Tildy usually didn’t mind the dark. Even in the dim haunts of the Forest of Eddlweld, her eyes could pick out minute details. This, combined with her keen ears, meant it was nearly impossible to approach her undetected, something that kept the witch’s mind greatly at ease. Trapped in this small chamber, however, the blackness was absolute. For a moment, she thought she had gone blind, but she assessed the situation like she’d been taught and held back her fears.

Obviously, she had not gone blind or deaf. She’d heard the scraping of stone before seeing the chamber seal itself. She shouted once, twice, three times, finding her voice shrinking with each call, the darkness unnaturally swallowing her words. She pressed her ear to the wall, listening for a response. There was nothing. That she remained within meant the others – mostly the witch – had not yet devised a way to free her. She was on her own.

Crouching, she searched her small prison with outstretched arms. The floor was a patchwork of broken flagstones that, in time, she might be able to work free, but to what end? She certainly couldn’t dig her way out, even if she had Dwarf blood in her veins.

Aside from the hoard, the only thing she discovered was a fallen branch that turned out to be a skeleton’s leg. Tildy was delighted: all the best adventure stories had hidden chambers filled with wonders and at least one body.

A soft light caused her to turn around. The treasure within the chest gleamed iridescent blue. “Another thief.”

* * * * *

Talking treasure? She had never read of such a thing in any book. Blue ghostlights floated in her eyes as the light went out again. More curious than scared, she knelt beside the chest, blinking as her eyes struggled with the changes in illumination. “Hello?”

She heard a derisive laugh in response. The chest glowed and went dark. And after a pause she heard, “Are you unsure that you want to offer greetings?” Light, dark.

“No?”

“You sound uncertain about many things, little thief.”

Tildy thought for a moment. “Well, you’ve caught me rather off-guard, I’m afraid. First, I’m sealed in a chamber, and now a chest of gold talks to me.”

“Oh yes, you are caught, little thief. But do not be ridiculous. Chests cannot talk.”

“A ghost then?”

“Guess again, blind burglar,” said the voice, clearly enjoying itself.

She mulled the words over, remembering what she’d read in The Spectre’s Ménage, which held one of her adoptive mother’s favorite sayings: Those who cannot stop talking always give themselves away. She looked closer at the treasure and spoke again. “How silly of me. Of course, now I understand. How clever to enchant a goblet that hurls insults to the drinker,” she lied. “Certainly, you are a wonderful party trick.”

“Wrong again!” laughed the voice.

She struck like a snake, grabbing the necklace with the golden face. “Ha!” she cried triumphantly as she stood, holding it up for inspection. “Your eyes glow when you talk, you know.”

* * * * *

“Add that to our list of surprises today,” said the amulet, unabashed at being discovered. As it spoke, light pulsed deep within its sapphire eyes, though its lips never moved. “Of course, I know they glow. What sort of magical artifact would I be if I did not know what I did when I do?”

“I couldn’t say,” Tildy mused. “I haven’t met an enchanted amulet before. At least, that I recall.”

“I am alive, not enchanted,” it corrected. “Regardless, I think even a dim little thief like yourself would recognize the brilliance of a such a treasure.”

“Thank you,” replied Tildy, deciding to take the words in compliment, rather than the intended insult. “My name is Tildy. I’m pleased to meet you.” When the amulet did not respond, she said, “And you are?”

“It is the trusting fool who gives a stranger her true name upon the first meet! However, I will soon be watching another thief starve to death, so it does not matter if I introduce myself. I am the magnificent amulet Mumnambulen. Advisor to queens and kings! Chronicler of momentous times. In my mind lives wisdom and from my mouth, prudence. Mine eyes see into mortal hearts and mine ears perceive lies as the barking of crows.”

Tildy thought the amulet was quite full of itself. “Well, that certainly is a mouthful. It’s a wonder anyone ever announced you by your full title. I think I’ll name you ‘Mum’,” she said, amused in her joke.

“Hmph,” said the amulet. “You think rather highly of your cleverness, little thief. A smart one might wonder how clever she was to be so easily trapped.”

“Oh, I’m not trapped,” said Tildy, the conversation delighting her. “I just haven’t determined how I will escape yet.”

“One might argue that those words are the definition of ‘trapped’,” Mum retorted.

“A foolish one might,” said Tildy. “But there’s plenty of time for that later. Please tell me about yourself. I find you fascinating.” She’d quite forgotten her companions, who were most certainly worried.

The amulet went dark as it considered her words. Finally, it said, sounding pleased, “They say flattery is a ship that will sail you wherever you like, and in this case, they are right. Long wearisome years have unwound since my former master hid me here. The only fools I have since advised are greedy magpies or hungry sparrows looking for berries-blue. Hmph! As if my exquisite jewels could be mistaken for food.”

“Of course not,” Tildy replied. “They are the most brilliant gems I have ever seen.”

“Again, the flattery,” said Mum. “Though they are honest words from a little thief. Very well, I shall feed you more story than the appetite of your curiosity can stomach.”

* * * * *

As the amulet began its tale, Tildy noted that the light of its eyes no longer diminished between words. She watched in awe as blue shapes formed on the walls around her. “In the forging of the world that some call the sphere of Malthreare, many substances had voices of their own, what Humans might call ‘spirits’, though as usual, mere words fall short of the mark. These substances did not talk like common beasts; nay, they communicated in ways more sophisticated than minds such as yours could comprehend. And sometimes, when a great Elvish smithlord forged a sword or a crown or—”

“An amulet?”

“Do not interrupt or I shall end my tale.”

“I am sorry.”

“Very good. When the Elves forged sword, crown, or yes, amulet, they sometimes inadvertently trapped the spirit within their craftwork. This pleased the smithlords to no end, this serendipitous, yet rare turn of fortune, and such things were always granted as magnanimous gifts to worthy custodians. The voices did not view this internment like a caged animal would, and to be candid, many enjoyed the company of the wise Elves.” Tildy turned on the spot as she listened, watching blue images of the Elves at work. “I do not believe we truly understood the fate to which we were tethered,” Mum lamented.

“Over time, the Elves learned how to capture us intentionally, binding more and more voices for their own selfish ends, all the while congratulating themselves for their cleverness. They did not understand that we were no longer pleased by what we came to see as imprisonment and exploitation. No more could we hear the voices of our families. Many voices became hostile, our host objects thereafter seen as cursed.”

“I can’t even imagine the anger and loneliness,” Tildy said. “I expect it was a tormenting experience for you.”

“Yes,” Mum replied, clearly not minding an interruption that pertained to itself. “My people had no concept of isolation. In hindsight, I deem it a form of madness, and so I struggle to reconcile the contradictory notion that my salvation came with enslavement. The goldwright infused raw materials with my essence and beat them into shape, just as certainly as she tamped my outrage into bitter resentment.”

Tildy spied a hint of red light within the sapphire eyes, and the images on the wall became limned with a similar tinge.

“My purpose for being was reduced to that of a gift, one that would impart wisdom to the owner who held my chain. However, I had strength enough to fight my forced compliance, and so I spat words intermixed with wormwood and woe. She placed me upon a shelf, unwilling to bestow such a spiteful charm.

“I was not the only prisoner, as she soon discovered. In her desire to surpass the artistry of my creation, she refused to leave her workshop. No piece was ever as beautiful, and she could no longer successfully bind my people. I truly believed that her heart recognized the growing evils of her work and thus poisoned her skillcraft, though I said the opposite as I fed her distress.

“For years uncounted, we gnawed at each other with our words. Oh, how I savored her growing despair as I watched the pile of discarded treasures grow. To this day, ages later, I wonder if I would have blackened my heart with a hatred toward her.

“What changed?”

“Foul Dreddendows descended upon the Elves, killing everyone including my noble smithlord!”

* * * * *

Tildy heard not sorrow for the Elves, but the amulet’s self-pity. It was the Dreddendows that intrigued her, however. She had read many tales that referenced these mythical creatures, though storytellers ever only described how they made a person feel, and not their actual appearance. She shivered as she recalled words of despair and despondency. The Dark Dread. As she searched the walls, only vague shadows appeared: not blue, but a black deeper than ink. Not even Mum’s enchantment could force a shape upon them. “Dreddendows? How awful! Did you see them?”

“One does not need to see filth to recognize the stench of its rot,” Mum said, a new animosity in its voice. “Regardless, their Oggle thralls were everywhere, plundering Elvish treasures far beyond their ability to appreciate. This is best evidenced by the magnificent Mumnambulen being rudely swept into a sack like a common gold coin!”

“I haven’t read much about Oggles.”

“Evil creatures they are with no sense of beauty or love or art. Their own smiths – butchers compared to the Elves – melt all spoils into blades and barbs of war, preferring to kill their enemies with the remains of precious things they once held dear.”

Mum went silent, though its eyes did not dim. The Dreddendow shadows faded. Quietly, it said, “When I was cast into one of their great smelting cauldrons and condemned to the heat of the monstrous blackscarlet rocks below, grief befell me. No more would my beauteous visage be considered a worthy gift to the greatest of the Blessed Elves. My voice would diminish, diluted amongst the molten metals of a thousand lesser treasures. And thus, I knew regret and desired repentance.” Despite how sorry Mum felt for itself, Tildy sympathized. She cradled the amulet in her hands, hoping to provide some comfort.

“But the Oggles themselves were raided in turn, and one mighty Elvish warrior, Vilquenest, arrived to avenge the legendary smithlord who crafted me. She was his grandmother or some such relation,” Mum said, as though this were a minor detail. “He overturned the great cauldron before I was wholly destroyed, though it was nearly too late!” Blue liquid light splashed across the walls around a tall Elvish figure. “Already some of my loveliness had blurred beneath the heat of the great fire, but Vilquenest was himself a great artisan, having learned at his grandmother’s side. In that dark Oggle warren, upon the enemy’s inferno forge which now stood upon a floor of hardened gold, he reworked my visage and restored it to a thing worthy of his grandmother’s legacy, different in form, yet a beauty surpassing the original work, some said.”

“You do have a very interesting face,” Tildy began.

“I am flattered, I am sure.”

“I mean to say, I’m wondering what inspired Vilquenest.”

“Many have pondered that exact question, little thief!” Mum had apparently reached a favorite topic. “Vilquenest wouldn’t say, and the following years were filled with many theories. Perhaps an homage to some god of beauty, which I am sure you can understand. Or perhaps as tribute to his beautiful longsire. Many debated, yet they always agreed that I was the most magnificent casting they had ever seen.

“And whilst I was more beautiful, I was less pure, having mixed with other precious metals in the cauldron. Recognizing an instability, Vilquenest added the eyes which he imbued with the power to maintain my shape. The alloy I had become changed my power, too. I was yet a wise counselor, though I had lost my understanding of loyalty and ownership, among other distinguishments. Short-sighted, one might say I became, for I could see no fellowship beyond the grasping of my chain.

“And through the ages, I have been bequeathed and bought, stolen and lost, my loyalty lying only within the hand that held me. That is, until my prior master hid me here as his castle shattered around him,” the images on the wall faded as Mum concluded its story, which provided Tildy an avenue to approach her most pressing question.

“But what part do you play in trapping me? I don’t think one such as you would cause the stone to shut.”

Mum laughed, thought its face remained lifeless. “No, no. When it comes to the stone, I am not responsible for the closing.”

“Then by your words, I perceive that you play some role in the opening.” When Mum did not reply, Tildy stood tall in triumph. “And by your silence, I confirm it! I have claimed you and believe you will do my bidding. Tell the chamber to open,” she cried, holding the amulet over her head.

Nothing happened.

* * * * *

For many heartbeats, Tildy thought she had guessed wrong. A vibration shook her hand as Mum spoke with a rumbling voice that reverberated in the enclosure. “By the mouth of Mumnambulen, the chamber is ordered to open!”

Above her, the stone slab slid away completely and cracked upon the ground where it landed. Blinded by the sudden sunlight, her ears perked up. She heard the witch and Marklin calling, as well as the whispering wind and the distant whistles of birds.

“You are too clever for your own good,” said Mum.

“I hear that all the time,” she replied. “Mostly from the witch.”

“Ahhhh. More about you becomes evident.”

“Tildy?” called up Marklin. She hid Mum behind her back as his head appeared over the wall. His blinking eyes widened. “Is that a skeleton?”

“I found him like that.”

“Obviously.”

She pointed to the chest. “I also found treasure!”

Marklin’s eyes glowed in awe. Momentarily he said, “Can you lift it?”

Tildy tried. “Only just,” she said with a strain. “Looks like heavy bracewood. I don’t think I can fly with it.”

“Let me put down my staff,” he said disappearing.

“Fly?” Mum asked, putting a surprising amount of mischief into a single word.

She looked at the amulet. “And what am I to do with you?”

“Oh, I’d keep me hidden for the present. I am yours, little mistress, but I might not remain that way, if your witch learns of me.” She didn’t have time to ponder Mum’s words, as she could hear scraping hands and feet above her. She placed it in a pocket as Marklin reappeared.

“Hand it up?”

She closed the lid and fastened the clasp. With a groan, she heaved the solid chest up to him.

“Amazing!” he said, lifting it easily. “Fly out before that chamber springs any more traps on you.” He disappeared, humming his little tune.

Tildy removed Mum. “Any more traps?”

“Oh, the world is full of traps. Some far off and some at hand. But I should say you are safe for a time, little thief. Perhaps safer here than out there.”

She frowned. There was something in its answer she mistrusted, but she would give it more thought later. She stowed the amulet again and took flight, hearing a quiet “Oh ho!” from her pocket.

* * * * *

A moment later, she landed near the others. Marklin was already pawing through the treasure, but the witch waited with crossed arms. “You do not look the worse for wear, yet I daresay you appear quite pleased with your find.” Tildy caught Marklin’s eye and tried not to smile. She knew a longer reprimand was brewing. “But that is twice in one day, within an hour, that you have jumped into danger and escaped by the skin of your teeth! Not to mention the conflict with those villagers last night! I would have thought the Sarsenith experience would have taught you something about recklessness.”

Tildy was about to defend herself when she saw the witch chewing something over, which meant a reluctant compliment. “Yet in all cases, you proved you had the wit to succeed. And here you are, rewarded with a fair bit of gold, and more!” She mumbled something about the “challenges of parenting lessons” when Marklin interrupted.

“Many years that treasure lay hid lonely in this ol’ ruin, waiting for the right person to come along,” he said. “Who knew it’d be a girl borne on the wind!” He split the treasure three ways, though the witch took only a few silver pieces, a blackened medallion, and the goblet, giving Tildy the rest.

The witch walked away from them, staring in the direction the Slither-withers had disappeared. Marklin sat nearby, counting and recounting, and naming all the things he would buy with this coin or that. Tildy joined him on the ground and said, “Thank you for watching over her. I know you would have preferred to join the fight.”

“The battle came to me, nonetheless,” he said with a frown. “I suppose that’s the way wars go.”

“You were still brave.”

“Didn’t feel that way,” he said, his cheeks reddening. “You, though, you’re ‘tough in the chaff’, my Pa would’ve said.”

“Cheers.”

“She sure was angry,” he said, nodding toward the witch’s back. “But impressed, too. I ‘spect her praise is a rarer coin than this.” He held up a gold piece that looked like a swirling star.

“Yes,” Tildy said, as he returned his attention to his riches. “A rare treasure.” She stared in wonder at two overflowing handfuls of gold, silver, and small gems. This was more wealth than had ever touched her fingers. How would she ever spend such a fortune? And all the while, she pondered the secret treasure she valued above all others: the amulet of Mumnambulen.

Mum.

The witch turned back to them, saying, “I do wonder how you escaped that chamber, Tildeneth. As certain as some enchantment closed it, another must have opened it.” Her eyes narrowed and Tildy felt the familiar scrutiny of a suspicious parent.

Tildy met her gaze and shrugged with raised hands, a misdirection which kept her from subconsciously drawing attention to the pocket where the amulet hid. Clever as always – perhaps too clever – she had already concocted a story. “It’s like you always say, mother,” she began, noting the witch’s frown, “sometimes a person needs to talk it out. We’re in Shervish country, so I said, nollem.”

“The Shervish word for ‘open’?” the witch replied, a well-practiced bit of skepticism in her voice. She scanned Tildy, who held her breath as her mother’s eyes seemed to linger on the pocket. “Hmph. If I had an acorn for every story like that I have heard, I would have a forest grander than Eddlweld.” She absentmindedly patted a pouch on her belt where she carried her planting seeds. She stopped, seeing her daughter’s expression. “What is it, Tildeneth?”

* * * * *

“In another pouch. The fragment of cloth we found outside of Greywetherton. You thought it had blood on it.”

The witch clapped her hands together at her lips, her sign for surprise. “By all the Fays’ follies!” She quickly removed the oilskin and frowned at some new holes in it. “Many things rot in this tale.” She carefully unwrapped the remnant, and in the bright daylight, they could see that it was similar to the clothing the Slither-withers wore. Upon it, a stain that was clearly blood. Her adoptive mother tossed the bundle into the air, where it burst into flame. “I might as well have been leaving breadcrumbs for them to follow.”

Marklin stood by in silence and scanned the grasslands, clearly more concerned with the pursuers themselves than whatever guided them. “I think we need to keep moving.”

The witch nodded. “I dislike journeying this close to dark, but moreso I fear what travels the night roads. I do not think we will find better sanctuary than these ruins before the sun sets.”

“We could hide in the chamber that trapped me,” Tildy suggested. “It has four solid walls, which we probably won’t find elsewhere. With only one tenant, there’s plenty of room,” she added with a small laugh.

The witch looked extremely dubious and insisted searching Alarune for a better spot, one that didn’t involve “spending the night in a tomb”. As they explored the castle’s shattered remains, grey clouds obscured the horizon in almost every direction, which Tildy read as a bad omen. In the end, they did not find a more suitable place, and the witch reluctantly agreed to her plan as the sun rapidly disappeared in the West.

* * * * *

“No campfire tonight, Marklin,” the witch said as they huddled in the corner opposite the skeleton. “The summer air should be warm enough, but more importantly, we should fear the light.” He set aside his kindling, looking apprehensive.

After a robust meal of dried meat and fruits, nuts, and juicyroots, Tildy felt as full as the unwatchful moon above them. As they crawled sluggishly into their bedrolls, the witch warned, “Get comfortable, but make no mistake, this will be a sleepless night.” Tildy’s eyes drooped, and she doubted the prediction.

However, any thoughts of slumber vanished as the night carried a familiar sound to their ears. Slither-wither, slither-wither, like the wind-voices of foul trees multiplied a hundredfold. Tildy’s eyes snapped open as she realized this wasn’t the clatter of a small party like they’d faced during the daylight. This was an army, and it flowed around their sanctuary like water diverted by a boulder amidst a river. Orange torchlight faintly illuminated the tops of their sanctuary walls, giving the illusion of sunrise. And still they came: Slither-wither, slither-wither, slither-wither.

And while Tildy couldn’t be sure, she swore she also heard, “Sa miss, sa miss.” By the warning of her tingling skin, and wide eyes of her companions, she knew the creatures searched for her.

The skeleton grinned in the moonlight.

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