* * *
IN RETROSPECT, IT’S possible that Eva and I could have spent more time in the planning stage of our rescue attempt.
All we really did was consult the magic mirror, which confirmed that Red was still alive （Eva had stared at Red’s face, terrified and tear-streaked, with something very close to guilt）， and shove supplies in my bag. Bottled water and snacks, my cool magic compass, her cool magic mirror, a functioning, fully charged phone, and two of Zellandine’s sharpest knives, which we—well, I—fully intended to return. But after we stepped across the threshold there was a slight, inaudible pop, and a rush of wind that smelled very faintly of roses. When we turned around, Zellandine and her hut were gone.
There didn’t seem to be anywhere to go after that except onward. I pulled out my compass and thought of Red, with her watchful eyes and her grim mouth, her hair twisted by someone who fought for her and lost. The needle spun southwest, and the two of us followed it.
It was an uneventful journey. Most things—and boy, did this forest have more than its fair share of Things—didn’t bother us, either because of the knives or because they were looking for even bigger, juicier Things to eat. Around lunch （half a carrot cake Clif Bar apiece, which Eva considered with scientific curiosity, palpating it gently before realizing she was expected to consume it）， something horrible landed on my open pack. It tore at the contents, shredding and shrieking, long talons flashing.
Eva had it pinned to a tree with her knife through its heart before I could properly scream. I would tell you what kind of animal it was, but I have no idea, and looking at it made my brain cramp. So I’ll just say it was bad. Like, if a snake fucked a tarantula and their baby died in a tar pit and was later reanimated by a necromancer who graduated at the absolute bottom of his class.
“Thanks,” I said in a voice that was a mere two octaves higher than usual.
I received nothing in response but a contemptuous curl of Eva’s upper lip. But both of us moved more carefully after that, and startled at small noises. By the time dusk settled over the woods—although I’m not convinced it’s ever fully not-dusk here; it seems to exist on a limited palette ranging from gloaming to gloomy—we were shivery and tense, and I’d spent the last several miles trying and failing to think of a funny name for the twitch in my left eye.
Eva held up her hand and I flinched backward. “What, where—”
She was pointing silently through the trees. I followed the line of her finger and saw it: a high stone wall stained a viscous, tarry black. I looked upward through the dark lace of the leaves, and that was the moment it occurred to me that Eva and I could have prepared better for what struck me now as a laughable attempt at a rescue mission. We could, for example, have brought siege weaponry, or a smallish army, or one of those big mech suits from Pacific Rim. Instead, we brought two kitchen knives and an assortment of underpowered magical objects, like video game characters rushing to the boss battle without leveling up.
I say, “Oh, yikes,” which really undersells the enormity of the yikes we’re facing.
I mean, sure, when one is looking for the lair of a cannibal queen, one expects to encounter a certain degree of spookiness. One might anticipate something resembling the Beast’s castle pre-makeover, with gargoyles and buttresses and more lightning storms than is statistically likely. One does not anticipate what I’m seeing now, which is a jagged ruin of black glass and bones that makes the Black Gate of Mordor look like the Barbie Malibu Dreamhouse. Trees press against the walls, reaching over the battlements with fawning fingers. Dark, winged things circle the towers, screeching in too-human voices.
“Well.” Eva makes a sardonic gesture at the walls. “What are we waiting for?”
After another brief round of hissing （“This was your idea.” “I know! There’s just like, more skulls than I was expecting! Give me a second.”）， I gather myself and say calmly, “Okay, there has to be a back way in.”
“I very much doubt it. If I built an impregnable fortress to hold my desperate victims, I certainly wouldn’t—”
“Yeah, I know, but there’s always a back way in. Trust me.” Eva’s face makes a funny flinch, which I can only assume is her natural response to the concept of trust, but she trails huffily behind me as we circle the wall. A few guards go clomping past us along the battlements, but none of them seem to see us creeping below them. I guess this isn’t the kind of place that people often try to get into.