Story's End (10 page)

This is it.
It had to be Duessa’s castle. Una was in enemy territory now, and she wouldn’t leave until she had discovered the Enemy’s plans.
My father’s plans.

Tangled vines grew thicker here, and the path soon disappeared, but Una kept walking in the general direction of the castle. The way was steep, and soon Una’s muscles burned with the continual effort of climbing. From somewhere up ahead, the sound of rushing water grew louder, and Una guessed there might be a river close by.

She angled left, but she hadn’t gone very far before she heard the sound of movement in the undergrowth. Someone was coming. She ducked behind the shelter of an old willow and peered out from the veil of brittle leaves. A red-cloaked figure moved silently through the forest.
The Red Enchantress
. Una stood motionless as she watched Duessa.
My mother.
Soon, she was nearly out of sight, a muted spot of color in the black and gray of the woods.

Una hesitated for only a moment before tiptoeing after Duessa’s retreating form. This was what she had come for, after all. The Enchantress’s red robes swirled around her as she made her way over the twisted foliage. Una blinked back unexpected tears. The closer she got to Duessa, the more she wanted to meet her mother. She pictured her eyes, the moment their hands had touched in Alethia’s garden.

Una stopped behind a thick tree and peered out. Her throat felt tight. What would she say if circumstances had been different? If her mother had been someone like Mrs. Merriweather?
Hello, Mother.
The words felt foreign, like reading aloud a name she didn’t quite know how to pronounce.

The red cloak was in a constant state of movement, the fabric rippling behind Duessa as she walked. Una was careful to stay out of sight, to move only when Duessa moved, to creep along from tree to tree. Which was why she wasn’t prepared when Duessa whirled around and pointed her raised arms at the spot where Una was hiding.

“Show yourself,” Duessa commanded.

Chapter 11

A
branch slapped across Snow’s cheek, but she couldn’t slow down. Her mother was setting a fast pace, despite her wounded feet, and the madman stumbled next to her, pointing the way through the thick underbrush. The Red Enchantress’s castle was situated at the top of a hill, and the first route they had taken had led to the edge of a scorched field. “Too open,” her mother had said as they retraced their steps. The ground they now traveled angled down toward a densely wooded valley. Snow supposed there might have been a view to her left, where the land dropped off, but the mist and the blackness of the night made it impossible to see very far into the distance.

“Is this the way home?” Snow asked her mother as they came to the edge of the forest.

“No,” her mother said absently as she scanned the woods. “We have to go somewhere else first.”

“What?” Snow stopped running. “What can be more important than getting out of here and going somewhere safe?”

The madman was hopping up and down on one foot, muttering something about a dog sailing on the ocean.

“Finding the Enchanted Swamp,” Snow’s mother said. “It’s not very far from here.”

“No way,” Snow said to her mother’s back. “Why in the world would we go there?” Snow had never been to the Swamp, and she would be fine with it staying that way.

“There’s something we need to get,” her mother said in a weary voice. She looked at Snow over the top of the madman’s head. “Something Fidelus and Duessa want.”

At first Snow thought she meant the Taleless, but then she realized what her mother was talking about. “You mean the Scroll of—”

“Not now, Snow,” her mother said, eyeing the madman, whose sailor dog was now eating oranges.

“Seriously?” Snow asked. “You’re worried about
him
?”

“People aren’t always what they appear to be.” Her mother seemed to have decided on a path. “Let’s just say, the less we speak, the better, hmmm?”

“Okay,” Snow said as she followed her into the darkness of the forest. “But how do you know about”—she paused—“
the thing
everyone’s looking for?”

The madman twisted hard and took two steps away from them.

“I said
not now
,” Snow’s mother said through clenched teeth as she caught him in an iron grip.

The madman began to beg, assaulting her with so much flattery that Snow found herself laughing in spite of Duessa’s castle towering on the hill behind them. She had never heard anyone call her mother a “lovely little flower” before. When he realized that wouldn’t work, he began to threaten her.

“Milady will kill you, see if she doesn’t.” He squinted at Snow. “Start with your girl first, perhaps.” His mouth twisted down at the corners. “Hot steel can burn more places than just feet.”

“Maybe you can instruct me in the technique,” her mother said with the tiniest of smiles. “When I begin to work on you.” She wrapped her hand around his neck and gave it a slight squeeze.

Snow knew her mother had been missing for thirteen years, that she had lived in the Enchanted Forest and learned whatever it was that qualified her to be the Villainy professor at Perrault. But Snow had always thought the biggest mystery about her was why she had abandoned her infant daughter. Snow had been wrong. There was a lot she didn’t know about her mother, and, for the first time, Snow felt she might be okay with that. The only thing worse than being captured by the bad guys would be to discover that you were actually on the side of the bad guys.

“Don’t.” Snow didn’t want to see her mother choke anyone, even the crazy old man.

Her mother stopped and let the madman squat down on the rocky terrain. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and he was wild eyed. “Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.” He darted glances in several directions as though enemies surrounded them. “I know things. Things that will help you.”

Her mother circled behind the man’s cowering form as she spoke. “You have told us nothing.” She stopped in front of him and used one finger to tilt his chin up so she could examine his neck, as though he were an animal she was about to slaughter. “You live only because you may prove useful.” She ran the back of her hand gently across his neck, and the man whimpered. “You will not try to run away again.”

“Stop it!” Snow was surprised to hear her own voice sound so strong. “He’s doing what you said. He’s coming with us. Why do you have to keep torturing him?”

Her mother released the man and eyed Snow speculatively. “You pity him.” The madman looked up at Snow with hopeful eyes and gave her a grin. Shiny threads of spittle stretched from the corners of his mouth. It was disgusting.

“Don’t be foolish, Snow,” she hissed. “You do not know who we are dealing with.” Her mother leaned in close and whispered in Snow’s ear. “You think I am enjoying this? That I like to see another creature’s fear?” She sounded like a different woman. “Do you think so little of me, Snow?”

When Snow didn’t answer, her mother shook her head slowly. Her voice grew hard. “It doesn’t matter. This madman, pitiable though he may be, dangerous though he certainly is, has lived for a long time in Duessa’s lands. What he knows of the Enchanted Forest may mean the difference for us between life and death.”

“But your enchanted voice. He’ll do what you say without you threatening him.”

Her mother laughed. “We shall see if he is”—she patted the man’s head—“willing to cooperate.”

The madman seemed to think Snow was the one more likely to help him. “You’re a good girl, I can tell you are.” He wiggled in her mother’s grasp. “She’s hurting me. Help a poor man, won’t you?”

“Leave my daughter alone.” Her mother’s voice was steel. Snow felt a warm flush come over her. She had never heard her mother say those words before. “No more games,” her mother said in that same hard voice. “I can free you from Duessa’s enchantment.”

The man stopped wiggling.

“If you tell us the truth,” Snow’s mother said.

The old man’s tongue darted out over his lips. “How do I know you will keep your word? How do I know you won’t betray me to
him
?” He rolled his eyes toward the trees. A sour smell filled the air, and Snow stepped back. The man had wet himself.

“Listen well, old man.” Her mother reached forward and grabbed his shirtfront. “Trust me or not; it’s your choice. I give you my word in truth: If I betray you to Fidelus, let death come for me. And if you lie, it will go ill with you. Let Story witness our oath.”

The man’s eyes were open too wide, his expression like that of a fey animal. “You know the old ways,” he said.

“Do you agree?”

The man was very still for a moment. Snow didn’t understand what exactly was happening, but it seemed to be more than a simple promise. She hoped with all her heart that her mother knew what she was doing.

The old man’s voice was soft when he answered. “So be it.”

Snow wasn’t sure what she expected. Another spell, perhaps. Or some outward sign of the solemn vow the pair had just taken. But there was nothing. Just the same unending forest and the rasping sound of the man’s breathing. Snow’s mother’s face was pale, and the half-moons under her eyes had deepened into purple. Her voice cut through the silence. “Now tell me truly. Who are you?”

The old man sat up. The film was gone from his eyes, and he had stopped trembling. “My name,” he said, and even his voice sounded different, “is Archimago Mores.”

After Archimago had told them what he had done as the old Tale Master, her mother had walked in silence for some time. Snow wished she would say something. She couldn’t believe the story Archimago had spun. The discovery that all she knew about the Unbinding was a lie. The knowledge that Fidelus had betrayed Story back then and was planning to do so again. The upending of everything Snow had ever thought about the Muses.
The Muses!
Despite her exertion, she felt chilled at the thought of it.

Her mother had seemed unsurprised when Archimago described how he and the Red Enchantress had lied to all of Story.

“Does Fidelus really have the Silver Quill and the Dragon’s Ink?” her mother asked, but Archimago didn’t know the answer and had no memory of the conversation they had overheard in the castle. The old man seemed confused about the time. He remembered nothing of their journey or the prison and kept talking about the Unbinding as though it had just occurred.

“We need to recirculate the old Tales,” he said. “It was wrong of me to lock them away. Once the characters read what the Muses actually wrote, they’ll trust them again.” Explaining to him that more than fifty years had passed and that Duessa and Fidelus had succeeded in defeating the other Muses shook his newfound clarity of thought.

“What do you know about WIs and their power to rip open Tales?” Snow’s mother asked.

“The Muses should have never brought WIs from the Readers’ World into Story.” Archimago shook his head and ducked under a low branch. “Even the WIs who remained loyal to the Muses were not smart or careful enough to wield the power that would rewrite a bound Tale.”

“Is that what Elton was doing?” Snow interrupted. “Rewriting Tales?” The fact that WIs could rip open a bound Tale was shocking enough. Snow had been taught little of WIs or any of the things from before the Unbinding, but she had thought that no one in Story could change a Tale—until now.

“It’s possible.” Snow’s mother was looking at Archimago thoughtfully. “Ripping characters out of Tales would change the entire plot and influence all the other characters in the Tale. The repercussions are endless. Which is one of the reasons it is forbidden.”

A cunning smile appeared on Archimago’s face. “You are very clever, milady. Rewriting a Tale would be a powerful feat indeed, would it not?”

“And one that threatens the very fabric of Story,” Snow’s mother said coolly.

“Quite true. Quite true,” Archimago said, nodding his head. “Rewriting. Editing. Erasing. Powers best left to the capable. And not all of the WIs are capable. The newest one is a complete idiot.” Archimago pushed a clump of stringy hair off his face. “He has no idea how to assist the Muses. In fact, he was such a little boy when he first was Written In that he could barely write a word. Fidelus is training the WI himself; oh, what is his name?” But the detail escaped him, and the only other thing he could tell them was that Fidelus had killed all the other known WIs one day in a forest. No matter how else Snow’s mother phrased the questions, he had no more information to give.

They didn’t say much after this, only stopping once for a brief rest. Little sleep and no food did not make hiking through a forest, let alone a densely overgrown one, easy.

Snow had a brief reprieve when they came to a quick-flowing river that cut across the path. Archimago thought there was a stone bridge, but he was having trouble finding exactly where.

“Is he telling the truth?” Snow asked her mother after the old man disappeared through a thicket of brambles.

“I believe that what he is saying is true,” her mother said in a weary voice, “but I don’t think he is telling us everything.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Snow said.

“I’m not sure he even knows what truth means anymore.” Her mother flexed one foot gingerly. “His memory of things before his enchantment is probably reliable. Everything after that will be incomplete, like reading one page out of a Tale.” She eased her foot back to the ground and worked the muscles in the other. “But you mustn’t forget, Snow. Archimago was once a leader in Story. Just because he is old and frail now doesn’t mean he isn’t as wily as a fox.”

“Do you think Archimago knows what”—Snow dropped her voice to a whisper—“
he’ll
do now that he’s free?”

Her mother frowned. “You mean Fidelus? Most likely he’ll do whatever he was planning to do before the Unbinding.” She waved Archimago over as the man stumbled back into view. “Which is why Archimago’s old memories are more valuable than I could have dreamed.”

“This way,” the man said. “It’s still there.” Snow squinted at the man’s dirty face as he led the way over the stone bridge. He looked nothing like the statue in the Tale station. He had no resemblance to the hero she had heard described in Backstory class. Now that he wasn’t perpetually stooped over, Snow could see that the man was tall, but he was so thin that he looked frail despite his height. Snow thought she could probably knock him off into the river with one good shove. And it would only be what he deserved. Archimago had lied about everything. And all in the name of his love for his Red Enchantress.