥ 1 and y = something worse than the number of royals dying in your dungeon.
2 Disclaimer: The author will not be held personally, legally accountable for any tongue strains or other tongue-related injuries that may happen to readers who just attempted to do this.
3 Ditto.
