As though she expected to see an army of Slither-withers surrounding the castle, Tildy craned her neck toward the windows across the room. She saw nothing but the dark.

“Surely the baron has more than one path into the valley,” the witch asked. “Perhaps some secret way the army could not—”

“If he returns, be certain to ask him how he did it,” the baroness interrupted with some irritation. “He often rebuked his ancestors for destroying the Shervengard, by which they lost their only means to fight such a blockade. Our defense lies on the wrong side of the only exit from the hills. The guard cannot even search the valley’s rim because Slither archers prowl there.”

“What is your plan?” the witch pressed, a little firmer than a guest usually spoke to a host, Tildy thought.

Lady Amaranth frowned at the impertinence. “My plan is to keep you safe, if that is what you ask.” She placed her fork on her plate and pushed it away. “You will excuse me while I go to work on exactly that, lest we squirm like a squit in a snare.” Smooth as sliding silk, she flowed from her chair and stormed away, her long dress rippling in her wake. The musicians paused, and receiving no instruction from their mistress, they left.

Tildy saw her adoptive mother wearing the expression that indicated she knew the conversation would go this way. Feeling her gaze, the witch said, “You two eat your fill and go right to bed. I shall see you in the morning.” She followed the baroness from the room. Tildy watched her go; Marklin ate.

She found she wasn’t hungry anymore, not that the food wasn’t delicious. Quite the opposite; she had eaten several dishes that she would remember for the rest of her life. Perhaps too many, she thought as she breathed against the enthusiastically-laced dress. However, the silence in the vast space of the room weighed heavily upon her and she wondered whether Lady Amaranth felt insulted.

She found Marklin staring at her. “Thassa third time youb sighed,” he said through a mouthful of parsnip. He swallowed. “You should see what your mother’s thinking about the baroness.”

His insight surprised her. “I don’t want to leave you.”

He pushed his plate away. “No, I think you better lead me from here before I hurt myself.” She giggled and they left the dining room together.

* * * * *

As they climbed the stairs, he asked, “She’s something, iddint she? Beautiful, but severe at times. And blunt. She doesn’t ‘call an old mule a horse’, as my Pa used to say. She seemed very interested in all of us. And she’s beautiful, too.”

“You said that already,” Tildy said with an irritation she didn’t understand.

“Aye? It’s doubly true, I’m sure. But d’you like her?”

Tildy wasn’t sure how to respond. She had liked Lady Amaranth at first and sought her favor, but she wasn’t so sure. The woman asked many personal questions, and not always of the person she wanted to learn about.

“I thought I did,” Marklin said. “I’m not certain.”

“What do you mean?”

“She seems the kind of woman that disregards anything she doesn’t understand or is too different. What d’you think she would have thought of that Dryad? And she’s heard stories of the Slither-withers, but I don’t think she sees them as a serious threat. Not against herself or the soldiers, and certainly not when measured up against the stone walls of Southershard.”

Tildy thought his words rang true. The woman had disregarded much of the danger they faced, though it was often disguised under the veil of her laughter. “I didn’t think you were listening,” she replied.

“Me? Well, m’mouth and eyes were in the food, but my ears paid close enough attention,” he said, tugging an earlobe. “What bothers me more is what she might think of you.”

“I’m worried about what the castellan could learn,” she replied.

“I thought him alright.”

They climbed several steps in silence, and she could tell he was mulling something. “What is it?”

“I was wondering why your mother didn’t give you a false name like she did me and her.”

Tildy knew the answer just as she knew why the witch hadn’t told him. She herself trusted Marklin, of course, but she trusted her adoptive mother more. “I’m not sure.”

His eyebrows knitted momentarily, but he appeared to accept her answer. As they said their good-nights, he added, “You look very nice, even if you don’t feel comfortable in that dress.” Blushing, he turned and hurried toward his room, holding his hat to his head.

Pleased, but confused, she watched him until he disappeared. She resumed the long walk upstairs, her own blush keeping her warm in the cool stairwell. A few floors up, she paused to study a statuette of a weasel-like creature with arched back and bristling tail, imagining the delicate tools needed for such intricate carving. She continued to the thirteenth floor, instead of retiring to her room on the twelfth. She needed to discuss something with her adoptive mother. The witch opened the door almost immediately after she knocked. “I wondered when you would come.”

“I’ve, I don’t know, sensed something since we arrived.”

* * * * *

“Not here, child,” she replied, letting her into the alchemist’s room before closing and locking the door. Tildy looked around again, seeing things she’d missed the first time, such as the ritualistic tapestries, scorched wooden floorboards, and a stuffed monstrosity in the corner, the name of which she couldn’t guess. A glittering crystal hung from its neck by a silver chain. It reminded her of Mum, and she wondered what the amulet would say about this room. Again, her thoughts returned to its current location.

“Your beauty shines even brighter amongst so many dark horrors,” the witch continued, admiring her dress. “Though you have always been beautiful.”

“You have to say that,” Tildy replied, though she flushed with pleasure.

“Aye, because it is true. However, you did not come for compliments, appreciated though they may be!” She studied her adoptive daughter’s face. “Tell me what you felt.”

“I thought the sensation began upon seeing the baroness the first time. There was something so familiar, no, more than familiar about her. Like I knew her but forgot.” She searched her memory for that first unusual sensation. The grand hall? No, the courtyard. “As we approached the Shard. In the bailey.”

“Very good,” said the witch. She led Tildy into the center of the room, where the brightest candles illuminated an intricate three-armed spiraling pattern inlaid into the wooden floor. “Sooner than I would have expected. Were you a little older, you might have noticed as we began our descent into the Valley of the Shard.”

Tildy marveled at her. “That’s when you felt it?”

“Yes, but only a smidgen. Like a tickle of memory when you hear a song from your childhood but cannot recall its name.”

“What is this?”

“You tell me.” She indicated the pattern on the floor. “The triskele may help amplify it.”

* * * * *

Tildy released her breath and concentrated. Slowly, she replied, “There’s a tingle, like when your foot falls asleep. Not painful, just odd. Dull. No, distant. It almost pulses. Like an echo that gets stronger, then fades.” She shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, that describes it well enough.”

Tildy saw the witch staring at her, but she remained focused. “And there’s something else.”

“Yes?”

She grasped at the feeling, but it was like catching water. Finally she said, “There’s the faintest pressure; a gentle squeeze. Like a hug in a dream that you still feel when you wake.” Tildy opened her eyes, unaware that she’d closed them.

“Good,” said the witch. “Now, at which point did you darken your skin?”

Tildy looked down at arms that were as black as the burned floorboards. “I – I don’t know.”

The witch looked gravely at her. “This room appears to have an unwholesome effect on you. Quickly, too. And I do not like the dark murk of your eyes.” Tildy stared at her hands as she was escorted to the door. “My dear, you are getting better at comprehending the feelings, but you need to be mindful of yourself, especially whilst we dwell within these walls.” She turned the key and pushed her adopted daughter through the open door.

Tildy had heard similar things before. “But what do these new feelings mean?”

The witch scratched her temple. “I am uncertain. There is something here, but it changes. Moves around. So unfocused, it could be more than one person.”

That was interesting. “Who is it? The baroness? The Obsequiant?”

“I am not sure,” the witch said. “Especially about her. She seems too perfect in her role. As though she were playing a character she read about. Normally, I would chalk that up to the training that noble daughters receive to make them proper wives.” She shook her head, an indication of her thoughts on that matter.

Tildy said, “She didn’t seem as, I’m not sure, as ladylike as I would have expected. Like behaved properly most of the time, yet clumsily fills the gaps in her knowledge with unexpected behavior. Like how she ate dinner.”

Here the witch smiled. “Very good, Tildeneth. Yes, very good! It is possible they have different customs in Gardenstem – I am unfamiliar with those lands – but she seems to be playing a part, rather than having been raised as a noblewoman would.” She paused, coming back to the topic at hand. “It is an unusual disturbance, but I think the power emanates elsewhere than her. If the Eslavanaash army lingers long enough, we may learn more about this riddle, though I daresay I should prefer to leave the mystery unsolved if it meant a quicker departure.”

She grasped Tildy’s hands and studied her. “Remarkable. Already the color fades. I should be very reluctant to enter this room, if I were you.”

Tildy looked at her hands to see the pigment returning to its warm olive hues. “What about you?”

“Oh, I am far too old and clever to worry about a room, thirteenth floor or no!” They laughed, and she kissed her adopted daughter’s cheek and wished her good night.

* * * * *

Tildy descended to the twelfth floor, her head bursting with considerations and questions. Besides the unusual sensation, things seemed normal here, contrary to the crofter’s tale. Oh, and aside from the army of Slither-withers guarding the pass. And the curious Obsequiant. Perhaps things weren’t quite as normal as they appeared.

Upon returning to her room, she changed into nightclothes that had been placed on her bed, hanging her borrowed dress over the back of a chair. As she extinguished the many candles and torches, she spotted her traveling garb, which had been cleaned, mended, and folded. The many contents of her pockets had been placed in a straw basket. Amongst them she saw Fietha’s luckstone, which transported her thoughts back to Dappledown once again. Of green days and golden sunlight. Of carefree times and laughter. Of Fietha and the witch.

Resting on top, lay her small treasure sack and the pouch of wondrous slingstones. She’d barely given either a thought since her battle with the Slither-withers. The pouch looked fuller than she expected, and she wondered if one of the servants had added to it. She undid the drawstring and peered inside. To her surprise, the interior was full to bursting and it radiated the familiar warmth she’d felt when she first discovered them.

She also noticed that all the stones were identical, except for the words etched upon them. She recalled fillenian from before, but she didn’t see it here. She went to the bed and poured a few out, flipping them over to read melliflument, perillinnen, dispendendia, andeicitay, and other complex words that tripped up her tongue. They appeared to be a Fayish language, which supported her belief that the Dryad had given these to her. She wanted to find a book to translate the words, but not tonight. A long day lay behind her, and the comfort of the bed called. She scooped up the smooth stones to return them to the pouch, but found it nearly full again, as though she had only removed half of what she had in her hand. As she watched, the top layer of stones churned a little, and the bag had refilled itself.

Marveling, she removed a few more stones and waited. The bag surged a little once again. She looked down at two handfuls of stones, wondering what to do with them. She didn’t think they would all fit in the pouch. And if there were some kind of charm on them, and she put them in her pockets, would they similarly refill with more stones? She might soon be overwhelmed. She supposed she could destroy those that didn’t fit. They disintegrated easily enough when hitting the Slither-withers. That seemed a waste, however. Each one was special, whether she had one or a hundred. In the end, Tildy decided to fit as many into the pouch as she could. One by one, every stone fit. Apparently, there was no end to their wonder. She examined the pouch, which was the same size it ever was, so she concluded that the stones multiplied or decreased by the space available to them.

She returned the pouch to the basket, where she finally found the amulet wrapped in cloth. “Mum!” she said, lifting the chain. Outside the darkness of the secret room, she spied faint swirls of silver and cobalt throughout its gold.

* * * * *

“I’ve been waiting, wondering if you’d forgotten me. If such a thing were even possible,” it grumbled as its blue eyes glowed. “Though I may be forgiven for thinking this way, cast out with the other junk of your pockets as I was. I should remain silent to teach you a lesson.”

“Surely, one could never forget something as magnificent as you,” Tildy said, remembering its fondness for flattery. She also knew it preferred to talk, given any chance. “I’ve hardly had privacy since we last spoke, you know.”

“Yes, she keeps a close eye on you, that one.”

“Well, that’s what mothers do.”

“But she is not your mother,” Mum replied, “or so I have heard. I listen, even when I do not speak. Nor is her name Gudwith or Ellethen. And you often call her ‘witch’. It seems she is addressed by many words she is not, even by you, her supposed daughter.”

Tildy considered this for many heartbeats. Mum waited. Finally, she said, “She’s the only mother I have.”

“I do not think you believe this, for you truly call her everything but ‘mother’.”

“No, but I do!” she protested. “It’s this ongoing jest between us, how I call her mother and she—” Tildy broke off as the realization hit her. Just as quickly, she dismissed it, not wanting to admit the truth in Mum’s words. “But she knows. She knows it’s more than a tease.”

“Your heart sees better than I, to be sure.”

This revelation would have to wait, however, for she had other business with her golden advisor. “If you have been listening, you heard where we are. What can you tell me of Southershard?”

“Yes, the legendary southern fortress, least of the jewels named the Four Shards,” Mum said. “Many stories do I have, and more! Though I think perhaps a history lesson would be less valuable to you than what I have learned since I arrived.”

Roused by this, she urged, “Go on!”

“There is something here, a power, that one such as you will not have felt.”

“Oh, but I have,” she interrupted, quickly recounting her conversation with the witc—her adoptive mother, she corrected, not wanting to prove Mum right.

“You are indeed full of surprises, little thief. Although, you remain rather careless with information about yourself, as well. You better hope my allegiance does not cross to the hands of another.” The glow of Mum’s eyes lingered to emphasize the point.

She had already considered this but having been smart enough to withhold her most crucial piece of personal information, she dismissed his warning. She would not dwell on that thought, however, for she did not yet understand the extent of Mum’s power, or that of the strange Obsequiant, wherever he might be in the castle. Instead, she laughed. “I’d rather melt you down than lose you.”

“Were I not concerned about the danger you’d be in without my advice, I might think that a rather cruel jest. But consider today already! I was left amongst your dirty rags to be pawed or stolen by mere castle servants. But by luck alone, none laid a finger upon my countenance, desirous as it is.”

Tildy found Mum’s second remonstrance more annoying and smugger than the first, and not wanting to give it the satisfaction of being right, she returned to the original topic at hand. “You were explaining what you sensed here.”

Mum sulked for a moment. “Yes. For a time, that is more pressing. There is some power here, unlike anything I have experienced in four ages of the world.” The amulet dimmed, as though considering its words. Finally, it said, “I might call it unfocused or diffuse, but that is not quite right. It feels more like a part has split off and is missed, though the greater portion of itself is asleep.”

“There is an Obsequiant here. Might it be related to him?”

“I’ve never liked Obsequiants.”

“Why’s that?” she asked, intrigued by the declaration.

“We find them hard to read. They absorb so much about so many people, it is difficult to tell where they end and others begin.”

“That sounds similar to what you described.”

“Similar, but not the same. It is more likely this hidden power attracted your Obsequiant. Or called it. They are generally a curious, but harmless people, though it has been centuries since I encountered one.”

“The wi—my adoptive mother says they have a way of knowing things,” she began, “could he discover you?”

“He already has. He visited whilst you were at dinner.”

* * * * *

“What?”

“He said my presence fascinated him, as you can imagine, but avowed he was no thief. I said nothing and he eventually left. He is but the least of your concerns.”

Considering the castellan had been in her room, perhaps searching through her belongings, she wasn’t sure she agreed. She also noted that Mum delayed mentioning that conversation, which was also troublesome. She walked amongst the remaining candles, extinguishing them as she went. “I’m not sure what to make of him.”

“Nor I, though he seems to have proven his trustworthiness already, would you not say?”

“I suppose so.”

“I hope one day to inspire such confidence,” the amulet said, its voice filled with derision.

“What about Lady Amaranth?”

“It is an unusual feeling about this baroness. I cannot say more now. However, these items are minor points. You should leave Southershard as soon as you can – enemy outside the valley or no. This place is full of perils, beyond the Thirsellion and the strange presence we feel.”

More than anything else Mum had said, this worried her. She decided the amulet would not leave her side again. “I’m not certain the wilderness is safer. I just don’t know.”

“For a thief, you are often indecisive. Your destiny may therefore remain beyond your reach.”

“I’m not usually a thief.”

“You prove my point.”

“Truly, you have taxed my wits tonight,” she replied, stifling a yawn. “I think sleep might sharpen me enough by the morning.”

“Perhaps,” said the amulet, not sounding convinced. “Good night, little thief.”

“Good night, Mum.” Tildy slipped the chain over her head and tucked it into her nightdress, feeling a reassuring warmth flowing from the amulet. She sunk into the bed, experiencing a comfort she’d forgotten after long months on the road, and slipped away into darkness.

The darkness responded. “ARE YOU HER?”

* * * * *

Night surrounded Tildy as she stood atop the curtain wall of the Last Shard. All her hairs stood on end, but she understood. She’d heard that question in Wel Mallyne after the Sarsenith sank. However, the monster was defeated, and this was most certainly a dream.

With a little patience and focus, she knew she could clear the fogs of her sleep-befuddled mind. Clarity brought comprehension, and with that, she could derive the meaning of this unconscious excursion. When the words did not repeat, she turned her back on the misshapen tower to peer into the night. For all she could see, the world might have ended beyond the wall. Wherever the inquirer was, its presence remained unknown, but she knew it watched.

Tildy found herself walking, though she didn’t recall making the decision to move. She could see by the light of her nightdress, a garment so white it gleamed in the dark. Like a starflower bobbing upon a sea of ink that had flooded the world, she cautiously made one circuit atop the wall, searching for the hidden presence that spied on her. Two laps. Five. A dozen maybe, though the passage of time had no meaning.

Shadows flowed over the battlements after her, snapping greedily at the nimbus of her dress, their hunger insatiable. Still, something waited. And ever in her peripheral vision stood the featureless tower of the Last Shard, a black pillar holding up the ceiling of night.

When she decided she’d had enough of this mystery, Tildy looked for a descending staircase. The Valley’s cool breath followed her as she walked, and she longed for her warm bed. She looked up to find her balcony, wondering whether she could simply fly up to it. She wished she’d brought her telescope with her, but in dreams, logic emerged and disappeared like vapor on the wind.

The Last Shard loomed before her, its blackness barely distinguishable from the night. It drew closer and closer, as though leaning over for a better look. Tildy spied a deep balcony, so long it resembled a protuberant nose. Two vertical cracks broke open on either side, filling with fire. With a rumble, the stonework below the nose split and fell, revealing the snarl of the Sarsenith.

The monstrous figure twisted this way and that, searching for her. As though to better see her, countless tower windows opened like dead, black eyes. Except for one. As the monstrosity turned away, she saw a small, barred window in its back. Within, a dim green light flared for a moment before the horrible face turned and bent over her. The Sarsenith had finally found its quarry. “YOU ARE ALSO HER,” it said, repeating those terrible words she’d refused to consider since she’d fled Wel Mallyne. The creature clearly thought she was someone else and it wanted to destroy her for it. She shivered in the night air.

On reflex more than thought, her wings extended. “Nish nish,” called the hidden nagweeds from the ground far below. She leapt into the air, but fell to the wallwalk, realizing that her wings were trapped within her nightdress. Its sleeves wrapped themselves around her like bonds, constricting her breathing. As she struggled atop the wall, words vibrated through it, as clear as if spoken aloud: “Oh, little bird in white, when I return, you will drown within the depths of my stone, just as she.” The gaping tear of its mouth descended upon her and, having no other escape, Tildy rolled off the wall into darkness.

And woke with a start, finding herself on the floor of her room, completely entangled in bedding. It had indeed been a dream. Nevertheless, her heart fluttered like a panicking sparrow in her chest, and she struggled to take deep breaths as she extricated herself. The monster was gone. It could not return.It was gone, she reassured herself over and again as she settled beneath the luxurious blankets. Darkness hung heavy and watchful above her bed. As sleep once again overtook her, a small part of her mind noted that she was already within the depths of the Last Shard, thus fulfilling part of the Sarsenith’s prediction. But she was too tired to comprehend the words or their meaning to the monster. Mercifully, though the Wise would name it a bad omen, she would not recall the dream upon waking.

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