[Magic Kingdom of Landover 05] - Witches' Brew (28 page)

Mistaya nodded. “I won't.” She looked back at the witch tentatively. “What will we study now?”

Nightshade pursed her lips. “Medicine,” she answered. “Healing through the use of magic.”

She put her arm about Mistaya and began to walk her from the clearing back toward the hollow. “Mistaya,” she said softly, “would you like to learn how to use your magic to bring something dead back to life?”

She smiled at the girl, and her eyes were lidded with pleasure.

After three days of searching Graum Wythe and finding nothing, Questor Thews became convinced that somehow they were overlooking the obvious.

“We're wearing blinders!” he announced abruptly. He sat down on a packing crate with his chin in his hands and a frown on his face, bushy white eyebrows fiercely knit. “It's here, whatever it is, but we're simply not seeing it!”

Elizabeth and Abernathy looked over at him in voiceless contemplation. They were secluded in one of Graum Wythe's many storage rooms, deep in the bowels of the castle, a small windowless room where the sun never penetrated and the air was close and stale. They had searched the room once and were engaged at present in searching it a second time. By now, unfortunately, they had searched everywhere at least once and were growing discouraged.

“It shouldn't be taking this long,” the wizard declared forcefully. “If we are meant to find it, if that is
why we were brought here, then we should have stumbled on it by now.”

“It would help if we knew what we were looking for,” Abernathy observed glumly, lowering himself onto a second crate with a weary sigh. He was sick of poking through old boxes and dusty corners. He wanted to be outside, where the sun was shining and the air was fresh. He wanted to enjoy being who he was now that he had finally been restored to himself. All those dog years had fallen away as quickly as leaves from a tree on winter's first storm, as if none of it had ever really happened, all of it a dream from which he had finally awoken.

Elizabeth pursed her lips, causing her button nose to wrinkle. “I don't suppose you could be mistaken about what you are doing here?” she asked Questor Thews tentatively. “Is it possible that your coming was simply a fluke?” She seated herself next to Abernathy. “Or that you were dispatched here for some other reason?”

“It is possible,” the wizard acknowledged charitably, “but unlikely. The consequences of magic are seldom haphazard. They almost always have a reason for turning out as they do. Nightshade would not have made the mistake of letting us live when she expected us to die. No, the conclusion is inescapable. Another magic intervened and saved us. We were sent here for a purpose, and I can think of no other purpose than to rescue Mistaya.”

“Is it possible you are wrong about the magic being at Graum Wythe?” Elizabeth pressed. “Could it be somewhere else?”

Questor Thews scrunched up his face. “No. It has to be here. It has to be a magic that originally came from Landover. Nothing else makes sense!”

They stared at each other wordlessly for a moment, then looked about the room. “Could there be a second
medallion?” Abernathy asked suddenly. “Another like the High Lord's?”

Questor raised a spiny eyebrow thoughtfully. It was a possibility he hadn't considered. But no; Michel Ard Rhi would have found such a talisman quickly enough and would not have gone to such great lengths to force Abernathy to give up the High Lord's when the scribe had been his prisoner at Graum Wythe those several years back.

The wizard shook his head. “No, it is something else, something that Michel would not have recognized. Something, at least, he could not find a way to use.” He rubbed at his bearded chin thoughtfully. “This is exceedingly frustrating, I must say.”

“Maybe we should have some lunch,” Elizabeth suggested, nudging Abernathy playfully. “We might think better on full stomachs.”

“We might think better after a short nap,” Abernathy observed, nudging her back.

Questor Thews watched them wordlessly. He didn't like what he was seeing. Abernathy was growing complacent in his new life. He was altogether too satisfied with himself, as if getting back to Landover didn't mean anything to him now that he was a man again. He was forgetting his responsibilities. The High Lord and his family still depended on them, and Questor was afraid Abernathy was losing sight of that. He knew he shouldn't judge, but what was happening was obvious. Abernathy was rediscovering himself, and in the process of doing so he was making over his life to fit his new circumstances. It was a dangerous indulgence.

He cleared his throat sharply, causing both of them to jump. “Before we eat or nap, perhaps we could talk this business through one more time.” He offered a smile to soften the force of his words. “Just for a few more moments,
if you would. I admit to being rather desperate just about now.”

Elizabeth smiled back reassuringly. “Don't worry, Questor. You'll find it sooner or later, whatever it is.” She ran her fingers through her curly hair. “Even if you don't, this isn't a bad place to be trapped in, is it?”

She sounded altogether too hopeful. Questor did not dare say what he was thinking. “We have to get back to Landover,” he insisted quietly. “We have to find the magic that will allow it.”

Elizabeth sighed. “I know.” She didn't sound convinced. “This magic, whatever it is, has to be something you'll recognize when you see it, doesn't it? If it's really here?”

“We've seen everything at least once already,” Abernathy countered, pushing back his glasses on his nose.

“Maybe we're not looking at it the right way,” Questor Thews mulled aloud.

Elizabeth swung her feet away from the crate and studied her sneakers. They were silent again, considering.

“Wait a minute,” Abernathy said suddenly. “Maybe what we're looking for isn't a thing at all. Maybe that's why we're not seeing it. It was a spell that brought us here, magic conjured out of words. What if a spell is needed to take us back again?”

Questor's eyes widened, and he jumped up instantly from the packing crate. “Abernathy, you are an absolute genius! Of course that's what it is! A spell! We're not looking for a talisman at all! We're looking for a book of spells!”

Abernathy and Elizabeth rose as well, looking decidedly less certain of the matter. “But wouldn't Michel have recognized a book of that sort?” Abernathy asked doubtfully. “Wouldn't he have used it to get back into
Landover there at the end, when he wanted to regain the throne? Or wouldn't your brother have searched it out when Holiday defied him? I know it was my idea, but on thinking it through, it doesn't make much sense. If there is a spell that allows passage back into Landover, why didn't one of them use it?”

“Perhaps because they couldn't,” the wizard offered, stalking first to one side of the cluttered room, then back again to the other, head lowered, hands swinging animatedly. “Because the spell wouldn't work for them, maybe. I don't know. But I think you have stumbled on something nevertheless. A spell brought us over. It would make sense that a spell would take us back. A reversal of the magic that brought us here. A reworking of the words …”

A nasty suspicion crossed his mind, one that had occurred to him earlier in Elizabeth's kitchen when they had been discussing the reasons for what had happened to them. He had discarded it then, refusing to consider it too closely, unable to contemplate the possibility. Now it was back again, looking all too possible to be ignored.

He stopped his pacing and looked at Abernathy with haunted eyes. “Abernathy, this is difficult for me to suggest, but what if …”

He never finished. Light flared in the shadows at the far side of the storage room, and all three turned abruptly to face it. The light brightened sharply and then disappeared, leaving in its wake a decidedly ragged and frightened G'home Gnome sitting stunned and shivering on the concrete floor.

When he saw them staring at him, he gasped and threw up his hands defensively. “Don't hurt me!” he begged, blinking rapidly and trying to curl into a ball. “I just want to go home!”

Questor Thews exchanged a startled glance with
Abernathy.
A G'home Gnome? Here? What was this all about?

“Now, now, no one is going to hurt you,” Questor reassured the other, starting forward, then stopping again as the Gnome started to gasp for air. “Are you all right?”

The Gnome nodded uncertainly. “If you can call being fried in witch fire ‘all right,' then I suppose so.”

Witch fire?
Questor and Abernathy exchanged a second glance. “What's your name?” Questor pressed. The grimy little fellow was twisted down into an impossible position. “Come, now. We mean you no harm. We are all friends here.”

The Gnome sniffled uncertainly, peering out from beneath crossed arms. “G'home Gnomes have precious few friends anywhere,” he pointed out sullenly. He lifted his head. He was the scruffiest fellow imaginable, tattered and disheveled and in desperate need of a bath. “You tell me who you are first.”

Questor sighed. “I am Questor Thews. This is Abernathy. That is Elizabeth.” He pointed to each in turn. “Now, then. Who are you?”

“Poggwydd,” the G'home Gnome said. He sounded proud of the fact. He lowered his arms and straightened up a bit. “Questor Thews, the Court Wizard? I heard you were Rydall's prisoner. You and the dog. Is that where we are, in Rydall's prison? Is that where the witch sent me?”

“Wait a minute.” This time Questor Thews came right over and brought the Gnome firmly to his feet. “The witch, you said? Do you mean Nightshade?”

Poggwydd nodded. “Who else?” He was a little more sure of himself now. “She's the one who did this to me. Sent me here, wherever that is. Used her witch fire. Say, you didn't answer. Are we in Rydall's prison? What's going on?”

Questor Thews took Poggwydd by the elbow, marched him over to a vacant packing crate, and sat him down. The Gnome was rubbing at his wet nose and trying unsuccessfully to look brave. He kept his eyes fixed on Questor, as if by doing so he could stave off anything worse happening to him.

“Poggwydd,” the wizard addressed him solemnly. “I want you to tell us everything that happened, everything you can remember, especially about Nightshade.”

“I can do that, all right,” the Gnome declared. He paused suspiciously. “You promise me you aren't friends with her?”

“I promise,” Questor replied.

Poggwydd nodded, thought it over, then cleared his throat officiously. “Well, I thought she was going to hurt me—the witch, that is. She had that look in her eye. She was real mad at me because of the little girl. Caught me talking with her out there in a clearing about a mile from the Deep Fell. Ridiculous, really. I didn't even know her; she just showed up out of nowhere, way out in those woods, wanting to talk. So we did, and then the witch came, and the little girl asked her not to hurt me, said it wasn't my fault, but the witch didn't look like she believed her, so—”

“Whoa! Stop! Hold on!” Questor held up his hands imploringly. His brow knit furiously. “What little girl are you talking about? What did she look like? Did she tell you her name?”

Poggwydd stared, startled by the look on the other's face. He glanced past the wizard to the other two, found no help there, and looked back again. “I don't know what she looked like. Who can remember? She was … small. Not very old, maybe ten. Had freckles and blond hair.” He frowned. “She was very clever. Played some games with me while we talked. Pretended to be … She said she was the High Lord's …” He stopped, no
longer certain where to go. “She said her name was Misty.”

“Mistaya,” Questor breathed, backing away. “So Nightshade has her. Or had her. Did she escape, Poggwydd? Is that what happened?”

The G'home Gnome looked at him blankly. “Escape? I don't know if she did or not. I don't know where she came from. I don't even know who she is for sure. What I do know is that the witch was furious when she found me talking with her and that's why I'm here!” He paused, rubbing at his bristly chin. Bits of dirt flaked off. “Although maybe that's not right, either. You know, she asked the witch not to hurt me, the little girl did. But I don't think the witch was paying any attention to her and meant to fry me like a piece of old meat.”

“But she didn't,” Questor interjected, trying to hurry the story along, anxious to pin down his suspicions.

Poggwydd shook his head. “Well, there was this mud puppy, you see. I think maybe he stopped it from happening.” He looked confused all over again. “Is that possible?”

Eventually they got the whole story out of him although it took a while to do so. They heard about how Mistaya had come upon his camp not far from the Deep Fell and engaged him in conversation. They heard about Haltwhistle and how he seemed to be the girl's companion. Finally, they heard about Nightshade's unexpected appearance, her anger at discovering Mistaya outside the Deep Fell, and her attack on Poggwydd, which appeared to have been thwarted in part by the magic of the mud puppy, resulting in the Gnome's appearance at Graum Wythe.

“Just like us!” Abernathy exclaimed as the Gnome finished. He was standing next to Questor Thews by now, looking quite animated. “Questor, that must be what happened to us, too! The mud puppy intervened,
changed Nightshade's magic, and sent us here! It sounds exactly the same!”

“Indeed,” Questor agreed, pursing his lips, thinking hard.

“Where is here?” Poggwydd asked once again. “You haven't said yet.”

“In a minute,” Questor replied, turning away momentarily and then back again. “But who sent the mud puppy to Mistaya? It must have happened that night, while we slept, before the witch came. We were in the lake country, so it could have been the River Master. But the only mud puppy I ever heard of outside the fairy mists is the one who serves the Earth Mother.”