The Dark Lord Clementine Page 9

  “Not far,” Sebastien said with a grunt. He sounded about as confident as Clementine had regarding the location of the long-abandoned mushrooms.

  “Do you even know where you’re going?” asked Clementine, aiming another burst of energy at an evergreen that shot its needles at them. Sebastien and Clementine covered their faces as the resulting ashes scattered in the wind.

  “Do you want to get out of this storm by yourself?” countered Sebastien, breathing heavily.

  And then an arrow shot out of the trees, straight at Clementine’s head, and she barely had time to scream.

  She did not know it was an arrow at the time. She only knew that one second she was standing up, about to curse that impudent village boy and all of his descendants, and then the next, her head had been yanked back so quickly her neck would be sore for days, and she was suddenly lying on the damp ground, the side of her head feeling very much like it was on fire. (It was not. But she had lost a sizable hank of white hair.)

  Clementine lay flat on her back, clutching her head. She tentatively took her hand away and saw a few smears of blood on her fingers. Black spots danced in front of her vision. She was dimly aware of the Gricken shrieking nearby.

  “You will have to go on without me, Sebastien,” she said as calmly as she could. “I have been killed.”

  Sebastien hovered over her and said, “Um.”

  Another voice said, “Oh, Seven Sisters.”

  Clementine saw a pair of legs run out of the trees, nimbly dodge Sebastien, and kneel by Clementine’s side. Clementine squeezed her eyes shut, preparing for a killing blow.

  But said killing blow never came.

  “Oh, no, no, no,” said the stranger—a woman, Clementine thought. The woman shuffled around and cradled Clementine’s throbbing skull in her lap, gently prodding—though it did not feel all that gentle to Clementine—until she found the patch of hair the arrow had so cruelly ripped out. Clementine yelped at her touch, but she felt the woman sigh with relief.

  “It’s just a graze,” said the woman. “I’m so sorry. I thought—I was out, um, hunting, and I thought you were . . .”

  Clementine blinked the tears out of her eyes, taking great gulps of air, and looked up into the worried, upside-down face of the scarred young traveler from the village square.

  The woman’s gray eyes were still wide with concern as she helped Clementine sit up.

  “I’m Darka,” she said. “Darka Wesk-Starzec. And I’m very sorry I shot at you.” She turned to Sebastien, who still had one eye on the encroaching trees. “Both of you.”

  “Sebastien,” said the boy, extending his hand over Clementine for a firm handshake with Darka. He seemed to be forcing himself to meet the young woman’s gaze, but Clementine saw no hint of the revulsion his comrades had so clearly expressed.

  Clementine, however, was less sure of how to introduce herself. The woman had just shot her, after all. Who would be out hunting in a storm like this? And though the woman hadn’t spelled out her two last names, Clementine could practically hear the hyphen between them. Her father had warned her to be wary of all signs of witchcraft; things like hyphenated names, controlling wild animals with one’s will, and the ability to fold fitted sheets were all quite high on the list.

  “I . . . I’m . . .” said Clementine. Her decision-making ability seemed to have been yanked out of her head along with that unfortunate chunk of her scalp.

  “We’ve got to get you two out of this storm,” Darka said, squinting up into the rain. “There’s a cave not far from here we can shelter in. Come on!” And without waiting for so much as a nod of encouragement from either of them, Darka hoisted up Clementine, grabbed Sebastien’s ax, and shoved Clementine into the boy’s arms.

  “Hey!” protested Sebastien.

  He had barely propped up Clementine before her shaky knees collapsed again. The Gricken leapt into Clementine’s arms, nearly bowling both of them over.

  Sebastien glared at the ax in Darka’s hands. “That’s mine!” he said.

  Darka merely flexed her fingers, took a practice swing at an encroaching branch, and set off into the forest. “I trust you don’t mind if I borrow it.”

  ***

  Darka’s cave really was only a few (harrowing) minutes away, and she was much better at navigating through the storm than either Clementine or Sebastien had been. Had she been staying in the forest since being driven out of the village?

  Unfortunately, as the three of them stumbled into the cave, the storm rushed in after them. The wind howled even louder, and great sheets of rain poured sideways through the cave opening, spraying them with icy water. Darka rushed into the shallow interior—Clementine saw a few piles of supplies and blankets on the floor—and hurriedly lit a lantern. The meager light was mostly drowned out by the darkness from outside.

  “You, help me with this!” said Darka, gesturing to Sebastien.

  Clementine leaned against the wall while Darka and Sebastien rolled a large stone in front of the cave opening, blocking out the worst of the rain. The Gricken flew out of Clementine’s arms and proceeded to careen against the cave walls, clucking with agitation. Darka and Sebastien collapsed against the stone, panting and soaked to the skin with rain. Clementine supposed she didn’t look much better.

  But just as entering the cave hadn’t deterred the storm, neither, it seemed, would the boulder in front of it. Thunder crashed and the wind roared, strong enough to make the rock shudder. Clementine, for one, was beginning to suspect it was useless to hide. This storm was magical.

  “What’s happening?” asked Sebastien, staring at the lightning flashing around the entryway. Darka, however, seemed less surprised that a storm was literally chasing them. She merely wiped her sodden hair out of her face and shook her head, the unscarred half of her lips twisting upward, as if she were laughing at some dark private joke.

  “She’s not going to stop,” said Clementine, more to herself than anyone else. “I should never have left the farm. Who knows how long she’s been waiting?”

  Sebastien looked at Clementine like she had suddenly sprouted two heads, but when Darka looked up, her eyes were sharp and bright in the flickering lantern light.

  “What are you talking about?” Sebastien said. “And what does it have to do with—”

  Crash. The thunder sounded again, and the rock cover­ing the cave mouth quaked. Dust and pebbles rained down from the ceiling, making everyone cough.

  “With that?” finished Sebastien, pointing outside.

  Darka’s gaze never wavered from Clementine.

  “Who?” asked Darka. “Who is doing this?”

  Clementine almost answered her but stopped herself just in time. She didn’t even know these people. She was most certainly not going to go blabbing about how her Evil Overlord father’s sworn enemy had managed to charm her way right to the edge of his lands.

  “A . . . a witch,” allowed Clementine, trying to get ahold of herself. “It has to be. This is a magical storm.” There was no sense pretending otherwise.

  Sebastien blanched under his freckles, but then looked hopefully at Clementine. “If it’s magical, that means you can stop it, right?”

  Clementine glared at him. Oh, sure, just go bragging about my magic to every stranger who may or may not decide to murder us at such a declaration, she thought. But she supposed that her bright white hair was a big enough hint that she wasn’t exactly a normal village girl. Still . . . stopping the storm? Clementine didn’t know about such things. She knew how to feed fire-breathing chickens without getting a singed bum for her troubles, how to measure out poisons for maximum effect without actually murdering one’s victim, and how to do basic tax returns. But to fight brute magical force with brute magical force . . . that was a job for the darkest magic. Magic Clementine had never used—especially since the family grimoire’s transformation into an ove
rprotective chicken.

  “I . . . I don’t really . . .” Clementine looked around. Behind her, the Gricken had stopped its panicked hopping and settled down into Darka’s blankets.

  Another rumble of thunder shook the cave, and freezing water started to shoot through the cracks between the cave mouth and the boulder in front of it.

  “Are you a future Dark Lord or not?” demanded Sebastien.

  Clementine froze. The cat was out of the bag now. Darka Wesk-Starzec, however, did not look terrified, horrified, or any other -ified usually associated with the revelation that one was in the presence of an evil sorceress. Instead, she raised a delicate eyebrow and looked over Clementine’s shoulder.

  “I think your mutant chicken is in distress,” she said dryly.

  Clementine whipped around. Sure enough, the Gricken was fidgeting and making the fast, low clucks that usually meant—

  “Is it . . . laying an egg?” Sebastien asked, his expression caught between disgust and wonder.

  Clementine noticed that the ax had somehow made its way back into his possession. She backed protectively in front of the Gricken.

  And sure enough, when she crouched down and reached a hand under its paper feathers, she came away with a single smooth, bright golden egg. It was warm in her palm and pulsed faintly with tiny bursts of heat.

  Ignoring Sebastien’s hysterical questioning about how exactly an egg was supposed to help them, Clementine dashed the egg against the cave wall with all her might. The boy shouted, and even Darka nocked an arrow, as glowing gold letters and symbols appeared on the stone. Clementine rushed forward to read it, hurriedly translating runes and rearranging the nursery-rhyme gibberish of the protective cipher, grasping for any clue as to what the spell might be for: A tornado? Her own lightning blast? Perhaps a miniature volcanic eruption? But the end result was murkily described at best. And there were enough key words like “light” and “bright” and “warmth” to set alarm bells off in Clementine’s head before she even got to the key ingredient, when suddenly, all hope shattered as easily as the egg against the cave wall.

  “What is it? What is she doing?” Sebastien asked, looking to Darka. He crouched in the corner of the cave, one eye on the water and wind shooting through the entryway with increasing severity.

  “It’s . . . a spell,” said Darka, stepping forward to examine the wall. She nodded to Clementine. “Isn’t it?”

  But Clementine could barely speak around the lump in her throat. Her father was dying, she’d been shot in the head, they were about to be blown to pieces by a magical storm, and her stupid grimoire chicken had finally decided to lay her a spell, and it was one she couldn’t even use.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Clementine finally, sniffling. “I can’t use it.”

  Sebastien started to complain again, but Darka cut him off with an icy glare. Clementine would have to ask her for tips, if they survived this.

  “And why not?” asked Darka, her tone still even.

  “Because . . . because it’s light magic!” cried Clementine.

  “Seven Sisters,” sputtered Sebastien. “I didn’t even know there was a difference!”

  “Clementine,” said Darka, leaning against the boulder as it rattled to keep it in place even as her feet slipped in the mud. “Is that magical chicken yours?”

  Clementine nodded, still sniffling. Her head had started to throb again.

  “And it . . . lays spells just for you?” Darka guessed.

  Another nod.

  “I don’t know much about magic,” Darka admitted, wincing as a wave of icy water ran over her feet from outside. “But it sounds like if your . . .”

  “Gricken,” Clementine said. “Grimoire chicken.”

  Sebastien snorted.

  “Naturally,” said Darka. “If your Gricken laid this egg for you, then that spell was meant for you.”

  Clementine wiped her eyes and took another look at the shimmering spell on the cave wall. Maybe Darka had a point about the Gricken, but the huntress could never truly understand. Clementine had never, ever cast light magic before—for obvious reasons. She didn’t know how that spell had come to exist in the family grimoire. To attempt to cast such a spell, even in self-defense, was unthinkable. Dark Lords did not use light magic.

  And even if she wanted to do the spell, Clementine wasn’t so sure she could. The final ingredient, the key ingredient, made her heart go cold.

  The spell required a happy memory.

  Think happy thoughts, the Lady of the Lake had warned her. You’re going to need them.

  Clementine could have cursed herself, if she weren’t quite sure they were all about to die already.

  “Well?” asked Darka. She practically had to yell over the howling wind.

  Sebastien jumped back from the cave mouth at another crash of thunder, and the boulder covering the door nearly fell over with the absence of his weight. He rushed to help Darka push it back into place.

  How could Clementine explain why she couldn’t do the spell? How could she tell them that she felt just as frozen by the idea of having to think of a happy memory as by the rain and the wind? That looking back on her whole life, all that stood out to her was her father’s angry face—always judging her, always scolding her, or acting like she wasn’t there at all? How could she explain that when she tried to think of a happy memory, her mind drew a complete blank?

  She’d experienced positive emotions and experiences before, she was fairly certain. She’d felt victorious, and relieved, and even smug on occasion. But a moment when she’d simply been . . . happy?

  Dark Lords were not happy. Her father would never forgive her for casting this spell—for straying from the path of darkness. Perhaps it was better to die than to cross over into the light.

  But Darka and Sebastien were in danger, too, and they hadn’t chosen the path of darkness. (Well, she wasn’t sure about Darka, what with a name like that, but one never wanted to make assumptions about people.) They were trapped here because the storm was chasing Clementine, and they’d only tried to help her. Was it fair to let them die, too, all so Clementine could stick to her convictions? She was the one who had gotten them into this situation—and not on purpose, either, so there was no counting that as a Dastardly Deed.

  Clementine looked around the now-muddy cave floor and picked up the sharpest rock she could find. She stepped forward, right in front of the trembling boulder, and began tracing the symbols from the spell in a circle in the dirt around her.

  “When I say ‘now,’” Clementine said, unable to meet Darka’s or Sebastien’s gaze, “roll the rock away from the opening.” She could not believe she was actually doing this.

  Sebastien’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Are you serious—”

  “Just do it, you impertinent boy,” snapped Clementine.

  Sebastien opened his mouth again, but Darka beat him to the punch.

  “We’re ready when you are,” she said with a nod, though her eyes did dart to the cave mouth, as if she, for one, couldn’t quite believe Clementine could stop the maelstrom waiting for them. Clementine wasn’t sure she could stop it, either.

  But she had to try. And so, for the first time in her life, Clementine Morcerous closed her eyes and tried to think happy thoughts.

  It was not easy. The sounds of Sebastien’s annoying, panicky mouth-breathing, along with the rain practically boring holes through the cave wall, did not help her concentration. Her feet were cold and wet, sticky blood was still pouring from her burning head, and shame was burning through her even hotter than that. Yet still, she tried her hardest to dredge up some memory—any memory—that might suffice. She started with memories of her father’s successful Dastardly Deeds—surely, she’d been happy for him—and then moved on to her own magical triumphs, like the first time she’d conjured flesh-eating rot all by herself.
But nothing seemed to fit—at least, not well enough to activate the spell. There was no click in her brain, no surge of power to signal the spell’s effect.

  Sifting through memory after memory as fast as she could, she almost missed it. But as soon as she saw the image of the Lady in White—the very first time she’d ever seen the Lady in White—Clementine knew this memory was the one.

  What a relief it had been, to find someone to talk to—someone she could say anything to without fear of reprisal. Someone who was calm, and steady, and always there. How . . . yes, how genuinely happy she’d been to find the hidden garden. It was a secret place, a safe place—a place all her own.

  Clementine held on to the memory tightly, cupping her hands where she stood, as if it were water she was trying to keep from seeping through her fingers. Her fingers were tingling with warmth—the same warmth that had pulsed from the Gricken’s egg. And suddenly, Clementine knew exactly what the spell was for, and why the Gricken had chosen this moment to lay it for her: it was a spell for sunlight.

  Energy pulsing inside her from head to toe, Clementine knew the spell was like water in her palms—she couldn’t hold on to it forever. She could only throw what little light she had into the world and hope it was enough.

  “Now,” she said, drawing her hands in toward her chest and spinning around, tracing another circle in the dirt with the toe of her boot. As she turned, she heard Darka and Sebastien grunting as they pushed the stone away from the mouth of the cave. Clementine faced the stabbing rain and the howling wind, thrust out her hands, and let her happy memory go.

  Beams of light erupted from her fingertips, and then from behind her in the cave, and then from the very sky itself. White hot and blinding, they stopped the raindrops in their tracks, turning them to harmless mist. The light cut through the darkened sky, mingling with the lightning, until the dome of it looked like one of the Gricken’s shining eggs, crisscrossed with golden cracks.