The Winter Riddle Read online

  Mealtimes were a particular problem in this regard, due to the copious amounts of food that would spew forth from her inconsiderate gob. Only the greatest sycophants among her courtiers would sit next to her at the dining table, and they had to have different outfits standing by for afterward.

  Her Majesty’s eyes were already as wide as saucers for the drama unfolding before her. Sir Vilkus Cockscomb was dressing down Lord Lester Eventide over a courtly walk which, as he put it, “would only ever be used by a mendicant with poor training in the Gentlemanly Art of Grooming One’s Nether Truss.”

  Needless to say, Lord Lester had taken offense and was nearly coming to a point worth making, when Her Majesty saw Volgha standing there and squealed with delight.

  “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t ready, would you?” Her Majesty asked.

  “Maybe I just missed your company,” said Volgha in an impressive monotone.

  “Out!” the White Queen bellowed. “Get out, you ninnies, or I’ll execute you all! Secret business! Affairs of state! Run, you curs!”

  A fight broke out briefly to be the first through the doors, but no interesting injuries resulted. Most of the courtiers had seen enough executions carried out in the name of Her Majesty’s quick temper to know that she didn’t joke about that sort of thing.

  “Where is it? What must we do?”

  “Have Loki meet us in the cellar.”

  “Chamberlain!”

  He appeared from behind a large pillar in an instant. He’d always been very good at making quick appearances.

  “No need to shout, Your Majesty,” he said in an exceedingly pleasant tone. “Shall we go to the cellars, then?”

  Volgha couldn’t remember the last time she’d walked through the castle with her sister. She only started thinking about it because Her Majesty kept starting to wander off in the wrong direction. Lord Chamberlain had a very soothing manner, and always managed to find a way to steer Her Majesty in the proper direction without indicating that she hadn’t done it properly on her own. He was very good at his job.

  Past balustrades and balconies, and down spiral stairs they wandered, in seemingly contradictory directions, until they came at last to a wooden door with banded iron fittings. A brutish guard had to put his shoulder to the thing to push it open.

  There had once been a number of courtiers who had discovered the way to the wine cellar, and had taken liberties with Her Majesty’s booze in her absence. Any courtier worth their place in the fawning line would know that one of the White Queen’s least favorite things in the world was a party to which she had not been invited. Those former courtiers were now presumably adding to the ambiance of the dungeons. Any interior decorator worth his salt will tell you that a dungeon without an emaciated prisoner chained to a wall is just a stony underground room. Practically worthless.

  A stony underground room full of Her Majesty’s booze, on the other hand, had quite a lot of worth indeed. This was where Volgha, Chamberlain, and Her Majesty had ultimately arrived, to find Loki sampling from a cask of whiskey via a convenient bucket. He’d apparently been waiting for a while.

  “Good ladies,” he said, spilling just a sip of whiskey as he bowed. It apparently amused him, for he tittered and tipped the bucket so another sip splashed out. He tittered again.

  “Stop that,” said the queen with a scowl. “You’re wasting good booze.”

  “You’ve got more.” Loki nearly fell over as he made a sweeping gesture toward the innumerable stacks of casks, shelves of bottles, and rows of barrels stretching into the torchlit distance behind him.

  “Yes, but it may need to last. What if we’re besieged? I’d be worried sick that we’d dry up!”

  “There’s never been a siege so long.” He sipped again and belched.

  “Forget it,” exclaimed the queen. “With a bit of help from my sister, I’ve done it! It’s time for our little prank!”

  “Have you indeed?” Loki’s eyes lit up. He set the bucket down gingerly, then on second thought picked it up and indulged in three more swallows of very good whiskey, set it down gingerly again, then sent it flying as he tripped over it. He found his footing and hurried to embrace Her Majesty as though their waltz had just started to play. He spun her thrice, gathered her up amorously, and said in a husky tone, “How does it work? Tell me how it works.”

  Her Majesty blushed and started giggling uncontrollably.

  “Perhaps Her Majesty’s sister would explain,” said Chamberlain, “so that Her Majesty might assess her sister’s understanding of the plan?”

  Chamberlain blinked very subtly at Volgha, which she took to mean ‘forgive me for having insinuated that you are anything short of the mastermind in this undertaking, but Her Majesty does not do well with being embarrassed, and there is no way to know how many heads would have rolled in the wake of her grievance. Please accept my silent but unwavering gratitude.’

  “Right,” said Volgha, “I’ll do my best then.” A lesser woman might have blushed in the face of Chamberlain’s comely grin, but witches didn’t blush. Volgha was fairly certain the Grimoire expressly forbade it.

  She explained, with frequent interruption, that she’d brewed a three-sip potion.

  Upon taking the first sip, Loki’s mind would be divided into two parts: one half would remain in his distracted globe where it belonged, and the other would wait in a barrel of wine for the mischief to be undertaken.

  Then, once Loki had devised and carried out whatever tomfoolery he wished, he would return to the cellar and take the second sip. The two halves of his mind would exchange places, and he’d be off to sort out the puzzle.

  Once he’d solved it or given up, he’d take the third sip, and his mind would be restored to whatever semblance of normality it was capable of aping.

  “Marvelous,” Loki exclaimed, his rapt expression like that of a murderous child at story time, momentarily distracted from considering which of his nannies would make the best hostage.

  “Yes,” said the queen. “I’d have been more eloquent, but that’s the long-and-short of it.”

  “One thing, though … could my other half wait inside this cask of extraordinary whiskey instead?” Loki inquired.

  “Better not,” replied Volgha. “The strength of the whiskey—”

  The queen cut her off. “Of course you can.”

  Volgha bristled at her sister’s constant need to be the favorite.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you. The difference in the contents—”

  “Splendid!” Loki snatched the potion out of Volgha’s hand and uncorked it. “Off we go then!”

  He took the first sip, grimaced, swooned a bit, and started to fall. Chamberlain was standing in a perfect position to catch the bottle as it dropped from Loki’s hand and let the prankster himself collapse unhindered to the cold stone floor.

  Loki writhed a bit, before a flash of green light leapt from him and passed up the spigot in the cask of whiskey. It worked! Volgha had been confident that it would, and was now very pleased with herself. She was a bit concerned about the whiskey cask, but Loki was a god after all. She was sure he’d be fine. Well, not sure, but she could safely say she had no concern for his well-being.

  “So,” began the queen, “feel any different?”

  “A bit,” replied Loki. “Was I this handsome when we first came down here?”

  Volgha shrugged. “If that’s your idea of handsome, then yes.”

  “No need to hide your feelings, love.” Loki winked.

  “I’ve never hidden my feelings for you,” said Volgha. “My body simply lacks sufficient bile to express them.”

  “Cheeky,” said Loki. “So now I have to think of a prank. These things take time. I’ll return … eventually.” And with that, he walked into a convenient shadow and was gone.

  The remaining three of them stood there silently for half a moment. Now that Volgha no longer had the intricacies of the work itself to occupy her mind, she began to consider the implicati
ons of what she’d done. Had she really just split the soul of a god in half? Was that the sort of thing in which she should have involved herself so lightly?

  “What’s for lunch?” The questions worrying Her Majesty, while wildly aloof in a very remarkable way, were actually more timely and actionable than anything running through Volgha’s mind.

  They adjourned from the cellar to the banquet hall, where Her Majesty demanded a dozen very specific cuts of meat, and then filled up on bread.

  3

  “It’s for Loki’s little prank.” Volgha continued leafing through a book in which she had no interest. It was very old—so old, in fact, that she was unable to read it or even discern what language it was written in. Nonetheless, it was infuriating Ghasterly to no end to have her in the tower, and she was enjoying the exercise.

  “You’ve been through every book on this shelf,” said Ghasterly, through clenched teeth. “You’re not fooling me, girl. You’re trying my patience.”

  “It’s not my fault you couldn’t do the spell,” said Volgha.

  “Wouldn’t!”

  “It makes no difference. Her Majesty had to call on me to do the work that was above your head. But don’t worry, it’s not as though it makes you any less a man.”

  It was almost too easy. She didn’t understand why he insisted on lurking right behind her and being insulted. There were dark corners aplenty in the tower for lurking, since Ghasterly only lit a few black candles here and there. If that wasn’t enough lurking ground, the countryside was practically littered with old cemeteries. Didn’t necromancers lurk in cemeteries? She felt as though she’d read that somewhere.

  Her vision dimmed a bit, and the words on the page started to go fuzzy. Volgha yawned. How long had she been at this? If she’d been at home, she’d have made herself a cup of tea by now and taken a little break. However, she wasn’t at home, thanks to this ridiculous little enterprise, and tormenting Ghasterly was the most interesting way to pass the time.

  Oh well, she thought, he’s had enough for one afternoon. There were rules around teasing, and Ghasterly was either too old to know them or too stubborn to care. If he’d only done his part and stormed off, it would have been over ages ago.

  Closing the book, she went to put it back on the shelf. Her vision was still blurry, and she felt very tired. Far more tired than she’d felt a moment ago. The book slipped from her hand, and she turned to see a blurry Ghasterly gesturing in her direction, a gnarled and blurry wand in his left hand.

  “What’re you doing?” she asked.

  “You’ve got some natural resistance,” Ghasterly hissed. “Why don’t you just give in, and have a nice little nap?”

  Volgha reached for her basket, but it wasn’t there. Ghasterly must have moved it while she was busy infuriating him, a bit of fun which seemed ill-advised in hindsight. She said a swear word. As her vision started to dim, she remembered the little pouch of salt that she kept on her belt. A very versatile element, salt. Very useful for witchery. It just might buy her enough time to cast a counter spell.

  She could feel the blissful hush of sleep tugging at her, beckoning her downward. She fought it, fumbling for her salt with numb, clumsy hands as her mind reached for the words to block the heavy veil that Ghasterly was pulling over her.

  “That’s right,” said Ghasterly, as if speaking to her through a murky pond. “Mumble mumble sleep, so I can mumble you apart, mumble mumble.”

  There was no snow. There was mist over the ground among the black, leafless trunks of the trees, and a sickly green light washed over everything. No wind, no birds, no sound aside from the rustling of her footsteps.

  “I’ve got to get home,” said Volgha aloud. Her words were dull and thick, not reverberating in the air as spoken words tend to do; rather they simply hung there, entirely disinterested in exploring the bleakness of their surroundings.

  “You are home.” It was Ghasterly. She knew it, but she couldn’t see him. Unlike her voice, his boomed and crept up her spine. The acidulous sweeps in his baritone filled her with a sense of mocking hopelessness.

  “Where are you, coward?” Her shout had the same bleak, flat tone as before. It was small and doleful. Was she even speaking aloud?

  “I am where you are,” the dreadful voice of Ghasterly replied. “Would you like to wake up now?”

  Volgha said nothing. Despite the rising sense of dread, she was determined not to give him the satisfaction.

  “So proud,” remarked Ghasterly, “so willful! Whatever shall I do with you?”

  His voice seemed real to her, in a way that her own did not. It was a sickly, rotten gnashing that invaded her ears. The tinny pops and clicks in his consonants sounded like the squelching of boots coming unstuck from the mud. If halitosis were an audible experience, this would have been it.

  “Is this the best you can do, coward?” Volgha’s voice trembled, but she went on talking anyway. “Have you ever been in a fair fight, or must you rely on treachery to win?”

  “There is no treachery when dealing with enemies,” said Ghasterly. “Or did you think that we were friends? I could be your friend, if that’s what you wanted.”

  “Never!”

  “Tsk tsk tsk,” clucked Ghasterly, slowly, patiently, each wet movement of his putrid tongue sending a bolt of fear through Volgha. “Manners, little bird. Why not ask nicely? We can be sweet to each other, can’t we?”

  “Just stop this. I want to go home.” This wasn’t right. Everything was dim and fleeting. Volgha had trouble keeping her thoughts together. Just when she felt she’d figured out what was going on, a chill would creep through and her mind would go blank. Only a sense of foreboding remained.

  She wished she hadn’t been so foolish as to provoke Ghasterly’s anger. She wanted a way out. She started walking through the trees, the eerie lack of air, noise, anything but the shuffling of her boots unnerving her past the point of reason.

  “Fine,” she said, her voice beginning to quaver. “Please let me out of here.”

  “Sweetly,” sang Ghasterly, in a sickly, sing-song way.

  “Please.” Volgha quickened her pace as she stumbled through the strange forest. The trees seemed as though they were coming closer together. She turned around, but they looked even more tightly grouped back the way she’d come.

  “Do better,” barked Ghasterly, anger apparent in his voice. The sickly green light was dimming. The forest was growing darker. There was barely room to stand among the tall black tree trunks, which were glistening with feculent slime.

  “I’m sorry!” Tears welled up in her eyes, and her throat tightened. “I’m sorry that I teased you, I—”

  “It’s too late for that!” The green light browned its way to a malicious red. Orange flashed through the mist above, and thunder rumbled menacingly in the distance.

  “Please,” Volgha warbled meekly, “have mercy!”

  “Why should I? No one goes up against a necromancer and lives to tell about it! I should leave you here to starve and choke and rot among the leaves in this dead place.”

  “No!” Panic overwhelmed her. “Let me live, please! I’ll do anything, just release me from this place!”

  “Admit that I have bested you.”

  “Yes! You have bested me.”

  “Your paltry tricks do not compare to my power. What do you know of true magic?”

  “Nothing! I cannot match you! Please, I’ll never so much as look upon the door to your tower again as long as I live, just let me go!”

  “Swear it. Swear never to look upon the tower again.”

  “I swear it!”

  She tasted dirt.

  No one wakes up all at once. It’s not allowed. It’s a gradual process of reintegrating one’s consciousness with the waking world, usually about thirty minutes before one’s consciousness would have preferred. A noise, a feeling of something brushing against the skin, or just dimly becoming aware that one is dreaming will get things started, and then the rest of the s
enses start powering on.

  For Volgha, this time started with the gritty, bitter taste of dirt. Cold came next, cold and wet. She was lying in the cold, wet dirt. She sat up.

  She had been lying, and was now sitting, in the wheel-worn tracks in front of the castle where carriages arrived. She was soaked, freezing, and covered in dirt. The guards on either side of the door were making a very pointed display of staring straight ahead. If there were one particular direction that definitely did not have a bedraggled witch in it, they were looking in that one. It was the sort of direction where one could find the complete lack of awkwardness that the presence of a bedraggled witch might possess in abundance.

  One of the guards cleared his throat and opened the door in a way that acknowledged the complete absence of bedraggled witches in the area, while insisting that the sooner that any such non-existent persons got moving in that direction, the sooner everyone could start forgetting what they’d not seen in the first place.

  It was all that Volgha could do to move in the direction that had been non-judgmentally insinuated by no one in particular. She stumbled through the castle in a daze, eventually finding herself soaking in a copper tub full of hot soapy water, and though the warmth relieved her aching muscles and clammy flesh, her heart felt like a curdled lump in her chest.

  She’d been foolish. Ghasterly had bested her. He’d struck when she hadn’t been looking, and used some sort of vile wand magic to play on her fears. It was a despicable tactic, but one that had been wildly successful.

  She’d begged for her life. She’d cried, she’d sniveled, and she’d admitted defeat. She could go to her sister, cry and tattle, but then what? Alexia was just as likely to laugh as she was to punish Ghasterly, and in any case, wasn’t that just further admission that she couldn’t best him?

  The worst part was the oath. The fact that Volgha had been coerced by an evil spell didn’t matter—she’d sworn never to look upon the tower again, and a witch was nothing without her word. She’d have to defeat Ghasterly to unbind the oath. She’d always thought that she could beat him in a fair fight, but who expects a necromancer to fight fairly?