Spell of the Dark Castle

by Lorelei Bell

  “Mom!” Blanche was waiting inside the kitchen as Zofia stood there staring at the phone. She needed to call Tillie. She grabbed up the phone. “What about my party?”

  “Your party?” Zofia hadn't even given a thought to this—all the planning, invitations had gone out weeks ago, the cake and ice cream, balloons, party favors—it hadn't even entered her mind, now after speaking with Stephen. She turned to face Blanche whose face twisted into a scowl. “I'm sorry, Blanche, I didn't expect this to happen. But it's by the decree of the Witenagemont that we attend the Feast.”

  “Great! Everyone will come, and no one will be here, and I'll miss out on my sixteenth birthday!” she cried and withered into a kitchen chair, fists to her cheeks, elbows jammed onto the table. This wasn't the first time Blanche had made a big fuss over something she would rather do. It was her sixteenth birthday, but this couldn't be helped. Stephen came short of demanding they all attend. Even Tillie. How weird.

  “I'll call Aunt Tillie and tell her what's happening,” Zofia said, pushing the numbers on the wall phone pad. “I don't know what else we can do.”

  “When will we be back?” Blanche asked.

  “I don't know…” the phone at the shop rang once and Tillie's voice was in her ear.

  “Notions and Potions, we'll brew it and bag it, just for you.”

  “Tillie!” Zofia was startled by the way she had just answered the phone. “What are you doing answering like that?”

  “Oops,” Tillie's tight voice replied. “Sorry.”

  “Never mind. Stephen and Paradeep just arrived and—”

  “What? Now? In the middle of broad daylight? Are they mad?”

  “Yes—I can't explain it all over the phone just now. But we're to go with them back to Euphoria and attend the Induction Feast tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Tillie's craggy voice screeched. “What about Blanche's party?”

  “I can't get out of this. It's an edict from the top,” Zofia said.

  “Did they give a reason?”

  “No.” But I've got a few ideas.

  “Hum,” Tillie said. “It might be that Dorian's nephew is old enough to be Inducted by now.”

  “Really? You think that might be why?”

  “Must be…” Silence, then, “This one?” She suddenly sounded distracted. There were muffled voices, as though she'd just covered the mouth piece. Then she came back on. “It must be. What else could it be? Didn't he say?”

  “Well, no.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “He said within the hour. He seemed to be in a hurry.”

  “Paradeep?”

  “No. Stephen.”

  “I can't leave just now. I'll have to close up shop. How can I go if not with you?”

  “You could use the Sorcerer's Tree, maybe?”

  “Well, I could, I guess.”

  “Would you mind, then, calling up as many people invited to Blanche's party as you can? I simply don't have the time.”

  Tillie sighed. The register rang in Zofia's ear. “That's eleven seventy-five.” Tillie said in the background. “I'll begin making calls from here, and then when I get home.”

  “Thanks Tillie. You're a peach.”

  “You don't think it might have anything to do with—you know—?”

  Zofia bit her lower lip in thought. “I hope not. Or I'm in big trouble.”

  Chapter 3

  Zofia and Dorian stepped inside the Bubble, right behind Stephen. On either side of Paradeep stood two Celestials clad in glowing white gowns with huge white wings. It wasn't apparent as to whether the Celestials were male or female. Sometimes it was hard to tell. They had a very androgynous look to them; long fair hair, large, innocent eyes, and fine-boned features. They never spoke, but communicated with the Immortals by thought. The Celestials were part of the angelic race, and they had wings, but she'd never seen any flying about. Apparently, they just winked in or out in order to come and go. While the Immortals were the off-spring of the gods and goddesses, wizards and sorceresses were begotten by the Immortals. Zofia and Dorian represented the seventh generation. The first and second generation were all dead, now. There were hardly any third-generation wizards any more, as they were over a thousand years old.

  The portal to the Bubble stood open as Zofia and Dorian waved for Elton and Blanche to hurry as they sprinted across the garden.

  The sudden flash of white caught Zofia's breath. Withershins jumped aboard, pushing her to one side with his pony-sized body and that dangerous spike at the center of his head. She hadn't quite gotten used to his new white coat, which he had gained right after he had horned Vesselvod Blood—who was thought to have been the direct cause for his sooty coat, and it proved to be so.

  “Withershins!” Blanche cried, and without pause Evanished into the Bubble, next to the unicorn.

  Paradeep turned to her. “Blanche? You can Evanish, now? How wonderful!” He looked very impressed. He called Blanche his daughter, because she was his descendant, just as Zofia was—many generations back.

  “Yes,” Zofia chimed in. “She just began Evanishing this morning.”

  “Ah,” Paradeep said. “Her sixteenth birthday. Very happy birthday, Blanche.”

  Blanche blinked at him. “Some birthday,” she muttered. “I was having my friends over. Aunt Tillie made a birthday cake, and I was having all my friends over. This just isn't fair.”

  Paradeep made a calming gesture with his hands and said, “Now, now. How many of your friends on First World can say they've had a birthday party in a castle?”

  “Castle?” Blanche said, now squinting at him. She paused as though having a hard time considering the idea of her having a birthday party in a castle.

  “Elton! Get in here and quit playing with the chickens!” Dorian barked, making Zofia jump.

  Elton lunged through the opening of the Bubble, just before it winked shut. He went down on his knees, as though he'd tripped.

  Dorian dipped and pulled Elton up off the floor.

  “Watch yourself, son,” Dorian said, brushing him off.

  Elton mimicked Dorian's motions. “I'm alright—” He looked up suddenly at a spot behind his father. “Who are they?” Elton's gaze went from one Celestial to the other who stood on each side of Paradeep, their hands tucked into the deep arms of their raiments.

  “This is Sansenoy, and that's Semangleof,” Paradeep introduced with a sweeping gesture toward the two Celestials. “Or vice versa,” he added as though uncertain. Both winged creatures regarded Paradeep demurely. Then they took in Elton with kind eyes, but said nothing and then their gazes drifted up over his head in rapturous expressions.

  “Will there be a birthday cake?” Blanche asked, still on the subject of her birthday. “I mean in this castle?”

  “Of course!” Paradeep said brightly, white brows arching high on his forehead. “A very large one, at that.”

  “Chocolate, with white icing?” she prodded.

  “Whatever your heart's desire,” he promised.

  “You will be staying in my castle,” Stephen announced, a faint grin on his lips.

  Blanche's gaze went slowly up to take Stephen in. She knew who he was, but possibly had forgotten how tall and gorgeous he was. It was one thing to see him across the way, and quite another to be in his presence. Zofia knew that look on her daughter's face. It was one that she imagined she had, too, while a mere two or three feet away from him. The subject of birthdays was abandoned.

  “What of your Aunt Tillie, Zofia? I thought she would be joining us?” Stephen asked with the faintest edge of concern in his voice. Tillie was Zofia's only living relative, since both her parents had been murdered by Vesselvod Blood when she was very young.

  “I left word with her. She said she'd be along, later. She'll take the Sorcerer's Tree,” Zofia said, feeling as though her bodice was a bit too tight, suddenly. Or for some reason, she simply couldn't take a breath. She had donned the circa 1860's dress Tillie had made for her t
o wear for the town's festival. She now toyed idly with the string that tied the bodice, which came around her middle, pushing her boobs up and out, and held her stomach in, and at the moment she realized it was just a wee bit tight. But she couldn't readjust it here, while in the company of all these men—and Celestials. She would wait until she was alone in her room—if she didn't pass out by then.

  “Very good,” Stephen said. “I would hate for Ottillie to miss the Feast. She so much enjoys them.”

  “Feast?” Elton questioned. “You don't mean the Induction Feast, do you?”

  “Of course, I do,” Stephen said to Elton. “Your boy is very astute, Dorian. You may and to reconsider putting his name in for the Vanguard when he is old enough.”

  Dorian made a non-committal noise in his throat, cuffed Elton on the shoulder and artfully dodged the issue. “Are there many Inductees this year?” he asked.

  “Many,” Paradeep said. “And one is a late entry. A surprise to everyone who knows.” His eyes gleamed Zofia's way. She wasn't sure why he held her gaze in that way, or why he smiled so. Paradeep smiled benevolently, no matter what. But his smile involved the crinkles at the corners of his erudite eyes this time. Something was up. And now her stomach lurched again. Earlier, she had thought she was in big trouble. If she were in trouble, wouldn't he be giving her a pitying look, instead? And why was it that whoever this Inductee was, it had something to do with her? It wasn't as though she expected to be Inducted. Everyone knew that Knights were always wizards. There had not been a sorceress Inducted in centuries. It was very dangerous work. Sorceresses were neither expected to join in Knighthood, nor did they desire this type of dangerous vocation. This whole business puzzled her to no end.

  “Ah, Sansenoy has just informed me that we are almost nearly there,” Paradeep announced.

  Pulled back to the present, Zofia blinked. She realized that possibly a minute or two had gone by since they'd left First World. Aside from returning to her world a few days ago, she had not stepped foot on her world for five years. When she had returned the other day, she had landed in the Haunted Wilderness. A very bleak and gray place. She'd had no time to take in the fact that she was on her own planet, then. Now, the moment gave her a thickening in the throat, and a teary-eyed feeling came over her as the portal of the Bubble opened to a lush green lawn, behind which stood a large, gray castle, blue sky arching over it all.

  Withershins jumped out first. With a shake of his head and flip of his tail, he trotted out into the open courtyard, joining pure white peacocks strutting and cackling in the grass. He seemed to know this was home, and looked happy to be back, as much as did Zofia. The surrounding hills were green with the gardens and grapevines that were tended by the monks here. Zofia spotted a few in their robes working in the fields, tending their crops.

  As Zofia stepped out she detected the difference too. There was a sweetness—a pureness—to the air here, that could not be found on First World any more. The sky was the purest blue, and unmarred by the crisscross of white jet trails. It was a deep blue that could not be matched, and the sun, Antares, hung like a huge fireball in the western sky. It was afternoon, she quickly surmised. But what day?

  “What day is it?” she asked as Paradeep thread his way past her and the children.

  “Why, it's Moons Day,” he answered with a smile. Moons Day came only once a year, when all three moons rose in the sky full and bright. This was an event, since it was nearly as bright outside during this phase of the moons, as it was now. Because of it, many festivals and carnivals were scheduled for the three nights, and everyone stayed up for them, and slept all the next day.

  Now Zofia gazed up at the dark, eighty-foot tall castle walls. Restormell Castle was the largest castle in all of The Province. Topped by sculptures of six-foot gargoyles, you could see it for miles. Below the crenelations ran a ridge of stone where round face-like carvings ran all around. Zofia knew they were not faces, however. When she had first arrived as a young girl, alone and homeless, she'd looked up at these stone walls thinking they were merely faces of men. But once she came closer, she could definitely see they were human skulls—without the jaw piece. That had thrown trepidation into her, then, because she had thought wrongly that they were real skulls. The real skulls were kept in a cave, below the castle.

  The hollowed-out eyes peered down at their approach. Before them, huge black doors with gold lettering proclaimed KNIGHTS OF THE WITENAGEMONT HEADQUARTERS.

  Three four-foot tall, red robed monks stepped through a side door from a low tower and bowed deeply to Paradeep and Stephen as they crossed toward the castle. Their dark maroon robes, cowls folded down, identified them as Wadmund Monks. They were not Ugwumps, but a separate race. Their most distinguishing features were their pointed ears, weak chins, olive-brown mottled skin and large inky, eyes. A fringe of long, scraggly brown hair grew only at the back of their otherwise bald heads.

  As Paradeep stepped near them, all three dropped to their knees at his feet.

  “Oh, great benevolent one!”

  “Your most holiness!”

  “Thrice greatest Immortal!”

  Chuckling lightly at them, Paradeep gestured for them to rise. “Please, rise. Rise. Up, up,” he said. Zofia knew from the many times she had traveled with Paradeep, although due the respect, often he discouraged such attentions slathered upon him. When she asked why, he'd said such deep devotions from others below him caused him to be ashamed that others felt so below him. That was his humility. But the Wadmund Monks were moved to do so out of sheer gratitude since it was the Immortals who had battled the Helsingas, who had enslaved the Wadmund Monks for eons, and sent them into the Underworld.

  “Yes, your most greatness holiness!” said one. All three Monks whimpered and although still bent at the waist, heads down, backed away a few steps to give way.

  “I see that in the shadowpass I was gone you have been very busy,” Paradeep spoke to them in that soft, pleasant voice of his. He gestured to the wooden cart full of dark purple grapes.

  “For wine, your lordship!” one of the boldest of the three spoke, although didn't look directly up at Paradeep.

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” Paradeep said. “I have something I would like you to do for me.”

  “Oh, anything, your Excellency! Anything!” said the bold Monk.

  Paradeep ushered them away. Their voices ebbed as Paradeep spoke low to them. He seemed to be giving them directives as the three Monks nodded excitedly. In a few moments they all disappeared through the same wooden door, which Zofia now remembered lead to the kitchen.

  “Wow,” Elton said as he looked up at the tallest tower, which rose possibly seventy-five feet above the walls. “First a ride in a Bubble, now this!”

  Dorian ruffed up his hair affectionately and then patted him on the back. “This is Restormell Castle. We'll kip for a few nights and see what comes of it.”

  “You'll find appropriate clothing in your bed chambers,” Stephen said, as he led them to the main door where two huge guards stood at attention. Their long swords at their sides, their armor consisted mainly of a half-coat of mail, large heaters (a three-sided shield with a straight upper edge and the two sides curved to a point at the bottom), and half-helmets, which only covered the head, eyes and a piece of protective metal came down the nose. Heavy dark beards bristled out from beneath the helmets so that you could not see their faces. Zofia had forgotten how terrifying these guards were. They were built not unlike professional wrestlers on Ugwump TV. No one in their right minds would dare challenged them, as they stood nearly nine feet tall, and were most likely part giant.

  “I would suggest you change into your garments as soon as you reach your chambers,” Stephen continued in a rebuking tone as he took in Blanche's manner of dress. She was in a white lace corset, and a denim mini-skirt—which revealed way too much thigh—cork sandals rounded out the ensemble. It was the newest fashion on First World, according to Blanche who whined expertly in the store
to Zofia who could only roll her eyes and dig out her credit card. But here, on Euphoria, she now looked more as though she'd forgotten to dress and was parading around in her underthings.

  The main door flung open and a gangly youth in drab olive robes with silver bands around the edges of the sleeves and hem, and a floppy matching hat with a white feather—the dress of the page—bumbled out.

  “My Lord! My Lord, welcome back!” the page, who may have been about thirteen or fourteen, exclaimed. Grasping his floppy hat, which had dropped over his eyes, he yanked it off and did his best bow to his lord and master. His hair was a non-color, not quite brown, wasn't red, and it wasn't blond. He had a greasy pimply look to him as though no matter how much water and soap he used, he would never be rid of it, nor of that odd oily smell he exuded. His features were the kind you could forget the instant he walked away. Eyes popping wide, he zeroed in on Blanche. Zofia could hardly blame him, since he probably saw young women rarely, and never any as under-dressed as she was now. To say this irked her beyond measure was putting it mildly. It had taken her a very long time to relax her dress code on Blanch and Elton—but mostly Blanche—and now she would have to come down hard on her, and she could almost hear the loud arguments over hem lengths now.

  Stephen barely acknowledged the boy, and instead his gaze included Zofia and her family standing beside him.

  “I've itineraries made up for the both of you,” Stephen said in a casual tone as he spoke to Zofia and Dorian. “The children are to attend the Induction Feast, as well. In between, they shall remain in their rooms.” Turning to his page he said, “Nelms, if you please?” Hand out, he waited for Nelms, the page, to hand him something. “Nelms?” He turned to regard the youth, only to find him gaping open-mouthed at Blanche.

  Finally noticing this, Blanche rolled her eyes. “Take a picture,” she drawled, “it lasts longer.” Arms crossed she turned away from the boy.

  Seeing all this, Stephen whacked the boy on the back of the head. Nelms dropped his hat, and then snatched it up off the ground, seemingly having no ill effects from the slap. This seemed to bring him out of his momentary teenage awe, however. Stepping up, Nelms pulled something out from under his hat, and handed, first Dorian, and then Zofia a short piece of parchment each. They were elaborately penned.