I awoke in the caverns underneath the Emerald Palace. It was all a dream, I thought. I’m dead. I’m underground, and I’m dead. I blinked sleep away, my vision clearing. Being dead felt pretty much the same as being alive. Actually, being dead felt a lot better than being alive had felt ever since that god-awful bitch Amy showed up in Oz. In fact, it was downright comfortable.
Because I was lying in a bed, I realized. A big bed. The kind of bed I’d always liked best—satin sheets (black with red trim, very goth, a little tacky, but obviously expensive), a rich velvet coverlet (more black), high enough off the ground to need a little stool to get in and out (also black, filigree, studded with rubies).
Was I in Hell? Was that the reason for the black sheets? Aunt Em and Uncle Henry had always told me I’d end up there if I didn’t say my prayers or feed the chickens on time or milk Bessie or follow any of the ten thousand other orders they gave me every single day, but they’d turned out to be wrong about a lot of things. They weren’t even my parents. I’d never even known my parents. It’s really a wonder I turned out so well.
I sat up in the giant bed and looked around. I was in a cave, true, but it was looking less and less like the caverns underneath the Emerald City and more and more like somebody’s very weird idea of high luxury. It looked like something out of one of those creepy paintings that had hung up in the church Aunt Em used to take me to back in Kansas. You know the kind I mean: devils tormenting sinners with pitchforks, rivers of blood, lots of gore and dismemberment and serpents? Well, imagine if one of those painters began decorating homes, and you’d start to get an idea of the room I was in.
No windows, of course—it was a cave, after all. Lots of velvet drapes and sinister artwork with people engaged in activities that looked either very unpleasant or very indecent. The rest of the furniture in the room matched the four-poster bed and the stool, all of it carved with creepy elf-looking creatures that had to be the Nome King’s various ancestors. If my family was that ugly, I certainly wouldn’t have commemorated it in stone, but to each their own. Everything was studded with more rubies, and I do mean everything.
And then I looked up and suddenly the Nome King was looming over me. I made a very undignified noise of fright as everything that had just happened came rushing back to me all at once.
Thankfully, it wasn’t actually him, and no one was in the room to witness my embarrassment. It was a huge, somber oil portrait, larger than life-size. His pale eyes seemed to be staring right at me in a way that gave me the shivers, but otherwise he looked very handsome. He was wearing his iron crown and regal robes of black velvet. One hand rested on a staff topped with a massive ruby. Serpents, tongues of fire trailing from their fanged mouths, coiled at his feet, looking up at him with what I can only describe as loving expressions.
So I wasn’t dead. Score one for Dorothy the Witchslayer: survived Armageddon. (With help.) (But still.) I was obviously in the Nome King’s guest bedroom—at least, I could only hope I wasn’t in his actual bedroom.
Some fresh air would’ve been nice, but the whole “windowless underground lair” situation suggested I’d have to pass on that particular luxury. And I had to admit, although the Nome King’s style was not entirely to my taste, the place was beautiful. Crystals spiked downward from the ceiling, a black fountain burbled black water in one corner, and now I noticed that a huge black wardrobe was tantalizingly half open, revealing a delectable selection of—you guessed it—black-and-red dresses. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about whether I matched. I looked down. Someone—I could only hope not the Nome King himself, because that would be a little forward of him—had gently bathed the dust from my skin and dressed me in a scanty negligee made of black lace and silk. A matching robe lay across the end of the bed and I threw it over my shoulders, feeling suddenly vulnerable. I wanted to wear something else, something of my own choosing, so I snapped my fingers to summon a nightgown with a little more coverage.
Nothing happened. I must still be tired from my giant ordeal and the shock of losing my crown. I snapped my fingers again and waited for the answering feeling of magic to flare up within me.
Instead I got what felt like faint, magical heartburn. I tried again. And again. Each time, the response was stronger. But it was nowhere near strong enough.
Was it possible Ev was interfering with my magic? That I was going to have to outwit the Nome King without my power to help me?
Ooooookay. That was a problem. And it was a problem I was going to have to solve very, very soon.
I threw off the covers, staring down at my glittering red heels. Was it something to do with the shoes themselves? That dimwit Amy Gumm had tried to imply that the shoes might be bad for me, but that couldn’t possibly be the case. The shoes were what had brought me back to Oz. The shoes were a gift from—
Glinda. Who, as it turned out, might not have entirely had my best interests at heart. It’s not as though I hadn’t had my suspicions at times. After all, she was still a witch underneath all that pink and glitter.
But I didn’t care. I wanted the shoes working again the way they were supposed to. The way you wanted to keep drowning in the poppy field after the first time you’d passed out there. The way you kept craving more and more power once you’d had your first taste of it. The way some things just got under your skin. Without them I was nothing. Without them I was just little Dorothy Gale, farm girl, eyes on the horizon and up to her ankles in cow shit. I never wanted to be that girl again. And I wasn’t going to be.
What was wrong with my magic? And did it have anything to do with the Nome King?
I needed some food and a manicure before I could do any serious thinking. At least, for the time being, I seemed to be safe. Even if I was no closer to figuring out what the Nome King’s plan was for me.
I wondered briefly if the Nome King had a handy Jellia Jamb type around; he didn’t seem like the kind of fellow who’d be much use in that department. Oh, Jellia. Do you know, after everything she did to me, I sometimes almost miss her? Nobody could apply a topcoat like Jellia. If only she hadn’t betrayed me. If only I hadn’t had to punish her. I sighed. It’s so hard to get good help these days.
So here I was, in the bowels of the Nome King’s underground lair. No magic. No way back to Oz. Not even a throne. I was Dorothy Gale, Witchslayer. I had an endless supply of gumption. I could survive this. But how?
And then a soft rap sounded at my door. I brightened. Hopefully, this was breakfast. I was starving. I sat up expectantly and called, “Yes?”
The door swung open soundlessly to reveal the Nome King.
“You’re awake,” he said in that smooth, sinister voice. It wasn’t entirely his fault that everything he said came out of his mouth sounding like he was trying to summon a demon from the far reaches of Hell.
From behind him scuttled a stooped, wrinkled servant in a shapeless, sack-like dress that hid everything about her except her earthworm-pale, nearly bald head. She looked like a Munchkin, sort of; the world’s saddest, shabbiest Munchkin, anyway. In Oz, the Munchkins were always very chipper. Perhaps the Munchkins of Ev were a different breed.
She was holding a silver tray covered with an assortment of cups and plates and steaming dishes. She placed the tray on the bedside table and scooted back into a corner, where she kept her eyes on the intricate red carpet that covered the stone floor. The Nome King beamed downward at me.
“You slept well, I trust? I know it was a difficult journey.”
“Great,” I said briskly, eyeballing the food. I was starving. And I definitely wasn’t going up against Ev’s biggest evil on an empty stomach.
“Please, help yourself,” he purred.
I was hoping for a singing pastry or two, but Ev’s typical fare was not quite up to Oz’s standards. There was an inky black soup, a little loaf of bread that was distinctly on the dry side, and a big plate of what looked suspiciously like mushrooms. But I was determined to be on my best behavior until I figured out what was going on. Like, for example, whether or not I was an honored guest—or a well-treated prisoner. I nibbled daintily on the loaf of bread, trying not to tear into it the way I wanted to.
“I have left you a servant, as is, I believe, the custom among your kind.” He pointed to the scrubby, bald little thing who still waited patiently in the corner, not looking at either of us. “She is a Munchkin,” he added. “I thought you might like a touch of home while you stayed with us.”
On the one hand, I was touched.
On the other—well, if he wanted me to feel at home, that didn’t suggest he had any intention of letting me go anytime soon. I didn’t want to be at home in Ev. I wanted to go back to Oz. He’d said he could help me. But so far, he hadn’t done anything except give me breakfast and a few things to think about.
“That’s not a Munchkin,” I said before I could stop myself. If I knew anything about Munchkins, it was that they had round, dimpled faces that I alternately wanted to pinch or slap depending on my mood. This creature’s face was thin and gaunt. She certainly did not look like she was about to break into song, as Munchkins were annoyingly known to do.
“I assure you she is. I obtained her myself many years ago from Munchkin Country.” The Nome King glanced pointedly at the Munchkin, who curtsied several times in a rather frantic manner.
If he was kidnapping Munchkins and rescuing me from crumbling palaces, he could go back and forth between Oz and Ev. Which meant he was the key to my getting home. Or perhaps—even better—the little Munchkin was. If she knew how he’d done it . . .
“What a lovely and thoughtful gift,” I said.
“Really, it’s nothing. I shall be honored if you will join me this evening for a banquet.” He smiled broadly, his silver eyes glittering dangerously. “I simply won’t take no for an answer. And I have some information that might be of interest to you, dear Dorothy. I imagine you’re having a bit of trouble with your magic shoes?”
“Nonsense,” I said briskly.
“My dear, I’m quite aware that you’re lying.”
I didn’t like the sound of that at all. It was almost . . . unfriendly. Besides, how could he possibly tell? I quickly calculated my options. There was no point in lying. Maybe if I played along I could figure out what he was really up to.
I sighed. “Well, I suppose there might be a few tiny issues. How did you know?”
“Because I made them.” His smile was almost oily.
“You . . . made them?” As far as I’d known, Glinda had made the shoes. Certainly she’d been the one to give them to me. How was it possible that he even knew about them? Where had they come from?
“In a sense,” he said, with a sharp look, as though he’d just revealed something he hadn’t meant to. He seemed to be considering whether to tell me more. “Their original material is from the kingdom of Ev,” he said finally.
This was something Glinda had never bothered to mention. If there is a mine full of what my shoes are made of, imagine what I could do with all that magic! How very, very interesting, I thought. How very interesting, indeed. There was more to the Nome King—and Ev—than met the eye.
“Hmmmm,” I said. “I do use them rather a lot, you know.”
He smiled. “I’m aware of that, Dorothy. But we have a bargain now. And it’s good for you to remember just how much you have to lose if you fail to keep your end of it.”
Well. I didn’t like that at all. He might be good-looking, but I’ve never been one for the authoritative kind. Other than myself, obviously.
“I didn’t agree to anything,” I said, my voice clipped. He raised a hairless eyebrow, and I carefully moderated my tone. “I mean, my lord—you must forgive me, my palace falling down on my head has put me out of sorts—that I don’t recall the exact terms of our, um, deal. Something about me helping you in exchange for support regaining the throne? But I feel certain I’d remember if we’d discussed the details.”
He smiled at me in amusement, and for the briefest second, I felt like a mouse pinned by a cat. But magic or no, I wasn’t Dorothy Gale for nothing, and I wasn’t going to let some creepily hot cave dweller put me off my game. I stared him down—and saw a flicker of respect in his eyes.
“Of course, Dorothy,” he said smoothly. “Your reputation as a formidable negotiator precedes you. I wouldn’t dream of trying to corner you into an agreement—I’ve overstepped myself. You know how it is when one is so used to dealing with inferiors. It’s been a long time since I encountered an equal.”
“Oh, I know all about that,” I agreed. “I’d be delighted, of course, to join you this evening. And now, if you’ll excuse me to my toilette . . . ?”
“But of course,” he said smoothly with an ironic little bow. He turned to the door. “For your safety,” he added over his shoulder, “I’d recommend you stay in your chamber until then.”
“For my safety,” I echoed sardonically.
But he’d already shut the door behind him—and as it slammed closed, I heard the unmistakable noise of a bolt sliding home. I wasn’t going anywhere until he decided to let me. For now, anyway.
And then it occurred to me: he might have apologized to me, but he’d neatly sidestepped the question of restoring my shoes’ power.
It seemed my status leaned significantly toward the “prisoner” side of the equation. But no matter; I was up for the challenge, and the Nome King was an intriguing—and attractive—opponent. Amy was so obvious. So tacky. And ultimately, so boring.
The Nome King was right. It was a treat to face an equal. Even if it was looking more and more like he might be my enemy.
But I’d conquered men before with a single bat of my magically enhanced eyelashes. Or a show of my devastating wit. And if that didn’t work, I could spell them into my arms. But my lashes were decidedly magic free right now. Still, I had my looks. If I couldn’t talk him into reactivating my shoes’ power, maybe I could trick him into it. And he’d be a lot more likely to miss whatever I could cook up if he was distracted by my ravishing beauty.
I yawned and stretched, and the sad little servant who’d accompanied the Nome King (did he even have a name?) scurried forward.
“Good morning, mistress,” it—she—whispered. Up close, she didn’t look any more impressive than she had when she’d accompanied the Nome King into my chamber. Her face was seamed with dozens of tiny wrinkles; dark eyes peered nervously out from under her heavy, pale brow. Her larva-white skull was dotted with sparse blond fuzz. Her black robe looked like a potato sack, although at least it was clean. If this was the best Ev could do in the service field, I was totally out.
I looked at her and decided something. The Nome King had a whole castle of servants, but none of them were likely loyal to him for any reason but fear. I had always had three allies at my side—Tin, Scare, and the Lion. I needed some new ones. The Munchkin didn’t know it yet, but she was going to be my new best friend.
“Who are you?” I asked imperiously.
“A gift to you, mistress, from His Highness,” she whispered.
“Well, obviously,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I mean, servant, what is your name?”
“Bupu, mistress.”
Even her name was ugly. I sighed, calling on all my reserves of patience and reminding myself that when in Rome, we do as the Romans do, at least until we can fiddle while the city burns. I would have to make the best of a bad situation.
“Are you truly a Munchkin? You don’t look like one.”
“Yes, mistress,” the little creature said, looking despondent.
“What happened to you?”
“The Nome King brought me here, mistress. And for a while I had to work in the tunnels. With the Diggers.” A shudder rolled through her.
“The Diggers? What are Diggers?”
“His Highness’s guards, mistress,” she whispered. That was definitely fear.
I sighed. If I was going to make Ev my temporary home, I needed to know what I was in for. This sad little creature was the only source I had. I patted the bed beside me. “Have some porridge,” I suggested. “And tell me everything I need to know about these . . . tunnels.”
Her eyes went huge and rabbity with terror. “I mustn’t touch mistress’s food.”
“I’m not going to punish you.” She was still frozen and staring at me. “I promise. When was the last time you ate?”
She made a weird convulsive movement with her shoulders, somewhere between a shrug and a nod. I filled an empty bowl from the tray and held it out. “I’m serious. Come on.”
Her hands were trembling as she reached out and slowly took the bowl. She was obviously expecting it to be some kind of trick. She actually flinched when she touched the bowl with her stubby little hands. I’m all for disciplining one’s staff—after all, the devil makes work for idle hands—but the poor creature seemed downright abused. I made a mental note and filed it away. She was obviously powerless, but she knew the palace better than I did—and she doubtless knew plenty more about the Nome King. If I got her to trust me, who knew what she might be able to do for me.
Bupu wolfed down the unappetizing stuff—at least someone was enjoying it—and didn’t put up a fuss when I refilled her bowl. When she’d cleaned up every last drop of porridge, she looked up at me, her eyes shining. “Mistress is very kind,” she said, and this time her voice was the tiniest bit stronger than her habitual whisper. I must admit I was touched. I am a kind mistress, but it so rarely gets acknowledged.
“Now it’s time for you to repay mistress,” I said briskly. Instantly, she shrank back in alarm, cowering at my feet. “Calm down, I’m not going to murder you. I just want to know a bit about the palace.” She’d gone mute with terror, staring at me with beseeching eyes. This was really going to take some patience. “Gossip?” I suggested. “How things work around here? Who’s in charge?”
“His Highness,” she babbled immediately. “His Highness, wisest of all kings, noblest of all rulers, bravest of all—”
“Noblest?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Of all?”
Her eyes got even bigger and she looked frantically around the room as though searching for a way out. “Noblest . . . of all . . . rulers who aren’t Dorothy,” she finished miserably. I smiled. That was better. But really, the poor thing couldn’t help herself. She’d clearly been terrorized. I wasn’t going to blame her for not acknowledging my obvious superiority. Perhaps the journey from Oz had addled her head somewhat. Something had happened to her in Ev, that was for sure. She was the most decrepit-looking Munchkin I’d ever seen.
“Look, I’m not going to tear you limb from limb for skipping the standard company intro,” I said impatiently. “I know the Nome King is the king. It’s in his name. I want to know the rest. The good stuff. How the behind the scenes works.” I hit on a flash of inspiration. “So I can best please His Majesty this afternoon when I meet with him,” I said. “Bupu, I’m just so nervous. The king is so powerful and strong. What will I do if you don’t help me?”
To my relief, that worked. I wasn’t sure how much more nonsense I could come up with. She nodded eagerly. “I understand now, mistress,” she said, her voice a little firmer again. I settled against the pillows. Maybe Bupu could scrounge up some nail polish once she was done filling me in on the palace intrigue.
I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
Once she got going—and reassured herself that I really wasn’t going to smack her around for talking—she seemed to enjoy herself as she explained the intricacies of the palace hierarchy.
According to Bupu, she wasn’t the only Munchkin the Nome King had kidnapped—he preferred them for his household staff. (Interesting.) They were overseen by a senior Munchkin named Esmerelda. Bupu’s tone suggested she didn’t think much of this Esmerelda character, but she didn’t comment. The cave trolls, who were bigger, stronger, and most likely dumber, although Bupu didn’t say so, did various labor-intensive tasks, like widening the tunnels, forging weapons, hauling stone and coal, and stoking the huge forges. And the Diggers . . . Bupu trailed off when she got to them, her lower lip trembling.
“The Diggers . . . dig?” I prompted. She nodded mutely. “As well as?” Her shoulders were crawling up her ears again as if she was trying to make herself as small and as invisible as possible.
“Hurt people,” she said miserably.
The Diggers must be the Nome King’s soldiers with the strange lights in their foreheads. How did he control them? Could they use magic? Were they Nomes, like him, or some other kind of creature? But when I pressed her, she only shook her head, her eyes wild, so I left it alone. I’d have plenty of time to do more research. Now it was time to get dressed.
“You must help me select my court dress,” I said imperiously. Another look of terror flitted across her face. “Let me guess,” I sighed. “Not a lot of noble ladies in Ev? You’re wildly underqualified for the position of lady’s handmaid?”
She stared at me with her big, uncomprehending frog eyes. Not a problem. I’d worked with rough clay before. Give me a couple of days with her, and I’d turn her into the Ming vase of ladies-in-waiting.
“Okay, I’m going to explain how this works,” I said. “But first, let’s get you something better than that awful sack.” I hopped out of bed—and then gasped out loud when my feet hit the softly carpeted stone floor
Despite the nice nap, I was a mess. My body was bruised and battered. Every part of me ached. It turns out having a palace fall on you is pretty rough on your general health and well-being.
Bupu was at my side immediately, crying “Mistress! Mistress!” in distress. I waved her off.
“I’m fine,” I said through gritted teeth, although I had no idea if that was true. The truth was, I could barely even stand up.
“How will mistress be able to walk for the wedding?” Bupu blurted, staring at me. And then she clapped her hands over her mouth and stared at me in horror, her eyes wide.
“Bupu,” I said. “What wedding are you talking about, exactly?”
Bupu’s eyes filled with tears. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything,” she whispered. “It’s not my job to say things. It’s my job to watch over you and . . . and . . .” She burst into sobs.
“And . . . ?” I prompted. And then I realized. Of course. “And tell the Nome King what I’m up to?”
She nodded mutely. “Please don’t tell,” she said. “He’ll skin me. He said he’ll have the Diggers sk-sk-skin me alive and they’ll do it, too, they will, they’ve done it before!” she babbled, tugging at my hand beseechingly.
“Of course I won’t tell on you, darling,” I said, my mind racing.
It would be easy enough to feed her information to take back to the Nome King. If I could win her over, I could use her as a double agent. Slowly, the beginnings of a plan began to take shape in my head.
But first, I needed my shoes working again. And more information.
“Bupu, you must be very strong,” I said gently. Her shoulders squared up immediately and she looked into my eyes. “I will protect you from the Diggers, I promise. But you have to tell me everything. All right?”
She nodded again, her eyes huge.
“What wedding are you talking about, Bupu? What wedding am I supposed to attend?”
She cocked her head.
“Yours, mistress,” she said.