“I beg your pardon?”
Hazel shook her head. “Nothing.”
Verrin studied her a moment. “I’m to show you to your quarters. If you’ll follow me, please.”
He walked to the door, opened it, and waited for her.
Hazel glanced back at the painting, but whatever image she thought she had seen earlier was gone, and all she could make out were swirls of brush strokes, frozen in the black paint like forgotten tides.
Verrin led her through narrow, damp corridors that tunneled through the mountain. Rivulets of water sluiced down the rock while patches of moss and tiny, pale ferns grew from the cracks. Hazel felt as if the weight of the mountain pressed down on her. The cold from the stone seeped through her clothes and into her skin and bones, and by the time they stopped at a door that Verrin opened for her, she was shivering and her teeth chattered so loudly that the sound echoed down the hall.
Inside, a fire crackled in a spacious hearth while a long wooden table had been set with a cloche-covered tray, a stemmed crystal glass, and a bottle of wine. Hazel warmed her hands by the fire, relaxing as the cold ebbed from her bones. She yawned.
“You’ve traveled far,” Verrin said. “I’ll leave you to eat and rest. I’ll see to it that you’re brought sturdier clothing that is better suited to the climate here.” He gave a slight bow and walked out.
Hazel looked around. The chamber was furnished much like her father’s chamber had been. It was smaller and cozier, without an open wall that led to a balcony. But the quality of the furnishings looked the same, and she was glad to be in a snug little room warmed by the blazing fire.
She walked to the table and lifted the cloche from the tray. Some kind of roasted fowl—pigeon maybe—dressed with herbs, an onion-and-celery sauce, and greens Hazel had never seen before. They tasted bitter yet weren’t unpleasant. She sat down, poured herself a glass of velvety red wine, and ate.
The meal was delicious, but she took little enjoyment in it. It felt strange eating alone, and the wine was strong and went to Hazel’s head so that when she rose, she stumbled through the door that led to the bedchamber, collapsed on the bed, and promptly fell asleep.
* * *
When Hazel awoke, the air had cooled. The fire in the main room had died down to embers. This surprised her even though she was glad someone hadn’t come in to poke at the fire as she slept. Then she noticed the tray had been removed, and in its place on the table stood a mirror, a silver basin, and matching ewer. Over the back of one of the chairs, a black robe had been draped. Hazel’s contentment curdled into annoyance.
She ran a hand over the robe. It was softer than it looked and thick too. She supposed this was what Verrin had meant by warmer clothing, but it wasn’t at all what Hazel had in mind. If they thought they would make her into one of them, they were sorely mistaken.
She moved over to the fire, making a point not to look at the ewer and basin. Who had left those there and why? At any other time in her life, Hazel would have assumed the items had been left there for her to clean herself up. But now she knew better. Now she knew exactly what kind of magic she could work with such tools—what kind of magic she had worked—and it made her uncomfortable.
As did the darkness in the room. There were no windows, and lamps that had been lit before now stood dark. The only light came from the dying embers that illuminated the room with a somber, eerie glow.
Hazel poked the embers into renewed life and looked for more wood, but there was none. She sighed. Whoever tended the fires must be too busy making sure all the empty rooms had blazing hearths while occupied rooms went cold. She went to the door, but it was locked.
Hazel stood there, staring at the black wood of the door as her hand lingered on the handle. Surely it wasn’t locked. The door must be stuck. These mountain hallways were dreadfully damp, and she didn’t care what kind of wood Verrin told her these doors were made of—they were wooden, and wood warped in dampness.
She tried the door again and pulled as hard as she could. Her arms shook, sweat broke across her brow, but the door did not budge.
“Unbelievable,” she said, acutely aware of the oddness in speaking to herself. She banged on the door with her fist. “Hello? Anybody out there?” She banged until her hand throbbed with pain, so she kicked the door instead.
“Somebody! Let me out of here!”
But nobody came.
Hazel stopped kicking as she caught her breath, anger slowly rising in her in a way she had never felt. She grabbed the poker from near the hearth and struck the door handle with it. The impact jolted through her arm that rendered her bones into jelly. She struck again and again until pain radiated in her arm and up her neck, but the handle remained fixed in place, and the door still would not open.
She cried out and threw the poker across the room where it collided with a bookshelf and clattered to the floor. She clenched her hands as her breath came in deep, ragged breaths. This wasn’t a mistake. The door wasn’t warped.
They had locked her in. Her father had locked her in.
Hazel’s mind went blank as she seethed in fury. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe. Throwing a fit wouldn’t help her here; she needed to think.
When she had composed herself, Hazel opened her eyes. The room looked different now. Instead of a warm, comfortable space, it was now cramped and oppressive. And very, very dark. The coals in the hearth had died down again, and all she could see were the stones in the fireplace and the surrounding floor.
She summoned the little glowing moth Hemlock had showed her, swallowing the lump that rose in her throat when she thought of him. It felt like so long ago when she and Hemlock had stood on that hilltop together as he helped her learn her first Wyr magic spells. But it hadn’t been long at all—a couple of months. It was nothing, all things considered, and now it was all over.
Hazel tightened her jaw and examined the handle on the door. It looked to be made of iron, but given the damp air and the absence of rust, it probably wasn’t. Scratches and nicks marred the handle where she had taken the fire poker to it but otherwise looked to be in good condition.
She worked a Weaving spell that snaked into the lock, found the tumblers and levers, and manipulated and pushed them back so the door would unlock. Except nothing happened. She tried again. Through the spell she could sense the inner workings of the lock, the tiny little pieces that all worked together to determine if the bolt of the lock was thrown or not. But whenever she tried to manipulate a switch or a tumbler to do what she wanted, nothing happened. Her spell wasn’t failing, it was working exactly as it should. It was the lock itself that wasn’t responding.
Hazel closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the door. The lock must be enchanted though she didn’t understand how. Any warding placed on the lock would be a Weaving spell, so she should be able to at least detect its presence, but there was nothing as far as Hazel could tell. Was it necromancy? Her father was a necromancer, so it stood to reason that would be the magic he’d employ, but she didn’t understand how manipulating ether or spirits had anything to do with warding locks.
With her head still resting on the door, Hazel cleared her mind. She stopped trying to detect any magic or wards and instead let herself calm. When she turned her attention back to the lock, it had changed.
No, not changed—it was the same as it always had been. She had been too distracted to notice the slight darkness among the tiny crevices and sockets that clung to the inner workings of the lock like an oily film. Was that the ward? It wasn’t like any ward Hazel had ever seen or heard of. It was more like a living veil, expanding and contracting as if breathing. It prevented the lock mechanisms from moving because, somehow, it had become the lock.
Hazel took a step back, unable to shake the feeling that the door had, at least partially, come to life. Necromancy was at play here. It was in the door in front of her, and its implements stood on the table behind her. She felt as if she had become entangled
in a sticky web, and any attempt to free herself would only further enmesh her.
What was she supposed to do?
Necromancy, it would seem. It was no mistake that she found herself locked in her room with only a silver basin, ewer, and mirror for company. Her father wanted her to perform necromancy, though to what end, Hazel certainly didn’t know.
But it was what he had always wanted, wasn’t it? He had left a trail for her, somehow knowing she’d be able to use necromancy to find it. And she had. She had done everything he thought she would, without her ever realizing she was playing into somebody’s plan.
What was his plan for her now? Apparently, it wasn’t enough just to have her there. That notion could hurt Hazel, if she’d let it. But she hardened her heart. Ash hadn’t been a father to her for a very long time. Nothing had changed.
She stared at the basin and ewer as the light from her moth gleamed off the polished silver surfaces. She didn’t want anything to do with whatever game Ash was playing. She didn’t want to do anything to encourage him. But what was the alternative? To sit and wait and slowly starve until Ash took pity on her and let her out? That wasn’t an option, as far as Hazel was concerned.
She took a candle and lit it with the embers from the fire, then set it on the table next to the basin. Taking the ewer, she then poured a steady stream of water that glinted silvery white as the moth flitted around her head. Despite the lack of a reflection in the mirror, Hazel felt strangely calm as she peered into it. She thought of her sister, and in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “Holly.”
A mist collected over the glass. When it cleared, the mirror remained dark. Hazel frowned. Had the spell failed? She had worked the spell just as her father had done; she had done everything right, hadn’t she?
“You’re not a necromancer, Hazel,” she said, no longer feeling so awkward with talking to herself. “What would you know about any of this?” She stared at the mirror a moment longer, then with a sigh she started to turn away.
An image flickered across the surface of the mirror. She turned back to it, but the mirror remained dark. Hazel released her moth and leaned in closer to the mirror—so much so that her breath began to fog the glass. The mirror remained shrouded in shadows, but the closer she looked, the more the shadows appeared to have… texture. It wasn’t absolute darkness, there were variations in gloom that suggested that something was there, hiding in the shadows.
Then a flame alighted in the mirror. Startled, Hazel stumbled back. It was Holly, holding a little flame in her cupped hands that illuminated the worry on her pallid face. She lay in a cramped space, but that was all Hazel could make out.
With a shaking hand, Holly reached out—almost like she was about to touch the glass of the mirror—but instead pressed upon a surface that Hazel couldn’t see. Holly’s face went slack with fear. Then she started to scream. Hazel couldn’t hear her, but she knew from the look of abject terror on her sister’s face that she was screaming. It woke in Hazel a similar panic. Her heart racing, she pawed at the mirror, trying to reach Holly even though she knew it was impossible.
“Where are you?” Hazel whispered. Then the spell faded and Holly sank away into darkness, leaving the mirror to show only Hazel’s distressed reflection.
She gripped the edge of the table as she tried to bring Holly back to the mirror, but nothing happened. She dumped the water from the bowl back into the ewer and then poured it back into the bowl and tried again, this time speaking Hemlock’s name. Nothing.
Hazel cried out in frustration as she backed away from the table. She rubbed her forehead as she paced back and forth. She needed to keep calm. She needed to think.
She needed to get to Holly and help her.
Hazel rushed over to the door and tried to open it, but it was still locked. She cried out again as she slammed her hand against the door, ignoring the pain that pierced her palm. Did Ash know about this? Was he also watching Holly from his own silver bowl? Had he caused this? If so, what did he have to gain? Was it to get Hazel to cooperate with him?
She didn’t know the answers to any of those questions, but at that moment, she didn’t care. Hazel returned to the bowl, poured water from the ewer into it and then spoke her mother’s name.
Her insides twisted at having to work the spell like this—the way her father had done it. But she didn’t have any cake or food to crumble into the water, and so she didn’t know of any other way.
“Hazel.”
Hazel turned and found Willow standing near the dying coals in the hearth. Her mother’s brow furrowed as she looked around, as if perplexed to be standing there.
“Do you know where you are?” Hazel said.
Willow lifted her chin. “What are you doing here?”
“You know what I’m doing here. I’m here to stop Father, just as I said I would. To make him undo what he did.”
“I see,” Willow said, her voice flat. “It seems to be going well.”
Hazel narrowed her eyes. “You’re different around him. What has he done to you?” When Willow said nothing, Hazel added, “Do you even remember it?”
“Why am I here, Hazel?”
Hazel was tempted to tell her she was there because Ash had trapped her soul. She wanted to shake Willow’s shoulders until her mother showed some emotion other than this apathy. Instead, she said, “He’s done something to Holly.”
Willow’s brow flickered into a frown. “What do you mean? What has he done?”
“He’s trapped her somehow. She’s alone in the dark somewhere. I don’t know where.”
Willow’s frown deepened as her concern shifted to anger. “You left her alone? You let this happen to her?”
“I didn’t let it. I came here alone to keep her safe.”
“You should have never come here.”
“I came here for you!”
“I never asked you to! I told you, time and again, the geas cannot be undone, but you refused to listen. You’re just like him—you think only of yourself, of what you want—and now look what’s happened!”
Hazel clenched her jaw as she struggled to get her breathing under control—as she struggled to keep her mother’s words from hurting her. “You can hate me if you want, but help me find her.”
Willow gave a hollow laugh. “What is it you expect me to do? You are not the only one trapped here, Hazel.”
“Funny, you didn’t look trapped the time last I saw you. You looked quite… content.”
Willow’s face darkened. She looked angry but also hurt, and Hazel regretted her words.
“Release me,” Willow said.
“What?”
Her mother’s face tightened. “I cannot leave unless you release me. I cannot help you; you need to find Holly on your own.”
Hazel searched for something to say. She didn’t want to leave things between her and her mother like this, but nothing came to mind. She released the spell, swallowing the lump in her throat as Willow faded into the darkness until she was gone.
Hazel stood in the shadows alone, staring at where her mother had been, letting the cold feeling gnawing at her gut spread throughout her body. She needed to find Holly and Hemlock. She needed to get out of this room. She needed to do whatever it took to make that happen.
She turned back towards the door, letting the coldness consume her until she no longer felt anything at all. She summoned a spell—it was like a Wyr conjuration only she twisted some of the words and turned them into something else—something dark and cold that matched the emptiness within her heart. The shadows around the door deepened and drew closer as the conjuration took shape. Every now and then the shadows would part and a gleam of light would lance into the room, leaving burned images on Hazel’s vision. But as soon as a light would surface, the shadows would gather over it like clouds covering the sun, and the room would be made all the darker because of it.
“Unlock the door,” Hazel said.
The shadowy form bobbed and weaved in what
might have been a sign of acquiescence. It put its darkened hands—if they could be called that—to the door handle. The shadows sank into it, darkening the metal and sucking in what little light existed. Then the light was thrown back into the room in a blinding flash. Hazel put up her hands to cover her eyes. When she looked back, the shadowed creature was gone.
She walked to the door, almost afraid to try the handle. But she did, and a rush of relief came over her when the handle gave way and the door swung open.
Then she headed down the hallway in search of her father.
Holly awoke in darkness. She tried to sit up but banged her head against a wooden plank.
“Ow!” She lay back down and rubbed her forehead. The air was warm and stifling; the room jostled to and fro. Where was she? She summoned a little flame into her cupped hands and sucked in a sharp breath.
She was in a wooden box.
The box was as long as she was tall but only about twice her width. Her heart floundered in her chest as she reached out and touched the wooden wall that loomed much too closely to her nose. She pressed against it—but the wood was solid and didn’t budge. She pressed harder but still nothing.
A sharp, visceral fear unwound itself within her, and Holly screamed. The wood muffled her voice, warping it into something she didn’t recognize. It fed into her fear, and she screamed even louder until her voice cracked.
Holly suddenly sobered, the skin on her neck prickling. She had an unsettling feeling that someone was watching her.
“Hello?” she said, but of course no one replied. She was panicking; she needed to calm down and get ahold of herself.
She extinguished the flame and put her hands to the wood and pressed against it with everything she was worth. When that did nothing, she kicked at it, but that only hurt her foot while the wood remained firmly in place. She summoned the little flame again and this time sent it against the wood. Heat licked at her face and singed her hair, and she coughed as smoke filled the cramped space. But the wood wouldn’t burn.
“Stupid wood!” she yelled and extinguished the flame. “You’re not natural!” The jostling of the box took a deep lunge, and Holly banged her head against the wood. Again.
Hazel and Holly Page 36
