The necromancer’s mouth hung open as he stared at her. “What’s a cellar gnome?”
Hawthorn snickered. “For once I envy a necromancer’s ignorance.”
Holly sighed. “Never mind. Let’s just go.”
She and Hemlock clambered atop one of the horses while Hawthorn and the necromancer shared the other. Despite her prodding the necromancer for his name, he refused to give it. So she called him Norman instead.
Hemlock’s fairy lit the way down the long, flat road. Moonlight lit the surrounding grassy fields and, beyond those, shadowed forests that stretched towards the star-shrouded night. In the distance, a mountain range loomed on the horizon. Holly had never seen mountains like that before. She wanted to say they were beautiful—perhaps during the day they were. But now they looked like a portion of the night had been cut away, leaving only a deeper, starless darkness that the moonlight couldn’t reach. Nobody spoke as they rode. The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves, the wind stirring the grass, and the occasional hoot of a distant owl were the only sounds to accompany them.
They came to a crossroads. Hemlock and Hawthorn brought the horses to a stop.
“Well, which way is it?” Holly said. “Do you know, Norman?”
Norman sighed. “Would you please stop calling me that? It’s a terrible name.”
“Well, you won’t tell me your real one. What else am I supposed to call you?”
He thought a moment. “Maldovar? That’s a splendid name.”
“No, you’re definitely not a Maldovar.”
Hemlock said, “We could split the difference and call him Malman.”
“Maybe,” Holly said.
“No!” Norman shrank within himself a little. “Norman’s fine…”
Hawthorn said, “While it’s very charming the two of you trying to name your pet necromancer, could we please choose a direction and get on with this journey? Riding a horse is terribly uncomfortable, smelly, and having to share the experience with Malman isn’t helping at all.”
“Norman,” said the necromancer. “We decided the name is Norman.”
“We might decide your name is Daisy unless you tell us which direction to take.”
Norman set his jaw and straightened his back though his eyes didn’t look as confident as his posture. “Do your worst.”
“Maybe we should split up,” Hemlock said. “Hawthorn and Norman will take one road. Holly and I will take another. As soon as one pair realizes they’re on the right track, one from that pair can take the horse and ride back to find the others.”
“That might work if we had two roads to choose from,” Hawthorn said, “but we have three. Not to mention that I’m not at all encouraged by the prospect of teaming up with Malman here.”
“Norman!”
Holly said, “I agree. I don’t think we should split up. We need to pick a direction that we all agree on.”
“Preferably before we all die in this cold,” Hawthorn said.
Holly gave Norman a pointed look. “Well?”
Norman avoided her gaze a long while. “Left.”
She blinked a few times. “Really?”
Hawthorn said, “If he said left, then we can assume that either the road straight ahead or to the right is the correct one, so that narrows it down.”
“Unless he knew we’d think that,” Hemlock said, “and it’s actually the correct course.”
“My head hurts,” Holly said. “So which one do we take?”
Nobody said anything.
Her gaze returned to the mountains in the distance. “Which road will take us to those mountains over there?”
Norman frowned. “Why would you want to go to the mountains?”
“It seems as good a destination as any, don’t you think?”
Norman shrugged and seemed bored with the question. “The road straight ahead looks like the most direct route.”
“Where does the road to the right lead?”
“I couldn’t say. I’ve never taken that road.”
“Because you’ve only ever taken the one on the left.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
It made sense, what he was saying. Holly had no idea what a sea of stars or souls would look like, but whatever it was, a mountain didn’t seem like it would fit. Of course, there was no telling what might lie beyond the mountain, but there was nothing to indicate that it was the right direction over any of the others.
“I think we should turn right,” Hawthorn said. “Norman claims to not know what’s in that direction, so obviously that’s the one he’s lying about.”
“Unless he’s lying about all of it,” Hemlock said. “Or none of it. Either way, I think we should leave Norman’s opinion on the matter out of it.”
It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. Choosing which road to take shouldn’t be the deciding factor on whether or not they would find Hazel. What if they made the wrong choice? They would travel on, looking for something that wasn’t there, possibly not ever realizing they had made the wrong decision. Not until it was too late, at least. The importance of this decision pressed on Holly. How would she ever be able to live with herself if she made the wrong choice?
She looked at Norman and found him staring at something further down the road ahead, his brow knitted and expression puzzled. She followed his gaze and, at first, saw nothing. Then just like the shadowed mountains looked like missing parts of night, a smaller shadow that looked like night itself bobbed along the road.
“What is that?” Holly said. When she turned back to Norman, his puzzlement had faded and he looked unconcerned.
“I believe it’s a raven,” he said.
“Raven?” Hawthorn said. “Wonderful. It probably means there’s a corpse on the road ahead. More reason to turn right.”
“There would be more than one raven if there was something dead on the road,” Hemlock said as he squinted at the flitting shadow. “And I only see one. I think.”
Holly didn’t turn to see if it was actually a raven on the road or whether or not there was more than one or whether or not there was something dead their noses would have to contend with. She kept her gaze on Norman. The way he had placed his bound hands on the horse in front of him, the way he carried his shoulders, the expression that had settled over his features suggesting bored disdain looked, when Holly looked closely, a little too carefully placed. He looked like a man who didn’t care—who wished to get on with the journey because sitting there was only growing increasingly intolerable. Yet his gaze, every now and again, would return to the raven on the road, as if his eyes had a will of their own. And at those fleeting moments, Norman looked… uncertain.
“I think we should go straight,” Holly said.
Norman glanced at her but then quickly looked away.
“Are you certain?” Hemlock said.
Holly continued to study Norman, but he had fixed his gaze on a distant point and refused to look at her again.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m certain of it.”
“All right,” Hemlock said, and he flicked the horse’s reins, and the animal resumed walking.
Hawthorn brought up his and Norman’s horse alongside them. “If there is a corpse on the road, then Norman has volunteered to clean it up.” He clapped Norman on the back, and the necromancer flinched. “Right, Norman?”
Norman said nothing, keeping his gaze fixed ahead. Holly did the same.
Hazel woke up and stared at the ceiling. A jagged crack seared across the stone surface to a corner where moss grew. She lay still a moment, savoring the softness of the bed before she realized a lamp had been lit in the room. Someone had been in her quarters. Again.
Annoyed, she got up from the bed and went into the main room. A fire had been lit in the hearth, and the poker that had been lying on the floor had been returned to its proper place. The basin, ewer, and mirror were all still on the table, along with a cloche-covered tray and lit tallow candles. Hazel continued to eye the room, but nothing else looked
out of place, and the warmth from the fire helped ease her tension.
She walked to the door and tested the handle, but it was unlocked. She let out a breath, then went to the table and lifted the cloche. A bowl of pale, creamy soup lay on the tray along with an ample chunk of bread. The aroma wafting from the bowl smelled of herbs and wine. She picked up a spoon and tasted the soup, surprised at the lightness of the broth, and delighted to find salty pieces of cured fish. She ate the bowlful along with the bread and washed it down with water from the ewer.
After she had finished, Hazel remained at the table as she considered what to do. According to Ash, she had traveled in the realm of the dead and visited her sister. What did that mean? She had wanted to help Holly, but how could she be certain that she had? The entire experience felt unreal when she thought back on it.
Hazel poured water from the ewer into the basin and repeated the spell that had summoned the vision of Holly the day before. When she appeared in the mirror, Hazel let out a long, relieved breath to find her sister in the sunlight, her eyes no longer tinged with fear. Strangely, she wore a black robe and was riding a horse with… Hemlock.
Hazel stared at the mirror, uncertain how she should feel. Part of her felt relieved to find Hemlock well and happy to look upon his face again. But another part felt envious that her sister sat together so closely with him, that they shared experiences of which Hazel had no knowledge. It made her angry—at herself, mostly. She had chosen to leave them behind. Hazel wished she could feel confident in her choice. But of all the emotions that stirred within her, confidence was not among them.
She poured the water back into the ewer and turned the mirror away only to realize she had forgotten to look for Hawthorn. She didn’t want to work the spell again—didn’t want to keep looking back at what she had left behind. Hawthorn must be well—Hemlock and Holly would have made sure of it.
Her assurances took hold, and Hazel began to feel more composed. It was time to focus on what she had come here to do.
It had become clear that Ash had no intention of releasing her mother—Hazel would need to do that herself. Of course, she had no idea how to make that happen. This was her father’s spell—it was possible that no one but him would be able to undo it.
Either way, she had to try, and she wouldn’t be able to do anything from this room. She needed to find Ash’s workshop or wherever he usually worked his magic, and she needed to find it on her own—preferably without him knowing. That meant she couldn’t ask Timmens or anyone else for directions. Ash had told her before she should have summoned a familiar to help her find her way. And though the idea of it made her skin crawl, she conceded that, in this matter, he was right. Her father knew necromancy, and if Hazel wanted to undo the spell upon her mother, then she needed to know it too.
She walked to the hearth and warmed her hands by the flames. Closing her eyes, she took several deep and steady breaths. She wasn’t like her father. No matter what he said or what he thought, they were different from each other.
Hazel turned her back to the fire and started a conjuration that brought to mind images of darkened nights with star-studded skies. Despite the warmth from the fire, the air turned cold, and the candles flickered and stuttered as shadows gathered in the room.
And from the shadows, a figure emerged.
Darkness shrouded it like a mourning veil. One moment the familiar would melt into the shadows and disappear, another moment it would catch the candlelight and its body would blush with a warm crystalline sheen.
The coldness in the room solidified as the familiar approached her, brushing against her cheek like feathered snowflakes. She steeled herself and in a voice barely above a whisper, said, “I need your help.”
The presence moved away from her, and Hazel relaxed, just a little. “I need to find my father’s quarters,” she said. “I need to find where Ash does his magic.”
The familiar disappeared within the shadows of the room, reappearing again as the candlelight glinted off its body like sun-soaked crystal. Then it moved away and passed through the door without opening it.
Heart pounding, Hazel followed the shadowy familiar as it moved down the hall. The corridors remained empty except for one necromancer. He turned his head to follow the familiar’s passage but otherwise didn’t seem to think much of it and walked past Hazel without sparing a glance for her.
Eventually they came to a nightwood door. The familiar lingered by it a moment before its shadows bled into the black wood and disappeared. Hazel opened the door and stepped inside her father’s quarters—the uniquely wide room and open wall that led out onto a lush balcony. Sunlight spilled into the room. A breeze stirred, sweeping in scents of heather, rosemary, and sun-soaked stone. A fire blazed in the hearth that helped push back the chill in the air. The familiar stood beside her. In the daylight, its shadows had gone and its form had taken on a brilliance like crushed diamonds scattered over velvet cloth.
“Thank you,” she said to the familiar. “Thank you for your help, but I don’t need you anymore. You may return to… wherever you came from. To your own realm.”
The air next to the familiar warmed, and the shimmering sparks of its body dissipated among the dust motes that danced in the sunlight.
Hazel crossed the room to the forest-scene tapestry, pushed it aside to expose the hidden door, and walked through it.
She navigated down the narrow dark hallway, still illuminated at the far end with a single blue light. At the end, she turned left and came to another door. She eased it open and peeked inside.
Ash’s workroom looked just as it had before. The desktops and benches were still cluttered with papers, bookshelves still lined the walls, bowls and ewers still littered the room. But Ash wasn’t there. Hazel stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
She went to a desk and sifted through a stack of papers. Her father’s handwriting was at times graceful and even, harried and jagged at others. The former comprised journal-like entries that documented his daily events, what he had eaten, how he had felt. The latter leaned towards brief descriptions of spells to be tested at a later date and other scattered thoughts quickly penned so as not to be forgotten. She sifted through them all, looking for something to stand out, for some hint on how she could undo her mother’s spell. But she found nothing.
Hazel pulled books from the shelves and looked at the empty spaces between them; she opened drawers and pushed around writing implements and more papers. One drawer was littered with small, broken bones. Disgusted, she was about to slam it shut but hesitated.
Perhaps a bone was what she should be looking for. Trapping a soul in a bone sounded like a distinct possibility, but it also sounded… disrespectful. If Ash truly still loved Willow like he claimed, he wouldn’t trap her soul in something so crude. He would use something beautiful.
She continued to look around, but aside from the bookbindings and workmanship of the shelves and desks, there was nothing beautiful in the room. Everything held a purpose other than ornamentation. She needed to try something new.
Hazel walked over to a bench that bore a mortar and pestle weighing down a stack of papers. She fished her mother’s lock of hair out from her pocket and put it in the mortar. Taking a moment to consider, she then retrieved a bone from the drawer and put it in the mortar along with the hair. Yet there was still something missing. The room lacked any plants or herbs, so she returned to her father’s quarters and went out onto the balcony.
Sunlight warmed her skin, even though the breeze blew sharp and cold. She found a pot of flowering vervain, broke off a few of the purple blossoms, and headed back to the workshop to add the flowers to the mortar. Taking the pestle in hand, she ground up the ingredients as best she could though the hair was stubborn and wouldn’t break down.
Hazel took another moment to consider. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she returned once again to the main room, found a corked bottle of wine on one of the side tables, then lit a candle fr
om the fire and headed back to the workshop. She pulled the cork out of the bottle, smelled the wine, and took a sip before pouring a small amount into the mortar. Then she tipped the candle to the sludgy mixture and stood back as it flared alight.
A thick, acrid column of smoke rose from the mortar. It smelled of burned hair and grass, stinging her eyes and making her cough. Yet underneath the unpleasant stench, a sweet aroma lingered like a half-remembered dream.
Hazel wiped her watering eyes, fighting the urge to double over in a fit of coughing. Had she done something wrong? There shouldn’t be so much smoke, should there? She started for the door to get some fresh air when a light beyond the door stopped her.
She wiped her eyes again, convinced she was imagining it, but the light remained. A single orb, gentle and white, floated like a star that had been plucked from the sky. It shone through the smoky haze, through the doors and walls—it shone through all of it as if the light itself were the only true thing in a world built upon fragile illusions.
Hazel held her breath, transfixed by its gentle sway, marveling how the light flared a little brighter with each beat of her heart. Then the door to the workshop opened and her father stood in the doorway. The light shone upon his breast, through his clothes as if he had replaced his heart of flesh and blood for one of pure star shine. He stared at her, surprised, which quickly turned to anger.
“You shouldn’t be here, Hazel.”
Tears poured from her eyes so that she could no longer see, and the smoke had grown thick beyond bearing. She doubled over, coughing. And when icy tendrils snaked around her body, she was too weak and disoriented to stop it.
Holly gave silent thanks that they never found a corpse on the road. She had spent a fair amount of time holding her breath in anticipation, but nothing ever arose—either in the air or on the road ahead of them.
“Ravens aren’t always a sign of death,” Norman said, perhaps noticing her relief. “They are the world’s oldest messengers, before pigeons and owls and other such birds became more fashionable. They are the eyes of the gods, keepers of gateways and of memories.”
Hazel and Holly Page 39
