The Queen of Oz Page 4

  She had only meant to change the princess’s appearance. To disguise her so thoroughly that Glinda would never recognize her. And that much she had done. Glinda was looking for a fairy princess, not an ordinary baby boy.

  But she’d gone too far. Somehow, Mombi had transformed Ozma’s mind along with her body. Somewhere, the fairy peered out from behind this child’s face, but Mombi had no idea if she would ever be able to reach Ozma again.

  She had transformed Ozma to protect her.

  What if, instead, she’d lost the fairy forever? Lurline would never forgive her. And Glinda wouldn’t even have to find Ozma to win.

  If Ozma was gone, Oz was without hope.

  “I’m sorry,” Mombi whispered to the baby boy, wrapping him up tightly again and cradling him to her chest. “I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll keep you safe.”

  But in her heart, hope was dying down like a banked fire. Not just for the child but for herself.

  Because if she didn’t keep her end of her bargain, Lurline’s magic would never be hers.

  PART

  TWO

  In the middle of a frozen winter night a teenage boy made his way slowly down the side of a mountain. An icy wind whipped snow around his skinny form. If you stood more than a few feet away, you wouldn’t have been able to see him at all through the whirling blizzard. But if somehow you had been able to peer through the curtain of snow and follow his movements, you might have noticed his course was steady and unwavering. If magical sight had given you a view of his face, you’d have been quite surprised to see that the boy seemed undaunted by the gale-force winds, the icy and near-invisible path, and the cliff that plunged thousands of feet mere inches from his toes. In fact, the boy had about him an air of confidence. A frown of concentration twisted his features as he picked his way around boulders, and his shoulders were hunched against the shrieking wind. Of course, you wouldn’t have been there to see any of this, because no one in their right mind would be clambering about in the Traveling Mountains in the middle of a winter blizzard.

  Oblivious to these hypothetical deliberations, the boy stopped briefly and looked around. He adjusted the thick fur coat that offered him some protection from the storm and stomped his feet, knocking some of the snow off his heavy, thick-soled boots. “Almost there,” he said out loud, the wind tearing the words from his mouth. He moved forward again, this time a little more quickly.

  Presently the boy made out a glint of light through the snow and let out a triumphant whoop, breaking into a shuffling near-run despite the force of the storm. Sure-footed as a snow troll, he scrambled down the path as he drew closer to the light’s source, until he stood outside a narrow stone passage hewn into the side of the mountain and ringed with glowbowls. He snatched a globe off its pole, the glowing mass of insects inside the hollow glass ball buzzing madly, and ducked into the passage. Inside, the low stone doorway broadened into a wide, smooth-walled tunnel extending at a gentle downward angle into the heart of the mountain. The boy held his glowbowl aloft, illuminating the passage as he moved forward into the dark. The violent noise of the storm rapidly receded until all he could hear was his own panting breath echoing against the tunnel’s walls.

  At last he saw another faint glow at the end of the tunnel. The tunnel ended in an immense cavern, its walls dotted with more glowbowls in wrought-metal brackets. Their light stretched up into the darkness without reaching the ceiling of the huge chamber. The ashes of long-dead campfires dotted the hard stone here and there. Close to the tunnel’s entrance, a stack of fresh firewood was piled up, and the hearth here looked as though it had been used recently.

  The boy sank to his haunches next to the fire pit, carefully piling kindling the way the witch had taught him. They had no love for each other—well, he didn’t have much love for her, at any rate; whether or not she even had emotions was mostly a mystery—but even so, he knew she had useful skills. He pointed at the pile, closed his eyes, and concentrated so fiercely his brow crinkled. A moment later, a thin wisp of smoke trickled upward from the little pile of twigs, and soon a tongue of fire was licking at the dry wood. When the kindling was burning steadily, he carefully placed larger logs on the fire. Only then did he pull off his snow-damp furs with a sigh of relief, stretching his legs out toward the crackling flames.

  The boy’s name was Pete, and winter in the mountains was his favorite time of year. Not because he liked the cold—he didn’t—or because he was by now skilled at navigating the treacherous passes even in the most perilous of blizzards—although he was. But winter was when Mombi was most distracted, and that meant she largely left him alone. Summer was chore season, running endless errands for the old witch, replenishing her stores of herbs and potions and magical ingredients, constantly at her beck and call. But winter was when she holed herself up in her little cottage, studying magic and casting spell after spell. He could disappear for hours or even days at a time and she barely noticed. Just another thing, he thought, that proved how little she cared about him.

  She wasn’t mean, not exactly. She was just . . . indifferent. Her moodiness would have been legendary if anyone besides Pete had been around to see it. She was ugly and old and cranky all of the time, and mostly she took her bad temper out on him. She treated him like a servant, not a son.

  And that was because Pete wasn’t her son. He put another log on the fire with a sigh. That was pretty much all he knew about himself, and he was sick of it: that Mombi wasn’t his mother, and that he had no family. It was the only thing the old witch had ever told him about his past, sandwiched between reminders of how much she had done for him over the years. How she’d taken him in and fed him and clothed him and given him a safe place to live. He didn’t remember anything about his life before Mombi, and whenever he asked, all she did was go on about how lucky he was that she’d found him and spent the best years of her life taking care of him. Which wasn’t much of an answer at all. She didn’t care about him; all she cared about was having a servant handy while she obsessively learned magic. That much was obvious by how rarely she noticed his long absences in the winter.

  He would run away altogether, except that he knew, once she wanted to, how quickly she could find him. She might not notice at first that he was gone, but as soon as she needed him to carry water or fetch some obscure magical ingredient, she’d miss him—and the free labor. Her magic was strong enough to pin him down no matter how far he ran. She’d told him so countless times. And he believed it.

  Pete leaned back against the rough stone wall of the cavern. He’d discovered this underground network years ago, and it had become his refuge from Mombi’s ill-tempered harangues and constant barrage of orders. The warren of caves and tunnels went much farther than he’d ever dared to explore—miles and miles of cold, empty dark, stretching deep into the roots of the mountains. But he’d stocked the outer caves with firewood and dried food, blankets and Mombi’s discarded spell books, pretty rocks and bits of wood he’d found on his many expeditions. He wasn’t the first to use the caves, and he doubted he’d be the last, but for now he was the only one. Mombi, he was sure, didn’t even know they existed.

  The caves were more of a safe place to him than Mombi’s little shack in the woods ever had been, but he couldn’t wait to leave them behind either. Someday, he was going to see the rest of Oz. Someday, when he escaped the old witch’s clutches for good. Someday, when he—

  Something stirred in the darkness at the cave’s entrance, interrupting his now-familiar internal monologue. Pete sat bolt upright.

  He wasn’t alone. And anything that was out in this storm was either very stupid or very dangerous.

  “Hello?” he called uncertainly, feeling at his waist for the knife he always wore strapped there. It wasn’t magic, but it was sharp. “Who’s there?”

  “Hello?” came back an answering call. The voice was low and deep and startled, but not afraid. “Is someone here?”

  The speaker came into the light, and Pete blinked in
surprise.

  It was a Munchkin. He was tall for a Munchkin—at least, Pete assumed so, since he’d only seen a handful of Munchkins in his life and they’d all been much smaller than him. Mombi had occasionally taken him on outings to the nearest town, but she was always jittery and ordered him not to talk to anyone. He had envied the Munchkins—their colorful attire, happy camaraderie, and tendency toward impromptu song.

  This Munchkin was easily as tall as teenage Pete, and broad-shouldered and muscular. Pete wondered if the Munchkin would get any taller, but he thought it impolite to ask. He was wearing sturdy clothes that looked made for traveling, and they were patched and repatched in places as though he’d been on many long journeys. His boots were scuffed but looked comfortable. He had a bow slung over one shoulder and a quiver full of arrows strapped across his back, and he carried a bulging leather pack. Long, black hair fell into his piercing blue eyes. His skin was weathered and tan, and fine lines creased the corners of his eyes as if he’d spent a lot of time squinting into the sun, although he couldn’t be much older than Pete himself.

  And, Pete saw, one hand rested lightly on his own knife, tucked into a leather scabbard at his waist just like Pete’s was. Also unlike other Munchkins Pete had encountered, this one looked like he knew how to handle himself in a fight.

  But there was nothing about him that seemed threatening; just alert and ready in case Pete proved dangerous. A flicker of something stirred in Pete’s chest. Something unfamiliar, that caught him off guard.

  “Another traveler?” the Munchkin said lightly. “That’s a surprise in this blizzard. Where are you headed?”

  “I live here,” Pete said, jumping to his feet. “I mean, not in the caves. I live nearby.” Suddenly he was anxious to impress this stranger. “I wander around in the mountains all the time,” he said. “I don’t mind the weather.” His tone came out more boastful than he’d intended, and he cringed a little, but the stranger only smiled.

  “That’s a relief, then, because I’ve never been more lost in my life. I thought there was a pass through these mountains somewhere around here, but I’ve been going in circles for hours.”

  “There is,” Pete said eagerly. “Only you’re too far south. I can show you where it is, if you want. I can take you there.” For some reason, he didn’t want this Munchkin to leave.

  The Munchkin smiled and moved his hand from the hilt of his knife. “That would be amazing. But would you mind if I . . .” He gave the fire a significant look.

  “Of course,” Pete said, flushing with embarrassment. What an idiot he was being—of course this stranger would want to rest. It was freezing outside, not to mention pitch-black. Pete could find the pass with no trouble, but if the Munchkin had been lost in the storm for this long, he had to be exhausted. “Please, sit down. I can make you something to eat. Or hot tea. There are blankets here, and I can build up the fire. You can stay the night here, and in the morning I’ll take you to the pass—” He realized he was babbling, and shut his mouth immediately, flushing even brighter.

  The Munchkin didn’t seem to notice what an idiot he was being. What had come over him? The stranger only smiled again gratefully and sat down next to the fire, stretching out his hands to warm them. Pete bustled around the cavern, hanging an iron pot full of water on a tripod over the fire and throwing in dried vegetables and meat. Mombi had refused to teach him anything more than the most basic of spells, but at least she’d taught him how to cook. “It tastes better than it looks,” he assured the Munchkin.

  “It smells delicious,” the Munchkin said. He’d taken off his snow-soaked outer layers and carefully arranged them by the fire to dry. He ran his fingers through his long hair. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Pete,” Pete said, extending a hand belatedly. The stranger shook it gravely. Pete blushed and looked away, too shy to meet the Munchkin’s steady gaze. His skin felt prickly and hot, as if he was feverish, but he knew he wasn’t sick. It was as if just being around the Munchkin was making him burn up. “Um, what are you doing in these mountains?”

  “I’m Jasper,” he said. “And to answer your question, heartbreak. What else would drive a man into these parts? I’m traveling until I stop seeing him everywhere I look.”

  “Heartbreak.” Pete said the word out loud and let it sink in.

  But Jasper went on unfazed, oblivious to Pete’s reaction.

  “He was a real charmer. I should have known it would end this way, but I guess love makes you blind. . . .”

  Pete nodded but he didn’t know. He hadn’t experienced so much as a first kiss, let alone some kind of heartbreak.

  Jasper shook his head, reading him. “Or perhaps you don’t know. . . . So, where can you possibly live in these mountains?”

  “With Mombi,” Pete said. Jasper looked puzzled. “She’s a witch,” Pete explained. “A very important one,” he added with a flourish. “I’m her—her—apprentice. She lives at the base of the mountain. It’s not far.”

  Jasper looked impressed, and Pete was gratified. “An apprentice witch? I’ve never met a witch. I have to say I’m glad about that.” When he saw Pete’s stricken expression, he laughed. “I don’t mean you! I didn’t even know there were cute witches.” Pete felt himself flushing again. “The only witches I’ve ever heard stories about have been Wicked. Except for Glinda, I suppose.”

  “Mombi’s talked about Glinda,” Pete said cautiously. “She doesn’t trust her.” In fact, Mombi had warned him to get away from Glinda as quickly as possible if he ever encountered her pink witchiness. Mombi never offered an explanation why. And Pete had never asked. But now the opportunity for answers had presented itself.

  “Really,” Jasper said thoughtfully. “Hmm. She was very close with Dorothy the Witchslayer, they say. She’s quite powerful herself, but I don’t know if she’s the best . . .” The Munchkin trailed off and glanced at Pete, something in his eyes suggesting that he thought he’d said too much. “She’s quite powerful,” he said again. It was clearly not what he’d originally been about to say.

  “Dorothy?” Pete asked, puzzled. “Who’s Dorothy?”

  At this, Jasper looked astonished. “You don’t know who Dorothy is?”

  “I don’t . . . get out much,” Pete said, flushing again. He didn’t want the Munchkin to think he was ignorant, but it was the truth.

  “I see,” the Munchkin said. “I guess you wouldn’t, living all the way out here. Well, I’ll tell you about her while we eat, if you like.”

  “I’d love to know,” Pete said gratefully. “The soup should be done.” He ladled stew into two wooden bowls, handing one to Jasper with a wooden spoon he’d carved himself. Jasper inhaled the aromatic broth, closing his eyes in pleasure.

  “It’s been a long time since I had a hot meal, let alone anything this good,” he said after he took a bite. “This is delicious.”

  Pete blushed again, staring at the floor. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s not much.”

  “It’s wonderful.” Jasper settled back against the stone wall, sighing in contentment as he slowly ate his soup. “Dorothy came to Oz from the Other Place—”

  “The Other Place?” Pete interrupted, puzzled. “You mean, another country? I didn’t know there was a country other than Oz.” This time, he was too curious to be embarrassed by his ignorance.

  “Not another country,” Jasper explained. “Another place. Another world, they say. It’s impossible for any of us to go there. Dorothy was brought here by a mighty tornado—some people say it was fairy magic, working to save Oz from the clutches of the Wicked Witches.” He saw Pete’s confusion and laughed. “I’m getting ahead of myself, though. Dorothy came to Oz many years ago—brought here by a cyclone, like I said. She was beautiful and kind. She landed in Munchkin Country, which was then under the control of the Wicked Witch of the East.”

  He shuddered, his expression serious. “My parents tell stories about the Wicked Witch of the East,” he said quietly. “She was awful. Heart
less and cruel. She enslaved my people and killed anyone who defied her. She imprisoned and tortured any Munchkins who tried to rise up against her rule. But Dorothy killed her with a single mighty blow, setting my people free. For that we’ll be grateful to her forever. There’s a big statue of her in Munchkin Country; you’ll have to see it sometime.”

  “I’d like that,” Pete said.

  The Munchkin smiled. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “We built a big square for it. It’s one of my favorite places in Oz. It serves as a reminder of the time none of us were free, and how lucky we are to have escaped it.”

  “That’s why you don’t trust witches,” Pete guessed.

  Jasper nodded. “None of the Munchkins do,” he said. “We don’t even trust Glinda. Any one person with that much power . . .” He shook his head. “It’s not good.”

  “Mombi wouldn’t do anything like that,” Pete said. He didn’t think Mombi would do anything like that anyway.

  Jasper nodded again. “I’ll have to take your word for it,” he said. “Anyway, after Dorothy killed the Wicked Witch of the East, she kept traveling through Oz. She met many of its citizens, and she became friends to three of them—the Cowardly Lion, the Tin Woodman, and the Scarecrow. She freed all of them from different places. Each one of them wanted different gifts—the Lion wanted courage, the Woodman wanted a heart, and the Scarecrow wanted brains. They knew the Wonderful Wizard of Oz had the power to grant their wishes, so Dorothy agreed to go with them to the Emerald City and—”

  “The Wizard?” Pete interrupted. “Who’s he?”

  “The Wizard?” the Munchkin echoed in astonishment. “You don’t know—” He cut himself off as if he didn’t want to embarrass Pete again. “Well, you wouldn’t,” he said in a different tone. “If this Mombi keeps you as isolated as all that. He was the ruler of Oz for a long time, and he was in power when Dorothy arrived. He was incredibly powerful, but he was from the Other Place, too—he didn’t belong as the ruler of Oz. Dorothy didn’t know that then, of course; she just wanted to help her friends, and for the Wizard to use his magic to send her back home.”