The tower emerged from the ground as we ascended the hill. The weather worn panels of dark red wood at the top were formed in a cone. The rounded tower walls were made of identical squared bricks, white in the moonlight with dark holes punched regularly within them for windows. Except not all of the planned spaces were dark. In the third from the top, orange flickered like a pupil of an eye with an unfocused gaze.

"It isn't supposed to be occupied," Winsor hissed.

"It isn't? Why did we come out here?"

"We're making sure there's no other being haunting... The rumors in town...?" He attempted to scowl at me over his shoulder before bringing his attention back to the tower. "These pre-Arcanacracy towers were a sign of the way things used to be, when sorcerers were predators rather than protectors." Winsor's body tightened beneath my arms. "They're only preserved in the name of knowledge, history. To use them for habitation is considered subversive."

As more of the tower came into view, I thought it hadn't been preserved particularly well. The grass grew high around here, the seeds at the top tickling the bottoms of my dangling feet when we strayed too close to the edge of the road. Entire chunks of the tower had fallen off, and if it wasn't so unmoving against the night air, I would fear the tower crumbling. Stones were missing from the middle floors; vegetation grew out of the man-sized holes like hair, vines breaking up the white brick with their deep green tendrils.

There were other signs of battle damage, unplanned ledges and gaps that were built up with birds' nests. Sculptures jutted out from support points, howling faces and twisting animals. They were frozen mid-writhe as if they were in pain, nothing like the pretty sculptures on Bernard's columns. Why would someone intentionally make a sculpture scary? I must not be appreciating it properly. Maybe it's because so many of them were missing limbs or noses, worn down by time or attack or both.

Crickets thrummed more openly than in Blythe. The sound of wind creaking through the trees was punctuated by the skittering of small creatures in the grass. When Flatchert's hooves stopped pounding against the road, it felt too quiet. Winsor stopped breathing, perhaps to listen. I tried to listen too. In the far distance, I heard the soft chuckling Kobeetles. They were feeding somewhere, on something. The wind changed and the sound faded. Not close. We were safe from them, but my skin crawled all the same. I determined that I would watch my step; the tempting irony of me injuring my foot like Mallow had done now that I was shoeless made the threat seem more real.

I dropped my arms down to climb off the saddle, but my elbow bumped against something hard tied to Winsor's hip. A weapon?

"Careful," Winsor whined at me. I dismounted and patted Flatchert before moving around to the front to grab the reins. Winsor got off slower than me. When he settled himself in the grass, he muttered something and the spell of disguise fell away.

I glanced around the piles of fallen stone and tall swaying grasses before spotting a half-bent tree a few yards away. It wasn't manicured neatly like the trees behind the Divinis's manor had been. The trunk was thick with molted, uneven bark. Its wormlike roots wound in and out of the ground, curling in loose knots. The trunk grew sturdily straight, as if it had been tended to and watched at one point, but about ten feet high it took a violent bend, the canopy of heavy green leaves unbalanced in their weight. The darkness was so thick, it would be hard to see anything right at its base. A great hiding place for Flatchert. I wound the lax part of the reins around the trunk until there was enough for her to lower her head to the ground to graze, tethering her there.

"Do you think she'll be safe here?"

"Depends on whether the rumors are true," Winsor said to me as he surveyed the ruins, running his pale hand across a chunk of fallen sculpture. It was as white as the marble. "If it's really spectral other beings, then they should have little cause to disturb your horse." Winsor's robe swished in the breeze. "However, if the rumors are incorrect, then most likely the disturbance is bandits, brigands, or other sorts of low lives. Your horse is in incredible peril unattended like this, yes."

"Bring her into the ruins?" I asked.

"Hmmm..." Winsor ran his hand through his hair, raking at it. "Now there's an idea. Of course, this large would never do. It'd get spooked and run off a spiraling stone stairwell or something... Stand back from that horse Azark."

I hesitated. My memories flashed back to Winsor's overly zealous reaction to solving the problem of the pony tail pulling girl. His answer then had been to destroy the pony tail. My arms circled around Flatchert, I studied Winsor's body language. Right now it was telling me he was impatient.

"Go on, move!" he said, waving his hands at me.

"What are you going to do?" I asked cautiously. "You're not going to hurt her are you?" I don't know why I was asking. If he was, he certainly wasn't going to tell me. He was suspect number one in the Mallow disappearance investigation.

"Why would I borrow your horse just to ride it out here and explode it into innards confetti?" Winsor asked, his mouth screwing up in a mixture of confusion and distaste. My own did the same as I involuntarily visualized the phrase 'innards confetti.' Ew. "Don't be such a fool. I suppose ungifted can't help it," He grumbled. "Either way, move. I'm trying to do you a favor."

"It's going to be okay Flatchert," I said, patting her muzzle. I stepped back. Winsor eyed me impatiently, and I took a few more steps back. Winsor took a deep breath in, exhaled, and then chanted.

"Horse with the spotted caboose, to the size of a mouse reduce." The tether around Flatchert gradually got looser and looser. She was about the size of a dog before she noticed something was happening. Her head swung from side to side in anxiety. One of her large brown eyes stared at me with accusation. I knelt down next to her and ran a soothing hand over her mane. Her ears swung, attempting to hear what was causing the surreal situation. Maybe she was assessing whether she was dreaming or not. She pulsed gently with the faint light of enchantment before she faded back to her usual colors.

"There. In a moment, Flatchert will be small enough for you to tuck into your pocket and carry with us. No brigand can get her unless he gets you first." Winsor rubbed his hands together, satisfied with himself, then glanced at me impatiently. I walked over to Flatchert, taking small steps and studying the dirt around the tree I'd latched her too. She was shuffling, the rope no longer holding her. Not running, just trotting.

"Her legs might get hurt in my pocket," I said. I reached out with a finger to stroke her mane. She rutted at the ground, confused by the world around her. She was so cute this small!

"What?" Winsor asked. "That didn't sound like a sincere expression of gratitude."

"Sorry, Enchanted One. It's that horses are delicate, and I'm afraid with how unstable the pocket is, Flatchert would stumble and injure her foot." I rubbed her head. "I know that you could heal it like you did me, but..."

"Hmm. I will defer to your expertise on this. I do not often go riding," Winsor said, walking over. He crouched down and admired his handiwork. "It would be more fortuitous for me if the horse not get injured in the first place. It is easier to disguise the mare and leave it out here then to have to heal it later."

Winsor chanted again. Flatchert became a boulder, roughly horse sized.

"There, that should conceal the animal," Winsor said.

"Wait, did you really change her into a boulder?" I asked.

"What? No. That'd involve killing her and bringing her back to life, which is illegal and nearly impossible, even if she is only a horse. I made her appear like a boulder. Much how I made myself appear blonde."

I leaned over and touched the boulder, which felt warm. It was disgusting. The boulder lurched forward, dirt disturbed on either side of it. It drifted toward the grass at a pace of a fraction of an inch each second.

"Is... isn't that going to draw some attention?" I asked. "She's walking... I think."

"She's doing her best to, but unless she goes galloping off she should appear rather rocklike. I may paralyze her... " He sounded embarrassed. "But would I paralyze the horse, or the boulder, or the horse-boulder hybrid..."

"I think she's fine. She stopped moving."

Flatchert the Boulder appeared to be taking a nap. To be safe, I re-tethered Flatchert to the tree, drooping one loop of rope over the top of the rock. Winsor and I then stood and watched warily, awaiting Flatchert's next move. She stood as still as stone for several minutes.

"Now let us be along, we have to find where those disturbances are coming from."

I patted the outside of the boulder, not sure if I patted Flatchert's face or her rump as I thought about it, and pulled my hand back quickly. I hurried after Winsor, who was striding toward the yawning maw at the front of the ruins. Rusted steel bands held the wood planks in place like a row of rotting fangs. Did sorcerers build these to be terrifying on purpose?

(( Yay, we just surpassed 2000 views. I know that's not a lot compared to some stories, but I'm very happy Phony Potions is growing a little bit every day. ))