Maurice, too, wiped the soap out of his eyes as Hemdale led the old man back into the main abbey so they could clean up. They both stood there in the courtyard, despondent, for a moment. Terry continued looking up at the sky. “It was too good to be true,” she said.

“Yes,” Maurice added, then shrugged. “Fun to conjure though. I get it.” He, too, stared up at the sky. “It looked so good for that brief moment.” Then he added, “Hey. Do you see what I see?”

Terry turned her head to follow Maurice’s gaze. Her jaw dropped.

“Yes, I do,” she said. “Come on!”

Coming in for a landing was Arabelle’s golden flying chariot. She had returned!

The two of them rushed through the city streets, avoiding as best they could the soapy, slippery puddles that their magic had created. What a mess! They returned to the back lawn of the castle just as Arabelle was landing. As they rushed up, they saw that the beautiful chariot was dented and scorched. Arabelle’s beautiful blue gown was torn, and her black hair was in wild disarray.

“I decided to come back,” Arabelle said in a shaky voice, turning her face towards them, and Terry saw that her eyebrows were gone. Then she fainted straight into Maurice’s arms.

“Let’s get her inside,” Terry said.

“No!” Maurice said. “She has to take care of the horses first! Grab a healing potion from my satchel.”

Terry did so, and handed it to him. He put it to Arabelle’s lips, and her eyes flickered open. “Where am I?”

“Back at the northern capital,” Maurice said. “You must take care of your chariot before we can help you.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she responded, and Maurice helped her to her feet. She produced her platinum wand and pronounced a few words. The bridles fell from the horses and they were free. They stamped for a moment, then flew straight into the sun, until they were needed again. The three of them watched them fly.

“Are you sure they’ll come back when we need them?” Terry said.

“Of course!” Arabelle responded. “As long as I have the strength to call them.” She looked at the golden body of the chariot, dented and scorched. “I wish you could give a healing potion to things as well as people,” she said, sadly.

“We’ll figure something out,” Maurice assured her. “Meanwhile, you probably need something to eat.”

They led Arabelle into the kitchen, and she ate the cold leftovers as if it were a royal feast. Maurice and Terry sat opposite of her and stayed quiet while she ate. It was clear she had been through something wicked, and it made their earlier frustration at her melt away. She finally finished chewing and swallowing, and took a long drink of cold water from the well. Then she sighed.

“Thank you,” she said. “I think I owe you an apology.”

Maurice and Terry remained silent. Looking at her ravaged face, it was hard to feel anything but compassion.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Let’s just fix it,” Terry finally said, kindly, and Maurice rummaged in his satchel until he found a tiny jar of lotion. He dipped his thumb into it, then walked to the other side of the table and sat next to her. “Come here,” he said, and gently traced both her eyebrows with his lotioned thumb. They immediately grew back. Arabelle gasped and put her hand to her face, tracing them.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, and started to cry. “I’ve had a terrible day.” She collapsed into Maurice’s arms, and he awkwardly embraced her, looking at Terry for support. She shrugged. “Go ahead, cry it out,” Terry said. “And when you’re ready, maybe you can tell us what happened.”

She eventually composed herself, then splashed some cold well water on her face and they adjourned to the great room.

“Gregor, wake up!” Terry said. “Look who’s here!”

Gregor sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Why, it’s Arabelle!” he said, excited. Then he frowned. “You put us in quite a position, you know,” he said, scowling.

“Don’t start, Gregor,” Terry said. “She’s been through it today. We’re glad you’re back, Arabelle.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re right, Gregor, I left you in the lurch. And I paid for it.”

She prepared to sink into a chair.

“Not that one,” Maurice said. “Gregor broke it.”

“Oh,” Arabelle replied, and moved to another chair. “is this one okay?”

“Yes,” Terry said. “Now, please, tell us what happened.”

“I thought I would take care of Zyzzyva myself. So I flew the chariot south, looking for him. I passed your castle,” she said to Terry.

“You did? How—how did it look? Was it damaged?”

“Not externally, as far as I could see, but there were massive amounts of troops surrounding it, guarding it. Some were in uniform, but a lot were dressed like villagers, with helmets and lances.”

“There’s no been no real army for so long,” Terry murmured. “Not since the civil wars.”

“I remember them well,” Arabelle said. “So I kept going South, to where the land meets ocean, and there I saw Zyzzyva’s army. He’s conjured up a great castle made of sand, held together by his magic, and on the beaches and eucalyptus forests that surround them, he is gathering every last evil creature, intent on overthrowing the kingdom. There is the army of the undead. There are the cliff trolls, and the witches, and the wraiths. There, also, are many humans, hungry for destruction and attracted to power, surrendered to their basest desires.”

“Did he see you?” Terry asked.

“Oh, yes,” Arabelle said. “I was circling the castle, realizing as I did that alone I could not do sufficient damage to him and his wretched hordes. He was standing at the topmost turret—I saw him raise his staff.”

“And then what happened?”

“The chariot was engulfed in a ball of lightning,” she said. “It did real damage. It was all I could do to control the horses. They weren’t hurt—they’re horses of Apollo, after all, but I and the chariot were scorched. Then—the flying wraiths came.”

“Oh, no.”

“They couldn’t really hold on to the chariot—it’s too protected—but they could jab at it before flying away, stung. They could menace me, so that I couldn’t get my wand out and still control the horses. They tore at my hair and robes while we flew as fast as I could—back here, praying that you would forgive me.”

She put her face in her hands.

“Wow,” Gregor said. “I’m glad you made it back.”

She looked up. “Really?”

“Oh, stop it,” Terry said, crossly. “We’re a team, right? Do you want to be a part of it?”

“I do,” Arabelle said, and then surprisingly, shook her head. “But even if I didn’t, there is truly no other way to defeat Zyzzyva. I think he’s massing his evil troops for battle—battle against your father, the king.”

As she spoke the sun sank further in the sky, and the horrible sound of flying wraiths filled the air.

“Here come the replacements,” Terry said. “Let’s go!”

The four of them rushed out to the chariot. Arabelle raised her wand and uttered her incantation and their names.

“Aethon! Pyrois!”

And out of the setting sun flew the majestic animals, glorious and frightening in their strength. They landed, and the bridles attached themselves to them, and the chariot was ready. Terry, Gregor, and Maurice were so absorbed in the vision that unfolded before them, they didn’t notice how pale and weak Arabelle had become.

“That took a lot out of me,” she said faintly. “Now that I’ve called them, I’m not sure I can handle them.”

And in the blue and pink sky of twilight, a black swarm came nearer and nearer.