Approximately 6-minute read time.

35

She released a breath she’d been deliberately holding. One problem at a time, that’s the key, her mother always said. Another recollection bubbled to the surface. Fillofillo had been hinting at a key in the room he called the “Southershard Well”. She now understood that he’d been risking his life to guide her toward some secret there.

She had no reason to believe these things were connected, yet she believed they were. The witch said there were no coincidences and Tildy was beginning to understand how she could believe that.

She resolved to solve these riddles without letting another night pass. They wouldn’t otherwise escape Southershard, of that she was certain. Perhaps more terrifying, she couldn’t risk losing control of her conscious self again. The next time, her submersion might be permanent, and that scared her more than any Sarsenith or Slither-wither could. She would fly up to the barred window, and this time she would be undeterred by the voice.

She kicked away her slippers and removed the baroness’s fancy dress, leaving it where it fell. She put on Ramora’s outfit and extended her wings, feeling like her true self for the first time in…months? As she pulled on some mismatched socks and her tall boots, she realized, Yes, it had been months. Her time in the Last Shard felt hazy, as though she’d been enspelled. The idea horrified her because she finally understood that it was true.

Tildy hid her wings and left the room, moving cautiously down the stairs. In the torchlight, her sharp eyes remained fixed on the winding passage ahead while her keen ears listened for steps behind her. Somewhere, high above, a sound echoed, like someone pounding on a door that lay miles away. She turned and saw by the spell-glass window that she was on the eighth floor.

“Bright smile.”

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Tildy cried out and turned to see Fillofillo standing three steps below her, wringing his hands with a fretful look upon his face. “It is good you finally understand. That blinders have been take from your eyes and the cotton from your ears.”

“She has been controlling me.”

The castellan nodded. “I was uncertain, but when you kept ignoring the barred window, I knew. She discovers many secrets, and I could think of no warning that would keep you safe.” He wrung his hands some more.

“The poison garden.” It seemed less a deduction than a forgotten memory returning from the depths of her mind.

Fillofillo’s face went sour. “‘Garden’ she calls it. To a tree-dweller such as I, it is an abomination. A greensgrower like you or your witch-mother should feel the same. Many go there, and none are the same when they return!”

“Aren’t you afraid that you might be under the same influence?”

His face grew darker. “I have sensed the nudge of the bewilderway flower, though most-humble Obsequiants are affected less, yes. Much like her emissary. Quite displeased with that was the baroness, unamed-unamed,” he added with a shake of his head.

“Is that why he left?”

“Left? Oh, this is but yet another lie! Her deceptions grow and spread like the weedroots of the ubiquitree.”

“He’s here?”

“Prisoner or guest, I cannot tell. He has some unnatural defense of his own.” Fillofillo made a derisive hissing sound. “So much is hard to tell. Of late, people blend together like too much paint on a palette. I fear she has been feeding me thoughts that were manipulations.” His look of disgust returned, as though this were a grave insult. “I thought I knew, but I did not!”

Tildy’s fear and impatience grew, his words only heightening her urgency. “I’m better. You don’t have to convince me further.”

She took a downward step, but the Obsequiant raised both hands. “No no, bright-smile, you mustn’t go this way!” he squeaked.

“What?”

“She stalks about the main hall, raging! She knows, oh, she knows so much! Things are falling apart,” Fillofillo moaned. “Young miss must find another way to fly to the green window. To the Southershard Well.”

“What about the voice?”

“Worry not about the voyager’s voice, for there is no power without its form, ulamed-ulamed,” Fillofillo said, nodding his head. “It has haunted your dreams, even if you do not recall the times you heard it.”

“I remember now.” Tildy had tired of all the things she had forgotten – all the fuzzy memories – but she did need to ask: “The voyager?”

“I shall not put its name into your ears when your mouth may stray beyond control. Far, far has it traveled. By clandestine cart to Southershard being the shortest leg of the journey. But the time to learn is not in this moment! You must go while it sleeps. The moon’s kiss will wake the voyager. That is what you must fear, Chensary!”

The castellan spoke so quickly, Tildy could hardly track his words. But the last one stood out from the others. “‘Chensary’ means ‘priestess’, does it not?”

Fillofillo held up his hands in dismay. “I – I should not have said that. Not ever, no.”

In her typical fashion, Tildy was undeterred in her curiosity. “You speak the language of Dryads.”

The Obsequiant’s dark eyes glistened with distress. With rapid words, he replied: “Is the language of the Fay. Very old, a reverent word. It has shone within your mind like the torch of the Night’s Bane. My people also recognize the word,” he said with a deep bow. “I knew you had been venerated by a Fay, though at the time I did not know why.” His face displayed a new admiration and wonder. “I understand now, though it will take time for you to understand yourself.”

Tildy shook her head, failing to comprehend the flood of information. Questions sprung up like new frog-fronds in springtime.

“I do not think – what is that?” he cut himself short, looking down at the floor as though seeing something beneath it.

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He met her gaze and covered his mouth. “He has returned. The real one, and many things about him do I now understand,” he said in reverence. “She will deal with him, and then,” his face became mournful with large watery eyes, “and then she will come for me.”

“What are you talking about?”

Fillofillo stood up straight, composing himself and smoothing down his linen stole. He seemed to have made a decision, and his urgent words rolled from his mouth in rapid succession. “Oh, but for my mistakes! I hope you forgive. You must go to the Well! I shall impede if I can.” He fled upon noiseless feet before she could say another word.

Tildy’s heart raced with a reckless urge, yet her mind was calm because she knew what she had to do. She pulled herself up to the window’s recess, certain she could push through the spell-glass. Confirming this, she leapt into the night beyond.

Tildy has a habit of leaping into bad situations, and now she’s about to Return To The Well – coming soon!

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