by Lorelei Bell
“Did you see? He Evanished! He was a wizard!”
“Yes, madam. You must be right. He did not go past me. I was watching the front door, as you asked me to. I swear, I never saw anyone come through that door!”
“Yes. Yes. That's alright.” She ran her hand over her neck. The medallion Saint Germain had given her was still in place. Her goddess necklace also still around her wrist. “What did he want of me?” she wondered.
“He was most likely a cultist, madam. A wizard would never go against Code and come into anyone's room like that.”
She nodded as she flopped the covers off. “He may be someone the Witenagemont is looking for.”
“You think?”
She ignored Biddle's sarcastic rebuke. Swinging her legs out of the bed, her feet found and snugged into her slippers. She threw on her robe as she rose. “I'll need to write to Stephen in the morning. But right now, I'm getting out of here. I'm not staying in this place. He knows I'm a sorceress. He'll be ready for me the next time.” She was moving around the room, unable to decide what to do first.
“Now?” Biddle asked.
“Yes. Now would be now,” she quipped. Her adrenaline surging through her like a locomotive heading through a tunnel. She didn't know why this wizard wanted her, but if he wanted her badly enough, he would be back and bring his wand, or more wizards to control her. Maybe it was unwise to think he would not try and find her in the castle, but there were far too many places for the wizard to look for her. But here she was too vulnerable. Time to make a dash.
After wrapping herself up in her cloak, she fumbled with the front door. Unable to unlatch it, she used her Powers. On her way across the bridge to the castle, she worked on what she would say to whoever she roused at this shadowpass. Darkness against more darkness. Patches of clouds covered all three moons still.
Her slippered feet flew up the steps toward the main castle. Collecting herself, she found the heavy brass knocker and thumped it several times until she was breathless with her exertion.
After hammering with the knocker, the door finally opened. The person holding the courting candle in his hands was not who she had expected. She had expected Percival. Instead, it was Jacques. Dark, wavy hair fell to one side of his face. His eyes looked droopy and bloodshot. He wore a dark blue jacquard robe, white tunic and dark blue loose ankle length pajama bottoms. His feet ensconced in small slippers that barely covered his toes. He looked angry at first, and then startled as he took in her state of dress with even wider eyes than normal.
“Madame? What 'as 'appened?” he asked in his heavy accent.
“Oh! Jacques,” she spoke over him. “I'm sorry to wake you—”
“I was awake,” he said, sounding slightly put out. “Tell me what 'as 'appened? Why are you 'ere?” He glanced down at her, “You are not dressed properly, madam.”
“I was attacked,” she said. “While in bed.”
He sucked in air as shock registered on his face. Between bursts of Arpiesian, he ushered her inside. Then he asked her to tell him what exactly happened. She plunged into the story of going to bed, only to be awoken by someone at her bedside, trying to take her by force. She could only lie and say that she'd hit him over the head with a lamp—the very lamp which had crashed when he landed across the room. She would not be able to explain her escape any other way. This brought another sharp gasp from the Arpiesian, and more utterances in his language, which she suspected was creative swearing more than anything.
Jacques brought her further into the safety of the castle, sat her on one of the long couches which rested against the wall of a room where a fire snapped and popped in a stone fireplace.
“I just couldn't stay,” she went on. “I was afraid he might return.”
“No, no, madam, you will not stay. I shall go and get Saint Germain.” Jacques said and then quick as an imp, he left her.
With nothing to do but study her surroundings—which were mostly dark, because the only light came from the fireplace, and one lamp—she took in the arrangement of ornamentation along the mantle. There were several wooden statuary positioned decoratively around the room. But there, below the mantle was a white reversed triangle with something written inside it and a winged dragon with a curled tail. This was the same insignia that was melted into the wax on the envelope left for her the first night. Then, she's thought it was a bat, but now that she saw a much larger version of it, she realized her mistake.
Zofia rose, and stepped closer to inspect the strange writing, arranged inside the upside down triangle:
EX DONO SPİENTISSİMİ
COMİTİS S.t GERMAİN
QOI ORBEM TERARUM
PER CUCURRİT
Below the writing, etched in black, was the winged dragon, fitting into the downward point. She could see the mortar around the stones, which had been fitted around this central stone, looked lighter than the mortar around the other stones. The emblem had to have been placed here well after the fireplace had originally been built. Putting three and three together, Zofia had to assume that Saint Germain had had this emblem fitted into this fireplace at some point after he took over the castle.
She knew that the dragon was a common symbol for those who had magical abilities, and thus used it in everything from wax seals to the flags they flew over the battlements, and their coat of arms. Dragons also represented the primal forces of nature, religion and the universe, and were associated with wisdom and longevity. The fact that this dragon's appearance in an enclosure of a triangle as further symbolism of the three forces was not lost on her. If Saint Germain had had it placed here—which she suspected he had—the man's mystical background had to run deep and strong. Which, after learning what she had learned tonight, was not surprising
Her name called out from somewhere startled her. She twirled and faced the arched door of the room. Wearing a gathered yoke shirt made of muslin, sleeves rolled up, Saint Germain rushed in from the hall. His knee breeches were made of a dark green velveteen, and looked slightly soiled. His shoes too, were of a type that were not fancy, but plain and also seemed to have a patina of dust or soot covering them. He wore a halo of brimstone about him, and the shadow of beard stubble shrouded his face. He had not been sleeping—as she had thought he would be this late shadowpass—but working.
“Zofia,” he said again, surging forward. “Jacques has just told me. Are you alright?”
She met him half way. “Yes. I seem to be. I'm sorry that I've so obviously interrupted you in some sort of work?”
“Never mind, I work long enough on my spagyrics. Your welfare is my concern,” he said, his hands grasping her wrists in a firm, yet gentle manner. His face showed concern, worry and even anger. Anger, she supposed, that someone had infiltrated his citadel.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice had gone down in volume, now gentle as well.
“Just frightened more than anything.”
“What happened?” he asked, guiding her back to the couch where they sank side by side, his hands still claiming her hands. “Pray tell me how the devil entered! You locked the front door, surely?”
Oops. “No. I didn't. I guess I forgot.” But it would not have mattered, anyway, she reminded herself. “The gates were locked, weren't they?”
“The gates are always locked. I locked them myself when we returned,” he said.
“Cold 'e 'ave used—” Jacques' form returned to the threshold, his voice made them both turn to regard him.
Saint Germain looked sharply at him, answering just as sharply, “Ley line Portal? I don't see how.”
“But eet 'as 'appened before—”
“C'est assez!” Saint Germain barked. His hands released Zofia's on the command. She could see that Jacques was thoroughly cowed. Both men's gazes took Zofia in at that very same moment. It were as though Jacques had just about spilled the beans.
“He was a wizard,” Zofia said, finally realizing she could not let this go any further. The man— wizard—would hav
e to be revealed if not for her own safety, for the safety of Saint Germain and his castle. A wizard who could Evanish, and did so against all Codes, was a rogue and thus had to be considered dangerous. She would have to get a letter off to Stephen as soon as possible, but she had to be alone in order to compose it. Sending it was another problem she wasn't yet ready to consider, since she would not see the knight hawk in another day.
Jacques spat something in his language. Zofia figured they were keeping certain things from her by speaking in that language. If only she'd learned it back in school.
Anger suffused Saint Germain's face as his gaze fell off of Jacques and encompassed Zofia's. “Are you sure he was a wizard?”
“I only know that he got into my room, stood over me, and when I struggled, and freed myself, he vanished—”
“After you bashed 'im over zee 'ead, madam,” Jacques injected with verve, pantomiming hitting someone with his own hands.
“Are you certain there was someone there?” Saint Germain said and quickly added, “It is not that I do not believe you, but dreams can be very potent, and you have had a very trying evening.”
Jacques muttered something.
“Silence!” Saint Germain barked once again, but didn't take his eyes off of Zofia.
“You should see my room. It's a shambles. I'm afraid one of your beautiful lamps was destroyed in the tussle,” she told him.
“I am not concerned about the lamp,” he said. “A lamp can be replaced. You cannot.” He turned to Jacques and said something that sounded like orders in Arpiesian.
“Oui. Buen sur.” Jacques sped away, disappearing up the hallway.
Saint Germain stood. His hands once again claiming hers, Zofia rose.
“I am placing you in a room below my own. If that is alright with you, that is,” he said, escorting her slowly out of the room and headed down the same narrow and rock-walled hallway as Jacques had gone. Tract lighting illuminated the corridor as she matched his strides as best she could.
“Oh—alright,” she said hesitantly.
He halted and looked at her.
“You are afraid?” he asked.
“I-I'm—really this is fine,” she stuttered finally.
He blinked at her, one of his dark brows arched with his consideration of her. As they continued down the hall, he asked, “What did this intruder look like. You had a good a look at him, did you not?”
“He was tall. Over six foot, and bald. I mean completely bald.” Which was true. “And his eyes. I'll never forget the eyes. They were blazing torches of ice. Cold, and ruthless.” She shivered involuntarily. How she had seen those eyes, she now couldn't remember, since it was dark in her room. Then she remembered when she'd hit him with her Power burst, she'd seen his eyes blazing down at her, they had gone from the gleeful look of a mad man, to one of sudden surprise. He hadn't expected it.
“But he was bald, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“By the loss of hair? Or by shaving it?” he asked.
“He had to have shaved it,” she said. “It was completely smooth, shiny. Probably he bewitched his head to keep it that way.”
“Possibly. There is a cult, at least one I know of, that has leaders who are purported to have shaved heads,” he said in a grim voice as they rounded a corner that seemed to keep snaking along.
Finally, the corridor opened up to an oddly-shaped space. It was pentagon-shaped with a stairway situated at the top point. Below the stairs gurgled the standard pool. She noticed that one of the many colorful lamps back-lit a life-sized statue of a deeply frowning oriental warrior wielding a huge saber. His gaze brooked no trespass. Perhaps he was menacing enough to scare away even a sorcerer who could Evanish into this abode?
Two doors stood positioned across from one another in an odd proximity to one another because of the angle of this atrium. A passageway led away from it at each of the corners at the base of the pentagon. A very strange construction. Honey colored stone flooring was replaced by polished marble in contrasting colors of black and white, and arranged in a definite pattern of a triangle. In its center was an eye. The all-seeing eye—every nation of every world had this symbol, so it wasn't surprising to find it here. Surrounding the eye were beams, like sunlight. Around the edges of the triangle was writing in different alphabets; Theban, Passing the River, Celestial, Malachim, Angelic and Runic—alphabets she'd studied in school and had forgotten the translations of most of them. Each was written in a line on top of the other, and not interspersed, and went around the outer edge of the large triangle. This was unerringly a talisman set in stone. A protection against all dark magic from any and all sources. Saint Germain was either afraid of something, or liked to be well insured against dark magic.
Jacques emerged from the door on her left. “Your room, madam, is ready.” He made a bow, and stood back from the doorway to allow her access. Apparently, he had been making it ready for her.
Striding forward she noticed that the door was elaborately carved, as were the others in his castle. A seam of amber light spilled onto a single stone riser. Directly across from this door wound the stairway that plunged upward into the gloom.
“You have been through an enormous stress, Zofia,” Saint Germain said and turned away from her toward the hall.
As if on cue, Percival appeared in his usual butler's garb with a medium sized silver tray in his capable hands, upon which were a ceramic tea kettle, cup and the usual assortment of complements.
“Thank you, Percival.” Taking the tray from him, Saint Germain surged forward, and brought it into the room. “Come, you must drink the tea. It will relax you, allow you to sleep, as tonight's horror will keep you awake, no doubt.”
Zofia followed him into the room, as he placed the tea setting upon a small, square table. She peered around and found that the rest of the room was down one step. A corner nook, hemmed in with a half-wall of stone, up three risers into it boasted a small fireplace, a lot of hanging utensils, pots and bowls. A gold-covered couch tucked against the wall, and two small lamps with colored glass shades gave the nook an appealing spot to sit and relax by the fire. On the other side of the nook stood a canopied bed with deep gold velvet curtains, drawn back to reveal a comfortable, respectable looking bed. A small divan resided before a large dressing table with an oval mirror against the wall. Beyond the bed was another room, curtained off. Another water closet, she presumed.
She watched Saint Germain pour the tea.
“Come,” he said, pulling out the chair. “Sit, drink the tea, and we will attend to matters on the morrow.”
She sat and peered at the yellow tea. Chamomile.
“But—” She turned to locate her new protector.
Saint Germain was half way out the door. “I'll not hear any protest, madam. Jacques' room is across from yours, and mine, as I've said, is up the stairs. A very good night to you.” He shut the door.
Chapter 22
Zofia woke to new surroundings.
Where was she? How had she wound up in a different bed? It was made of dark wood, corkscrew posts and a canopy. Gold—not red, thank heavens—encircled the bed, and was much larger than the brass bed she had slept in.
Her mind slowly edged from her dream state to wakefulness.
The memory fed to her like a slow motion picture show, going from the dreadful events of the night. She'd been attacked by a rogue wizard.
Which reminded Zofia, she had to write to Stephen about it right away, and send it out today. He needed to know about this rogue wizard, and that this wizard knew she was a sorceress.
Sitting up in bed, she realized that she was now inside the castle. If she had arranged it, she couldn't have done it any better. What a stroke of luck. With the drawback of having a wizard after her for reasons unknown, and now he knew she was a sorceress.
Positioning two pillows behind herself, she relaxed back. The sheets were not black, and they were not silk. They were crisp white linen. In fact they were the m
ost wonderful cotton sheets she'd found herself between in a while. Possibly, they were Egyptian cotton from First World. Oh well. She checked for a tag inside the pillow case. Yep. Saint Germain shopped at J.C. Pennies, apparently.
Saint Germain had given her tea to drink last night, she remembered. Mostly chamomile. Maybe with something added to make her sleep even better than just chamomile would, but hopefully nothing that would harm her baby. She found herself with a smidgen of guilt for trusting him, but really could not find any reason to not trust him, or to think he would harm her after his demonstrative moments last night. Also, he had been angry that someone had tried to harm her, and had breached his castle—albeit the Nest, but nevertheless, it was part of his castle. He would not have brought her into his own home had he not felt the need to keep her safe.
Which brought her to another question. Why did he place her in the Nest, when he knew that someone might know the secret way inside vial the Portal?
She recalled the vexation that Jacques' comment had made to Saint Germain when the subject was brought up.
“Madam, are you up?” Biddle's voice startled Zofia from her thoughts and she jumped slightly. He was somewhere in the room. She didn't know if he had followed her, last night, or had found her through the various chimneys of the castle. The fire snapped away.
“Yes,” she breathed with annoyance. “I'm awake. Why?”
“There seems to be a juicy argument going on just outside your door, madam.”
Blinking, her eyes cut through the opening of her canopy to the distant door. She heard voices now. Both male. Both quite loud. It was Saint Germain and Jacques. From the sound of it, they were discussing something quite serious. Perhaps something to do with last night, but she couldn't be sure, since they spoke entirely in Arpiesian. Somehow the agitation in Saint Germain's voice convinced Zofia that he was upset over something Jacques had done or said. From Jacques' high wheeze rebuttal, it sounded as though he was on the defensive.