by Lorelei Bell
Zofia smiled back at him, as he let go of her hand. Nervous tension still thrummed through her. Who said she felt safe around him? His attraction for her was more than apparent. But there was something familiar about him, and she was flustered to no end to figure out what it was. Was it his scent? Strong, it was slightly musky. She was trying to place it when Doreen interrupted.
“Funny,” Doreen said thoughtfully. “You don't have a typical Nithhald accent.”
Oops. “I'm actually from Hringwald,” Zofia said instantly. “I've spent only a few years in Nithhald.”
“Indeed? My other sister—the middle one, originally married to Orian Dumas, and now remarried to Arminius Brisco. Perhaps you know her? Her name is Hildagard Mist?”
Zofia's face became warmer by the moment, trying to come up with some good reason she didn't know Hildagard Mist. “I-I actually moved from town to town, as a child. We just moved around. My father was a-a carpenter, so…” Okay, that was a stupid thing to say. She just hoped Doreen wasn't related to any carpenters herself. She really had to be careful about telling people very much about herself. Being an undercover spy for the Knights was really hard, she decided.
Doreen was eying both Zofia and Myron with a suspicious look. Finally she said, “I'm sure it's none of my business,” she said slowly, making with the little nervous chuckle again. “But as pretty as you are, and well into your breeding age, one couldn't believe you could be unattached?”
Breeding age? What was she, a farm animal now? Doreen had the folksy lingo down, for sure. Zofia knew this question would eventually be asked, and she was prepared for it. “I'm widowed, actually. I've two children. Both are still in school.” On Euphoria, children—Ugwumps or magical—after age of eight went away to school all year long, with the exception of the holidays and Sabbats.
“Widowed? Oh, my dear, I'm so, so sorry,” Doreen said, with the full complement of the lower lip being sucked in to show her emotions as her hand went to her ample chest.
“I'm not,” Myron said almost boastfully, leaning slightly toward Zofia. Amid the shocked silence and stares, Myron amended, “I only meant that I'm happy that you aren't taken. I'd really love to take you to dinner some time.”
Zofia merely smiled back at him, saying nothing.
After a few words about the weather, both Myron and Doreen became silent. The widow must have fallen asleep. Zofia noticed she'd leaned against her side of the coach snoring. Loudly. Everything about the widow made Zofia suspicious. There was something not quite right about her, and in the silence, she was able to zero in on it when she saw the shoes. They were heavy, tie-up black shoes, and her feet were rather large as well.
The ride to the castle was long and tedious—but not as long as her ride from Stephen's castle. Doreen Clutterbutt had little trouble in filling it in with long-winded chatter about herself and people she knew. Zofia learned more about the woman than she cared to learn. But this was alright with her, since she quit asking Zofia personal questions.
Antares had long ago set behind the mountains, rendering their surroundings dark and rather murky. Zofia knew from memory how it could become very dark very quickly in the mountains. She recalled as a child that people would not venture outdoors at night for fear that they might come across Hellhounds or wood spirits. Here, so far north, it wasn't the Hellhounds that had people locking up at night, but werewolves and vampires. Werewolves were out there hunting in the full moons. Tonight, two of the three moons hung low in the sky full and bright, while the third had begun to wan. It was good that the horses were able to speed along the somewhat smooth road. Zofia only wanted to arrive safely at Ravenwood, and somehow find her way into Dark Castle. She still didn't know how this would be arranged, since, through reading the book The Traveling Wanderer, it was next to impossible to actually go up to the castle without being sucked into a Portal and sent either somewhere inside the castle, or back where you began—at the very bottom of the menhir.
Despite Doreen's constant yammering, with the rocking motion of the coach, and the squeaking of the springs, the ride relaxed Zofia and she dropped off to sleep.
It wasn't until the loud sounds of the equipage rolling over a bridge brought her awake. Opening her eyes, Zofia realized she had been leaning against someone's shoulder. Myron's. His arm warmly about her, holding her close, this was overly possessive—especially for a stranger. Understanding jolting her fully awake. Zofia straightened and pulled away from him. A fur cloak fell from her onto the floor. She looked down at herself, wondering if Myron had used the cover of the cloak to let his hands wander. She took full stock of the appearance of her clothing, and found nothing rudely out of place. Her hand went automatically to her neck. The scarf. It seemed slightly askew, but it might have been the way she had been leaning. She arranged it over her scars quickly, hoping her long hair, and the near-dark conditions had kept them from view.
She gazed up at Myron. He smiled down at her.
“We've arrived,” Myron announced. “Did you have a nice nap? I had to hold on to you, the road was rather rough. Didn't want you falling to the floor.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. Clearing her throat, she added, “Thank you.” She looked across at Doreen. She was gazing out the window, looking up at something that made her brow furrow.
“I see they've put up the banners again,” Doreen said. “These look nicer.”
“The dragon?” Myron said, squinting out the window and up. Zofia recalled that the deep resonating sound of Myron's voice was what had actually helped lull her to sleep as the two conversed about everything from wine, to werewolves, to candles and popular books.
“Yes. That's Count Saint Germain's coat of arms,” she said with her usual chuckle at the end.
Looking out the window, Zofia's eyes filled with what must have been the outer gate of a grand castle. Several torches lit the way inside. Drawbridge down, the jaws of a steel portcullis had risen half-way, allowing the coach through and beyond the Gate House. Once inside, Zofia strained to see a castle, but could find none. Only a small, tightly built village, made up of a dozen or more houses, and various buildings made of wood or stone, shoulder to shoulder with only one narrow cobblestone lane trickling down the center. It bent slightly left, placing a portion of the village out of sight. Amber lights blazed in windows, and the glow from individual street lamps lined the cobblestone lane, giving it all the quaint look that Zofia remembered that most villages on Euphoria had.
The carriage rocked side to side as it moved forward at a slow pace. The hooves of the horses clicked sharply across the stone under them. Then, she saw it. Something vast and dark loomed across her vision, and she had to blink to make sure she wasn't seeing things. In fact, it was almost hard to pull it in as it almost seemed like a mirage. Was this the castle? She couldn't be sure. It all seemed so strangely flat, like one huge stone. It rose straight up, and angled out of sight. A waterfall rushed down its side and drained into a pool below.
The wheels of their carriage clattered along, just inches from the edge of the pool. She gazed down into the pool, momentarily mesmerized by the sight of multiple moon beams being tossed about on turbulent waters.
“Whoa!” called the driver and the stagecoach came to a halt.
Zofia breathed in the new scents and took in the sounds. Woodsmoke cloyed the air, as did the aromas of hearty meals, she picked out the hearth-baked bread. She suddenly felt hungry. It had been a long ride, and she hadn't eaten in many shadowpasses.
The crusty driver climbed down off his high perch and opened the door for them.
The widow was first to exit, and having only one bag, she trundled up the stone steps and disappeared into the noisy aroma-filled inn.
Myron had climbed out quickly after, offering to help both Zofia and Doreen out.
“Thank you, my boy,” Doreen gasped and groaned, unbending herself from the coach. “Oh, I don't think I've had a more interesting conversation in such a long while,” she told Myron on a gas
p. “Do try and stop by for some tea and crumpets sometime, my dear.”
“I look forward to it,” he said as he helped Zofia find her way down the small stepping stool to the ground.
“Thank you,” Zofia said as she found solid footing and also felt that her body had become stiff with the long ride. Now that she was able to see her surroundings, Zofia took everything in almost at once. Ravenwood Inn was built mostly of stone, and was handsome enough on the outside to be a quaint stop for the night. And judging from the loud music, laughter and carousing, it had to be the local hangout. It anchored the rest of the village, it seemed, as it was wedged in at the very end in a nook between two other businesses. Doreen's Books & Candles Emporium was situated one house down on the left, while Grubb's & Schanke's Apothecary, and a little lamp shop huddled to the right of that. She watched as Doreen made her way toward the small yellow house with wrought iron fencing, joined to her little candle shop.
The driver had taken every bag down, save one. Zofia's trunk was still attached to the back of the coach. The driver waddled up to her.
“That'll be another silver piece.”
“What?” Zofia was outraged. “This is absurd! This is highway robbery!” And if she didn't have to hide the fact that she was a sorceress, she'd give the big ugly man the biting fungus on his butt after floating the thing down by herself with her powers.
“Why don't I take it down for you?” Myron suggested.
Zofia glanced at him and then back at the driver. “I suppose that's the only other way.”
“Suit yourselves,” the driver grunted, shrugged and walked toward the front of the carriage.
Myron unfastened the trunk and hauled it down off the back of the coach and settled it on the ground between them. He seemed quite strong, and lifting the big heavy trunk off the coach didn't make him breathe very hard. Not even a little bit, in fact. She figured he must be a farm boy, used to such hard work.
Now her only worry was to get it to the castle.
Were was the castle?
She turned to Myron. “Can you show me where the castle is, exactly?”
“The castle?” he said. He turned back toward the direction they came along that waterfall, and pointed up the rocky cliff side. “Up there.”
She gazed up at the huge megalith. And then it hit her. Of course. How could she have been so stupid? The menhirs! The very ones she'd been reading about in The Traveling Wanderer. The castle was built on top of one of them.
“So, how do you think you'll be getting this trunk all the way up them steps?” Myron asked. “At this hour,” he added.
Zofia looked around herself. Everyone was either inside the inn getting roaring drunk or sleeping in their houses. How indeed? Lacing her fingers, she kneaded them uselessly.
“That's an awful long way up to heft your luggage, too, I might add.” He nodded to the other bags which were also hers.
“You say there's steps?”
“Yes.” He pointed again toward the menhir.
She found the steps did begin very close to where they stood and wound in a zig-zag fashion up the monolith and out of sight in the glow of many torches.
“I hope you've brought plenty of silver to pay the peasants, because that's the only way your things are going to get up there.”
Zofia's mouth twisted with indecision. She remembered how far up Barty said had it was—a good two hundred steps to the top. The one or two bags she could carry, but she would have to part with possibly more Obolus in order to get the chest of things up those steps. Maybe even a rothgar. She wouldn't be able to lift it herself with her Powers, not for that great a distance. Even if she could she would have to wait until everyone was asleep before she'd dare try it. If only she had the Stone, she'd get it up there without a problem. But, here she was, with an Ugwump problem. And Biddle couldn't help her at all, either, since she wasn't even supposed to have a Ghogal to help her. She hated playing the Ugwump again. She was amazed that Biddle had remained very quiet, behaving himself—as far as she knew—the whole way. She had to wonder where he'd gone to, now. It was quite unusual for him not to become his usual animated self.
“I'm expected,” she said almost in a petulant voice. “I can't believe that the count wouldn't have sent someone down to get my things for me.”
“The count sometimes isn't home. Or, he's busy. But, possibly, he didn't foresee that you would have brought your entire household with you.”
Zofia's mouth came unhinged on a big huff of indignant air. “My house?” She pointed at the trunk. “That's all of my clothes, and things I need to do my job! Where do you get off saying that's the entire contents of my house!”
Myron assumed the usual male stance when faced with such reproach from a woman; hands out, trying to mollify her. “Never mind. You wait right here,” Myron said and dashed up the steps of the tavern. Zofia folded her arms and tapped out a staccato on the cobble, waiting for Myron to return. When he wasn't back within a minute, she was reduced to pacing back and forth and then around her trunk muttering to herself about how everything would have been just fine if only Dorian hadn't jumped to conclusions about her. And then Stephen. Oh, Stephen and his grand scheme of placing her here to spy on a count who may or may not be a vampire. “What ridiculous rubbish!” she muttered to herself.
After several moments, Myron returned with two men in tow wearing red bolo vests with bright designs laboriously hand stitched into them, and very roomy pantaloons, heavy black boots, and huge walrus-like black mustaches. Both men wore the gold hoop earrings, and one had a long red scarf tied around his head, while the other wore a broad rimmed black hat. Gypsies.
Myron was speaking to the men in their language. They went back and forth, the two men rubbing their jaws, and making quite a show of it as they examined the trunk. She knew they were haggling over how much they would charge to carry the heavy trunk. One of them kept looking up the stairs, saying some word over and over, shaking his head as though the whole idea sounded like a waste of time.
Myron pulled out a coin bag, and palmed two gold coins, Zofia couldn't see them until he placed one into the awaiting palm of the Gypsy man with the hat.
Zofia was gaping at the coins—they were not Rothgars, but were quite large, she'd never seen any coinage quite like them. She was sure he'd over payed them, but the men were more than happy to carry the trunk after haggling a little bit longer. Myron was just as shrewd, refusing to give them the second gold piece until they were done with the task.
Now she owed Myron a great deal more than she had bargained for, and stepped over to him.
“What do you mean in paying them gold?” she grumbled. “I don't have that kind of money to repay you.”
Myron smiled, the dimples running long and deep, his teeth gleaming in the amber glow of a nearby street lantern. “Calm down. They're Gypsies. They only like paper money or gold, and I didn't have enough paper money on me for what they wanted.” He shrugged.
“But, I can't pay you back. Not right away, anyway,” she complained.
“Don't worry about it,” he said, dipping to grab up the other two bags. “All I ask is for you to have dinner with me some night.” He turned and followed the two Gypsy men who were hefting the trunk up the stairs.
Releasing a sigh of complete resignation, Zofia grabbed up the rest of her things and followed the parade up the steps. Myron was in front of her, following the Gypsies. It was slow going, but that was alright, it was a long way up. They reached the bend in the steps as it followed the rocky ledge.
“You know,” Myron began as he stopped to wait for the men to get a little further along, “the widow seemed a bit strange. Don't you think?”
“Yes,” she agreed, astonished.
“Didn't say a word,” he added.
“No, and I really had a hard time believing those were real sobs.”
“Hmm, me too, come to think of it,” he said.
“In fact I had a hard time believing it was a woman.�
��
“You too?” he asked.
“Yes,” she gasped realizing that they'd both thought the same thing.
“Hands were too big. Wrists, just too large.”
“They'd be handy wielding an ax,” Zofia observed.
They both chuckled at this.
“Why do you suppose a man would go to the trouble of disguising himself like a women—like a widow?”
“With the full veil?” Zofia nodded.
“He didn't want to be recognized,” Myron concluded.
“He must be well known,” she thought out loud.
“He must be someone famous.”
“Or an outlaw, wanted by the Knights,” Zofia mused worriedly.
“They've gotten ahead of us,” he observed. Zofia became quiet as Myron turned and began marching up the steps again. A fugitive might want to keep his identity a secret. The only way into Ravenwood was through the Gate House. Obviously, the man was hiding out. Probably thinking that Ravenwood would be the best place to cool his heels until the hunt for him wasn't quite so intense. She felt it her duty to give a full description of the mystery person—to the best of her abilities—just in case the Knights were looking for a short man with large feet.
Halfway up, Zofia took in the view of the village. Quaint gingerbread houses were corralled by wrought iron fences, rustic brick and stone two story buildings butted up against the cobblestone street. She realized the only people out in the open night were herself, Myron and the two Gypsy men. She found it odd that the Gypsies would be lured by money to come out on the night of the full moons as superstitious as they were.
The weight of her books and portfolio began to wear on her arms and she had to stop and set them down for a moment. Her neck and back were sore from all this lifting, and she thought about how wonderful a nice hot bath would be, but she knew that she would be lucky to have a comfortable bed, the way things were looking.
Up ahead, Myron had out-paced her, the lengths of his long black cape slapping around his legs as he went. As though sensing she was no longer with him, he stopped and turned around to see how far away she was. He put down the bags and retraced his steps down to her. Leaning against the stone megalith, he looked down at her. He wasn't breathing hard. That seemed curious. Or, maybe living on First World had made her soft.
