The Dark Lord Clementine Read online

  “You will not suggest I do such a thing again,” Clementine said, quickening her pace. The sheep scampered after her.

  “Why?” asked the sheep. “If I could fly like that, I’d—”

  “I think I preferred it when you couldn’t talk!” snapped Clementine.

  They walked for a few moments in silence until Clementine started to gather her gray waves into a braid—her one concession to the heat of the day.

  “You don’t understand,” she said quietly, slowing a little as she combed out her hair with her fingers. “I’m not supposed to be flying broomsticks at all. Father would be so disappointed if he knew I’d even tried it.”

  The black sheep wasn’t sure if his powers of speech had gone back to being appreciated or not, so he did not ask why. And frankly, the Dark Lord Elithor seemed like the kind of person who was disappointed by lots of things for no reason at all.

  “Only witches ride broomsticks,” Clementine explained with a sigh, tying off the end of her braid. “Not Dark Lords. It would be quite . . . unbefitting.”

  For people who supposedly made a living causing death and destruction, Dave thought, the Morcerouses were awfully concerned with propriety.

  The first sign that Dave and Clementine were close to their destination was a three-foot sword sticking up out of the ground. It looked to have been there for quite some time; it was rusty from exposure to the elements, and the jewels encrusted in its handle were cloudy from pollen and dirt. Clementine pulled it out of the ground easily and used it as a walking stick the rest of the way.

  Dave and Clementine walked down the sloping bank of the lake, picking their way among the increasing number of swords—with special care near the ones pointing up blade-first. The black sheep hung back when the space between them grew too small for him to navigate.

  “I’ll just . . . wait here, then,” said the sheep, not entirely sad to be left out of the impending meeting. The Lady of the Lake was one of the oldest creatures in the valley. If anyone might know something about the Whittle Witch, it would be her. Unfortunately, she was also . . .

  “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH.”

  She was also that.

  “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH AHHHHHHHH.” The Lady of the Lake’s loud and flat singing voice echoed out over the lake, making Clementine and the sheep wince.

  Dave thought she was trying to sound enticing and mysterious, but unfortunately, she could sing about as well as Dave could. And Dave was a boy turned into a sheep.

  The blue-green water swelled and swirled toward the center of the lake in a giant whirlpool. A few surprised fish flopped about on the newly exposed lake bottom.

  “AHHHHH AAAAAAHHHHH AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” said Clementine, standing with her hands on her hips at the edge of the shore.

  The water swirled faster and faster, creating a great foaming column in the middle of the lake. A woman began to emerge from the center, a gleaming sword held aloft in one hand.

  “What brave traveler comes this way?” the woman asked, her eyes closed and her face lifted toward the sun. “Who dares to seek what the future may bring? What hero of ages will wield this mighty sword?”

  She opened her eyes and thrust her sword upward with a flourish, a great spout of water shooting from its tip. She had eyes as light blue as winter’s first frost, and hair as green as the darkest part of the forest. She was the most beautiful woman either Clementine or Dave had ever seen. She was Vivienne, the Lady of the Lake.

  And she was also about as unimpressed to see them as they were to see her.

  “Oh, it’s just you,” the Lady of the Lake said, rolling her eyes. “Why didn’t you say?”

  She chucked the sword over her shoulder. It struck another one with a clang and barely missed spearing one of the stranded fish. “What can I do you for, Clem?”

  “My lady, we’ve been over this,” said Clementine. “You’re to call me Lady Clementine. I know Father’s told you a hundred times.”

  “Oh, pishposh,” said Vivienne with a flick of her wrist. The Lady spun away from Clementine, and the column of water holding her up shrank slightly, returning some of the water to the lake. It lapped against the toes of Clementine’s boots. “No Morcerous has ever told me anything a hundred times, because you lot never come to visit me anymore. I remember when the first Dark Lords reigned—they were always running to me, begging, ‘Lady, lend me a sword so that I might slay that giant coming down the beanstalk,’ or ‘Lady, how do I woo that princess from the next kingdom over?’ But now, who wants to visit poor old Viv anymore? No, no, don’t bother protesting, Lady Clementine. Though, really, if we’re both ladies, and we’re both calling each other ‘lady,’ not to mention the one made out of snow up there, isn’t that going to get confusing awfully fast—”

  “But that’s just it, my lady,” said Clementine.

  Vivienne spouted a shower of water at the girl through pursed lips.

  “All right—Viv,” corrected Clementine. “That’s why I came here today.” Her voice carried across the lake, louder and grander than before, as if she’d suddenly stepped into a stage play. “I seek the wise counsel of the Lady of the Lake.”

  Dave fought to keep himself from snorting, but he knew Vivienne would hardly be able to resist such a dramatic appeal.

  The Lady clapped her hands together with a wet smack. “Oh, do you really?” she asked excitedly, smoothing her hair and pacing over the surface of the lake. “Ooh, what timeless piece of advice shall I bequeath to you? It’s been a long time since I’ve been put on the spot like this. Usually, I’ve got a decent prophecy all ready to go, but you’ll want something special. Let’s see . . . What do we have in the vault here?”

  “Um, Viv—” tried Clementine.

  The Lady waved her off. “Hush, hush, I’m thinking,” said Vivienne. “Ah, I’ve got just the thing! Ahem.” Vivienne cleared her throat and hawked up a bit of lake water in a decidedly ungraceful fashion. She spread her pale arms wide, shook out her green hair, and declared, “Do not put all of your eggs in one fire!”

  Clementine sighed.

  The sheep asked tentatively, “Doesn’t she mean­—”

  “Basket,” Clementine said at the same time as Dave. “She means ‘basket.’”

  “Basket!” cried the Lady of the Lake. “That was it! It’s been so long, one forgets the details, you know. ‘Don’t put too many irons in the fire’—that’s the other one. Although now that I’m thinking on it, perhaps ‘Don’t put off until tomorrow what you could’ve done last week, you lazy schlep, you’ would’ve been better—”

  “Lady Vivienne,” Clementine said as the Lady prattled on, “I’m afraid you misunderstand me. It’s information I need.” Clementine fiddled with one of the swords at her side, twisting it back and forth in the muddy sand. “I need to know everything you’ve ever heard about . . . a person who calls herself the Whittle Witch.”

  “Oooooh,” said the Lady, sitting back on a large rock in the center of the lake with a huff. “Well, if it’s witches you’re dealing with, proverbs aren’t going to help much at all, are they? Different realms entirely. Now, you’ll want to start by knocking on some brick—or is it wood? It probably doesn’t matter. Just get knocking. Then turn your pajamas inside out . . .”

  If the early Dark Lords Morcerous really had come to Vivienne for advice as often as she claimed, Dave was surprised they’d gotten any conquering done at all.

  “Thank you, Lady Vivienne.” Clementine cut her off with a sweeping bow. “Your wisdom is much appreciated.”

  Vivienne stopped chattering and blinked at Clementine, looking as if she’d forgotten the girl and the sheep were standing there.

  “Oh!” said Vivienne, looking a tad put out at being cut off so early. “Well, all right then. Sorry it took me a few tries to really get going. I’d be less rusty if someone
didn’t scare travelers away from my mountains.” Vivienne narrowed her eyes and tossed her green hair over one shoulder. “I’ve half a mind to give your father a good talking-to about that. You be sure and tell him.”

  “I will, my lady,” said Clementine, backing away from the shore with one last curtsy. She jerked her head for Dave to follow and muttered, “Quick, before she gets going again.”

  Dave watched the lake water return to its proper levels, the Lady of the Lake sinking below the water feetfirst, before scrambling after Clementine.

  “Oh, and Clementine?” called Vivienne.

  “Yes, my lady?” Clementine said with a small sigh.

  “One last piece of advice for you, dear: think happy thoughts.”

  Clementine and the sheep looked back in surprise, just in time to see Vivienne’s head dip below the water. Yet the Lady of the Lake’s voice was as clear as day when she added, “You’re going to need them.”

  ***

  As she trudged back to the castle, hot and footsore and strangely uneasy about the Lady of the Lake’s final words, Clementine did decide on one thing.

  “I should’ve just flown the blasted broom,” she admitted to the sheep.

  ***

  It was not long after Clementine left when the Lady of the Lake’s usual afternoon musings on the meaning of life—like whether or not the teapot (or was it the glass?) was really half-empty or half-full—were interrupted by the sensation of a cool, pleasant breeze. Vivienne took a deep breath in and out and smiled, letting the sudden feeling of calm contentment wash over her. It had been a stressful afternoon, what with her unexpected visitors, and it had ruffled her more than she’d realized. She knew this sense of peace wouldn’t last very long, but she was glad of the gift, anyway. It was always a treat when the unicorn came to visit.

  Vivienne looked up from the murky depths of the lake toward a shining pinprick of light from above. The water around her grew clearer and clearer until she could nearly see straight through to the surface. She rose quickly, urging the water to propel her upward, though she knew it was mostly a foolish endeavor. She had hardly ever seen more than a glimpse of the unicorn, even when the unicorn deigned to dip her horn into Vivienne’s lake, purifying the water and energizing Vivienne’s magic.

  But to her surprise, the unicorn had chosen to linger. Vivienne watched her withdraw her horn from the lake and shake her brilliant mane free of water droplets. They flew here and there like flecks of liquid rainbow.

  Vivienne waited for the creature to settle before she spoke. She did not want to startle her.

  “Thank you, my lady,” Vivienne said softly. She knew the unicorn could hear her, and yet Vivienne wondered if she understood. Perhaps Vivienne’s earlier mention of the Lady in White had attracted her to the lake. Perhaps she still remembered, after all this time, the part of herself that was forever encased in snow and ice and memory. The villagers prayed to the Lady in White, she knew, but they did not know why it brought them peace. They could not remember that hundreds of years ago, that curious patch of snow had not existed at all.

  But the Lady of the Lake remembered. She remembered when the first Dark Lord Morcerous had come over the Seven Sisters, a fearsome young sorcerer eager to prove himself. He had come to her for help—or rather, demanded it of her, after he’d uprooted her lake from her favorite spot so he could call forth his castle from the mountain itself. She had to admit, she’d been impressed. She knew that he was destined for great things—terrible, perhaps, but great. And so when he’d asked for a prophecy that might aid him in his quest, his quest for domination over all the Seven Sisters—she’d given it to him. She hadn’t even known what it meant herself, at the time. The words came so easily back then, rising from her throat of their own accord, blooming like flowers from a garden she could never remember planting.

  But the Dark Lord was as cunning as he was fearsome. He took from Vivienne’s words exactly what he needed. He discovered the secret to binding his only real rival on the mountain—the one creature that, if it were so inclined, could stop his violent ascendance: the unicorn.

  Vivienne carried the guilt still. She knew it was not her fault. She knew that her magic—that most magic, in fact—did not operate in such clear-cut terms as good and evil, dark and light. She knew that as soon as the Dark Lord Morcerous came over the mountains, seeking his new place in the world, few things would have stopped him. But each night as she looked up at the Lady in White, and now, as she gazed into the eyes of the unicorn—eyes that made her dizzy with all of the past, present, and future whirling in their depths—Vivienne could not help but wish there was some way to undo the harm she had done.

  Vivienne blinked and leaned back in the water, which was already turning darker and earthier at the unicorn horn’s absence. The unicorn backed away, expertly picking through the graveyard of swords. They were grim reminders of Vivienne’s vain attempts to bag a hero—any hero would do—whose good deeds might reverse some of her terrible legacy. What aspiring hero or gallant knight could resist a mystical woman rising out of a lake and bestowing a sword destined for greatness upon them?

  But that was before the Dark Lord Morcerous had come to the mountains.

  The Dark Lord Morcerous had been no hero on a great quest—he’d been a villain, and his descendants had been villains, and would always be villains.

  Just like the Lady of the Lake would always look for a hero to guide.

  Just like Castle Brack would always loom over the Seven Sisters Valley.

  Just like the heart of the unicorn would always be trapped, forever frozen, in the snow of the Fourth Sister.

  Their fates were unavoidable.

  And yet.

  The last words Vivienne had said to Clementine rose up in her mind.

  Think happy thoughts.

  And very suddenly, a small seed of hope began to grow in the Lady of the Lake’s mind. This time, she promised herself, she would remember.

  It was funny to think that her hero might not need a sword at all.

  Chapter 7

  Stock and Trade

  or The Importance of Keeping All Your Bits about You

  Halfway up the steep mountain staircase to Castle Brack, Clementine and the black sheep were quite startled to see someone else coming down. Clementine froze on the steps, squinting at the short and squat figure muttering angrily as it made slow progress down the mountain, coaxing a cloth-covered wooden cart down after it.

  Oh, for evilness’ sake, thought Clementine with alarm, all fatigue from their long hike gone. I’ve forgotten about Stan!

  The figure paused in its abuse of the cart when it saw Clementine, and waved at her cheerily.

  “Halloo!” called Stanley Glen. “Is that the Dark Lady of the house herself, now?” Clementine smiled despite herself. She’d been acquainted with Stan since she was a very little girl. He was grumpy and smoked a stinky pipe and always complained about the mountains being murder on his old hooves, but he was one of the few peddlers who traded with her father who didn’t look like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth than Castle Brack. He snuck Clementine peppermints under his cloak when Lord Elithor wasn’t looking and winked a lot, and generally seemed like what a grandfather might be like (if Clementine had known any grandfathers) or perhaps an eccentric uncle.

  Clementine hurried up the steps to help Stan with his cart. The black sheep trailed behind, thankfully silent for the time being. It should have occurred to her to forbid the sheep from speaking in front of strangers, lest he give away any hint of the Dark Lord’s fading magic, but it was too late for that now.

  “That’s a good girl,” said Stan, panting as they set the cart to rights. “Blast, it’s hotter than a witch’s cauldron!”

  Clementine caught a glimpse of an extremely hairy goat’s leg, ending in a cloven hoof, before Stan swept his cloak in front of it. Stan was a
satyr—a creature with a man’s face and body, and a goat’s legs, tail, and horns. Clementine had only ever seen him in disguise, with his cloak and a large floppy felt hat to cover his horns and pointed ears, though he assured her there were other lands where he could walk about without them, “as free as the day I was born.” (Clementine tried her best not to dwell on that particular image.)

  The lumpy packages under the canvas of his cart clinked against one another, and Clementine heard a sound that might have been a meow from within.

  “You caught me at just the moment,” explained Stan, giving one of the lumps an affectionate thwack. “Here I was, swearing you hoity-toity Morcerouses up and down for making an old goat go leagues out of his way only to leave me standing at the front door like a beggar, knocking that fearsome dragon-skull knocker with the clacking teeth, and naught but an empty castle to receive me. Your timing was quite impeccable, young lady. I was sure you’d forgotten your old friend Stan!” He clucked his tongue.

  Clementine had, in fact, forgotten her old friend Stan.

  “Now, why don’t you take me to the Dark Lord,” asked Stan, looking with resignation at the steps above him, “and we can see if the merry glint of silver is enough to coax the old curmudgeon out of whatever study he’s barricaded himself in today.”

  Clementine’s stomach dropped, but Stan only winked at her, as if nothing were amiss. It was true that it wasn’t unusual for Lord Elithor to be immersed in his work for days at a time, and her father had been known to miss appointments because his head was buried in a book. There was no reason to assume Stan knew about his condition.

  “Father is away,” Clementine said.

  Stan’s furry eyebrows shot up under the brim of his hat.

  “He has given me leave to conduct lordly business on his behalf,” Clementine explained, the words coming out a little too quickly.