Story's End (6 page)

“This is it, huh?” Peter said as he scraped the side of his boot on the cobblestones. Somehow he had thought a holy pilgrimage site would appear more sacred, or scary . . . or at least occupied. This place just looked like an abandoned dump. After one more consultation, Una folded the parchment and made her way up the stairs, Indy close on her heels. Peter had to duck under hanging bundles of dried herbs to follow them through the crooked front door.

“Who in their right mind—” he began, but Una shushed him at the same moment a reedy voice called out, “Who’s there? Show yourselves.”

The door swung inward on its groaning hinges. Una looked at Indy. Indy looked at Peter. Peter plunged forward into the shadows.

“Children on pilgrimage, eh? Come to see my shop?”

It took a moment for Peter’s eyes to adjust to the dim interior, and then he saw the hunched figure in the corner. An old woman stooped over a barely smoldering fire, stirring something in a cook pot.

“We want to know about the Lost Elements.” Una’s voice sounded so sure. Peter glanced sideways at her. She looked fierce, arms crossed over her chest, with her chin thrust out stubbornly. Indy stood on the other side of her; from the black expression on his face, he was as uneasy as Peter about the shop owner.

When the woman didn’t answer, Una crouched next to the fire. “Please,” she said. The steam embraced Una’s face, and just then Una seemed exactly like a witch brooding over her bubbling cauldron.

“Many come here looking for the legendary Quill,” the woman said with a toothless smile. “And then they leave, and go back to their normal lives. Only old Jaga lives the pilgrim way.” Jaga turned to a shelf and fumbled around with some sacks on it. “Would you children like some candy?”

“Una.” In that moment, it struck Peter as exceptionally stupid that they had left Bramble Cottage without telling a soul where they were going. He reached down and tugged on Una’s sleeve. “This was a bad idea.”

The old woman looked hungrily up at Peter. “And what do you know of bad ideas? Speak up!” Peter felt icy cold start up at the base of his spine. Something about Jaga wasn’t quite right. Her skin wobbled loosely around her eye sockets as though she wore it like a garment.

The liquid in the pot hissed, and the heat burned Peter’s face. He stepped back.

“If it’s true that you’ve been on pilgrimage longer than anyone,” Una said, “tell us what you know about the Dragon’s Ink.”

The woman stared at Una for a long time. Peter glanced over at Indy, who hovered between Una and Jaga like a coiled cat ready to pounce.

“You know better than I what happened to the Dragon’s Ink.” Jaga stood up, more nimble than she appeared, and, edging Peter out of the way, knelt before Una. “Now you come to test my loyalty.” The old woman grabbed Una’s hand and kissed it. “Milady, you do me great honor to visit here. I have not forgotten your commission. Watch and wait. That’s what I’ve done.”

Peter’s mouth dropped open. Una looked equally astonished, but Peter saw her expression change from disbelief to something like determination.
Who does this old lady think Una is? And why is Una playing along with it?

“That’s very good,” Una said awkwardly. “Do you . . .” She hesitated, and Peter could tell she was trying to find the right words. “Have . . . um . . . have you seen anything like the Silver Quill?”

However second-rate Una’s dialogue was, the old woman didn’t seem to mind. A toothless smile creased her wrinkled face. “I knew it! I knew it was you, milady. You have made yourself young. An illusion many would kill for.”

“Quite right,” Una said, sounding surer this time. “But the Quill?”

“Wait and watch. Watch and wait. That’s all I’ve done this past year at least, and I’ve found another quill for you. Perhaps it’s the one you seek,” the old woman said, while hobbling over to what Peter thought must be her bed. The misshapen pile was lost in shadow, and as she rummaged in the darkness, two cats, a rat, and something else much bigger scampered out and took refuge in the other dim corners of the room. “Fools have come and worshipped at this made-up shrine, and I’ve listened to every one of them. The scholars from the cathedral were the worst, though they were the ones who’d had word of the Silver Quill. Brother Geryon, they said. His family served the one who took it from the griffin.”

“Take care, Una,” Indy hissed.

For once, Peter agreed with him. It didn’t take a genius to see that the old lady thought Una was someone else, someone who was hunting the Lost Elements. There was no way this would end well. Jaga could have anything hidden in there: a weapon, a charm of some sort. A witch who offered children candy wasn’t doing it because she was nice. He gripped the hilt of his sword.

Jaga scooted back toward Una, clutching something to her chest and bobbing her head up and down. “I keep it safe, right here with me. I have it with me while I sleep.” She hugged the soiled cloth close and reached out her other hand. She held one long feather tightly in her filthy fist.

Peter had seen quills before, but nothing the size of the one before him. This one was the length of a man’s arm, and its silver color glowed dully in the dark room.

“This was hard to come by, milady. Had to barter with the scholars myself.” She handed it to Una with a little curtsy. “It could be the one. It’s older than the Unbinding, or so they claimed. It’s definitely older than the others I’ve brought you. Those fools from the cathedral say much that’s nonsense, but they do know their legends. I
would
have brought it to you, milady, only there hasn’t been a new moon yet.” Her voice faltered. “You know I’ve never failed to obey before,” she said as Una looked carefully at the quill. The longer Una kept quiet, the more the old woman bowed and scraped before her.

“I would’ve come to you, milady, I swear it. At midnight, just as you require.”

Una frowned at the point of the quill.

Peter couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but now they knew for sure a woman was hunting the Silver Quill from the legends, and maybe it was even Duessa. This, however, was most definitely not the Silver Quill. Even from where he stood, Peter could see bits of gray paint flaking off it. If Peter knew anything about the Dystopians, he knew they probably had a workshop where they made fake Silver Quills and charged way too much money for them. It was time to go.
Before this old witch figures out we’re also frauds
.

“Milady.” The old woman held one hand out beseechingly. “Are you pleased?”

“Where?” Una’s voice sounded distant, and it wavered a bit as she continued. “Where would you meet me?”

Peter glared at Una as if the force of his thoughts could make her look at him. The real woman would know exactly where they met. What was Una doing? Indy must be wondering the same thing. It was only the slightest of movements, but Peter saw Indy stealthily withdraw a dagger from the belt at his waist.

Jaga kept her head bowed but peered up at Una. “But . . . you know . . . milady?”

“Of course I know,” Una said sharply. “The question is whether you are still on my side.”

The old woman’s head waggled again. “Oh, yes, milady. Yes. Jaga lives to serve.” The flickering firelight made her eyes look like holes. “At blackest midnight. All alone. Just as you asked.”

Una licked her lips. “But you are very old. Perhaps you have forgotten the way.”

“Oh no, milady!” The crone bent low before Una. “I could go to your castle in my sleep.”

Una slid the quill into a pocket inside her cloak. “So you say.” She sounded ruthless. “But your eyesight fails you. How can I know your wits won’t as well?” She waved her hand around the little room. “What route do you take? Or perhaps you have forgotten?”

The old woman whimpered. “Why do you try and confuse Jaga? You chose it yourself. Why do you distrust me, milady? Have I not served you well?”

Una gave a little cough. “You are very clever, Jaga. Of course I mean to test you.” There was a long pause, and Peter could feel her scrambling for words. This was a bad idea. Jaga would have to be a fool to think her lady would keep quizzing her like this.

Peter stepped forward. “These are dark days,” he said. The old woman swiveled her head slowly toward him as though she had forgotten he was in the room. “Her . . . um . . . ladyship must confirm the loyalties of all her . . . companions.”

The old woman sucked in her breath. “Companions? Milady, do you consider me a companion?”

Peter almost felt bad for Jaga. This old crone was done for, however loyal she was, if it came out she was spilling some secret meeting place to anyone.

Una flashed Peter a relieved smile. She turned to the old woman. “Of course I do. But to be safe, I have one last question for you.”

Peter stifled a groan. The last question could be the one that got them caught.

“You could be an enemy in disguise,” Una continued. “How do I know you aren’t someone else who has the appearance of my faithful Jaga?”

The woman gasped in horror and began shaking her head from side to side even before Una was finished.

“Tell me something only you would know. Something secret.” Una’s voice was firm. “Tell me how you get to my castle.”

“I use the key.” The crone’s eyes flashed up toward Una. “For the cemetery.” Trembling fingers reached for the collar of her shirt and pulled out a string, upon which dangled an old-fashioned-looking key.

Una stood up a little straighter and held out a shaky hand. “Give it to me.”

Jaga clutched at the key. “But, milady! You cannot ask this of me.”

Una quirked one eyebrow at the old woman and frowned with displeasure. “I
cannot
?” Peter didn’t like to see this side of Una. Whether she was pretending or not, he wanted to grab her by the elbow and drag her out of the ramshackle shop.

The old woman tugged sharply, and the string snapped in two. “I live to serve, milady,” she said as she handed the key to Una.

“Very good,” Una said, and with a twist of her wrist, the key was hidden away in her cloak. “You needn’t come to my castle again,” she said. “I will return when the time is right.” She wouldn’t meet the old woman’s eyes. Instead she brushed past the torn curtain that shaded the window and out through the wooden door. Peter gave the witch an awkward bow. He paused at the doorway, and as he looked back, he saw the bent form of the old woman. Her shoulders were shaking, but no noise was coming from her toothless mouth. Even so, Peter was sure of it. She was weeping.

Chapter 7

U
na set her mouth in a grim line and turned down yet another snaking alleyway. The quill Jaga had given her was safely tucked away in her cloak, and with every step she took, she could feel the key’s weight in her pocket. Peter and Indy seemed to think the quill was a fake, some Dystopian trick to make money, but whether it was real or not, Una knew one thing. Her parents
were
hunting for the Lost Elements. Why else would her mother have servants like Jaga collecting quills that might be the silver one?

“The Hollow’s no place to be after nightfall,” Peter said for the millionth time as he caught up with her. “We don’t even know if Jaga was saving the quills for Duessa. It could have been some other Lady.”

Una elbowed her way through a cluster of hobgoblins, leaving a flutter of angry pixies in her wake. She wasn’t about to tell them that the reason she knew it was Duessa was because Jaga had confused Una with her mother.
She thought I was
her. Una tried hard to remember what Duessa had looked like from that brief moment in Alethia’s garden, but all she could picture was her violet eyes.
Eyes like mine.

“Una might be onto something,” Indy said. “The original Elements were used to write the whole land of Story. With that kind of power, the Enemy could do”—he ducked under the cloud of swearing fairies—“just about anything.”

“Aren’t you always complaining that the grown-ups never let us do anything?” Una glanced back at Peter. “Well, here’s the chance to do something. Imagine how happy everyone will be if we come back with news that we’ve found a secret way into Duessa’s castle. That could really help the Resistance.”

“They
would
be less mad about us sneaking off. . . .” Peter shrugged. “As long as we’re back before bedtime.”

They were in the center of Horror Hollow now, and the brightly painted buildings on either side of them gave off yellow pools of light. The doors nearest them burst open, letting out a sound of brash laughter, and a brawling pair of gnomes tumbled into the street. The bigger of the two pinned his companion to the ground and punched him hard in the face. Their greenish skin almost glowed in the eerie lamplight.

Peter grabbed Una by the elbow and whisked her away from the brawl. “Do you see now why the Hollow’s dangerous? Messing around in the Villainous parts of Story is risky stuff.”

“I get it,” Una said. She really did, but hearing Peter’s warning didn’t change her mind. Being afraid wasn’t an option. The disaster at Heart’s Place made it clear that the Enemy wasn’t sitting around waiting to make his next move. And she wasn’t going to either. First, she’d find her parents. Then she’d find out what they were planning.

All day Una had clung to the flicker of hope that she could stop the Enemy before he found all the Elements, before he did something horrible. And maybe that would make up for setting him free in the first place. Learning that Duessa was looking for the Silver Quill had fanned the flicker into a roaring flame. Her father had the Dragon’s Ink, she was sure of it. Why else would he gulp it down? He was planning to do something with the Elements of Story. And this was Una’s chance to find out exactly what.

If she was very lucky, she’d be able to spy on her parents and learn something useful for the Resistance. And if she got caught . . .
Well, being their daughter has to be good for something.
Una had no dreams of her parents welcoming her with open arms. But she was sort of hoping that they wouldn’t kill their only child on the spot.

“Everything looks different at night,” Peter muttered. “If I can just get us to the main street . . .”