Nightfell Games (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 5)

by Thomas K. Carpenter

  "Your mockery wounds me," he said, frowning.

  "I'm sorry, Voltaire. This place is wearing on me. I should be more considerate. You lost your sight trying to end this challenge early," I said.

  "Apology accepted," he said. "But do try and find this caul soon. The first thing I'm doing when we get back to Philadelphia is head to the Duck Foot Tavern and order a whole chicken, two loaves of bread, and all the wine they have. Make that two roasted chickens."

  When I glanced back to gauge whether or not I could pass through the golden doors, my son's second, the severe looking soldier with the crooked nose, was climbing on stage.

  He grabbed the golden apple with barely a nod towards Matka. The crowd hissed with displeasure at the rudeness, but I was rapt by his stony-faced march towards Moist Mother Earth. The muscles in his face twitched as if they were being pulled on by hidden hooks, but he kept one foot moving in front of the other.

  As he passed the halfway mark, I knew he would make it, though I couldn't figure out how. I wondered what kind of man he was that the horrors presented did not faze him.

  When he was two steps from Matka, I dug my fingers into Voltaire's arm and called the sorcery in my head. I wasn't sure if Matka would detect my interference, but I couldn't let him win and ask for the True Caul as his boon.

  With hand outstretched, I prepared to knock the golden apple from his palm. The distance was greater than I was used to, but I knew it was a challenge I could overcome.

  Then without warning, Pavel's second stopped mid-stride and shook his head as if a thousand spiders crawled over his face, eyes, and ears. He lifted his hands to knock away whatever horrors he was seeing and dropped the golden apple, one step from Matka. The prize rolled between her legs and she stooped down to pick it up.

  With the golden apple in one hand, Matka reached out to touch the man, but he sprung away, and her fingertips only grazed him. I thought he would escape without being transformed, but halfway across the stage, he fell to his knees, then rolled off the edge.

  I couldn't see what happened next, since the crowd blocked my view. The goddess strode forward, a cross expression turning her plain face to one that would put fear into a Viking berserker.

  The crowd backed away from the approaching Matka a moment before a winged creature burst upward. It wasn't as large as the earlier monstrous bird, but Pavel's second looked more hideous than even the Gamayun.

  His body was lean, with powerful wings of a sickening yellow that ended in a curved talon on one side and a misshapen hand on the other. An enormous serrated beak thrust from his eagle-like head, while human legs dangled from the bird's body. The bird-creature awkwardly flew over the crowd, barely keeping above everyone's heads.

  The room turned to chaos when Matka strode into the crowd, knocking away men and women with her long arms. With the goddess distracted and her assistant standing on stage with his jaw hanging open, I darted through the open doors.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The hallway curved away, hiding my intrusion. The screams from outside quickly diminished as I ran deeper into the inner sanctum.

  At first, the walls were like those outside, rough stone like a cave worn down by time and water. Then I passed a line, and the architecture changed to finely crafted stonework. The hallway kept to geometric patterns–lines, squares, cubes–except they were repeated in finer detail.

  A set of stairs led me to an upper chamber. Each stair was flat stone, and nestled into the corner between it and the next was another, smaller step. This pattern repeated itself until I could no longer detect the edge of one tiny step and the next iteration with my naked eye.

  The strange architecture made moving through the rooms challenging as my boots caught on edges. Only the size of my feet in comparison to Matka’s made passage possible.

  Fixtures of gold and brass hung from the ceilings. The designs were similar to the construction, with ever smaller iterations of the original pattern.

  I didn't know how long I would have to search before Matka or her assistant returned, so I hurried from room to room trying to find the True Caul. The first few rooms were starkly empty, as if the goddess had only recently moved into the inner palace. I knew this was unlikely, so I kept going.

  As I continued to enter empty rooms, I began to wonder if some magic was keeping the contents hidden from my sight. I knew enough sorcery for combat and nudging things with my mind, but complex spells were beyond me, if such a thing was even possible.

  If this was true, then finding the True Caul was impossible, and if it weren't, then it was unlikely the item was being kept in the inner sanctum.

  With a hurried breath in my throat, I searched the room I was in, walking through every corner and space, expecting to bump into an invisible table or couch. When I made a complete circuit, but found nothing, I tried the next room.

  It was the same as the first. I suspected Matka had laid protections over her realm, so thieves did not make off with valuable objects like the True Caul. What did I know about such things? I searched my memory for clues within the books of myths.

  I knew of the cap of invisibility, but that made the wearer hard to see, not the world around them. A horrid thought came into my mind. What if it required eating or drinking of Matka's feast? That would be an unbeatable conundrum. If I ate or drank of her table, I would be able to see the contents of her palace, but not leave it.

  I turned in a circle, feeling like I should be leaving soon. I'd intended to find the True Caul and escape before the second contest was finished.

  Then I remembered the assistant and the birdcages. I had found no sign of either. Carefully retracing my steps, I made my way back to the entrance and found a side room from which to spy.

  Right after I secreted myself behind an exquisitely detailed column, a single squawk alerted me to the assistant's presence. The man hurried down the hallway with a birdcage in hand, oblivious to my spying. A bright red and green parrot was in the cage.

  The assistant hurried up the stairs and darted into the next room. I abandoned my hiding position and ran after him. The assistant walked right through the back wall.

  Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would have thought he'd taken one of the many passageways leading from the room. A clever protection to foil thieves.

  I waited until I was certain he wasn't going to come through the hidden doorway to enter. I passed my right boot through first in case some guardian lay on the other side. When nothing chomped it off, I slipped through, feeling a tingling sensation across my body.

  The room on the other side was like the others I'd passed through except filled with cushioned divans clinging to the corners, bright stools like wayward mushrooms, long tables covered in delicacies, and goblets filled with dark wines. Loose cushions were over everything, even the patterned rugs.

  My stomach gurgled at the sight. The next room was the same, leaving me drowning on my own spit. My resolve was crumbling fast.

  Pinching my nose between forefinger and thumb blocked the most enticing smells, but enough wafted through my open mouth that I wasn't completely immune. I searched the connected halls, trying to keep a map in my head for when I had to leave.

  In the fifth or sixth room after I'd gone through the invisible door, I came upon a goat perched on a cushioned stool, nibbling on a flaky round loaf of bread. The goat's extended teeth broke the crust, releasing curls of steam.

  I spun on my heel, prepared to leave, when the goat addressed me in an Englishman's voice.

  "How do you do? Haven't see you before? Have we met?" he asked, rapid-fire.

  "Bonjour?" I asked, the words flopping out of my open mouth.

  "Right-o, haven't seen a talking goat before? You must be new to her ladyship's realm. Lost one of her contests, have we now?" asked the goat.

  When I stared back dumbly, the goat continued.

  "Ahem. Apologies, and all that. My manners have gone to shit since I was changed. I mean, I'm the politest goat you'l
l ever meet, but that's not saying much since I did my business on the tiles back a room or so. If my mum saw how I was behaving here, she'd ring my noggin and drag me out of here by the ear. Can you imagine that?" he asked, then added, "I'm Tobbin, by the way."

  "How do you do, sir," I said. "I mean, Tobbin."

  The goat maneuvered to face me, keeping its slender legs moving in tiny steps. His ears were extra long and flopped over at the top, making him look rather sad.

  "Tobbin Teakettle was my name. Finding rocks was my game. Heavy emphasis on the "was." Though I suppose if Matty ever let me out of here, I'd be a fine geologist. Do you know what that is?" asked Tobbin.

  "I do, actually," I responded.

  "Are you French? I would sorely love to visit Paris someday, not for the rocks, of course, but the galleries. Have you been in the galleries? They are simply the best..."

  Tobbin's voice trailed off as he noticed me tilting my head. I thought I'd heard something from another room. A bird caw, or something.

  The goat leaned forward. The droopy ears fell forward rather than to the side, giving him an almost rabbit-like appearance.

  "Say...you're not supposed to be here, are you now?" asked Tobbin.

  I ignored Tobbin and concentrated on the noise. It wasn't just a bird caw, but heavy footsteps. That could only mean that the contest was over and Mat Zemlya had returned. I was trapped since the goddess stood in the only exit from the room.

  "I need a place to hide," I said. "Can you help me?"

  Tobbin pulled his head back. "Are you mad? Help you hide from her Ladyship? Being a goat isn't great, but there are worse things."

  "Please," I said, glancing over my shoulder. "I'll help you with anything you want."

  The goat paused, his bushy eyebrows wagging with thought. "Crumb for crumb, that sounds like a deal. Climb under those cushions over there."

  Matka was speaking to someone in the other room. The goddess sounded like she was right outside. As quietly as I could I responded, "There's not enough room. I can't hide there."

  "Push the couch away from the wall," said Tobbin. "There's a place behind it. Trust me, I find the most delicious snacks behind them after a party. Once I found a mouse-truffle, well, really it was just a mouse, but I think it was made of chocolate and it was scurrying along the wall on tiny cocoa legs. Her Ladyship has the most unusual guests..."

  Matka was coming into the room. I hurried to the divan and threw myself behind it, pulling cushions on top to hide my limbs. Tobbin bounded across the room and landed on the divan.

  The booming voice of the goddess echoed through the room.

  "Tobbin? Who were you talking to? I heard you speaking with another," said Matka.

  "Just talking to myself since no one listens to me anymore," said Tobbin.

  "The other sounded like a woman's voice," said Matka, "with an accent. And I smell something in here, something particular. Are you sure there's no one in here? You know how I feel about lying."

  I waited for the inevitable betrayal. The goat had no allegiance to me, other than a vague promise. I tensed up, preparing to spring away when Tobbin confessed.

  "Oh, that smell? My apologies, Your Grace, I couldn't help myself in the other room. It must have wafted in here," he said.

  "Hmmm..." said the goddess, not sounding like she believed him. "Well then, I suppose it'll have to do."

  I could only see through a sliver of a gap between the cushions, but Matka glanced in the direction of the divan before leaving the room. The diadem on her forehead sparkled into existence for a moment before disappearing.

  "She's gone," said Tobbin after a minute.

  When I climbed out from behind the divan, he was chewing on the hunk of bread.

  "My thanks, Tobbin," I said. "I owe you."

  The way the goat grinned made me wonder if I'd made a mistake in agreeing to do him a favor.

  I gave Tobbin a deep bow. "What is it that you require of me?"

  "There's a certain lady friend that I need help with," said Tobbin.

  "Oh?"

  The goat hopped down from the stool, his heels clicking on the floor. He looked up at me with a patient expression. "Her name is Orthoni, and when I first came to her Ladyship's realm, she was my friend, but now, she's not. You heard what I said before; it's true, I don't have many friends. I'd like to count Orthoni among them again."

  "That's all?" I asked. "You just want me to get Orthoni to be your friend again?"

  "Yes," he said. "That's all."

  "Where will I find her?" I asked.

  "In the underhall, which isn't far from where you came in. Just thirteen rights and down the stairs," he said as he wandered towards the exit. "That's where she likes to spend her time."

  "And what keeps me from leaving without helping you?" I asked.

  The goat stopped, and his ears flopped forward. He turned to look back at me. "Two things. The first is that if I tell Matty that someone's sneaking around in her realm, she'll tear the place apart looking for you. The second is that no one comes into her palace without an agenda. I assume you're looking for something or someone."

  He wagged his bushy eyebrows again, an effect that was more than a little disconcerting. He left without further comment.

  His directions brought me to the top of the steps. I'd expected stone, or other mundane building materials, especially with a name like the "underhall." Instead, the stairs were made of polished iron and filigree. I'd never seen such craftsmanship before. The latticework put the railings in the onion dome of the Winter Palace to shame. I nearly wept at their beauty. As carefully as I could, for fear of damaging the delicate construction, I made my way into the underhall.

  A cathedral of lacework lay below. A high arching ceiling was held up by honeycomb columns made of gold wire. Partitions of silver latticework detailing a woodland scene divided the grand room. They were see-through, which gave the room space without being confining. As I wandered further into the wide space, my boots echoing on the polished tiled floors, the partitions changed designs based on my angle. What was once a clearing in the woods became a familiar hut, striding out of the trees. I knew at once what it implied.

  The rest of the room was filled with sights that boggled the mind. What person would conceive and construct such delights? Surely arcane means were required to create them?

  I was so enraptured that I did not realize I was being watched until I heard breathing coming from a side room that I hadn't noticed. The breath was hoarse, and inhuman, and made my skin prickly from head to toe. It took all my self-control not to sprint back to the stairs.

  Instead, I turned, slowly and deliberately, as if I were still enjoying the beautiful scrollwork along the buttresses that held up the ceiling. When I had turned enough, I let my gaze flicker to the left, just enough to get a glimpse of my watcher, and wished that I had fled instead.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When I was a young girl, my father told me a story about the weaver of the stars. He explained—as I sat on his knee, straight-backed and chin high, for he did not suffer inattention—that the sky was an infinite web spun by a star-faring spider and we saw only the dew of light that formed on the crossroads of the skyweb.

  When a shooting star flew across the sky, he'd say with a wink that the weaver of the stars had thrown her silken thread there.

  I'd never liked spiders, but I had a fondness for this weaver of the stars, imagining she was a shapechanger that, when in woman form, wore all black so she could hide against the night sky, except for her gloves, which were white. This was how she produced her skyweb, producing the substance by magic and flinging it across the heavens.

  My fascination went as far as catching a little black spider and putting it in a teacup to play with it. When I'd gotten enough nerve to let it crawl across my arm, the tiny legs tickling the hairs on my forearms, I felt like the conqueror of the stars.

  Until the little black spider bit me, and I smashed it against my palm. The bit
e grew red and irritated, and after a few days, pus leaked out the wound, but I never told anyone. I knew what my father would say. He would scold me for believing in fairy tales, even though he'd been the one to tell me.

  That was part of the reason I hid the spider bite, despite how worried I got when my fingers started to go numb. My father rarely told me stories, except about the weaver of the stars and the wolves of shadow that lived beneath Moscow. If I told him about the spider bite, he would pull the truth from me like venom, and that would be the last story he would ever tell.

  When I saw the massive spider in the dim shadow of the side room, my thoughts went first to the weaver of the stars. Her bone-white palps quivered with excitement, the many eyes glistened. The thorax and abdomen were jet-black and covered in coarse hairs.

  Her eight long legs clacked as she stepped forward, one foot at a time, in a mesmerizing slow dance. The legs were angled, jutting severely. At once, I knew they were made of metal, rather than flesh.

  "Dinner has arrived," said Orthoni in a husky feminine voice as she stalked towards me.

  I backed away, letting the magic pool into my mind. I feared unleashing it would only bring the goddess and then my imprisonment.

  "Your friend Tobbin sent me," I said, trying not to trip over anything, but not daring to turn my back.

  "How nice of him," said the spider, picking up the pace. Each clack of her metal feet against the tile rang in my ears. "I'll send my regards for the meal."

  "Wait," I said, holding up my hands. "You don't want to do this."

  The spider slowed. "I seem to recall hearing this before, but usually I get bored and decide I'm hungry. Better to cut out the boring part," said the spider, then she resumed her pursuit.

  "I'll unleash my sorcery on you," I said, trying to hold my hands out towards her menacingly.

  Orthoni's palps clacked together, and I heard a strange grating noise, which I could only assume was laughter.

  "You'll find it's quite useless against me," said the spider. "I've eaten more dangerous witches than you."