Going with Zola meant I had to have faith that Celeste would be safe. It was the only way I could leave the city. Once I had met with my sister, and learned something of my mother and my past, I would enlist Oleander to help search for her. I believed that Celeste and I were meant to find each other again.
Zola
Marek became more and more interesting. He genuinely seemed fond of me, and when I held him after our confrontation, the feeling was mutual. How did a mere witch exercise such power? I was determined to not let this go any further at least until he was converted. If something was to go wrong in the process then I would surely be held accountable, whether it was in fact an error of judgement on my part or not.
I refused to speak any further with Jean earlier that morning and we parted on bad terms. He of course couldn’t see that he had done anything wrong, so innocent was his look when he was questioned about the interference in Marek’s room. The rest of the evening was my idea, I am ashamed to admit, for it seemed at first harmless enough.
Jean and I agreed to play a game with Marek and the fishermen but I am not proud of how it eventuated. He was not supposed to remember so clearly. We came close to giving our guise away and Oleander would not have been pleased. The awakening was supposed to be her privilege. And what of Jean in Marek’s room? He said it was nothing, a misunderstanding, and surmised that Celeste had attempted to suffocate our other guest during his drug-induced slumber.
But I knew he was lying and that perhaps he was still continuing his game even then. I did not read any malice towards Marek in Celeste’s thoughts.
I was also angry with him for hitting Marek hard on the head. It split the bone and I had to heal him immediately. At times, Jean could be so infuriatingly silly.
I knew then that I couldn’t trust Jean to accompany us and I would have to keep Marek close until he was delivered safely to Oleander, and maybe even beyond that. In the meantime another package was on the way to her. The ridiculous fray that night at least forced an opportunity for disposal.
Celeste
I lay in darkness on the back of a cart, my hands tied behind my back. I could not see the driver but he was in a hurry. The wheels careered over bumps and dips in the track, and the horse skidded on slippery ruts. My shoulder was pummelled into the wooden flooring on every bounce.
It was not my own life that I worried about but the life of my master. It was still dark when I awoke earlier that morning, my head fuzzy with the poison those witches had given me at dinner. A shadow had passed by my door and I stood up from my bed, my legs weak. I opened my door a fraction to see Jean disappear like a ghost into Marek’s room. I followed his secretive step.
Marek’s door was slightly ajar. Jean leaned over him whispering and I stepped into the room. Memories of Zola in the forest came flooding back and the scene before me was unthinkable. Jean’s lips were drawn, his teeth resting on Marek’s neck, the skin not yet broken. Though still not clear of thought, I instinctively jumped on his back pulling him backwards, and pushing my fingers into his eyes. I was convinced, and it concurred with previous stories from my youth, that it was the eyes of these beasts that held all the power.
This clearly had an effect. Jean shrieked in pain and thrashed at me from behind, hitting at my legs. I refused to let go despite the strong blows from his fists. His panic only strengthened my resolve. I would not let him do to Marek what I had witnessed in the forest by Zola.
We fell into the hall and Zola came so quickly it was as if she slipped through the attic floorboards above us. She already knew what had happened and scolded Jean for being so irresponsible. She separated us by a physical strength that I had never seen in a woman. Then she turned to me. ‘She must be gone now!’ A coarse blanket was thrust over my head. My arms were pinned to my sides by his more powerful ones, and I was carried downwards and away into the early morning. Jean’s strong floral scent seeped through the thick weave of the blanket. There were words spoken at the bottom of the stairs between Zola and Jean: hurried terse directions like a tradesman to his apprentice.
In the cart, my head buzzed and my mouth was dry. I could feel the air gushing above my head. Even the horse sometimes slowed as it struggled against the heavy headwind.
When the cart stopped I heard the voices of people walking past, oblivious of the blanketed package only feet away. There was the clanging of iron being forged close by, and the smell of village wood smoke and food stalls. I felt thirst and hunger but it was not as strong as the desire to be free. I tried to kick at the side of the cart to alert a helper, for I was surely being sent to my death. My struggles proved useless with the binding so tight.
Having witnessed Jean’s actions I was convinced that Marek was not truly one of them; that he was not in on their vicious plans to be rid of me the first moment they could. But I knew that he desired Zola. I had seen the way he looked at her and this infatuation could be his downfall.
The cart moved again and the reassuring street chatter gradually disappeared. I had been gagged with a rag but for no purpose. I wriggled my body around the cart to avoid further pain in my shoulder. Other objects prevented me from moving too far.
Exhaustion eventually turned to sleep and when I woke the morning birds were calling once again. The cart took a sharp descent and then a loud jangling and grating of chains hurt my ears. A doorway opened and the horses took several more steps forward.
When my mask was pulled from my head I saw that we were inside a large, dimly lit room with high ceilings. It appeared to be a servant’s entrance, where sacks of kitchen waste sat at the bottom of stairs. Water ran through a channel in the middle of a stone floor, and several stairways led up into other parts of the building.
I did not recognise the grey-haired man who rode the cart, dressed in simple worker’s shirt and slippers. He pulled me up in a sitting position but did not look into my eyes. Another man in finer clothes greeted him formally. This man looked at me with some interest before handing the older man a bag with coin. The driver did not count it; this appeared to be a regular service. He was just a transporter doing his job, no questions asked. There were several items in the cart: rolled silks, meats wrapped in linen, apples, tools, fabrics and silverware. I was just part of the merchandise.
The older man cut the binding from my ankles and helped me off the wagon, while two servants unloaded the rest of the goods. The other formal man barely acknowledged me as he led me up a staircase by the rope around my wrists. These people were handlers and housekeepers only. Something told me I was yet to meet my foe.
We entered a large galley. There were cooks and maids busily at their tasks over steaming cook pots. From the amount of food, it looked as if they were preparing for a large banquet. They took little notice as I was led past and down more stairs through hallways that wound through the base of a very large building, parts of which smelt of damp and rot. We came to what I thought was a dead end and my guide lit a torch on the wall. He then bent down to open a square door on the floor.
Beneath the trap door were more stairs leading down into blackness. He pulled out a knife and I turned in fright, falling over my own feet and landing heavily on the side of my face. My guide stepped over me casually to cut the shackles from my wrists, his expression bland and uncaring as if this experience was normal. He pulled me up roughly leading me to the trap door again.
‘Down,’ he said, pointing to the stairs. But I saw only blackness and thought that once inside I might never come out. I made a desperate move for freedom by shoving the fire torch towards his face, close enough to singe his eyebrows. He swore and cursed, grabbing at his face, and I used the time to run down the hallways. There were turns everywhere but I soon came to the stairs returning upward to the galley. I checked behind me. There was no sign of my captor or the sound of his footsteps. I turned forward once more to run headlong into Jean.
Marek
With my head still buzzing from the effects of the wine and the events of the night b
efore, I began to wonder whether I was on the precipice of madness. I was balanced finely between reality and what happened in my dreams. For those so-called fictitious memories were linked to more physical sensations such as a smell or a touch. I could remember vividly the feel of the rough wood on the edge of the boat, and this perhaps could be supported by a splinter I examined under my fingernail. And the smell of fish blood soaked into timber still lingered about my person. Surely these things were not made up. There was no point in confronting Zola again. She would again tell me unconvincingly that I had imagined it. Yet, despite her lies, there were moments I doubted my own convictions. Perhaps it was that I wanted her to lie to me so I did not confront what I had become – an accomplice to murder.
A horse and carriage clattered to a halt outside. From my window I watched the driver enter Zola’s house. The world outside was black and white, and veils of snow unravelled from the sky. The river beyond was nearly frozen. It was a most splendid sight and nothing like I had experienced in the warm sunny days of my youth. The streets appeared unsuitable for travel. The wheels of carts had cut a path in the snow and horses trudged and dragged their loads begrudgingly. I hoped that Celeste was somewhere warm.
Clothes had been laid out for me on a chair. A long, quilted jacket made to fit tightly to my chest and waist. The black tights were made from animal skins, and lined with silk. Everything was tailored perfectly as if I had been carefully measured in my sleep. It looked ridiculously fine for such a long day of travel ahead. A packed bag lay at the end of the bed. Inside were my clothes from Valona, cleaned and folded. I carried my woollen cloak over my arm and headed down the stairs. Zola was moving around downstairs ordering workers to carry bags.
She was dressed in charcoal velvet, trimmed with white and black lace. Her milky, soft skin above the bodice was flawless, her full lips coloured rose-pink, and her auburn hair curled and pinned to the back of her head. She completed her dress with a hat trimmed with feathers, and a short black cape around her shoulders. The effect was both beautiful and masterly.
We sat in the carriage opposite one another with the boy next to Zola. Zeke was dressed in a new shirt with ruffles at the front and a small fur lined jacket. He wore boots also lined with fur. His face had been scrubbed of weeks of dirt and his hair washed and trimmed. He looked a lot fairer now he was cleaned. Zola chatted about the city, pointing out interesting features from our window along the way. The city gradually disappeared from view and we entered well-used cart tracks. After several hours, through which mostly I had dozed, we were ready for a chance to stretch our legs. A short time later, I was relieved to arrive at an inn where we ordered roast duck and fruit brandy. Zeke was given hot milk with honey.
When we returned to our transport the night sky was nearly upon us and the air had grown thick with fog. The driver complained that we would have to go slow. The tracks began to narrow and it was clear from the bumpy ride that this was a route rarely travelled. Outside our carriage all we could see were tall pines and snow. And beyond was more dense mist. It gave me the feeling that we were trapped and travelling around in circles. For several hours, the view never changed; around and around we went, tree after tree, with the repetitive swooshing of wheels and the rhythmic clopping by hooves.
*
Zola put her hand on my knee.
‘We are here, Marek,’ she said excitedly. Zeke had been sleeping on her lap and sat up craning his neck to peer through the small window. ‘Look! Your new home.’
I had slept heavily and was shocked to learn that it was the afternoon of the following day. The sun was buried deep within the clouds and it seemed at first that it was the same view I had seen for hours the previous evening. Then through the fog it rose. Inch by inch, foot by foot, the house appeared – a large grey spiky beast on the horizon. It was monstrous, much larger than the monastery in Gus. This structure had multiple turrets and several levels built with large ashen blocks. Sculptures guarded the gated entrance and as we drove closer I discovered they were terrifying to look at. Part animal, part human, with horns on either side of their heads, poised to pounce, their fangs extended, their claws outstretched. They loomed through the mist as if they might jump at our carriage. We stopped abruptly when the horses reared and whinnied. The driver shouted and cracked his whip before we were able to continue. I can now appreciate a horse’s intuition: our beasts were aware, long before Zeke and I, of forces unseen.
We passed the stone creatures, whose eyes seemed to follow us through the window, and continued along a pebbled entrance before crossing a small bridge over a stream. Narrow arched windows framed with snow peered at us as we trotted along the lengthy entranceway. Bats circled and swooped around spires reaching high into the skies, and the sounds of their screeching put a chill up my spine.
Our journey ended at the base of wide stairs leading to large heavy wooden doors. More terrifying stone beasts, like the ones from the holy book, guarded the base and the top of the stairs.
‘Isn’t the castle magnificent?’
I agreed with Zola but there was also something foreboding about its measure, and the absence of life in its shadow-less surrounds. It seemed devoid of soul; a giant carnivore sleeping through the winter, waiting to rise and swallow all who dared enter.
‘It is so isolated. Why would my sister choose such a place?’
Zola chided: ‘In time you will grow to love this place. Nowhere else will seem like home.’ Even her confidence did not put me at ease, and the thought of permanence this far north had never entered my mind.
At the sound of our arrival, servants greeted us and opened our carriage doors. Others appeared from nowhere to carry our bags and Zeke and I followed Zola to the entrance. Zeke was mesmerised by the face of a stone beast and I had to gently pull his arm to break him from his trance. We entered a foyer with a high domed ceiling with coloured lead lights. I could hear the sounds of muffled voices and music behind double doors that were just ahead. There was a pattern on the floor of the entrance, the edge of a circle paved with small purple gemstones.
Zola rushed ahead and pushed open the next set of doors. What was behind them was beyond belief, and in sharp contrast to the building’s exterior.
I entered this room cautiously as if I had entered someone else’s private fantasy, so bizarre and foreign was the spectacle before me. The colour and glitter overloaded my senses and it was several moments before I was composed in mind to take in my surrounds. Young women were dressed in long silk gowns, lace, velvet, and tall elaborate headwear with colourful plumes and pearls. Their dresses were covered with tiny pearl buttons, or crystals or rose brocade, with lace above and under their breasts, their waists pinched tightly and their skirts wide with masses of fabric floating in circles around them. Their hands, neck, and ears were laden with gold, sapphires, and other precious stones. They were the most beautiful women in the world. Their feet were decorated with tiny patterned shoes, some also with crystals, buttons and bows on the toe. Young men were also dressed finely in silken trousers or tights, soft leathers, brocade waistcoats and tunics. They too were bejewelled and all of them striking and handsome.
Servants carried trays of wine while musicians played stringed instruments. Zola pushed through the crowd and took in the sea of faces, greeting them each with a nod as she passed.
It was strange that there were no carriages outside yet so many participants.
People looked at me as I entered and then looked away as if I was nothing special. Zola, however, greeted many people, kissing everyone on both cheeks and dragging me behind her. Once she introduced me as Oleander’s brother those looks lingered and people whispered. I was suddenly very interesting.
Zola pulled me into the dancing crowd. It was overwhelming and I felt dizzy from all the buzzing, the laughter and the music floating around me.
Eventually Zola joyfully grasped my hand and Zeke’s, ushering us to the side of the room for some air. She smiled widely and was radiant beyond
words. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glistened. Whether it was the excitement of the moment, or the fact that she had noticed me as a love interest for the first time, she leaned into me and pressed her lips against my cheek. I turned my head so that my lips touched hers before she danced away from me flirtatiously. I was giddy as I followed her. One man, his face caked with white powder, and his hair long and dark like mine, touched me on the elbow as if he knew me. I inclined my head out of courtesy but it was clear he was just curious.
When I looked for Zola she had disappeared into the crowd with the boy. I turned around craning my neck above the sea of tall hair and velvet. There was a moment of panic when I couldn’t see her anywhere and I felt that I was drowning in a sea of people.
Then there was a hush that spread across the room. The music stopped abruptly and the festivities were stalled. Women and men stopped sipping red wine from goblets of gold and glass. Zola appeared at my side once again, holding my wrist but looking away from me and upward. I followed her gaze. Two staircases wound up towards a common platform, beneath large candelabras. In the centre of the platform stood a young girl close in age to me. Her hair was the same colour as sand pebbles. Her gown was magenta with a pattern of gold flowers, and panelled with stripes of gold and cream. There was a modest smile on her pointed face and I saw that her eyes were emerald green. She was undoubtedly the most exquisite girl I had ever seen.
‘Who is she?’ But even as I asked the question I knew. Her eyes, which were wandering the crowd, had settled on me. Brother. The word was whispered into my ear but turning I found no-one close beside me. I felt suddenly winded: pressure like a fist sunk deep within my chest. I took a breath for release.
Marek (Buried Lore Book 1) Page 11