Iron Butterflies

by Andre Norton

  Light—thin, wavering, yet to my eyes dazzling, through the dark. It formed a line above the ledge table, high enough so that I had to tilt back my head to view it. The line became wider—the size of my palm, wider still. Stones were moving away, leaving an opening, not the size of a full door, but a hole large enough through which I could see—like a window—a window much wider than that of my cell.

  Chapter 14

  The source of the light was beyond my line of vision. What I did see, half light, half shadow, was a face framed with a filmy veil, a portion of which fell forward to half mask the features. Even through that gauzy covering I could make out wide, dark eyes, a half-open mouth. But this was no hag such as played my keeper. Rather I was sure that the face was very young, hardly more than that of a child.

  As we stared at one another through that wall opening she raised higher the source of the light, a two-branched candlestick of dull black in a strange twisted design, while the tapers set into it gave off an aromatic scent, not as heavy as church incense, yet pleasing when it fought the dank odor of the cell.

  “Death—” Her lips shaped the whisper which hissed in to me.

  I did not know her purpose here, but, because I was certain she was so young, and unlike the wardress, I answered briskly:

  “Nonsense!” Why I chose that particular word of refusal to be overawed by my strange visitor I could not have said. Its effect upon her was surprising. She stood as one completely startled herself, uncertain as to what she must now do.

  “I do not know why you are trying to frighten me—” I continued in the same tone. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  Beneath the shadow of the veil on her face I saw her tongue tip move across her lips.

  “Death—” That one word I could understand before she lapsed into pure gibberish and I drew back a fraction. The idea that I was confronting a madwoman—or girl—could not be dismissed.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” I endeavored to keep my voice as calm as possible. One should not, some remnant of recall told me, excite the insane.

  Both her hands were in sight now. The one which did not hold the candle moved in a series of slow gestures, as if her fingers plucked something out of the air, balled the invisible together, and then tossed it at me. What she thought she was doing I could not understand. But, mad or not, she and her secret wall-opening might be my only key to escape and I would humor her if I could learn anything from her.

  “What is your name—?”

  Her head went up in a proud toss. “Ludovika!” She proclaimed as one who had recited some title which put her far above any common person.

  That I was being visited by any spirit of a long-dead woman I refused to accept. On the other hand, to play her game might well be the only way to keep her attention, to discover if, through her, there was any form of escape.

  She was staring at me searchingly. Then, suddenly, she put aside that air of arrogant assurance; there came over her face a look of warmer humanity.

  “You do not believe, you are not afraid, are you?” The note in her voice was indeed high and young, that of one still close to childhood.

  I must take the chance, I decided. “You play Ludovika, yes—that I believe—” I said with caution.

  She laughed, almost maliciously. “It is a good game. The rest—they believe. They have to—I have the power!” She nodded confidently “She had the power—she could hex—kill even. I know— They shut her in there—right where you are—but they couldn’t keep her—not for long. She could make them do what she wanted—she got away— Only they think the devil took her—and lets her come back. But that’s me—I do as she would do—I make them afraid. I’m learning—a lot—when I know enough—then they will be afraid of me, just as they were of her. But—” She held her head slightly to one side surveying me, not with any sign of malice, rather curiosity. “You’re not afraid. Don’t you believe me?”

  “I believe what I see,” I returned. “If you have Ludovika’s power and she was able to get out of this cell—then use it and get me out.”

  I saw her lips stretch into a smile. The hint of malice was back in her face. Now she made an impatient gesture with her free hand to sweep the veil back off her features. Yes, she was very young.

  “Why are you here?” she countered. “Are you like Ludovika—one whom they fear? Do you know the hexing?”

  “I am one somebody fears,” I agreed. “As to hexing—” I shrugged. There was no reason to admit to yes or no on that. I was sure that her help might be better engaged if I left that question unanswered.

  “Like Ludovika!” She nodded. “I thought maybe it was so when I saw them bring you here. They set Sister Armgrada on you—she cannot talk, you know. So they think she cannot carry any tales. What will you do if you get out—hex them—those who sent you here?”

  “I will do what I can to make things difficult for them,” I assured her. Magic would not enter into that, but just let me be free and I could perhaps make some disturbance in Hesse-Dohna which would both keep me safe and return at least in small measure what had been done to me.

  My visitor laughed again. “Good! I like you. She would have liked you too. You are not afraid, and you want to strike back! That is what one should always want to do—fight!” She uttered the last word fiercely as if she, also, faced some battle she was determined would go her way. “All right. I shall help you. I cannot open this wider—can you climb through?”

  The window space was not too wide, but if I slipped off the bulky dress my wardress had left me, and perhaps even the heavy petticoat beneath that, I thought I could make it. I was unfastening the clumsy hooking as I asked: “What is beyond?”

  “One of the passages. It is narrow,” she warned. “But you can make it—I think.”

  I bundled off the dress, the petticoat, and rolled them together. Then I knelt upon the scarred table ledge. The girl drew back to one side. She was out of my sight until I put my head and shoulders through the window. The passage in which she stood was indeed narrow. I would not have to reach out my arms very far before my fingers struck the stone of the other wall. I wriggled through with difficulty, then reached down and picked up the clothing I had shed.

  My visitor sniffed disdainfully. “Sister Armgrada’s castoffs! Phu, they stink! You’d better not put on the dress. There is a place where you”—she was measuring me with her eyes critically—”will have to turn sideways to get through.”

  Her own dress must have been a trouble in those narrow ways she spoke of. The gauzy veil fell a little below her waist, but the gown she had on was of another time. In the limited light of the scented candles it was pale, without any color save a glint of metallic thread running in an elaborate pattern over its folds. The bodice was cut very low, near slipping off her thin, adolescent shoulders, perhaps only the sharply nipped-in waist held it on her at all, while the skirts were very wide.

  She wore a necklace of what seemed to be pearls, and more were in drops from her ears. There was a faded magnificence about the garment, as if it were a shadow of a court dress of an earlier time. Yes—of Ludovika’s time. So much had this girl entered into the role of the Electress that she had somehow found this faded glory. Her body had none of the roundness of maturity, her breasts were small and not plumply cushioned above the low circle of the neckline, her bare arms were bony and her skin looked slightly grubby. Her hair, under the veiling, had been bundled up in a loose fashion, a crude imitation of the precise curls of a court coiffuer, the ends straggling down over her shoulders. Having seen me through the window, she now held the candle a little higher and toward the wall. I saw the projection there even as her fingers closed about it, dragging it down. Once more sounded the grating, then that opening in the wall came together, so that from this side also I would have guessed it had never been, had I not seen it open.

  She looked over her shoulder as she turned away from the wall and smiled again, her free hand now flickin
g at the wide skirt of her gown.

  “Do I not make a proper ghost?” she demanded. “The good sisters—there are three of them, you know—all old frights who look more like the witch they pray against then she ever did—they had Father Homan in twice to lay me—praying and waving holy water and the rest of it. Now they try to pretend I am not here at all. They shut their eyes and pray so loud you would think they would rock the very stones off the walls! Just let them wait a little longer. If I can just find out what she knew—then they would have something to pray about!”

  She raised her candlestick the higher now and moved along the narrow way. It was necessary for her to turn slightly sideways and bunch together her skirts in one hand, in order to pass. I had pulled on the petticoat, made very sure that my packet of gold was well fastened about my waist, and pulled the coarse dress about me as a shawl. For my guide was right, slender as I was, I found the path none too wide.

  The passage ran straight for a space, inward and away from the outer wall. There was another place where it was narrow again and I wondered how the girl ahead had managed to get by the projecting stone so lightly—perhaps it was by long practice in clambering around through these ways.

  Who was she? Another prisoner who had somehow found the secret of the fortress and made forays out of her cell at night? I was not sure of that—her youth, the dress she wore, argued that she had access to parts of this castle which would not be hers if she were a captive.

  It was plain from her steady progress that she did know where she was going. Nor did she ever glance back to see if I still followed. Finally she came to a halt so suddenly that I nearly ran upon her. Once more she faced what looked to me a solid wall, but she put her face close to it, and from her mouth came that wailing which I had heard the night before.

  “Death—death—!” The words trailed off into a sound which was more the cry of a demented person. She was silent then, as if she listened, and I saw her face alive with a look of malicious mischief. If she awaited some sound from the other side of that barrier, she was disappointed. After a moment she shrugged and started on. However, as I passed, I examined the wall with such care as the glimmering withdrawal of her candles allowed me. There was to be seen a similar projection as that she had moved to open the window-door. Another cell—another prisoner? Who? Why was that unfortunate also here?

  I had to hurry to catch up, for the passage widened a little here and she was holding her skirts higher and hurrying. Then we were upon a flight of steps leading up and these were so steep that I fell behind, not trusting to my balance, though the girl did not slacken her pace by much.

  We came out on a second narrow way, this time slanting off in a different direction. She had halted halfway down then and was again close to the stone. As I came up behind her I saw a slit there and a bit of light. She watched only for a moment then stepped aside and motioned me to take her place.

  I was looking down from some height into a much larger room than any cell, and one which did not present such a picture of the past. There was a long table there with benches on either side. Some men in uniform lounged on those, drank from tankards, one or two were actually reading newspapers! I saw racks of muskets against the walls, and other things which I thought might be part of a barracks guardroom. There was talk among those below, but some trick of the walls or the distance reduced that to only a dull rumble of sound.

  My guide was again moving ahead and I hastened to catch up with her. It appeared that she wished to play no more tricks. Then one wall of the way we followed became wood paneling as if we had reached a portion of the fortress which was intended for comfortable living. The end of the passage came and once more the girl peered through a peephole, waited some time.

  Then she blew out the candles, leaving us in thick dark. I heard small movement before a panel slid aside and she slipped through, gesturing for me to follow.

  The room into which we had come was as unlike the cell in which I had been as that was to the bedroom in which I had fallen unconscious before my awakening here. In its appointments and furnishings it was not unlike the state bedroom I had occupied in Axelburg. Here also was a curtained, dais-bed, massive chairs, tapestried walls. But there were no signs of occupancy.

  My guide moved quickly to a wardrobe which stood like a menacing cage in one dark corner, for there was only a single candle burning on a nearby table. As I followed her I saw that across the door, there was a massive bar pushed into place, as if this was a fortress within a fortress and my guide must so make sure of her privacy.

  She paid no attention to me now as she brought out the wardrobe clothing which she tossed onto a nearby chair and began to twist and turn to reach the hooks and ties of the dress she wore. With the speed of one who has done the same many times before, she soon shed her ancient dress and donned a high-collared, full-sleeved white muslin which was perhaps not of the latest fashion such as favored in Axelburg, but as close to that as might be found in a more provincial setting. Her hair she combed into a loose fall becoming to a young girl, though not particularly enhancing the lines of her thin face, smoothing it into the semblance of order with a broad ribbon. When she had finished she looked no more than into her teens, though her face lacked that bland innocence which was thought fitting to such an age.

  The dress she had discarded she handled with far more care, seeing that it was hung, then a veil lovingly folded about it, within the wardrobe. Having made the exchange, she at last swung around to face me. In the meantime, I had also put on the coarse outer garment my wardress had left me.

  Young as she was, my guide still held command of the situation. She pointed to the chair over which her garments had been so lately spread and seated herself in turn on a footstool pulled near to one of the throne-like seats, flanking the wardrobe on the other side.

  “Who are you?” She asked that with the snap of one who was seldom, if ever, had her wishes crossed. “They said you were mad, you know.” Her eyes, which were her best feature, so large and lustrous, narrowed a little. “I don’t think I believe them. I did not last night when you struck the wall. You weren’t frightened—But who are you—and why are you really here?”

  “I am Amelia Harrach. But as to why I am here— that I have no true idea at all.”

  “Harrach.” She repeated the name slowly. “But”—there was real surprise in her face now—”that is the name of the Elector—his own name. And you are certainly not the Princess—I have seen her—fat old thing!” Her nose wrinkled disdainfully. “You are important, you know, or they would not send you here—This is a place where they keep those who must not be allowed to talk. What don’t they want you to talk about?”

  “Who are you?” I countered. That she was free to roam about as she had this night argued that she was no prisoner. Now she pursed her mouth slightly, her head a little on one side, watching me with a certain slyness.

  “I am Lisolette von Rensch. My father is commandant here. And this”—she flung out her hands in a gesture to indicate the dusky formal chamber in which we sat—”is the room of the Prince Franzel, who was mad, or so they said when they would have his younger brother for Elector a long time ago.” It was plain she was watching me avidly to see how I would accept that particular bit of ancient history. “He did not have the power, you see—so he died over there—in that very bed. They say he was poisoned. But they gave him a great funeral after all—and then his brother was safe on the throne and no one cared—or, if they did, they knew enough not to say so. But why are you here? Are you a princess to be locked up because you are a trouble to the new Elector?” She did not give me any pause in which to answer but swept swiftly on:

  “They do not tell me things, you understand. But I learn, yes, I learn!” Her head nodded vigorously up and down. “I learned long ago that if one seems to be interested only in the dull things, the tasks one is set, people forget and sometimes speak clearly. Also—after I began to dream—” She stopped short and her hand flew to co
ver her mouth. For a moment she looked frightened and uneasy. Then her chin arose a fraction and she assumed again some of the air of complete confidence she had shown during our passage through the wall ways.

  “I have my own ways of finding out things. They brought you here secretly—by night—and they said that you were ill—mad—so that the sisters have charge of you. But if what they said were true, you would have rather been taken to the house at Speakenhoch, where they keep those who have really lost their wits. There was a guardsman here who did that. He tried to kill a bear he said was loose in the long gallèry, but of course there was no bear at all. I think that perhaps she made him see that. She wanted to know how much power she had—” Again she was suddenly silent.

  “But you are not mad—and you are called Harrach. So why are you here? You will tell me, you know.” Her confidence was not that of a young girl, rather that of one who has tested her control over others and learned successfully just how and when to use it. I did not, however, find it binding on me. What my thoughts were concerned with was how much of the truth I dared share with her—and to what extent I must trust her with any of my story. She was frowning and, though her gaze was still on me, I had a strange idea that her mind was fast locked upon some other problem which was of pressing interest to her.

  “She must have sent me to you, that I know,” she said then, as if she were speaking her thoughts aloud. “But you are a Harrach and she had good reason not to wish any of you well—”

  “Is your she the Electress Ludovika?” That this girl spoke of a woman long dead as if she had connection with the affairs of this day hinted certainly at disorder in Lisolette’s own mind.

  “But of course! It is by her— No, there is no reason to tell you that! Are you not pleased to be out of that box? If she has a use for you, then we must discover what it is. So—why did they bring you here?”