Starfell: Willow Moss & the Lost Day

by Dominique Valente

  6

  The (Newly) Forbidden City of Beady Hill

  ONE OF WILLOW’S happiest memories was when one of Granny Flossy’s potion experiments went wrong and she ended up making chocolate instead. Willow thought that had been pretty near perfect happiness, until now. Flying Whisper past winding silvery lakes, and through the seemingly endless expanse of cloudless sky, all she could do was smile.

  She was partly frozen, her hair had turned into one large, knotty helmet that had bird droppings in it from a pigeon who’d used her as target practice, and Oswin hadn’t taken a break from moaning, but she was utterly, blissfully happy.

  Well, until a volley of flaming arrows streaked past her broom, almost causing her to fall in her fright. She screamed and clung on to Whisper.

  “They’re just warning arrows. Looks like the king’s army has claimed the air space here. . . . We’ll have to land before the city’s walls,” said Moreg, racing up to her side. “They won’t let us pass over. Better to go on foot—then we can fly on after we’ve found any clues to the forgotten teller’s whereabouts.”

  Heart stuttering in fear, Willow followed after Moreg, trying to keep clear of the orange flames that erupted from the Business’s engines.

  Willow’s heart was still in her throat. Up on the ramparts she could see the archers with their flaming arrows.

  They headed for the outer wall of the city, landing away from prying eyes. “They’re a bit sticky when it comes to magic around here,” explained Moreg, “and being on a broomstick will just anger them further. Best to blend in for now.”

  Willow nodded. Though her heart was still racing.

  “I’ll pop the brooms into my pantry for safekeeping—it’ll be better not to advertise who we are to the army.”

  Willow agreed, though she kept ahold of the hairy carpetbag with Oswin inside.

  As they headed toward the city’s walls, there was distinctive high-pitched panicking noise coming from the bag, which was slightly alarming. “Oh no! Oh, me greedy aunt! Osbertrude, why’d you curse us kobolds?”

  In Willow’s experience, Oswin only got this panicked when he detected powerful magic approaching and was feeling particularly afraid. Incidentally, this happened every time her sister Camille was about to enter their bedroom.

  But before she had a chance to worry about why he was reacting this way, Moreg said “Bother” in a resigned sort of way as a tall, skinny boy dressed in a long brown robe with three golden arrows emblazoned across the chest rounded the town wall and gaped at them in apparent surprise. He had very straight, almost straw-like blond hair, which looked like it had been thatched to his head, and his pale face was generously peppered with pimples. He made the sign of Wol by holding both hands together and pointing his second and last fingers up. Then, before they could stop him, he screamed, “WITCHES!” This was followed closely by “BROTHERS! THEY ARE HERE!” and he hastened away, presumably to get the others.

  “That was a Brother of Wol, right?” asked Willow in dismay, watching him leave. The trouble with the Brothers of Wol was that if you found one, you were sure to find others; they were a bit like roaches.

  Moreg nodded, pinched the bridge of her nose as if she had a headache, and said, “I was afraid of this—I had hoped we had more time.”

  “Afraid of what?” asked Willow, eyes following in the direction the Brother of Wol had gone. “Um, don’t you think we should make a run for it?”

  “Not yet, no.” Moreg pursed her lips and reached into the pocket of her dress, where she fished out a bronze disk about the size of a large, flat biscuit. Peering over Moreg’s elbow, Willow saw that it had a heavy brass needle and resembled a compass, although the destinations seemed more nonsensical than geographical. There was one that read “Turning Point,” another that suggested “Cup of Tea?,” one that said, “If I Were You, I’d Run,” another that warned “There Be Dragons,” and one that appeared to commiserate with “One Might Have Suspected as Such.”

  The needle was currently pointing to “One Might Have Suspected as Such.”

  Moreg sighed resignedly. “So that’s that then.”

  Willow frowned. “What is that thing?”

  “Oh, this?” Moreg said. “It’s a StoryPass; got it in the town of Library. Apparently it’s supposed to help with novel cataloging, but I find it useful in life too. Here, take a look,” she said, handing it to Willow.

  While Willow was looking at the strange compass-like object, a low, drawling voice from behind said, “Well, well. If it isn’t Moreg Vaine? This is a surprise—caught in the act of attempting to enter the forbidden city of Beady Hill, I see. Tut-tut.”

  They turned to find a portly, bald Brother, whose small, black pebble eyes were shining with glee. Next to him were several more Brothers of Wol, including the young one from earlier.

  The portly Brother was dressed slightly differently from the others; his brown robe had a red circle in the middle, and the three golden arrows inside it were pointing up. Willow wondered if this marked him as some kind of senior Brother.

  “Forbidden city?” asked Willow, looking at Moreg in surprise. Surely the witch hadn’t knowingly brought them to one of the areas that outlawed entry to magical people?

  “Newly forbidden,” admitted the Brother with the red circle. He allowed himself a small, sinister grin, which belied his next words. “We are not monsters; we’ve allowed the former residents a week to gather their belongings. . . . But yes, forbidden now—you are trespassing on the first official day. . . .”

  Moreg’s eyes glittered. “Former residents—with nowhere to go now as a result? Kicked out of their homes because the only crime they have committed is to be different from you?”

  The Brother sniffed. “Well, if by different you mean dangerous, then yes . . . different. It makes sense then to have them separated. We cannot let you leave, you see. I’m sure you can appreciate our predicament?”

  “And mine,” said Moreg, her voice mild, but more ominous somehow. “I am in the company of a child, after all, and I wouldn’t want to see her threatened, you understand. I may very well have to react a bit . . . you see.”

  “React a bit what?” The bald Brother frowned.

  “A bit unfortunately toward you. . . .”

  The Brother paled slightly, his earlier bravado slipping somewhat. “See here . . . there are consequences for breaking the law.”

  “Indeed?” said Moreg.

  “There are rules that even you, Ms. Vaine, cannot deny any longer,” he spat. “I am the High Master of the Brothers of Wol . . . and you are under arrest, witch, for attempting to enter a forbidden area.”

  “I understand,” said Moreg as the young Brother with spotty skin and blond hair came forward with two pairs of iron manacles that appeared to glow with a strange, almost magical light.

  Willow frowned as she considered the manacles; they looked odd. Willow gasped as she realized. “Those manacles have been magicked!”

  “Well, how else would you lock up a witch?” scoffed the High Master. Some of the Brothers next to him started chuckling.

  From within the bag Oswin muttered darkly, “’Tis a bit rich, don’t you fink? I mean, they don’ want magic in the world, but they isn’t afraid to use it?”

  “Shhhhh,” whispered Willow, giving the carpetbag a shake, though she couldn’t help but agree with him. She could hear Oswin grumble. “Jes’ saying. . . .”

  Moreg gave the High Master a thin smile. “Fascinating. But you see, there are rules for me as well. Rules that I too must follow. Rules about fairness, about freedom, against bullying . . . rules, in short, that protect those in my charge.”

  Above their heads thunder shook the sky, which turned instantly dark. The noise was deafening, and very close to where they were standing a bolt of lightning shot down and scorched the ground.

  The High Master jumped. There were burn marks from the lightning on the ends of his robe. “See here,” he said, gulping, his eyes wide, “you were
about to enter Beady Hill. I have no choice; I have to take you both.”

  The witch stared at him for some time, her eyes glittering in the sudden gloom. “I think you’ll find that even in the darkest, most hopeless of times there is always a choice when you look hard enough. Even if that choice is simply about how you will act. For instance, if I were you, I would choose to take only me. This is a choice that I for one would have no cause to”—she waved a hand, and all of the Brothers flinched—“make a fuss over.” There was a ghost of a smile about her lips.

  The High Master cleared his throat. “But I have to—”

  Thunder ripped the sky once more, and a second bolt of lightning shot from above, leaving a fiery burn inches from the Brother’s feet. He didn’t jump, but his portly cheek flexed in anger, and he made a low, almost hissing sound.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Moreg.

  He looked at her. “I suppose we can let the child go . . . with a warning.”

  The other Brothers agreed.

  Moreg nodded. “I think that’s best, yes.” Then, straightening up, she said, “Very well,” and the darkening sky turned to dusk once more, and the sound of thunder died instantly as she stepped forward so that they could arrest her.

  Had Willow looked down at the StoryPass in her hands, she would not have been a bit surprised to see that the needle was currently indicating “Turning Point.” But she was far too busy staring at Moreg and the Brothers in horror.

  “What? No!” exclaimed Willow.

  The High Master stepped forward and quickly fastened the glowing manacles onto Moreg’s wrists.

  “Y-you can’t let this happen!” Willow shouted.

  The Brothers were clearly wary of Moreg, and she’d just turned the world dark and made thunder and lightning strike! How could Moreg Vaine—the most powerful witch in all of Starfell—allow herself to be captured?

  Willow shook her head. “I’ll come with you—maybe we can break out? I doubt they could keep us there long. . . .”

  “No! I will be going—you will not,” said Moreg, her voice fierce, allowing no argument.

  Moreg bent down and whispered into her ear. “I’m sorry. I’d hoped we had more time. Find the Sometimes house in the Ditchwater district; it’s one of the oldest magical houses in the area. They have moved on now, as all oubliers do, but look for clues to where their son, Nolin, has gone.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Moreg’s eyes were hazy for a moment; then they focused on Willow and blinked. “Trust me. Look for the house with the yellow door; find the strange garden. . . . It’ll lead you to him, I’m sure.”

  “Now, witch!” called the High Master.

  Moreg nodded. She looked at Willow and said, “You can do this,” and she started to walk away, followed by the Brothers.

  “Wait!” cried Willow, her heart thudding painfully in fear as she rushed after her. “I can’t do it without you!”

  Moreg lifted a hand to pat Willow’s shoulder, and one of the manacles popped off her wrists. “You’ll be fine.”

  A Brother behind Moreg gasped. Moreg looked at him with what almost seemed like sympathy, shrugged, then popped the manacle back on where it remained unfastened. “Never mind, I can just hold it in place.”

  Willow’s mouth fell open. “They don’t even work on you!” she gasped. “Why are you going with them when you could fight this?”

  “Sometimes you just have to do what is right,” said Moreg.

  The High Master seemed to inflate with pride at this. “Quite right.”

  “But this is wrong! It’s their stupid rules, not ours! We hadn’t even entered Beady Hill yet, so it’s not like we broke any rules! How can you just agree to this? How can I go on without you?”

  “Don’t worry—it’s how it should be. Remember, Willow: practical makes perfect.” She looked up at the sky and nodded. “And when you think of it, a little rain is essential for uncovering what you might need.”

  Willow looked up, but there was no rain. Was this really the time for the witch to get distracted?

  Moreg looked at her. Her face was very serious, and Willow thought for a moment that now the witch would say something wise, something that explained why she’d decided to abandon their mission and allow herself to be imprisoned by a bunch of crazy, fanatical priests, priests who Willow was sure the witch could fight off if she tried, despite their number—she had made lightning strike!

  “The pantry,” said Moreg.

  Willow’s eyes popped in disbelief. “The pantry?”

  “Yes, whenever I feel truly lost, I go there. There’s something about it that just brings the answer to light. Perhaps it’s the presence of food, which can be rather soothing. I daresay it may help you too in the end, if you give it a try.”

  Willow blinked. The witch truly was crazy. How on Starfell was that supposed to help her?

  She whirled around, facing the High Master. “Where are you taking her?” she demanded.

  For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer, but then he gave her an odd look, as if it were obvious, and chortled. His plump cheeks were pink with pleasure at the idea of taking Moreg Vaine there. “Wolkana, of course.”

  Willow paled. The hidden monastery of Wolkana was a fortress, the stuff of legend. It was created thousands of years before to safeguard the Brothers from those with magic. People said it had been built by Wol himself so that a person with magic in their veins couldn’t find it, even if they were standing directly across from it. How would she be able to save Moreg from there?

  Willow watched in horror as the Brothers and Moreg walked on, growing smaller and smaller as they went past the gates and down the hill and out of sight.

  Willow set the carpetbag down on the ground and fought the urge to scream. An hour ago she was on a mission to save the world with the most powerful witch in all of Starfell. Now the witch was gone, and she had no idea how to get into the forbidden city all by herself, and all she had with her was the monster from under the bed for company.

  She didn’t even have her shiny new broom, Whisper, as it was stowed away in the witch’s portal pantry, which meant that if by some miracle she did find out where the forgotten teller was, and that seemed a big if, it wasn’t like the witch had a real plan, aside from looking for clues at an old house. He could be anywhere on Starfell. . . .

  She put her head in her hands and groaned. “This isn’t tricky, Moreg. It’s impossible.”

  Oswin stuck out his furry green head from the hairy carpetbag, blinking his orb-like eyes against the sudden daylight, and asked, “Wot house was she going on about?” Clearly he felt more confident when it was just the two of them. Though as a creature that liked the dark, he preferred to stay inside the carpetbag most of the time.

  Willow sighed, then stood up. There was no point in falling apart; it wouldn’t bring the witch back. “The Sometimes house, apparently. The old family home of the forgotten teller.”

  His shaggy green coat turned from lime to carrot instantly. “An’ it’s in there—the city that yew was almost locked up fer entering?” he said, pointing a fluffy paw at the granite-colored wall.

  “Yes.” Willow looked at the StoryPass, which was still in the palm of her hand, the needle pointing to “One Might Have Suspected as Such,” and shook her head.

  7

  Amora Spell

  WILLOW PICKED UP the carpetbag with a sigh. “Maybe there is some gap in the city wall that is unguarded?” she muttered, her eyes scanning the perimeter.

  As she inched closer she saw, however, that there were a lot of soldiers milling about overseeing the exodus of witches and wizards. Not to mention the guards keeping an eye out on the ramparts. It was impenetrable.

  “This is bad.”

  From within the bag she heard Oswin sympathize. “I knows. She never even left you her cloak. . . . Wot we gonna nibble now, eh?”

  Willow rolled her eyes. She’d meant it was bad that they were doing checks. “Thank you, O
swin.” Clearly the fact that Moreg had taken their access to food with her was of far more consequence to the kobold than the real problem—that they somehow needed to get inside a heavily fortified city undetected.

  As she sank deeper into despair, Willow noticed a donkey cart piled high with clothing approach the entrance. It was driven by a portly man with an impressive handlebar mustache. He stopped a few feet in front of them, almost blocking their view.

  The man was asked to show some form of identification, and she heard him say, “Laundry service. The duke likes to have his delicates sent to Lael. . . . You know what they say about elves and washing. . . .”

  “What?” asked the guard.

  “Oh? Well, they’re good at it. . . .”

  “I thought there was going to be a joke.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “See, when you said it like that, ‘You know what they say about elves and washing,’ there’s usually about to be some kind of a joke.”

  “You calling elves funny or something?”

  The two started to argue. The laundry man said something about elvish discrimination, and having a distant relative who was part elf.

  Willow stopped listening as Oswin’s green paw came out of the bag and tapped her. “If you really wants to get inside, mebbe we could jes’ climb inside that fing and hide under that pile o’ rags? Jes’ saying.”

  He seemed to be looking at the scene from a small hole in the bag, so all Willow could see was one luminous green eye.

  Willow stared at him, her mouth falling open in amazed delight.

  “Wot?”

  She peeked past the cart and inched closer. It was true—the guards were distracted by the laundry man, who was now having a hard time explaining why his papers had bite marks on them (from the donkey, it seemed). So, while the men were occupied, Willow crept back behind the cart and petted Oswin’s green head in thanks. This was followed by a small purring sound and then swiftly by a cleared throat when she asked, “Oswin, were you purring?”