Foxheart (8 page)

A
nastazia had lunch sent up to their room—vegetable stew and hot, crusty bread and mint tea, plus a leg of mutton for Fox. They ate in silence, listening to the birds that perched outside the window. The birds' feathers glowed a rich, deep indigo tipped with glimmering gold, and they sang with eerily human voices. Past them, the stars shone like beacons in the midafternoon sky.

At last Anastazia turned to Quicksilver with a serious expression.

“Now that we've eaten,” she said, “I suppose you'd like to know what's going on. I know I did, at this point.”

Quicksilver folded her arms over her chest. “You might say that.”

Anastazia took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. “All right. This is always the hardest part. I know it will be difficult for you. I know because it was for me too. And for the Anastazia who taught me. And for the Anastazia before that, and before that, and before that.”

“What is she talking about?” hissed Sly Boots, sitting with a pillow clutched protectively to his chest.

“I've brought you back to an earlier time in history,” Anastazia said, ignoring him, “so that you might come into your witch bloodlines and learn how to work magic, so that you might help me find the bones of the First Ones' monsters and defeat the Wolf King, so that we might save our race from extinction.”

“Nothing to worry yourself about too much,” said Fox breezily, lounging on his cot. “A simple task, really.”

Quicksilver wondered if she would ever stop feeling disturbed at this snotty, insufferable voice coming from her Fox's mouth. “Why me? Why couldn't other witches help you?”

“Witches don't help other witches,” said Anastazia, staring darkly out the window. “Since our beginning, it's been our nature to quarrel, to try to best one another, even to steal other
witches' magic, if we can. We know it's dangerous to do so—that the health of the world's magic depends on many witches having healthy magic, not witches constantly stealing and fighting. But that's how we are. That's how we've always been.”

Quicksilver nodded. The one time she'd tried working with another thief had been recently, with Sly Boots—and look where that had gotten her.

“In this case, of course,” continued Anastazia, “no one is helping me but me—albeit a younger
me
—which is perfectly acceptable. And any other witch who has ever tried to defeat the Wolf King has failed, while we have continued on, life after life after life. So”—Anastazia gave Quicksilver a hard, grim little smile—“I can only assume we're the only ones fit for the job. Why bother asking for help from anyone else? They'll only botch things.”

All of a sudden, Quicksilver sat up straight. “Wait. Your Fox. Where is he?”

Anastazia's smile faded. There was a horrible silence, during which even Fox seemed to hold his breath.

“He's dead,” Anastazia said at last. “He died to bring us here.”

Fox whined, and Quicksilver's heart jumped to hear the
sound. She patted the bed, and Fox curled up beside her, pressing hard against her leg. Quicksilver smiled and had to fight the urge to scoop Fox up into her arms as she once would have done. Instead she stroked Fox's velvet ears, and he sighed his familiar, contented sigh.

Anastazia watched them with an unreadable look on her face.

“But . . . why did he die?” Sly Boots asked.

“Traveling through time is dangerous magic,” said Anastazia. “It requires tremendous sacrifice—of the witch, and her monster. Which is why, as far as I know, I'm only one of two witches to ever have done it.” She folded her hands in her lap, looking suddenly very small. “To willingly give up your monster, and therefore your magic, the very thing that makes you a witch . . . it's unthinkable. Witches would rather die than make that sacrifice. You'd have to be a fool to do it.” She smiled tiredly. “So I suppose the rest of witchkind is truly lucky that I'm a big enough fool for all of us.”

“Wait . . . what's a monster?” Quicksilver asked.

“Perhaps I should start at the beginning,” Anastazia said, “instead of rambling on like the dotty old woman I've become. That's something to remember, Quicksilver: the older you get,
the harder you must work to keep your thoughts in order.”

“I won't be old for a very long time,” Quicksilver pointed out.

“You'll soon find that a very long time isn't as long as you think,” said Anastazia. “Now, listen to me and don't interrupt. I hate having to repeat myself.”

Then Anastazia began to speak.

Once there were no witches in the world.

Then there were seven.

The first seven witches to walk the earth became known as the First Ones. They and their monsters were born out of the same ancient star, the same pool of magic—forever connected, forever sisters and brothers. Beloved by all, the First Ones were sought after for their magic, strength, and wisdom.

But soon they began to quarrel, each desperate to prove themselves the most powerful witch in the world. They went to war—a terrible war that lasted an entire dark age. And when the war ended, the First Ones had destroyed themselves.

Of course, throughout their long lifetimes, the First Ones had joined with many humans, and their children grew up as witches too—and their children's children, and so on. Long after the First Ones had gone, then, the world was still full of witches. But they
carried the spirit of that long, dark war inside them, and lived full of distrust for one another, more likely to quarrel than to join hands in fellowship.

Now we witches say that when the First Ones disappeared, their spirits went to rest in the stars, from where they watch over the seven kingdoms we know as Lalunet, Falstone, Napurya, Belrike, Koreva, Menettsk, and Valteya.

These seven kingdoms are called the Star Lands, and for a long time, they enjoyed an era of peace.

Anastazia bowed her head, letting her eyes fall closed. She sat there for so long it seemed she'd fallen asleep. Quicksilver and Fox glanced at each other.

“Er, well, that was a nice story,” said Sly Boots, his eyes peeking out over the pillow he still clutched to his chest. “But that doesn't explain anything that's happened except for witchy history nonsense that no one cares about.”

“Everything I say is important,” said Anastazia, her eyes snapping open to glare at Sly Boots. “You'd do well to shut your mouth and listen carefully.”

Sly Boots obeyed, but with such a red-faced expression of indignation that Quicksilver nearly burst out laughing.

But she didn't. She waited as Anastazia took a sip of her tea and then continued.

Once there was a boy born into an old witch family.

The boy's name was Ari, and the family's name was Tarkalia. They ruled the northern kingdom of Valteya, and their ranks were full of powerful witches.

Except for Ari.

He had little magical skill . . . so little that, when he turned thirteen years old, and still had not found his monster—which is to say, he had not yet come of magical age, as he should have—his family began to scorn him. And therefore the entire kingdom came to scorn him, and Ari's life turned lonely and cold.

One day the boy was wandering the mountains of Valteya, very near the Far North, and was greeted by seven voices. They told Ari that if he would act as their vessel in the Star Lands, give them a body in which to exist, they would find monsters for him. Not just one, but many. He would become a powerful witch, more powerful than his family, more powerful than anyone.

All he had to do was help them with this one simple task: he must act as their body in the Star Lands and help them find the bones of their monsters, for they had once been witches themselves, but were
no longer. And once these bones were found, the seven witches could walk the earth again, as they had not done in many an age.

Having nothing to lose, and eager to seek revenge upon those who had ridiculed him, Ari agreed to this bargain at once. The spirits of these seven witches possessed his body, and Ari Tarkalia began working terrible deeds.

As had been promised, he soon found seven wolves—one for each of the Star Lands, one for each of the spirits now living inside him—and forced magic into them. The wolves became bound to Ari as his monsters, and since the wolves were forced into this bondage and did not come by it naturally, their magic was dangerous and sharp. The wolves hungered for violence, as did the witches who controlled them.

Using Ari as their eyes and his wolves as their teeth, the seven witches slaughtered his family, every last Tarkalia they could find, and then Ari was king of Valteya, though his throne was red with blood. But soon even Valteya was not enough. Ari left that kingdom, and the Star Lands, and appointed seven lords to rule the Star Lands in his name. They would be loyal to him, and him alone, and he would be the only king. Then Ari moved to the Far North and built a castle carved of stone so black it swallowed the starlight.

Finally Ari understood that the witches inside him were the spirits of the First Ones, who had nearly destroyed the Star Lands long ago, in that dark age of war. They were seeking the bones of their monsters, and once they found them, they would return to the world, powerful and terrible.

And so Ari Tarkalia became the Wolf King, and began the hunt, so that when the First Ones returned, there would be no other witches left to challenge them.

“So the Wolf King . . . is a boy?” managed Quicksilver, her voice hushed. She glared at Sly Boots, whose wide eyes peeked out over the edge of his pillow.

He reeled back from her. “What's that look for? What, because I'm a boy too? I can't help being a boy, you know!”

Fox lowered his head to the bed and put his front paws over his snout. “Someone make him stop shrieking,
please
.”

“Once, the Wolf King was a boy,” said Anastazia. “But now he is something else. Something darker. I'm not sure there's anything left of the boy Ari inside the creature he has become.”

“But what about us?” Quicksilver leaned forward. “You, and me? And our Foxes?” She waved her hand back and forth between them. “How are you me, and how am I you?”

Anastazia's irritated gaze softened—with fondness or sadness, Quicksilver couldn't tell.

“This last bit,” said Anastazia with a tiny grin, “is my favorite part. I always like talking about myself, you know.”

Quicksilver sat up a bit straighter. “I do too!”

“I know, little thief.” Anastazia cleared her throat, folded her hands in her lap, and began the last part of her story.

Once there was a witch who didn't know she was a witch.

She lived in the kingdom of Lalunet. Magic had long faded from the world, thanks to the Wolf King. He had hunted the witches until hardly any remained, and those that did lived in hiding, praying to the stars that the Wolf King would never find them. The colors of the world faded, and the stars dimmed.

Worst of all, the Wolf King had sowed in the hearts of humans distrust and fear of witches. Humans came to revere him, the witch slayer, and erect churches in his name. He taught them false truths about witches, but no one still lived who knew the real truth and would speak it.

This witch—the witch of our story, who called herself Quicksilver—

“Do you mean . . . you?” Sly Boots asked Anastazia. “Not
this
Quicksilver,” he said, pointing at Quicksilver, “but you, Anastazia, when you were young?”

Quicksilver and Anastazia both glared at him.

“I'm talking about
us
,” said Anastazia, pointing at herself and then at Quicksilver. “Not either of us sitting here right now, but the first version of
us
to travel back in time. Just let me tell my story, won't you? I've almost finished.”