“Ignatius Mangood,” the Widow growled.
There was something in his hands, as well. If not the sword, then what?
He stabbed the earth with a soft grunt, stamped down on the instrument with the sole of his boot, and grunted again. He is digging. But what for?
Then, as if the gods had heard her mental question, Ignatius shifted, letting his shoulders stoop. With the back of his forearm, bare because his sleeves were rolled up, he wiped the sweat away from his brow. But the Widow was focused on the bundle lying next to him, opposite of the growing pile of dirt. A smile came over the Widow’s face.
A loved one.
“Daughter,” the King’s voice answered, startling the Widow. “His daughter, Zimmy Ba.”
“Ah, yes, the one who came into possession of the music box. The one who thought she was powerful enough to manipulate the world in between,” the Widow cooed.
Aren’t I thinking the same thing? Manipulating the world in between so I can reunite with my loved one? She ignored the thoughts in the back of her mind.
Ignatius Mangood started to sob. He brought one dirty hand up to his eyes, leaving a dark streak down his cheek.
The Widow loved it. She relished it.
“I’ve not shown you this for your enjoyment, my Queen,” Arazon said. “I’ve shown you because in this vision of the past, there is an element that is pertinent to your success.”
“What is it, my King?”
The answer came in the form of a glowing mote of light. It was red, as deep a red as blood, but it shone like the sun itself. The Widow saw it plainly through the sheet covering the corpse of Zimmy Ba.
“The Jewel,” the King said, “the Jewel of Deception. There, around her neck the Jewel hangs.”
“What is it?”
“The key to using the music box, to wielding its power.”
Dimly, the Widow wondered why she had not known of this before; why her king had not given her that knowledge. She shook it off. Perhaps he has, and I’ve forgotten. It has been so long since I’ve heard his sweet voice, so long since the Blood Tree gave me what I needed.
Ignatius crawled out of the hole. His robes were practically more dirt than fabric. His beard had gone from the white of clouds to the black of soot. He bent low next to the wrapped bundle and sobbed again. Slowly, he pulled Zimmy into his arms. The Jewel no longer shone, but it was there. The Widow could even feel it calling to her now, in the real world, the world outside of the vision. It was hers.
“You will need the music box. They are worthless without one another,” the King said.
“But what of the young witch? Her powers, to my understanding, were activated by that music box,” the Widow said, thinking back to Malakai and how she had seen him slain through his eyes, through the dark magic that revived him.
“The music box is a strong artifact,” Arazon replied. “It was enough to jumpstart Ignatius’s granddaughter’s powers, but she is the anomaly. She is more powerful than your average witch.”
Fear struck the Widow’s heart. Ignatius himself came from a long line of strong wizards. But the young witch hadn’t come up on the Widow’s radar herself until whatever magic the music box contained activated her powers. If the powers were strong enough to disturb the Widow from her hibernation, then she knew the young witch was something to fear.
“But you needn’t worry,” Arazon said. “Without the Jewel, no matter how much power the granddaughter possesses, she will never be able to access the full potential of the music box. Get the Jewel for yourself. I suggest sending your best soldier; Jinxton, if you can spare him.”
“I can, but where—”
The shimmering screen shook violently as the view panned outward.
Dagger’s Pass. The Widow recognized it by the jagged rock opposite the freshly dug grave. The nearby mountains seemed to have exposed roots in this part of the world, and one looked exactly like a dagger. Legend prophesied that the man big enough to pull the dagger free from the earth would rule Oriceran. So far, none had shown they were large or powerful enough. No matter. The Widow knew the spot from her years above the surface. No doubt Jinxton would know it, too.
“There, her body lies. Dig it up; get there before Ignatius Mangood realizes his mistake. Then send the Jewel back,” Arazon instructed.
“And the rest will fall into place,” the Widow said with a laugh.
“Correct, my Queen. It will only be a matter of time before Ignatius and his granddaughter arrive at the gravesite to retrieve the Jewel—”
“And all they will find is an empty grave…”
“And an army of your best soldiers to bring an end to Ignatius Mangood, once and for all!” Arazon boomed.
“It’ll be like killing a sleeping vampire in broad daylight,” the Widow added.
Her fear and uncertainty were gone. She looked to the now-empty clearing. The dirt was packed and rounded where Ignatius had dug. The sun went down, the trees swayed with a light breeze. Time went on.
A sadness invaded the Widow’s massive heart.
“Arazon,” she said. It was not often she used his real name. Not when he had ruled, not even in death, but she used it now. “Arazon, I miss you. When will you come back to me?”
Silence.
Then, “My Queen, I—”
The shimmering screen vanished like a permeating wisp of smoke; tendrils diffused as a deep quietude settled over the lair. A buzzing had left her ears, stilling the Widow’s massive body. She had not noticed it was there until it was gone.
“Arazon!” she yelled, her great legs reaching out to where the magical screen had been.
There was nothing but thin air.
“Arazon!”
The Blood Tree’s wood stopped glowing. No longer did it look like the magical wonder it had before.
The Widow collapsed, shaking the lair. She let out a great, rippling scream that
