Wulfyddia (The Tattersall Trilogy Book 1)

by Steele Alexandra

  But there was one human invader. Anise was there. Cicely could feel her sister before she saw her, for Anise’s soul was a unique marriage of utter savagery and painstaking control. She was a force of nature in the body of a future Queen, more at home in the brutality of a snowstorm than in the stifling warmth of the castle she was destined to inherit. Cicely recognized the beat of her sister’s heart at once, though she flinched a little at the ferocity of it, as always.

  Anise was a lithe shadow, wending her way through the thickly falling snow with carefully calculated steps. She was alone in the darkness with her bow, seeking silence and the rush of the hunt. The stag she stalked had not scented her, had no sense of her presence as it, too, wandered the forest. It was a magnificent beast, antlers glistening with frost, rich flanks gleaming under the pale moonlight as it stepped silently through the snow. Anise moved silently behind it, fingers flexing quietly on her bow, white frosted eyelashes framing eyes that were frighteningly dark and fixed on her prey. Everything moved in perfect unity, the subtle shift of her black boots that balanced her weight, the frozen white fingers that nocked the arrow, and the tilt of her chin as she took aim. The arrow that lit from her bow was high, silent, and straight.

  The stag jumped, turned one way and then another, quivering at the shocking pain, stricken with terror at the way the quiet night had betrayed him and brought Anise and her bow to torment him. He reared up, flank tensing, hooves pawing at the air in the whirlwind of his fear and fury. He edged the other way, scenting for the source of his agony, but all the while his veins leaked hot blood into the cold and hungering air. He was beautiful even when his legs could no longer hold him and he fell, magnificent even as he struggled to raise his head, still fighting to reclaim his escaping spirit.

  Anise came for him, snaking over the snow with the wind pushing at her hood and her cold fingers curled around the dagger at her hip as she bent to end the creature’s mortal struggles. Cicely was no hunter, and it wasn’t Anise’s killing that drew her gaze. It was the second hunter, the one who stalked the stalker. Anise was not the only black-robed intruder in the forest that night, and for all her inhuman instinct, she was not aware of the eyes at her back as the snow ran scarlet at her feet. The blood was warm on her hands as another figure emerged from the shadows of the snow-burdened evergreens. The newcomer was slight of build, but heavy with hatred and burdened with malice. There was no sound to alert Anise as the unannounced one reached for a dagger, fingers dancing over the killing steel as the huntress’s hunter battled to overcome the fear of regicide and murder the heir to the throne and the realm of Wulfyddia.

  Anise was oblivious when the moment of choice came. The combating urges of the one who hunted her warred with each other, and for a moment the hunter teetered on the brink of treason. Then fear conquered all, and the figure turned away and moved back into the forest, leaving the heiress of the realm with a chill that did not come from the snow or the biting wind. Anise knew nothing, heard no one, but Cicely saw the face that was hidden by the hood, and she wept.

  Chapter 12

  Melisande’s breath was a warm white cloud on the air as she navigated the cobblestone streets to the boarding house where the Physician Rathbone claimed to live. It was the furthest outside of the castle she had been in a long time, and while the cold of the frigid dawn was a shock to her, the quiet streets and the haze of fog over the forest brought her a strange sense of clarity. She felt aware for the first time in weeks, as though all those ceaseless hours hunched over her workbench had suddenly merged into a single dream, now half-forgotten and less real than the crunch of her boots over the faint crust of snow on the streets.

  The house where he boarded was old and beautiful, especially against the backdrop of the foggy woods. There was a single light burning, in the dormer window at the top of the home, and though Melisande had never visited Rathbone before and knew nothing of his habits, she felt quite certain that the lantern was his. A small dog barked and snarled at her as she passed over the threshold, but she turned and fixed him with eyes that were not quite… human, and the power in them had the stout-hearted little beast retreating slowly down the hall back to his mistress’s room, not afraid, but reluctant to engage her and certain that she meant no harm. Melisande passed ghostlike down the second floor hall, and climbed silently to the third, to the attic door behind which she could hear someone pacing, tracing a well-worn path in the floorboards.

  It was him. She knew it was. She knocked, and the pacing ceased. There was no sound from behind the door, until it finally creaked open, and she was confronted with Rathbone’s sickly pale face and the small dagger he clutched defensively in his hand. She did not find the weapon as off-putting as perhaps she should have. But then again, she knew that the blade was not intended for her.

  “I hope it’s not too early,” she told him, and he smiled bemusedly, shaking his head. He seemed to catch sight of his own dagger out of the corner of his eye, and abruptly it vanished behind his back as though he was embarrassed by its presence at their meeting.

  “Not at all,” he told her, stepping back and grandly gesturing for her to come in, as though she were royalty. Her smile lasted until she saw the creature stretched out on his table, scaly eyelids closed in death. It was one of her salamanders, and it was enormous, larger than the dog downstairs. “Hm.” Rathbone said as he closed the door behind her. “As you can see I’ve been quite busy. You’d be surprised all of the creatures that roam the castle. I’m convinced there’s one living in the moat. Maybe two.”

  “Yes.” Melisande said vaguely, taking a few steps closer to stare down at the fallen creature. Unexpectedly, the sight of its mutilated body filled her with anger. Melisande blinked and tried to understand the source of her fury.

  Then Rathbone was pulling out a chair for her and offering her a cup of tea, and Melisande remembered that she and Rathbone were allies, not enemies, and there was no reason for her to seek revenge on him. He was, after all, only responsible for the death of a salamander, and something had to be wrong with the fire-creature; as far as she knew, they weren’t supposed to grow like that. It was abnormal, and brought to mind disturbing questions, such as the problem of what fueled their development. What were they living off of? Meat would be enough for ordinary creatures, but these were magical and someone’s power was sustaining them. Melisande did not feel any different, could not feel any pull on her life force, but she could not escape the suspicion that somehow, it was her spirit that fed them.

  “Tea?” It was odd to see Rathbone in this setting. He was bustling about his little room in a way that reminded her of a kindly grandmother or a friendly aunt. For a moment she caught a glimpse of him as he must have once been, a wholesome and homegrown young doctor from the countryside, likely much doted-on by his relatives and used to country hospitality.

  “No tea. Thank you.” Melisande told Rathbone, but he did not listen, and for some reason the way he ignored her refusal angered her. Again, the rage came, and she sat there with almost complete detachment and felt the fury overtake her as though she were watching someone else. She stared down at her hand and found that her fingers were shaking. When had she grown so easily riled? For years she had put up with all manner of abuse from Felunhala without losing her temper, yet lately the slightest affront, even unintentional had her quivering with rage. Where did the anger come from? It seemed that no answer was forthcoming, so Melisande sat quietly while Rathbone fetched her tea and slowly her ire began to recede and she felt more like herself.

  “Now,” Rathbone said, seating himself across from her, his eyes glittering eagerly, “what have you discovered?”

  “Well, there have been rumors about of a beast in the dungeons for over a century.” She told him. “The first mention of it I could find was in 7836. Nine men were killed mysteriously by an animal that year, most of them prisoners or guards in the dungeons— you know which part. But there were three who weren’t guards. One was a young woman, a lad
y of the court, newly married to a lord. She was the first to die. Later her father and an elderly aunt were also slain. The last man to die was a prison guard. Someone saw the last attack, a man who worked in the kitchens and was a little too fond of his wine. He claimed that the attacker was a beast with yellow eyes that came out of the shadows and dragged the guard away. They organized a hunting party, but they were never able to find or catch the beast. The guards that remained were terrified, so they moved the prisoners to a newer wing of the prison— the one that they use now— and the old dungeon was locked up. The beast has been little more than a legend for over a century. But, if that’s the creature you saw, it would appear that he is back.”

  Rathbone had been nodding anxiously throughout her speech, and now he shook his head impatiently. “But what does that tell me about the beast?” He asked anxiously. “I know its history, but how do I know what it is? How do I kill it?”

  Melisande stared back at him. “It’s very important to you, isn’t it? That you kill it?”

  Rathbone almost leapt across the table. “It’s important to everyone! How can people live like this? How can they walk in the sunshine and eat and play and make merry when they know what walks in the shadows? How can they be… at peace with this darkness? How can I? This thing has broken my mind. I do not eat, I do not sleep. I pick up a book of medicine and the letters flail and writhe under my gaze as though they are alive, as though they seek to scramble off the page. The words mean nothing to me and I cannot think.” His voice was almost a snarl, and at first Melisande drew back, alarmed, but as he spoke she relaxed, once again aware that his rage was not meant for her. “I must stop it. I must repay it for the theft of my mind. I must have justice.”

  So it was vengeance, then. Indeed, there was more uniting them than Melisande dared think about and once again she felt a flush of sympathy for him.

  “There are rumors about his origin,” she held up a hand to silence him when he began to interrupt. “Rumors that suggest exactly what kind of creature he might be, but I can’t vouch for the validity of any of them. I haven’t seen the creature myself, and even last century these rumors were mere gossip, not accepted fact.” Melisande was unsure at which moment she had crossed the line from humoring a madman to counseling a beastslayer, but at some point she had accepted his beast as a flesh-and-blood demon and not a phantom of his mind, and now there was no going back.

  “The bride who was killed,” she began, “the beast is rumored to be her husband. He had disappeared not long before her death. Rumor has it that he was a handsome young man of good family but ill reputation. He was said to be quite charming, and it was a matter of great surprise when he chose to settle down so young. It is said that his bride’s family did not approve of him. In order to punish him, the bride’s aunt is said to have cursed him, disfiguring him and forcing him to live as a beast, ruled by a beast’s appetite and a beast’s instincts. The rumor differs here: some say that the aunt cursed him knowing that he would kill his bride; others say she never intended for her niece to die. At any rate, his first act as a beast was to kill the one he loved. They say he took his revenge upon the bride’s family and then banished himself to the dungeons to live off of the guards. No one knows exactly what sort of beast the aunt is said to have made him in to, but some say that a spear of ash that pierces his heart will drain his life’s blood and send him, at last, to rest.”

  “That was no ladies’ man that came to me that night,” Rathbone said grimly. “I have my doubts about his origin story, but if they are correct about how to kill him, well… his days are numbered.”

  “Be careful,” Melisande said, suddenly concerned for Rathbone. She did not want his life on her head. There was only one man she wanted to send to his death, and Rathbone was not that one.

  “I’ve survived him once,” Rathbone asserted. “I will live to triumph over him.”

  They sat in silence together, until the distant tolling of a bell roused them and reminded Melisande of her many tasks for the day.

  “Do you have anything else for me?” Rathbone turned hungry eyes on her as though she were his salvation.

  “I’ve told you everything,” Melisande answered. That was not, strictly speaking, true. There was one fact she had omitted, but it had nothing to do with the legend of the beast. She had not told him about the disappearance of one member of the Court. Sansano, the Queen’s Fool, had gone missing recently, and while many fanciful reasons for his disappearance had been put forth, the generally accepted explanation was either foul play or some highly unfortunate accident. For several days there had been talk of dredging the moat, but the Queen had put a stop to that right away, and Melisande was glad. She had no idea where the Fool was, but she hated to think what might have been discovered in his stead had the moat been dredged. It had been undisturbed for centuries, quietly collecting the castle’s darkest secrets in its depths. At any rate, in light of Rathbone’s tale of the beast, the midnight disappearance of the fool took on an entirely different, more sinister light.

  “I must go.” Melisande rose from her seat, leaving a cooling but untouched cup of tea in her wake. Rathbone stood immediately as well, going quickly to the door.

  “Of course, of course,” he said quickly. “I know how busy you must be… witch’s apprentice, so many things to do.”

  “Yes,” Melisande agreed vaguely, hiding a cringe as the marks at her wrists throbbed unexpectedly. She hoped it wasn’t going to be a painful day. She had so much to do and it was easier to concentrate when she wasn’t holding back tears from the pain.

  “Be careful,” she told him again as she moved to go.

  “Of course,” he repeated, holding the door open for her.

  She hesitated in the doorway, meeting his gaze. One of his earlier questions, uttered in the heat of his distress, had stuck with her and it bothered her now. She licked her lips. “People in this castle, they do not think about the shadows. If they did they would be paralyzed; there is precious little good here.”

  He watched her curiously as her last words faded. “I am surprised that you find yourself here, given your history with the Queen. One would think that you’d had enough of the battles of royalty.”

  Her eyes widened; she had not told him of her history, but his gaze was knowing and it unsettled her. She did not respond, merely nodded, tight-lipped, and turned to go. As she let herself out onto the street she could feel him standing at the window, watching her long and weary walk back to the castle.

  ***

  Anise returned at dawn, her boots black with mud and her cloak rank with the scent of blood. The attendants at the gate swarmed her, reaching for her horse, for the carcass slung over her mount. They knew better than to touch her, however, and Anise dismounted without their assistance, leaving them to tend her horse and carrying into the castle only her bow.

  The Princess Frederica was on the stairs when her eldest daughter came home, and they passed each other with little more than a nod. Prince Delwyn and Princess Frederica had long since divided their children between them, and Anise was quite firmly her father’s daughter. Frederica’s nose wrinkled at the scent that wafted from her daughter’s clothing, and her stomach, unsettled by morning sickness, rolled uncomfortably at the stench.

  Frederica was startlingly forgettable. She was of average height and build, had a mild sort of prettiness now fading with the years, and was quite unassuming in manner. Upon first meeting her, people often found it difficult to believe that she was royalty twice over: she had been born into a foreign ruling family and at a young age had married the Crown Prince of Wulfyddia. She spoke slowly, and her words were carefully chosen. Her children rarely saw her angry, or otherwise overtly emotional, save for when she spoke to or thought of her mother in law. Justine’s forced isolation from the rest of the world had sparked a hatred in Frederica that not even time had erased, and Tryphena’s recent order that Justine be removed still farther— all of the way to the Haligorn— had only
deepened the divide between the two royals.

  Arthur had been on his way to attend the Queen, but when he caught sight of the slim young daughter of Delwyn he paused to pick lint off of his sleeve and dared a few furtive glances at her as she passed him. She barely seemed to notice him, which was more or less what he was used to, but he couldn’t help the smile that touched his lips at the sight of her. Even the reek of blood didn’t put him off. It was only as she vanished into the royal breakfast chamber that he was able to return to the task at hand.

  Only two members of the royal family were breakfasting when Anise arrived. “Dim, Dory,” Anise greeted each of her sisters in turn. Dimity closed her eyes in distaste as the stench of her sister reached her and Eudora scowled. Neither of them were particularly thrilled with Anise’s nicknames for them.

  Eudora, second daughter of Delwyn and Frederica, was her sister’s opposite in almost every way. They were of roughly the same size, both were small women, but while Anise was muscled and tanned, Eudora was faintly plump and had soft, doughy skin. She was in the habit of wearing lots of lace, and since her allergies had her sniffling most of the year, she was most frequently seen dabbing at her nose or eyes with a voluminous white lace handkerchief while chattering away to the ladies of the court.

  Dimity was taller than both of her older sisters, though still not a particularly large woman. She had the stiff grace of her grandmother, and the same round brown eyes and dark curls that the Queen herself had once sported, back in her younger days when she was breaking hearts as Tryphena of Wollstonely. She was the most presentable of the seven daughters of Delwyn, having also inherited her grandmother’s insistence on formality in all matters, and as such she frequently represented Tryphena at events when the Queen herself could not make it.