Here it is. The biggest sacrifice.
There’s no end of hurt.
I pull off Chick’s jumper and nightdress. Her nappy. Her feathers have come in overnight. I’d be restless too if I had pinions pushing through my skin. Soft plumes cover her abdomen.
Her shoulder blades peel away from her back and unfold. Her wingspan is mighty considering she’s so slight. No wonder Chick’s clumsy on the ground. She’s designed for flight.
Click, click, click.
Chick leaps up, her feet curling like claws around my forearm. I hold her up. She’s heavy, held like this.
Click, click, click.
I’m fixed by my daughter’s gaze. She’s ferocious. Dignified. I bow my head. She doesn’t need my limited definitions. She has her own possibilities and perfections.
Clickclickclick.
I launch my precious girl. She takes flight through the hole in the roof, going where I can’t follow. She tilts and tips until she catches the wind and spirals upwards, a shadow on the sky.
How high she soars.
Priya Sharma lives in the UK where she works as a doctor. Her short stories have been published by Interzone, Black Static, Albedo One, and on Tor.com, among others. Her work has been reprinted in Paula Guran’s The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror: 2012 and 2013 and Ellen Datlow’s The Best Horror of the Year 2012 and 2013. She is writing a novel set in Wales, which is taking a long time as she writes in longhand with a fountain pen and then types it up very slowly.
I had this idea for an epic, bad-ass scene I wanted to illustrate, but as soon as I started to sketch the hero’s corset, I knew he deserved a whole story. “Castle of Masks” is his story.
Cory Skerry
Castle of Masks
Cory Skerry
It wasn’t difficult for Justus to take the place of the yearly sacrifice.
“Go home,” he said, and when Ingrid opened her mouth to argue, he lifted his skirts to show her the stolen cutlass dangling beneath. “I’ve hunted fox, deer, wolf, and bear—a beast in a castle is nothing to me.”
Her face was a wet moon in the chill starlight, her eyes so red that even the colorless night couldn’t hide them. Her name had been drawn in the village lottery, and she’d spent the last week thinking she must die.
“Good luck, brave fool,” she whispered. As Ingrid’s footsteps faded behind him, the sounds of the approaching carriage grew louder. Justus smoothed his skirts and tried to pretend he was a woman.
Once in a while, when it came time for one of Justus’s neighbors to give up his own daughter to the Greve, the man suddenly wanted everyone to charge the castle and slay the monster instead of sending his child to be devoured. No matter that the Greve supposedly changed into an oversized wolf in the night, or was a ghoul wearing the rotting limbs of the victims—it was high time that people risk their lives for justice. Invariably, everyone else was just as reluctant as he had been the year before when it wasn’t his child being taken from him.
Justus regretted having been so complacent until last year, when his sister, Gudrun, was chosen, but he wasn’t about to embarrass himself by demanding that the folk from his and other villages help with his revenge. It hadn’t yet occurred to him that he might go in his sister’s place—and as soon as he had the thought, he began his preparations.
The coach was black, and so were the four stout horses that drew it. Their breath ghosted through the crisp air, but the driver’s didn’t. Justus’s heart pummeled his chest—was it true, that the Castle of Masks was served by the undead?—but after a moment he saw that the man simply had a thin wrap over his face.
“My name is Valfrid,” the man’s voice creaked.
“Karin,” Justus said, forcing his voice into a higher register.
Valfrid offered a hand to help Justus into the carriage, and Justus took it as daintily as he had practiced for the past year. Valfrid closed the door as Justus settled on the cushioned bench. The lock clicked with finality, trapping Justus in a garish display of wealth. The carriage walls and ceiling were painted with murals of woodland beasts chasing and fleeing. Instead of simple canvas shades, there were real glass windows set in iron grids that couldn’t be kicked out by desperate maidens.
Justus peered at himself in the reflection. At first he saw the captivating young lady Valfrid must see—but after only a moment his eyes adjusted and he recognized himself, shaved and painted, but the same old Justus. Even though he’d often been teased that he looked like Gudrun’s younger sister, Justus was still nervous about his disguise.
Thoughts of his sister filled his belly with familiar fire. He spent the next few solitary hours fantasizing about his coming triumph, caressing the scarred hilt of the cutlass through a strategic tear in the folds of his skirt. He would look for tools he was more familiar with—he was no swordsman—but a blade this size was comforting nonetheless.
When they arrived, Valfrid helped Justus out of the carriage and led him to a small side door. Above them, the walls of the castle glared down with hundreds of green eyes. Justus prepared himself for halls lit by sickly green witchlights, but the lantern in the entry hall glowed a normal yellow.
His eyes immediately fell on the opposite wall, to a strange tapestry of pale leather, the uneven pieces stitched together by an unskilled tailor. Justus might never have realized the skin was human if not for the ghastly masks haunting every wall.
The hole-eyed faces of dozens of slaughtered women stared at him, through him, beyond him. Some of the masks were lacquered to retain the quality of the face paint; someone had painstakingly styled the hair. Justus’s stomach twisted like a scared rabbit as he recognized some of the tortured faces as those of girls from his own village, now stretched over wooden frames and dried into an eternal expression of horror.
The eerily reverent display of death surrounded him on every side, even from the back of the door as it swung closed. He did not see Gudrun’s face, but he had time only to glance over the collection before Valfrid set a gaunt hand on Justus’s arm.
“Come,” the servant said, guiding Justus into a long, dark hall.
The door at the end was plain dark wood, marred by a halo of deep slashes around the knob. It looked as if someone had tried to hack it out. Valfrid opened the door for Justus, who stepped through to meet the Greve of the Castle of Masks.
The castle’s master lay curled in front of an enormous stone hearth. A pattern of scars zigzagged over the mound of shadow outlined by the flames, and as Valfrid lit the lamps, Justus could see more and more of the monstrous Greve.
Each ragged square of his motley skin was that of a different animal. A patch of silvery wolf fur covered his massive shoulder, and on his right flank was a scrap of feathers that might have come from an owl. When the Greve rose to his feet, he stretched like a cat, the firelight glistening on his pelt. Beneath a raccoon tail, his anus was surrounded by white sheep’s wool.
“Valfrid?” the Greve prompted. Justus was no longer concerned that his voice would give him away; the deep, rumbling bass of the Greve’s voice made any human sound dainty in comparison.
“Greve, may I present Fröken Karin, of Östbrink.”
It suddenly occurred to Justus that the wolven-snouted monster before him might be able to smell the salty reek of a man’s sweat, even under layers of perfume and powder.
Shaken, Justus murdered his curtsy. He rose to find the Greve scrutinizing him. The castle’s master was perhaps seven feet tall.
“May I call you Karin?”
The sight of the towering Greve shattered Justus’s cultivated rage, reducing it to common, cringing fear. This was not a disfigured nobleman with unclipped nails and teeth filed to points, a deranged freak who considered himself a beast, but a real monster. The Greve could have lifted the carriage outside with his bare hands and thrown it as easily as a basket.
Justus fingered the handle of his cutlass, warmed by his body heat. If the blade could even cut that thickly scarred hide, a mo
rtal wound would take more strokes than Justus would have time to deal.
Time. Justus needed to plan, to spot a weakness in this imposing adversary and wait for a proper opportunity.
The Greve still waited for a reply. “Yes, Greve,” he blurted, demurely bowing his head. Justus’s mouth continued, against his better judgment. “And what shall I call you?”
The Greve grinned, baring a vicious fence of teeth. “Monster is fine. Would you like supper, Karin?”
Justus wanted to say no, wanted to be locked in a cell with iron bars between him and Monster, but he should study his opponent, and moreover, he should eat when he could. It would keep him alert and strong. “Yes, Monster. Thank you.”
Valfrid whispered away, and Justus found himself alone with a living nightmare. Monster’s muscles rippled as he settled onto his haunches, clearly a more natural position for his mutant body. “I hope the ride here was pleasant?”
“As pleasant as I imagined,” Justus answered. He hadn’t intended to sound bitter.
Monster laughed, rich and silky but unbearably loud. “And the castle? How did you imagine my home?”
Worse smelling. Justus shrugged, his terror getting the better of him. He did not wish to hear that laugh again, and neither did he want to hear a roar.
They sat in silence until Valfrid arrived with a tray filled with roasted pheasant, potatoes, carrots, freshly baked bread, and new-churned butter. Justus found he was hungry despite his fears. With every bite, he imagined he was eating Monster.
And I will, when I succeed. I’ll carve a steak from his steaming carcass and roast it in the castle courtyard. I’ll kick out one of the panes of green glass to use as a plate, Justus thought.
Valfrid did not return with a plate for Monster, and Justus’s satisfaction melted away, dragging his appetite with it.
“Monster, where is your meal?”
Monster laughed again. “Don’t fret, Karin. I only eat my guests if they misbehave.”
Justus inhaled unexpected hope. Gudrun was always a dutiful woman—might she have survived? “Oh? Will the others be joining us?”
“They all misbehaved.”
Justus closed his eyes. He should have known.He shed silent tears for Gudrun, his beautiful, vivacious sister. She was never going to paint another ink mural on the whitewashed cottage wall, never fight for the first dipper of well water or call him “Padda” again. Had this awful creature abused Gudrun before her death? Forced himself on her, hairy and cruel and wild? Did he tear out her perfect white throat with his teeth? Justus suppressed his sobs, because while the tears helped his cause, any accidental noises might betray his masculinity. He’d cultivated a habit of silencing even involuntary sounds.
“Don’t be so upset,” Monster coaxed. “You look obedient.”
“Yes, Monster,” Justus said, swallowing hard.
“I’m sure you’re very tired. Valfrid will take you to your chambers.”
Justus turned to find the lanky servant waiting at his elbow. Eager to leave Monster’s overwhelming presence, Justus wrapped his shawl tighter and hurried after Valfrid, who locked him in his room with a sharp iron click.
A large looking glass held court on one wall, over a table with a high-backed chair; a cozy bed with a billowing silk canopy occupied one corner; tapestries of flowers and pastoral scenes obscured the walls. In this one room of the gloomy castle, the stone had been painted white. Roses withered in a vase, their table too near the fire.
Justus thought he would feel safer once he was alone, but now he was haunted by the ghosts of every lie he had told that day. This ridiculous scheme had gotten this far, but for all he knew, Valfrid had suspected his secret from their first introduction. They could be merely toying with him.
Justus padded to the window, peering out at the other lights across the courtyard. Behind one green pane, a girl carried a basket of laundry. She paused to offer a beautiful smile, and nearly dropped the linens when she waved at Justus. Her simple gesture calmed him long after she had disappeared; even in this horrid museum of death, people went about their jobs, and sometimes they were clumsy.
Justus slipped from his dress, bundled into his wool pajamas, and ducked under the covers of the massive bed. The cutlass he tucked under the pillow.
As he drifted off, he wondered if Gudrun had slept here, and before her, how many others. Tomorrow he would look for his sister among the masks in the foyer.
Justus slept poorly and was up early. He changed into his dress again, and he was shaving in front of the mirror when Valfrid knocked on the door.
“One moment,” he said, hurriedly scraping off the last traces of the salve and hiding his shaving instruments. When Justus opened the door, the kohl with which he’d lined his eyes was still smeared from tears and a night’s sleep, but at least he had no stubble.
“This is Rigmora,” Valfrid said. “She’ll help you dress for breakfast with the Greve. She doesn’t hear or speak, but she’ll do a better job than I would.”
A girl with too many freckles watched from just behind Valfrid’s shoulder. Not the cheerful laundry girl, which disappointed Justus, but Rigmora possessed an air of quiet capability. She guided Justus back to the chair by the looking glass.
The smeary, tear-stained makeup of the night before disappeared under Rigmora’s careful application of a rag and cool water from the corner basin. She happily combed Justus’s ringlets into a glossy cascade that poured forward over his shoulders.
When she finished, Justus looked more feminine than he had upon his arrival, and with a sigh of relief, he followed her down to breakfast.
Monster crouched at the end of an informally short table, his bulk housed in a large seat crowned in antlers. Rigmora led Justus to a much smaller chair and curtsied to Monster before disappearing.
The windows in the dining hall were among the uncolored few in the castle, and sunlight spilled in swathes across the table and floor. When Monster asked how Justus had slept, Justus had the wit to parrot his answer from the night before.
“As well as I imagined.”
Monster’s mismatched eyes squinted in mirth—one a golden glittering yellow, the other an entirely black orb. A snake and an owl, Justus thought. When Monster reached for a jug of filmjölk, he exposed a raw, red wound just below his ribs. He chugged the filmjölk, then patted his muzzle clean with a napkin. A moment later, Monster turned to grab a plate of smörgås, and Justus noticed a matching wound on the opposite side of the beast’s torso.
“What happened?” Justus asked, gesturing. Monster only stared until Justus added, “You’re wounded.”
“Oh yes, I suppose I am. I don’t feel it.” Monster’s grin displayed a few morsels of breakfast, but Justus didn’t turn away.
“How did it happen?”
“Being a hunter is perilous.”
Justus rolled his eyes, annoyed at Monster’s arrogance, and said, “Matching wounds aren’t a common result of hunting.”
“And what would you know of hunting?” Monster asked.
“More than most,” Justus said, nettled into exposing himself. Even as the fatal words escaped his painted lips, Justus cursed his pride. “My brother taught me well,” he added, but he wasn’t sure if made up for his slip of tongue.
Monster leaned forward, propping his chin on one massive, hand-like paw. Strawberry syrup smeared his curved badger claws.
“Oh? How intriguing. Can you prove this?”
Justus paused, and then tipping up his chin, he said, “Lend me a bow, and set me a target in the garden.”
Monster’s furred fingers stretched into his mane, scratching vigorously as he thought, and when he dropped them again to the table, their weight sent a shudder through the wood. “Anyone can hit a target. I have a better idea. Tomorrow, you may accompany me outside the castle walls, and we shall hunt together.”
Justus wondered if he was agreeing to his own death, if he would be the prey. “Thank you, Monster.”
Perhaps o
utside the monster’s domain there would be a chance to take him unawares. An arrow might pierce an eye, throat, or belly more effectively than Justus’s cutlass could pierce that variegated hide. If Monster climbed a tree or stood near the edge of a precipice, Justus could turn the creature’s own considerable weight against him.
“What else do you enjoy, Karin? There are many hours to fill, on this lonely mountain. Would you like to see the library? I just enjoyed an amusing tale of the Lord of Misrule and highly recommend it.”
“I like being read to,” Justus said, “but I never learned to read.”
“You shall be taught,” Monster promised. When the meal was over, Justus was given to Valfrid for an hour’s instruction in deciphering the mysteries of a book. By the end, he knew the alphabet, and hated every letter. He doubted he’d live long enough for it to matter whether he remembered it, anyway.
Justus spent the rest of the day wandering the halls. He had not been forbidden to do so. The castle was clean and tidy, and Justus didn’t see a single rat, though he came across three industrious female servants dusting furniture and cleaning windows. The friendly laundry girl was not among them.
So there were at least five female servants: Rigmora, the laundry girl, and these three older women. He hated that it raised his hopes—but clearly the castle still needed a staff to run it, and maybe these women were sacrifices who had been spared.
But when he asked them about Gudrun, they each shook their heads and gave the same answer: We’re sorry, fröken, but we mustn’t speak of those who came before.
He spent a long time in the entry hall, staring at the desiccated faces of the virgins who “came before.” A few times he lost his breath, thinking a mask might be Gudrun’s face, but each time he convinced himself it wasn’t. He inspected every mask there, but they lined other halls as well. Hundreds of dead girls. If Gudrun’s face hung on a wall here, it might be weeks before he found it.
The next morning, there was a sharp knock at the door. Justus’s hand was under his pillow and on the handle of the cutlass before he even fully awoke. Snow-bright sunlight illuminated the room, colored a chilly green by the frosted glass of the window.
Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Page 19
