by Ted Neill
It was cold. With painful clarity, Gabriella knew now how much she missed her family. She looked at the boy. An abyss opened within her, and she fell backwards as if she had been kicked, the knowledge of the pain she would feel if anything ever happened to her brother washing over her. Her feeling was not love but born of the darkness of love’s underside: fear. Fear for herself—the guilt, the self-accusation she would experience if something terrible ever happened to Dameon, because she had wished it so many times.
Gabriella stepped backwards away from the window, gathered the sheets and her knife, feeling the urgency of the moment return, raced out of the room. She carried the bundle of sheets back to the window and tied the end around a column. Just before she dropped the rest of the length over the side, she speculated that it would be safer just to go back to the kitchen and not climb back into the privy. She played out a scenario where she would tell Meeshock that she had been knocking at the door, calling for him, but since he had not heard her she had tried an alternate route, climbing up the wall to the window.
He would never believe her. Even if he did, he would surely doubt her. Climbing out and risking her life only showed how desperate she was and how little she trusted him. She dropped back over the side. The sun had sunk farther into the sea, and the shadow of the castle had grown longer and darker. The moon was a pale white now. The wind was cold as she shimmied, the sheets clutched between her arms and legs. She moved down to the roof and let her rump rest on it for a moment, then she heard the pounding on the door below and Meeshock asking, “Are you all right in there?”
She slipped off the side so quickly she nearly slid down the length of the sheets and dropped off the end. Her leg hooked over the sill, and she pulled herself in. She landed on the bench with a thud. Meeshock heard it. “Gabriella, answer me or I’m coming in.”
The key slipped into the lock.
“I’m fine!” she said. But the key was jiggling into the tumblers. Something touched her shoulder. The sheet was blowing in through the window. She stood up on the bench and drew her knife to cut it. The key turned. The bolt slid out of place. He would hear the fabric ripping. The door handle moved downward. Gabriella leaned out the window, pulled the sheet to the side, and drove her knife through it and into a crevice between the stones.
The door opened. The lid over the hole thudded like a drum as Gabriella dropped onto it. She leapt into her shoes and adjusted her dress. Meeshock’s face peered around the edge of the door. Gabriella feigned embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I’ve got the runs, too, been drinking bad water. But I think they’ve passed.”
Meeshock grimaced and left grumbling.
Chapter 20
A Fallen House
The stew was ready. Meeshock had warmed a few rolls over the fire and set out a dish of butter. A kettle steamed with fresh tea, a sweating pitcher held chilled milk, and sliced meats were fanned out over a porcelain dish. Gabriella’s stomach grumbled at the sight of so much food.
When Meeshock turned his back, she brushed mortar dust off her skirt. The crate of eggs was gone, along with the vial of poison. Meeshock pointed to a clock on the wall. For a moment, Gabriella marvelled at its size—the clock in her village was enormous and rarely worked. Most people just used the sundial. This small marvel ticked away, its pendulum waving happily. It was five minutes to six. Meeshock grumbled that Sybil expected her dinner on the hour.
For her plan to work, Gabriella knew she needed to be the one to carry the food to Sybil. She had to guarantee that Meeshock would ask her to. Meeshock mumbled something about her taking too long in the privy, and now it was his turn to “drain the hole.”
“Watch the bread,” he told Gabriella as he stepped through the doorway. “Don’t let it burn.”
When Gabriella heard the door close behind him, she scanned the kitchen for ideas. She considered finding the key to the privy and locking Meeshock inside. But then she noticed that the wood rack beside the fireplace was empty. The fire was already burning low. She tipped the cauldron so that some of the stew fell onto the logs beneath. The logs hissed angrily. More rolls were toasting in a rack over the flames. Undaunted by the fact they were too hot to eat, she stuffed one into her mouth and washed it down with a ladle of water.
A poker hung beside the hearth. She used it to rearrange the logs to hide the vegetables that had spilled with the broth. When Meeshock returned, she made a show of blowing on the fire.
“It’s gotten quite low,” she said. Meeshock’s looked from the empty wood rack to the clock. He cursed. “You don’t know where the wood is kept. Can you carry a tray?”
“I used to serve in a fine lady’s house,” Gabriella lied.
“Good. Just serve Sybil, ask her if she needs anything. Get her anything she wants. Then wait in the doorway while she takes the first few bites. If she does not like something, she will ring the bell on the tray.”
“How far away is the wood? How long will you be gone?”
“Why?” he said, turning a suspicious eye on Gabriella. “Are you afraid you can’t do this?”
“No, no. I just was wondering in case I had a question.”
“Carry the tray. Serve the food. Wait in the doorway. You can handle that. Sometimes she might ask you to sample it, to make sure it is not poisoned, but she does this at random times. Likely she will not. The wood is outside the keep. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Look at the clock, it is time.” He set all the items on the tray then handed it to Gabriella. “Don’t drop it. Hurry up.” He picked up the wood carrier beside the hearth and swept out through the doorway, still mumbling.
The dishes shook on the tray as Gabriella carried it down the hallway. She stopped just before entering the throne room to place the mirror’s handle upwards in her pocket. Omanuju was still talking, his voice droning beyond the tapestries covering the opening into the huge room.
Gabriella listened. His voice echoing in the empty chamber, Omanuju was telling the story of Zomar the Sailor and his seven sisters. It was a story about how, as a young lad, Zomar had taken his family for granted and treated his sisters horribly, but after seven ill fortunes befell Zomar, each of his sisters pitched in to help him, seven times. There was purpose behind choosing such a story. Gabriella knew Omanuju was already working on themes to reconcile Sybil with her own family.
Gabriella steeled herself in preparation for her plan, then picked up the serving tray, pushing aside the dust-laden tapestries to enter.
“Put it here, slave, on this table,” Sybil said as Gabriella appeared. Standing close to Omanuju to feel more secure, Gabriella was careful not to look at him, lest she appear suspicious. Adamantus stood nearby, a saddle thrown over his back.
Gabriella’s plan hinged on goading Sybil into overreacting to a clumsy slave. She did not know how much patience the princess had—not much judging so far—but Gabriella knew she had to push her. She stopped at the bottom of the steps to the throne.
When Sybil saw that Gabriella had paused with her dinner, the princess raised her hand and told Omanuju to stop. She spat out a strand of hair she had been chewing. “Why are you standing there like you are dumb?”
“I was awaiting permission to approach Your Highness.”
Sybil’s face hardened. “You may not call me ‘Highness—’”
“I am so sorry! I meant Your Majesty,” Gabriella interrupted.
Sybil, clutching the wand, stood up in the seat of the throne. “You will not call me ‘Majesty.’ You will not interrupt me. You—”
“One thousand apologies, oh wise one.”
“I am not wise! Wise is for the old!”
“One million apologies. Let me bring you your dinner.” Gabriella began running up the steps. When she was close, Gabriella tripped and threw the tray down in front of her, spilling the food and tea across the front of Sybil’s dress. The sound of Sybil’s gasp echoed in the silence that followed.
Adamantus’ hooves clicked on the floor as he stepped backwards. Omanuju’s
arm was raised as if to help, but Gabriella had carefully placed herself too far away for him to intervene. Sybil’s lips were trembling. The wand shook in her fist.
Gabriella fought her tension and feigned a wide yawn, only covering her mouth at the last moment, as if just remembering Sybil’s presence. She put her hands over her heart as if in frank apology. It was also where the pocket with the mirror was. “I’m sorry, Princess. I’m just so tired. I wish I could just sleep. Maybe you could spell me into a nap. I promise I could be better.”
Sybil’s expression did not change. “I would torture you, but I need you to clean up this mess. But I still wish to torture you for your impudence. I know,” she said. “I shall make two of you. One to clean, one to torture. You can take turns each day.”
Things were spinning wildly out of control. “Oh please no, my beautiful princess. I’m sure I only need a nap—”
It was too late. Sybil lifted her wand and squinted. Light burst forth. Gabriella whipped the mirror out in front of her. Her own terrified reflection looked back at her. She twisted her wrist and snapped the mirror around. There was a pop as the reflecting surface bounced the spell away. Gabriella lost her footing and fell backwards. Sybil’s pupils shrank into pinpoints as light—bright as the sun—enveloped her. Energy sizzled in the air. The princess opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Her body doubled over in pain, and she clutched her middle as if she had been impaled by a spear. Gabriella scrambled down the steps to Omanuju’s side.
“What have I done? Can we help her?”
Omanuju stepped forward up the stairs but the heat radiating from the light was too much. “There is nothing we can do now,” he said.
The light became a wedge and pierced Sybil in the navel. She tumbled over to the floor. Her right arm still clutched the wand. Gabriella knew she should try to take it, but she was afraid of approaching the princess and the burning light. Sybil waved her arms wildly. Gabriella could not believe her eyes, there were three arms, then four, two extra had sprouted from Sybil’s armpits. In the new left hand there was a second wand.
“Help me!” Sybil cried, but her voice was actually two voices, speaking in unison. Now there were two extra legs and soon a second torso, twisting like a wrestler away from an opponent. With a horrible stretching sound, a second head began to bud from the side of Sybil’s skull. A double face appeared then divided. Gabriella could see two distinct heads before a final flash of light.
When it faded, there were two Sybils sitting on the dais. They wore identical, ill-fitting dresses. The original Sybil on the right was unconscious, but the second Sybil, on the left, leaned against the queen’s throne and rubbed her head. She seemed surprised to find a light blue wand in her left hand.
“I think I have just made things terribly worse,” Gabriella said.
“Where I am?” the second Sybil asked. “Who are you?”
The first Sybil groaned.
“Listen, you can come with us,” Gabriella said. “This is a cursed place.”
The second Sybil struggled to concentrate, rubbing her eyes. “Wait, I know you. You are my slave . . . my lazy slave.” She looked again at her wand. “This is mine, isn’t it?”
“Time for us to go,” Omanuju said, picking up Gabriella and tossing her onto the back of Adamantus. He mounted behind her, and the elk made a break for the door, his hooves throwing off chips of stone from where they struck the flagstone floor.
“Come back here!” the second Sybil shrieked.
In the courtyard, they skidded to a stop before a surprised Meeshock.
“What’s going on?” He dropped his bundle of wood, the logs tumbling out onto the ground.
“Sybil has become the victim of her own spell,” Omanuju said. By means of explanation, Gabriella held out the mirror.
“I tried goading her into firing at me. I was hoping to deflect a spell of sleep at her, but it was something else—”
“Where is she now? What happened to her?”
“She is unconscious, but—”
“But the wand!”
“Forget the wand! Meeshock, you can escape with us, this is your only chance,” Gabriella said.
But he was already running into the castle screaming, his voice echoing off the castle walls. “You little wench! Now you will bend a knee to me!”
She felt the elk shudder beneath them. Omanuju sighed. “The corruption in this place is irredeemable. Let the lost seek the lost.”
They galloped past the blue oak, Gabriella fighting back tears that they were leaving with one less in their party than they had arrived with. The elk turned down a corridor, leapt around a colonnade, and descended through the garden. The growth was thick and disoriented her. She lost her sense of direction. When they emerged on the far side of the garden, she saw the Elawn’s prow directly ahead of them. Funny—that didn’t seem to be where they left the ship.
“That is odd,” she said, more to herself than Omanuju. “I could have sworn we moored farther down.”
Adamantus seemed confused as well and slowed his stride. His nose studied the scents on the wind. Perhaps the ship simply had drifted, Gabriella thought. They were lucky it had not floated farther. The airship disappeared from sight as they passed under one last set of trees before the elk came to an abrupt halt. Adamantus lowered his head to get a better look at the scene unfolding before them. Gabriella, looking between his antlers, could not believe what she saw.
Dameon was climbing up the hill towards them.
It had to be another boy, she thought. The sun was playing tricks on her. This cursed castle was playing tricks on her. The boy in front of her only looked like Dameon.
He called out her name, his face unmistakable, the voice undeniably his. She had been put asleep, she realized. This was a dream. This was a nightmare, Sybil’s punishment.
“Gabriella,” he called out again and ran forward to her. He tripped and fell as a leash fastened to his feet ran out of slack.
“Dameon!” she cried, dismounting to run to his side. She picked him up. His face was gaunt. His lips were cracked as if he had not had water for days and he reeked of urine and feces. Once in her arms, he began to keen and rock. It was her brother. He was real.
Dameon could only take short steps due to the leash. Gabriella followed its length to a figure standing among the trees. In one hand, he held the line leading to Dameon, in the other a crossbow, the bolt loaded and the string taut. Mortimer Creedly the hunter-trapper from Harkness that had pulled Dameon out of the stream what felt like a lifetime ago, looked as shocked to see Omanuju and Gabriella as they were to discover him.
“Mortimer,” Omanuju said.
“Omanuju Ant, what are you doing here?”
Mortimer’s question remained unanswered as a ground-shaking explosion erupted from the castle. Gabriella spun around, her ponytail snapping in the air beside her head, to see a section of castle wall launched skyward. Bricks hurled into the air, flying towards them like swallows in migration. The entire battlement teetered, leaned, then began to tumble across the garden.
“Run!” Omanuju cried. Gabriella grabbed her brother and darted to her right just as a piece of castle rolled end over end through the trees. It careened through the garden, breaking branches, flattening bushes, and leaving deep gouges in the ground until it rolled to a stop, settling like a small house fallen from the sky. Smaller pebbles hailed down around them with a noisy rattle, snapping against leaves. The pebbles were followed by a snow of dust settling over the plants. Gabriella blinked the grit out of her eyes as a second clap of thunder sounded, followed by a long, sustained flash. Rays of light shot out from within the main keep, shaving off more of the castle’s rocks and mortar, creating a second barrage of wild stones and collapsing battlements.
Gabriella curled around her brother. This avalanche—even larger than the first—flew over their heads and landed farther down the garden as great sections of wall toppled and crashed down the slope, crushing statues and
sweeping aside trees like angry giants.
Gabriella looked up from her brother and saw Mortimer staring down at his crossbow, the bolt had sprung. Omanuju lay on his side, writhing and groaning in pain. When he rolled onto his back, she saw the dart lodged between his ribs.
“Omanuju!” she cried, while Mortimer looked horror-struck at the empty crossbow. He threw it aside and rushed to Omanuju’s side. Even Adamantus bent down, his eyes deep pools of anxiety. Omanuju grimaced, lifting his hand from the wound and turning up his palm, now covered in bright, red blood.
“Omanuju, I am so sorry, I did not mean—” Mortimer said.
“An accident, Mortimer, I know. But we must get to the Elawn.” Omanuju drew himself up, wincing and gasping from the pain of movement. Gabriella and Mortimer pushed him to lay back. Their eyes met. Gabriella saw terrible, sincere shame on Mortimer’s face, but it barely registered with her, her anger growing to fury. As if reading her mind, Omanuju croaked, “No time for recriminations. We must escape.”
Adamantus trotted up, sliding in among them so they could help Omanuju onto his back. He clung to Adamantus’ neck, then reached down to help Gabriella climb up behind him, his movements leaving a bright, red streak of blood on the elk’s fur.
“No, go! I need to get Dameon.” She slapped the elk’s flank and turned to her brother. He rocked and moaned, covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut. He had not been in such a state since they had tried to make him spend a day in the schoolhouse learning with the other children, but this was much worse. Before Gabriella could pick up Dameon, Mortimer swept him up and tucked her brother under his arm like a bag of feed. He ducked under a flying brick and motioned for Gabriella to run. They followed Adamantus as he led them through the trees to the pier as bricks continued to shatter around them. At the garden’s edge, where the Elawn was moored, a smaller ship drifted beside it with the name Tantallon etched onto its side. Gabriella scanned the deck hopefully for passengers, other Harkenites, or even some second incarnation of Ghede, but the decks of both ships were empty. Mortimer and her brother must have come alone.
