A Castle Sealed: Castle in the Wilde - Prequel Novella

by Sharon Rose

  He opened the cover. A single word was written on the first page. Vixicats. His skin prickled.

  Tristan flipped the page, then more, sampling a few and finding the last entry. ’Twas a journal of discoveries. He leaned against the windowsill and began to devour its contents.

  There, James found him. “The draperies need replacing, but the mattress feels good.”

  Tristan startled and blinked at him. “What?”

  “Your bed for tonight.” James plumped the mattress in a few places. “It may be the only thing in this room that was ever replaced. I went up and checked the fourth floor quickly. Servants’ quarters and storage. The floors are creaky, but there is no sign of leaks, which is perhaps the most important thing of all.”

  A slow smile stretched Tristan’s lips as he listened to the prosaic words. “No, James.” He held up the journal. “This is the most important thing of all.”

  Cotrell came to lean against the door frame. “What have you found?”

  “A vixicat journal. It references the logs you found, James, but this writer drew conclusions. Things like waxing and waning populations, seasonal behavior changes, and…listen to this!” He flipped to a page he’d marked with one finger and read aloud.

  “‘The huntsmen have killed two small specimens and recovered the bodies. Thus, we’ve confirmed sightings of odd distortions. Both had scattered teeth with mixed traits of felines and canines. One had disproportionate hind limbs. The other had a bushy tail and coarse fur. Upon opening the carcasses, we were stunned by greater deformities. Excessive cartilage could explain why arrows rarely penetrate. Perhaps it causes them pain and fuels their viciousness. More surprising, the specimens were both male and female! Our physician dissected them. Though one had a shriveled womb, the other had all internal organs of both sexes. They appeared viable, though unused in this immature vixicat. Whether they can breed with themselves is uncertain. The physician considers it possible, for one testis was turned inward against the birth canal.’”

  He looked up from the journal to their wide eyes.

  “Wh—” Cotrell swallowed. “What weird force could have been at work to bring about a cross between canine and feline? Nature does not allow it!”

  “Indeed,” Tristan said. “Likewise, no cat or dog of any sort can reach the size of that black vixicat.”

  “No wonder the townsfolk dread them,” James said. “They seem like demon spawn. This could explain why the castle is forsaken.”

  Tristan frowned. Did it? He stared at the book in his hand. “The last entries were not of a man considering surrender. He believed he was nearing the chance to eradicate the beasts entirely.”

  “How?” Cotrell demanded.

  Tristan uttered a wry laugh. “I haven’t read the whole thing yet. But this, you’ll like. He mentioned going down to plot vixicat positions on the map. Down from the tower, I gather. Did you walk the whole south end of the ground floor?”

  “Nay!” Cotrell turned from the door, striding for the stairs. “I went no farther than the tower entrance.”

  In moments, all three of them traversed the interior stone corridor. Their footsteps echoed as they skirted the tower’s base. Beyond, lay a heavy wooden door with an iron latch.

  Tingling with anticipation, like he was stepping into some ancient mystery, Tristan lifted the latch and pushed the door open. They entered, raising their lamps high.

  No luxury here. Massive stone blocks formed the walls, one curving with the tower. Iron candlestands lined two walls. A heavy, rectangular table dominated the center of the room. And on that table…Tristan stepped nearer. Maps.

  Cotrell raised his lamp over them.

  “Nay, let no spark fall. This parchment is old.” Tristan pointed to the candles. “Light them.”

  This they soon accomplished. While Tristan and Cotrell bent over the maps on the table, James opened a cedar chest. “There are map tubes here, my lord, inscribed with letters and numbers.”

  Already intent, Tristan murmured, “These two will do for a start.” Though the maps were the same size, one covered a broader area. Tristan pointed as he spoke, “Here is the River Thane. Moorelin gets a tiny mention on the edge there, and here is western Verenlia. We must have come through some of these towns.”

  Two lines were marked leading west from Verenlia, both converging on a pentagon not far from the Great Sea. To the south, an empty area was labeled only with the scrawled name of Lavaycia.

  Cotrell pointed at it and asked, “What know you of Lavaycia?”

  “Not much more than whoever drew this map. Verenlians complain of them.”

  “Why?”

  “Lavaycia has a seaport but allows no merchants to cross their lands. All of Verenlia’s trade must pass overland from much farther away, which drives prices up. Some things, they cannot get at all.” Tristan pointed again. “No matter to us, for Lavaycia lies south of this forest. Tower Woods, according to the map. A fitting name for those enormous trees we saw. Here’s the dividing plain.”

  “What do they call this forest?” Cotrell leaned in to read, then his voice dripped disdain. “The Wilde?”

  “Come now,” Tristan soothed. “It has an e on the end. That lends an elegant touch.”

  “Pha! ’Tis old spelling. They built a castle here and couldn’t think of a better name than The Wilde?”

  Tristan chuckled. “This, from the man who named his horse Grey.”

  “At least Grey is a name,” Cotrell grumbled. “And that is Sir Grey, to you.”

  Tristan gave him a mock bow. “Pray pardon me.”

  James angled his head, considering the map. “Lavaycians are much nearer neighbors than Verenlians. Yet they haven’t come here either.”

  Tristan shrugged off that oddity. “They are isolationists, reputed to never leave their own borders.” He pulled the other map nearer. “What have we here?”

  “Local area,” Cotrell said, after a quick glance. “They must have drawn this from the tower’s vantage point. These hills look accurate. Here’s the deeper part between the castle and ridge. ’Tis named—”

  They both inhaled at the same moment. Tristan intoned, “Vixicat Lair.” He stared at it a moment longer. “That valley we camped in…it leads to the vixicats’ lair.”

  The men exchanged glances.

  “When we leave here,” Cotrell said slowly, “we are taking a different route.”

  “That, we are. I’d like to set out soon after sunrise and get over the ridge before noon. It should be possible if we can determine a route from this.”

  They bent over the map again. Cotrell traced features. “There are two northeast-bound roads marked, and here is the bridge that once crossed the stream. They called that Cave Rapids. Ah, it must flow from this cave marked here. The other road goes around it and then backtracks up to the ridge crossing.” He straightened. “Even the long way around, I think we can make it. We can break our fast within the walls and need not stop in the woods.”

  “Have you forgotten the wolves?” James asked.

  “Never,” Cotrell replied. “They were at rest. I believe we rode right in among their dens. We will not do so again.”

  “The extra horse will not slow us either,” Tristan said. “’Twas useful among towns, but it made us vulnerable in the woods.”

  “Remember,” Cotrell added, “that we need not take down the entire pack. Only one or two. They don’t like prey that fights back.” He looked to Tristan. “I’d like to take this up to the tower, maybe to the north one, and study it further.”

  “Do you plan to leave tomorrow morning?” James asked Tristan.

  “I think not.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “We must consider provisions, and there is more here that I wish to see. Besides, I would leave all as carefully sealed as we found it…and that means we must find the hidden way out.”

  James regarded him a moment. “Which would also be the hidden way…in.”

  Tristan mimicked surprise. “I suppose it
would be.”

  Chapter 8

  Lavaycia

  Beth’s maid draped a lace-embellished shawl over her shoulders. Beth tried varied ways of arranging it before the dressing table’s mirror. Better to dally in this bedchamber than to spend one more minute than necessary in the salon. Ivan would hover, and it was bad enough that she must sit beside him again at dinner. At least rabbit had not been served last night. Had the chef balked at serving peasants’ food, or was there still a chance she’d be subjected to such a course?

  She studied the effect of the dainty, curled feather tucked within the high twists of her hair. Dyed to match her amber gown, of course. The maid had styled her dusky locks well. No excuse for delay there.

  A firm knock struck the bedroom door.

  Odd. She nodded to the maid, who went to answer the knock.

  Beth’s father entered. A fine doublet was molded to his broad shoulders, and the slashed sleeves revealed his full white shirt. She rose from the dressing table and met his dark blue eyes, trying to judge his mood. They seemed especially intense tonight. Was it because they reflected his doublet, or something more?

  Regardless, she had yet to find an opportunity to tell him what she must. To describe Ivan’s brutality while sounding calm and mature. Probably futile, since her parents only heard her as a child.

  Her father motioned for the maid to leave and waited for the door to close before speaking. “Apparently, I should have found time to talk with you earlier.”

  Her belly fluttered. “What mean you, Father?”

  “Think not that I have ever been blind to the noble children. I note your delay in coming down. Your stiffness at dinner last eve and Sareen’s daggered glares at Ivan. Which have now turned to daggered words. Tell me what happened.”

  At least this granted a smooth entrance to the subject. Beth related the bare facts, then adjusted her shawl. “Perhaps it doesn’t matter how he killed the poor creature—though I found it gruesome—but his pleasure in the deed was…dreadfully disturbing.”

  Her father’s lips remained a hard line.

  Had she used too much emphasis? Hating the need to claim support, she said, “Sir Layton was present, if you would like a man’s view of the matter.”

  Her father shook his head. “Now that I know, not a word of this need be repeated.”

  Heat soared up Beth’s back. “More whispers to hide away?” She saw her father’s clenching jaw but ignored the warning. “Do you think I do not notice all the hushes? Think no more that I am a child, for indeed I am a woman now. Should I be left ignorant while others choose the man I will wed? As though I am not the one who must live with him! My entire life!”

  Her father’s low voice remained as inflexible as ever. “When you have learned the danger of hasty words, then—and only then—will I share what few know. Until that day, content yourself with the fact that you are not espoused to any man.”

  What few know? Nay, she would not be distracted. She forced her words past set teeth. “I will not wed Ivan Maerton!”

  He captured her hands. “Daughter! Cease these declarations. In moments, we will walk down the stairs and join your peers. Is this the mien you intend to show them?”

  She realized her posture, the tension in her face. Did she look enraged? Once again, she had behaved as a child—or so her mother would say. Straightening, she calmed her voice. “Nay, I will show only the respect you are due. But, Father, how am I to convey the depth of my concern in this matter?”

  “As though I am in doubt!” He tapped a finger against her chin. “Do I not care for you, m’Beth? Have I not said that you are not espoused?”

  She melted as he used the endearing name of old. “Forgive me, Father.” Her tone was perfect, and his face yielded. She opened and closed her mouth, longing to ask what he’d meant a moment ago.

  “Speak, my child.”

  “When you tell me…‘what few know’…will you also show me the rest of Lavaycia?”

  The creases deepened in his brow. “What fancy is this? You have seen Lavaycia.”

  “The duchies, aye, but not the lands north. The Tower Woods and beyond to the River Thane.”

  His blond eyebrows jutted. He seemed to find it hard to speak. “You have no idea what you ask!”

  Never had she seen such a strange expression pass over his face.

  Chapter 9

  The Castle in the Wilde

  Tristan joined James and Cotrell in a vain search through the cellars. Instead of tunnels or a hidden entrance, they found provisions and wine bottles with unreadable labels. James shook his head. “Whatever they used for ink, was not up to their typical standards.”

  Tristan and Cotrell left James when he discovered the kitchen well, a covered bin of firewood, and a washtub.

  “How can he think about washing clothes?” Cotrell murmured in the bailey.

  “I don’t know, but I admit, I’ll don fresh linens with pleasure.” Tristan headed first for the stable. “Let’s get our bows in case we spot something for dinner.”

  They gave each tower a careful inspection. All differed, for bedrock dictated their foundations.

  They ended at the square northwest tower and climbed first to its height. Cantilevers supported a western extension, which provided a view down the cliff face. A waterfall gushed from its base, creating a valley stream. Tristan studied the bare rock. No beast could climb that. On the orchard side, he could just make out a ledge before the cliff plummeted. “Let’s go down,” he said.

  Cotrell grunted, his gaze on a flock of ducks passing over.

  At the foundation level, Tristan stared. This was wrong. He looked up to see Cotrell’s reaction as he descended.

  He paused halfway down the steps. “Where’s the rest of it?”

  “Indeed!” Tristan inspected the stone wall that cut off half the tower room. “’Tis solid.” He strode out the door and skirted the structure that abutted the tower. He turned the corner by the wall and stopped short. “We were looking for tunnels…” He uttered a disbelieving laugh. “And there is a gate!”

  Cotrell halted next to him. “But to where? There was but a single gate on the orchard side, and that is back along the north wall.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Tristan led the way down the slope to a swing gate wide enough for one horse. An archway beside them supported the tower wall and gave access to the lower half of the foundation room. They peered inside.

  “Could be a guard room.” Tristan pointed to iron bars beside the gate. “It can be barred from this side—but ’tis not.”

  He lifted an iron latch—which scraped far more than he expected—and pulled. The gate swung inward on a pivot. ’Twas surprisingly thick, for the outside bore a layer of stone.

  “Would that I could meet the architect! I wager there is a cleverly hidden latch outside.”

  Cotrell shook his head. “I’ll not wager against that certainty.”

  Tristan studied the gate and its frame. “Three latches…” he murmured, then stepped beyond. “Open it in five minutes if I don’t get through.” The gate swung shut under its own weight. It took him a few minutes, but he knew what he was looking for and soon pushed the gate open. He grinned at Cotrell. “Come out. There are three hidden levers which must be worked in the correct sequence. I’ll show you. Then we can see where this path leads.”

  Cotrell mastered the mechanism, and with a satisfied nod, let the gate shut again. “Clever, but I no longer believe that only Burk’s father knew the hidden way.”

  “Nay, for that was a child’s understanding. No one else in their town knew. This is hidden from outsiders, not the castle residents.” Tristan turned. “And now, for this path.”

  “Which I will walk ahead of you.”

  Tristan raised his brows at Cotrell.

  “As I should have done with that tree.” Cotrell maneuvered past him. “A century of rain can pierce solid rock, and if you did not want my protection, you should not hav
e given me the rank of captain.” Cotrell strode ahead of him without waiting for an answer.

  Just as well. Prudence bade Tristan hold his tongue, and he was not fond of prudence. Still, Cotrell had a valid point. Tristan followed him along the path, which was, in fact, the ledge he’d seen from above. Bare rock on the right, a precipice on the left. He could imagine some horses—even some men—balking at the sight of it. They walked below the tangled hedge of the orchard. The ledge descended, though gradually. Farther on, it widened and merged with a valley in the woodland beyond the orchard.

  He and Cotrell surveyed it in silence, bows in hand. They couldn’t even see the castle from here. A flock of elderbirds meandered between trees, pecking at the ground.

  Tristan barely heard Cotrell whisper, “You take the nearest…on three.” They raised their bows. “One, two, three.”

  Both arrows found their marks, Cotrell’s an instant kill. Tristan’s wounded the bird, and it flailed, squawking, as the rest of the flock flapped awkwardly into low flight.

  Cotrell ran forward and dispatched the injured bird.

  Tristan nocked another arrow and watched the woods until Cotrell returned with both birds…and a grin. “Let’s get back. If he cannot find us, even James might get frantic.”

  They ate in the kitchen and—clean at last—slept in fine beds. Plans formulated in Tristan’s mind, even within dreams, it seemed.

  When they’d broken their fast, Tristan said, “Let’s go up to the roof. I noticed a fair amount of green from above and would know what it is.”

  They used the north tower, where the fifth-level door opened to the roof. Tristan paused and stared up the winding steps. “What’s up there, Cotrell?”

  “’Tis the domain of an artistic lady. Dainty furniture, unfinished paintings, and drawings with intricate detail. ’Twould not surprise me, were I told that she drew the map I studied.”