Witches’ Brew by Terry Brooks

The look was worth it. He gaped in undisguised amazement, sputtered something unintelligible, and then finished with a monstrous snort. “Pfah! What nonsense! What a heap of horse hunks! Now who’s telling tall tales?”

“And I’m not missing, either!” she added firmly. “I’m right here with you!”

“You’re not the High Lord’s daughter!” he exclaimed vehemently. “You can’t be!”

“How would you know?” she mimicked. Then she put her hands to her face and feigned shock. “Oh, excuse me, I forgot! You’re the King’s personal treasure hunter and know the whole family!”

Poggwydd scowled. He hunched forward, his round body rocking on its stubby, gnarled legs as if in danger of tipping over completely.

“Look here,” he said carefully. “Enough foolishness. It’s one thing to play at being someone where the playing is harmless but another altogether to make light of misfortune. I know you are just a little girl, but you’re a smart little girl and old enough to appreciate the difference.”

“What are you talking about!” she snapped, furious at being lectured like this.

“The High Lord’s daughter!” he snapped back. “That’s what I’m talking about! Don’t tell me you don’t know.” He stopped short. “Well, now, maybe you don’t—little girl all alone out here in the woods, bumping up against a fellow like me. Who are you, anyway? You never did say. Are you one of those fairies, come out from the mists for a visit? Are you a sprite or some such from the lake country? We don’t see many up this way. Not us G’home Gnomes, anyway.”

He paused, collecting his thoughts. “Well, here’s what’s happened, if you don’t already know. The High Lord’s daughter is missing, and everyone is looking for her. She’s been missing for days, weeks perhaps, but gone for sure, and there were search parties hunting for her from one end of Landover to the other.”

He bent close, lowering his voice as if he might be heard. “Word is, King Rydall has her. He’s from someplace called Marnhull. He has her. Won’t give her back, either. He’s making the King’s champion do battle with some monsters. I don’t know that for a fact, but that’s what I’ve heard. In any case, she’s missing, and you shouldn’t make fun of her.”

Mistaya was dumbfounded. “But I am her!” she insisted, hands on hips. “I really am!”

There was movement in the trees to one side. She caught just a glimpse of it and whirled about, poised to flee, her heart in her throat, her stomach turned to ice. The movement turned to color, a rush of wicked greenish light that filled the shadowed spaces between the trunks and limbs. The color tightened and took shape, coalescing into human form, lean and dark and certain.

Nightshade had returned.

The witch stepped out of the shadows, silent as a ghost. Her bloodied eyes fixed on Mistaya. “You were told not to leave the Deep Fell,” she said softly.

Mistaya froze. For a moment her thoughts were so scattered that she couldn’t think. Then she managed a small nod in response. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I wanted to see the sun again.”

“Come stand over here,” the witch ordered. “By me.”

“It was just for the day,” Mistaya tried to explain, frightened now of what might happen to her, terrified by the look on the other’s face. “I was all alone, and I didn’t think—“

“Come here, Mistaya!” Nightshade snapped, cutting her short.

Mistaya crossed the clearing slowly, head lowered. She managed a quick glance back at Poggwydd. He was standing in front of his fire, eyes wide and staring. Mistaya felt sorry for him. This was her fault.

“I am waiting, Mistaya,” Nightshade warned.

Mistaya’s gaze swung back again toward the witch. She realized suddenly that Haltwhistle was missing. He had been right beside her while she had been talking with Poggwydd. Where had he gone?

She reached Nightshade and stopped, dreading what might happen next. Nightshade forced a smile, but there was no warmth in it. “I am very disappointed in you,” she whispered.

Mistaya nodded, ashamed without being quite sure why. “I won’t do it again,” she promised. She remembered Poggwydd. “It wasn’t his fault,” she said quickly, looking back over her shoulder at the unfortunate G’home Gnome. “It was mine. He didn’t even want to talk to me.” She hesitated. “You won’t hurt him, will you?”