Spell of the Dark Castle

by Lorelei Bell

  “Whoa, wait a troll minute,” she said, flabbergasted. “You make it sound as though I did all those things on purpose.”

  “I would not be so presumptuous,” he said, picking up his bag and turning as if to go, but going was not what he was doing. He smiled, revealing crooked, dingy yellow teeth. “What you did, or did not do is none of my business.” He made a slight bow before he left. “Is there anything else before I leave?”

  She would have let him go, right then, because he really was ticking her off. But then, she remembered something she had wanted to ask.

  “Yes, actually. I was wondering… when I came back on the Bubble, could time have been distorted somehow?”

  “Distorted?”

  “I mean sped up.”

  The alchemist ran one hand over his beard in thought. She noticed a bit of something clung to his beard. Food? Or something else, she wasn't sure, but it made her really want to gag just then. “I'm not sure what you mean.”

  “I mean”—she gasped, trying to find the right words for this moron—“my body clock. Might it have changed somehow?”

  “You think your body has a clock?”

  Slipping her eyes shut for a strength gathering moment, she released an inaudible gasp. This guy was an alchemist. Didn't he understand the body went through certain cycles and changes throughout its life time? What an idiot.

  “I mean, instead of just a couple of moments passing, after I left First World, could I have actually traveled through a time warp, something that might have sped things up—forward, I mean.”

  “Ahhh,” he said with understanding. “A time shift. Yes. It is quite possible, although quite rare.”

  “I shouldn't be having all these symptoms quite so soon. It's only been a few days since I—”

  “Symptoms?” Baruche seemed to ignore her last words.

  She thought a moment. “Like great thirst, constant hunger, and now throwing up, and dizzy spells, forgetfulness, that sort of thing.”

  He squinted at her. She could nearly see the wheels turning in his head. “You had sex with—whoever—and it was only a few days ago?”

  “Yes, but my body is behaving as though I'm further along, like about a month,” she explained.

  His brow arched slightly as his gaze fell to her abdomen. “Without a thorough exam, there is no way of telling exactly how far along you are.” He paused, and then said, “I can do that if you want.”

  With those hands? I don't think so. “Uh, no. I'll just adjust to it,” she said. “Thank you for coming to see me.”

  “Very well. A good evening.” And he left.

  But his smell lingered.

  Thoroughly disgusted by the visit, Zofia moved toward the cluster of four windows set in an arched frame. The central windows held a casement of two French doors, which opened out onto a small balcony, circumferenced by an iron railing. From her spot on this side of the windows, she looked down into the courtyard where the jubilant sounds of the merry-making filled the night air. How was she going to sleep with all that going on? She pressed her face against the cool window glass. She could plainly see everyone down below as though there were thousands of halogen lights above. She could pick out faces, see vibrant colors of dresses and gowns, the gold, silver or bronze of the other Knights, which practically glowed or glittered.

  She realized she didn't feel so bad any more. She would have loved to have gone down and joined the party. But she needed to speak to Dorian, get things straight with him. She didn't understand why he had acted as he had, earlier. But talk to him? She knew when Dorian was this angry, she couldn't talk to him. His anger clouded over everything she might say, so she may as well stay put. She would have to wait until he had calmed down. Possibly by morning the volcanic eruption would have cooled down some.

  She yawned and found that she was very sleepy, even though she had just had a cat nap. The alchemist had probably given her a sleeping draught. She wondered if she'd locked the door after him? She wanted to go check, but her bed—soft, luxurious—was closer. Drawn like a butterfly to a soft-petaled flower, she placed one knee into the dark-blue velvet comforter and it sank deeply. Her hands spread across it, felt its kitten-softness against her palms. She groaned as she stretched across the soft bed, clutched a pillow and sunk her head into it… yesss… Her eyes became heavy. Her brain—her whole body—succumbed to whatever the alchemist had put in that drink. She managed to magic the drapes of her canopy closed, changed into her night gown, tossing her dress out through the drapes, and fell into bed. She didn't remember getting under the covers or falling asleep.

  * * *

  The cries of peacocks through the window awoke Zofia. It took her a moment to wake up fully, and then a few more seconds to remember where she was.

  There was a knock. She pulled the canopy apart and blinked back; eyes shocked by the brightness of the daylight pouring in through the windows, near her bed. She let the canopy drop, rolled over and pulled back the curtains on the door side of her bed. Tillie stepped in carrying a silver tray with a silver dome. The door wasn't locked. So much for thinking she'd locked it last night.

  “Tillie? What time is it?” She could smell the food, and it set her mouth watering. Zofia stretched her arms over her head as she yawned. She hadn't slept so well in ages. She hadn't even dreamed. The horrible drink the alchemist had given her last night came to mind, and she quickly banished it.

  “Morning, child. Hungry?” Tillie brought the tray into the room and set it upon a small table nearby.

  “Starved!” Zofia said, thrusting the covers off, and slipping out of the bed. She strode barefoot across the thick rug.

  “When aren't you?” Tillie said in a mildly sarcastic tone.

  The room seemed colder to her. Chilly, damp old castle. She remembered hearing a thunderstorm last night.

  “Did it storm last night?” Zofia asked as she pulled on her robe. That was weird. She didn't remember taking that off. She was confused, because she'd thought she'd gone to bed wearing her dress. But she had her nighty on.

  “No.”

  “Did you have a good time at the festival?” Zofia asked, grabbing the lid of the tray and yanked it off. Billowing steam and aroma unfurled beneath her nose and she pulled it all in. Eggs on a muffin smothered in a delicious asparagus sauce. Stephen hadn't forgotten her favorite breakfast—after so long?

  “I had a gas!” Tillie exclaimed excitedly, plopping onto the bed. “Dilly got fresh with me, so I had to ditch him for a while. He was drunk.” She tittered girlishly, both hands going to her mouth. “I guess I still got it.”

  “Oh, Tillie, you tramp,” Zofia chided as she pulled up a chair.

  “I danced with everybody! Even Stephen.”

  “The music sounded good,” Zofia commented, and took up a fork and knife and dug into the food. The first bite was heaven, as was the second and third.

  “The Zombies and Ice Drums were playing, too.”

  “I thought some of it sounded familiar,” Zofia said, after swallowing.

  “How are you feeling, this morning?” Tillie asked, her facial lines—and there were a lot of them—arranged themselves into a worried look. “You really got sick last night. Are you sure you should eat?”

  “Stephen sent his alchemist up. He gave me something.” She paused with another forkful of food. “I feel okay, now.”

  “You mean Baruche?”

  “Yeah,” she said, through mouth a mouth full of food. “He never introduced himself, but I think that's what Stephen called him.”

  “Black hair, black eyes, smells like he's been in an opium den?”

  “Yes. That, and he could use a bath with soap, and some deodorant,” Zofia said, wrinkling up her nose as she recalled the alchemist's fetid scent. She fed herself another delicious mouthful in hopes of banishing that unsavory memory. It was difficult, but she managed.

  “I hear you. He doses Pandora daily with both morphine and opium so that she doesn't go insane from all the
demons inside her.”

  “Poor woman,” Zofia said, wincing slightly with the thought of Stephen's mother, Pandora who had been possessed by demons soon after her husband's death. Some had said that the man who had murdered Crowe Alexander Restormell had set demons on his wife in revenge for his capture and incarceration in Hamparzum's. Zofia had not even seen the woman since his death.

  “Is Blanche up yet?”

  “I don't think so. She and I both came in late. She's probably sleeping in. She partied very late with some of the friends she'd made yesterday.”

  “That's good.” Zofia suddenly remembered she had to meet with Stephen this morning. She looked around for a time globe. Didn't see one. Why was it they always hid their time pieces? “What time is it?” Zofia asked, a forkful of food halfway to her mouth.

  “Half-past ten—”

  Zofia dropped the fork. It clanged noisily. She wiped her mouth with the cloth napkin from the tray and launched herself across the room to the wardrobe.

  “What is it?” Tillie asked, startled.

  “I'm late!” Zofia cried.

  “Late?”

  “I have a meeting with Stephen,” she said, throwing the doors to her wardrobe open and yanking out the robe with the bronze trim. She held it up to herself and turned around looking down at herself. The hem dragged on the floor, and the sleeves were over-long. Zofia made a whimper of despair. “I thought Biddle had hemmed this!”

  “I can hem it,” Tillie suggested.

  “No time! I'll just have to throw it on.” She struggled to bring it over her head.

  “Over that?” Tillie pointed.

  Zofia had the robe around her neck, one arm through an armhole. She looked down. She was still in her nighty.

  “Dragon crap!”

  Ten minutes later, Zofia Transvected down the curving, marble staircase, draped in white inductee robe. She was greeted by other Knights who were Transvecting up. They were all in street clothes. Below, at the end of the stairs, was a throng of people—family members hugging and saying goodbye to those Knights who were staying.

  Avoiding the crowd, Zofia sailed over them, taking the hallway to her right. She realized she really didn't know where Stephen's office was exactly. A young man, possibly nineteen, or twenty, with a fresh young face, and dark wavy hair headed her way. Jaw set, he strode the flagstone floor, his boot heals marking his progress. He had a wand strapped to his side. He was a Knight. She could tell. They all seemed to have that stern set to their jaw, and far-away look. The swagger said don't-mess-with-me, along with the way the wand was at the hip.

  “Excuse me,” Zofia said, “but could you tell me which way to Stephen's—I-I mean Lord Stephen's office?”

  “At the end, there,” he said, turning and pointing. She noticed his handsome face looked pinched in worry. He must have been a Bronze, and had just been given a difficult assignment.

  Zofia thanked the young Knight, and passed a time globe on her way. The dark metallic arrow pointing up toward a rotary median band marked with numerals read three-quarters past ten shadowpasses. All she could think of was how late she was. Her robe whispered across the floor as she continued to Transvect down the corridor. The young man's steps were gone.

  She continued up a marble gallery and found large Gothic style doors, and knew that these lead to the Great Hall. To her left was an elaborately carved side board boasting two, multi-branched gold candelabra, an entire silver set, and a large gold urn, and four gold goblets, richly set with dazzling jewels. Tempting thieves, one would believe. But once the thief even so much as touched it, Zofia knew the thief would receive either a shock, or possibly the worst case of dragon pox in his life. Either way, he would pay for his thievery.

  To her right was a large oaken door, set deep into the stone wall (no wonder she hadn't noticed it when she'd come this way, last night). Even now, because of the low lighting, she couldn't see the plaque. She stepped closer. The plaque read: STEPHEN RESTORMELL CHEEF COMMANDER. Below that read: Office Hours 9:00 – 3:00

  She glanced around, and felt a wave of nausea hit her. Oh no. Not this.

  Then, just as quickly, it lifted. Baruche's potion was wearing off. Hopefully it would last through her meeting with Stephen, because she had just eaten something.

  The door opened. Stephen's head poked out, startling her. “Zofia!” He looked half surprised and half relieved to see her. “I'd almost given up on you.”

  “I'm sorry I'm late,” she said as she came to a soft landing, and realized only then that she hadn't put any shoes on. The marble floor was really chilly on her feet. She lifted her robes just enough to not step on the hem of her robe, yet, not enough to show her feet. She couldn't let Stephen think she was that scatter-brained. She had donned the same dress she had worn yesterday, since she really had nothing else to wear underneath the robe.

  “Not at all,” Stephen said, withdrawing from the doorway. “Come in.”

  Zofia stepped through the entry and the large oak door thunked rather forcefully behind them. Wearing a silk white shirt, tucked into black trousers, and black, knee-high boots—much like last night's wardrobe—Stephen ushered Zofia through. His boot heals clicked hollowly across the marble floor. At least his hair was pulled back into the usual tail, confined by three blue ribbons today. He wore a wide, leather belt. From it dangled a leather sheath. The long, elaborately scrolled handle of his wand stuck out at the top. Wizards of great courage often carried their wands this way. It was a show of their superior Power, as well of their affluence.

  The office room was steeped in low light glowing from slim tapers above on a simple iron worked chandelier. A marble fireplace graced the opposite wall, two brown leather, wing-backed chairs flanked it. Along the wall, behind them were embedded bookcases. This part of Stephen's office was surprisingly functional. But at the opposite end stood a very large, heavily carved desk, heaped with several piles of paper, some of which towered, nearly taller than Zofia. More of these paper towers stood on the ground, reminding her of the way Paradeep was wanting to keep his whole library. Ledgers, parchments, portfolios and more files cluttering yet another table. To one side of the desk stood a Sphere, apparently unblemished by the cataclysm surrounding it. Behind the desk stood two five-drawer file cabinets, each with at least two drawers hanging open, jammed in a hodgepodge manner with yet more files. A rickety stepladder leaned up against one of these file cabinets. Zofia had to wonder if Stephen had lost his secretary. Surely, he needed help in finding anything here.

  The sudden sound of high humming caught Zofia by surprise. When it came close to her head, she ducked, startled by its closeness. The small, winged creature halted mid-air, and was about the size of a hummingbird. But it wasn't a hummingbird. Hummingbirds didn't wear dainty dresses and have little elfin faces.

  Zofia sneezed suddenly, and uncontrollably several times in a row.

  Stephen glanced back at her. “Very good health to you,” he muttered, eying her as though she had just spread the plague.

  “Pixy dust—” she managed between sneezes, “I'm allergic—aaachoo!”

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, his wand was in his hand suddenly. “Obliterate olfactorius!” Zofia's sneezes stopped. His gaze rose to where the pixy had flown, landing on one of the branches of the chandelier above. “Twilina,” Stephen said, “this is Zofia Trickenbod, our newbee. Zofia this is Twilina.”

  Zofia's gaze rose to engage the tiny pixy seated upon the chandelier. “Blessed be, Twilina.”

  Twilina managed a squeaking a response and lifted her hand in greeting. She was dressed in some wispy yellow and blue dress. Zofia thought she was quite striking with light brown hair crowning her wide face.

  “Twilina, be a doll and hold all my incoming, please,” Stephen said.

  She gave little squeaks in reply—Zofia could barely hear it, but Stephen apparently did—and the pixy flew so fast, her wings were a blur. She darted up, made a few loopty-loops, and was gone, Zofia's eyes couldn't even foll
ow her, she was so quick.

  “Thanks,” he said and turned now toward the towers of files. “Eunice?”

  “What?” came a gruff, sharp voice from somewhere behind the desk and wall of files.

  “Bring me Ms. Trickenbod's file, would you please?”

  “Alright, alright,” the husky female voice said. She sounded aggravated to be bothered. “Just give me a moment to breathe, would you? You'd think I could get a thing done around here. But no-o-o! I gots to carry all this crap around for 'im that thinks 'm 'is slave!” Two hands about the size of a chunky doll's, with short pudgy fingers, ending in long, almost sharp red lacquered talons, riffled through a stack of papers. “Thinks 'm like that hobbledehoy he keeps around. Huh! I'll kick 'im in the gnomes, that's what I'll do!”

  Largely ignoring the mutterings of his very short secretary, Eunice, Stephen led Zofia through another, more elaborately carved door, set in an oval threshold. He opened it with a wave of his wand, and silent command. They both stepped through into a very utilitarian, very male office, with wall-to-wall books, heavy dark brown leather furniture, and a large, heavily carved desk with lion-like feet. She had been under the impression that the other office was his domain. How wrong she was. This looked more like an office Stephen would claim. Her chilly bare feet were warmed by the thick brown rug that covered the entire room.

  “Have a seat, please,” he said to her, offering her one of the two chairs nearby.

  Zofia gladly sank down into the buttery soft leather. She could get used to this sort of treatment, she thought.

  Stephen slid into his own leather, swivel chair, behind his desk and opened a top drawer, closed it and opened a lower one, as though looking for something.

  His office door suddenly shot open, making Zofia jump. She looked to see a dwarf woman with curly, reddish hair, wobble in on short, thick legs, her tiny feet seemed shoved into a pair of the smallest heals Zofia had ever seen. She wore a loud flower print dress, that looked like a paint store had exploded on her. Sparkling lime-green balls hung from her earlobes, swinging dangerously. A similarly gaudy necklace rounded a chunky, short neck. The whole attire contrasted horribly with her hair color.