Eventually, the Just King, no less a sorcerer than a statesman, quells their revolt. He employs an intricate combination of artifice and force, and is merciful as his name.
The great-great-grandparents of the modern Dukes are not put to death. Instead, a binding is laid upon them and their heirs unto eternity. How the King concocts it is unknown to history or speculation. And yet it is an amazing sort of thing; a simple, cruelty-lacking, gentle torment; a death without dying, a spillage of blood without the breaking of skin, anemia without leeches.
The binding amounts to a curious kind of imprisonment—without walls or physical restraint. Neither the Dukes nor their heirs, those children who become Dukes or Duchesses after them, can leave the grounds of their home castles or strongholds. It’s as if an invisible wall of resilient air springs all around, and they cannot venture a step outside. Many try, of course; indeed, all do. They use fierce will, passion, anger, physical effort, sorcery and guile, but naught comes of it. Nothing can, for an unconditional binding of such magnitude is designed to contain.
The great grandparent of the Duchess of Orange, it is said, brandishing his ceremonial sword and cursing at the sky, rides his battle steed at full gallop through the open front gates of his castle. It is to the effect of meeting a steel wall. While the stallion races on undaunted, the rider is thrown and falls dead to the ground on the inside of his own castle land. Upon examination medicalis and dissection, he is found to be crushed to death by the pressures of what amounts to a mound of quarry stones.
Another brave ancestor, the grandmother of the Duke of Black, feeling that her parody of life is not worth a blade of grass, decides to jump out of the window of the highest turret of her castle. It is a suicide, a sin of outrage against the divine, and no matter if she falls to the ground, or dies in some mysterious way such as a volley of heavenly lightning and thunderclaps—nothing is too unexpected—she swears she would be satisfied. She is prepared for flames and eternal damnation. She is not prepared however, simply to step off the window ledge, only to feel the invisible wall support and hold her aloft in the air, and not allow her further movement outside. There she flounders suspended between the heaven and the earth, a human fish caught in the airy ocean net, a cod, a mackerel, a gasping carp with prodding limbs instead of gills. It is then that the neighboring villagers looking up at the castle witness their first miracle.
Other miracles follow. One Duke has his life miraculously saved when he is shot upon from the outside. The enemy projectile bounces off an invisible something as soon as it reaches the boundary of the castle grounds; the curse is revealed to hold its own blessing.
I want none of it, none, thinks Rossian. The only blessing is to end, quietly, maybe while submerged in a bliss-dream. I will never find out all the secrets, and I will not try. What remains then is slow decay.
The secrets. . . .
It is rumored that when the Just King lays his binding all those ages upon centuries ago, he also bestows upon the Dukes a single hope of redemption, of an eventual freedom from the curse. The curse itself is everlasting, but it does not disallow a way out. All have been given, supposedly, a different secret power to be passed on through the heir in their lines. When a single Ducal heir discovers all of the secrets of the others, he or she will be free of the binding. . . . And maybe then the sky will fall, and the subterranean well waters will rise and flood the land and torrential heaven waters come down from on-high to fill the rivers past their banks—and once the waters from above and below meet, there will no longer be green meadows and verdant fields to plow, only swampland and mist. . . .
And freedom.
Now, locked up in the strange prisons of their own castles, the great-great grandchildren of the original traitors send endless messengers and spies to one another, in spring or autumn, in winter and summer, some in the guise of a proxy friendship “visit,” others not bothering to hide their intent at all.
Each one tries most desperately to discover the secret power of every one of the others. Having no means to accomplish it in person, each has to rely upon the adequacy of trustworthy and guileful messengers, usually other relatives. What a grand heirloom joke the Just King sets in motion all these ages ago! A punishment of endless self-inflicted hell; with in-laws, to boot, in every sense of the word.
“Excuse me? You are the Duke of Violet?”
The door to his study has been soundlessly opened while he is lost in thought.
Rossian winces at the ringing timbre of the speech. His grimace intensifies when his gaze, accustomed to aesthetically soothing blandness and order, locates the actual source of the disturbance.
The female creature—for no one sane would call it “woman”—the creature peeks from the open door, head first, then fills the doorway with the rest of her terrifying self, and enters. On her head she wears a peacock screaming-green page cap. Its foundation of fabric is obscured, for the cap is festooned with layers of natural materials that might be employed by nest-building birds or rodents—branches and ivy and wildflowers, tufts of moss, several small apples threaded and attached with a rainbow of satin ribbons. The ribbon ends are weighed with bells and there are bunches of baby’s breath stuck in spots along the brim. If the cap were a Yule table centerpiece, it would be too garish. If it were a bird’s nest, it would frighten magpies.
The rest of her outfit clashes with the headgear in a chromatic fury, and in that way manages to complement. Her upper body is assaulted and consumed by a great doublet of various shades of orange, many generations out of fashion and many sizes too large, while lower down there is harlequin’s masculine hose. One leg is Sherwood Forest green and the other crimson with black stitching at the seams that dares to mimic a highlands tartan. The hose fits loosely like old skin over thin limbs, and suddenly the gaze is drawn to a ludicrous codpiece stuffed with rags.
Lower yet, hose disappears into a halfway-presentable pair of soft leather boots, of an unfortunate shade of deep plum purple. For accessories, there’s a long knife—culinary?—stuck at her wide saffron belt that cinches the voluminous doublet around a waist of indeterminate girth. Finally she is topped off by an enormous oversized charm-locket on a thick silver chain, hanging around the neck down to the approximate level of her stomach.
What makes this creature female? From underneath the cap the Duke sees a little-girl face. She is a whimsical doll; two grand eyes with a manic shifting expression, round fat cheeks, a tiny rosebud mouth. And yet, in the manner of an expensive heirloom doll, she is somehow old.
Indeed, thinks Rossian, the face is the only thing about this creature that does not offend; though, possibly the offense will make itself known in time. All else is revulsion, a festering wound to fine blue-blood sensibilities.
What a grotesque contrast they make. He, a gaunt vertical shadow with expensive refined airs, violet eyes, violet reflections in his wanton hair like dark honey; she, a whimsical squat toy-creature of vulgar insanity.
And what’s worse, she is holding a red, black and gold funeral box.
“No . . .” he says, feeling suddenly faint. “Not that.”
“Yes,” she says in a voice as bright as her outfit. “Here, my Lord, are the dust and bones of Fabled Nairis! Or, is it—that is to say, maybe, possibly—Nairis, the Fabled One!”
“Who the devil let you bring this—this thing in here? And who are you?” His tone is harsh, desperate. In his mind, stones and ice are grinding together.
She blinks, and a sudden confused darkness comes to her. The veneer of garish clothing may as well be non-existent, for with that one blink she is funerary while her words have lost their joyful charge and are falling like rain. “Who? Only the butler, my Lord, I think. He allowed—that is, he did not protest sufficiently—that is, I am not implying I am the butler, of course, no. Oh! I’m Izelle . . . Lady Izelle, my Lord. First cousin of Her Grace, the Duchess of White.”
“Lady Izelle. Lady? God-in-chattering-heaven. And what might be the purpose of t
his visit, pray I ask?” Rossian’s voice cuts past the rainfall like a finely honed scythe. He has a wicked talent for it, since childhood; furthermore, there are so many opportunities to practice it.
The lady however seems to catch on immediately. There is a mercurial switch. “My Lord, before I even bother with an explanation, you didn’t answer my original question. Are you the Duke Rossian? Or are you his poor relation?”
“Just call me Hanger-on Robbie.” In his mind he smirks; he is gearing up.
“Aha, well then. Robbie, is His Grace available for—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. There is no Robbie. I am the misfortunate you were instructed to seek. And as you can see, my luck has indeed run out, for you have located me. I am at your . . . mercy.”
The Duke inclines his head in the faintest semblance of a bow.
The monstrous doll’s rosebud mouth curves into a wicked smile.
“Then, Your Grace, I appreciate your mercy if not your service. And thus, let me be straightforward with you, in my haste to alleviate your suffering. I am here for the sole and resolute purpose of finding out your precious secret, so that my Cousin can take her first walk outside. Preferably next moon.”
He throws back his head, looks up at the stone ceiling, notes a cobweb garlanding one corner. He laughs softly. “You are a precious sort of jester, do you know? Wherever did she dig you up? First cousin, you say? No, that’s impossible. Blue blood is incapable of producing you.”
The Duke turns to the door to call his butler. “Harmion, is this some kind of clever joke on your part, to provide me with nouveau sublime entertainment on a much too lovely afternoon spent yet again indoors? Why did you not announce her? She let herself in somehow, past your Cerberus guard.”
From the hallway comes a familiar phlegmatic cough, followed by a clearing of throat.
“Apologies, my Lord. I was not given the opportunity due to the Lady’s rush of movement up the stairs. One would be reminded of a hound pack. And no, m’Lord, never a joke,” Harmion says tonelessly on the other side of the door. “I’m afraid this is quite beyond me.”
“There, see,” Rossian says to the creature. “You are even beyond Harmion. Therefore, you must be a figment of my degenerate, sickly mind. Only I can be depraved enough to imagine you. If I close my eyes, will you depart?”
He gestures with disdain at the funeral box. “As you make yourself gone, please be sure to take it with you. Merely by its nature, whatever is inside, it is repugnant to the living. Not to mention, blasphemous and out of place here. Relics, even fake ones, are meant for chapels and tombs, not drawing rooms. In short, I will not lower myself to ask how you acquired it, but I find its presence in my chamber unacceptable.”
Quite as unacceptable as you, he begins to say, but doesn’t. Instead he closes his eyes as promised, playing his own game.
When he opens them within moments, she is still there.
Izelle watches the Duke, her doll-face stilled in an attentive calculating expression. She is possibly evaluating his degree of gullibility even now, measuring him up against the others she has had the pleasure of tormenting, in order to report the exact details to her infernal Duchess.
“Do I truly disgust you?” she says suddenly. Indeed, as she has promised earlier, she is blunt. But the manner in which she appears to savor the notion is odd and fascinating, and the Duke finds himself startled.
“This box of venerable remains is distasteful to you, but what of myself, my Lord? Obviously it is so. And yet, you are a blue blood, so where are your manners? Do you always pay such scathing compliments to your guests? No, really, you can’t be this rude.”
“I cannot help it, you’re a clown, madam,” the Duke replies. “For that matter, you’re not a guest.”
And the creature before him appears to be stunned into momentary silence. It’s as if up to that point she has no idea that she is indeed a grotesque, a jester, a terrifying costumed scarecrow. Or maybe she does. Wait, yes, the Duke sees a smile held back in the rosebud mouth, a smile pressed hard against little dainty teeth, he imagines. . . .
“My Lord,” she says softly. “Oh, I like you! You are rude and yet formal as the vestments of a bishop at high mass, a piquant combination! Sarcasm and stuffy decorum and wicked mercy, all in one man! Oh, whatever words shall I use to describe you to my Cousin? I can’t imagine. Have you a pictorial likeness I might take back with me, to show Her Grace? A lacquer miniature, perhaps?”
He gapes at her swift change in humor—that she remains standing in this small claustrophobic room before him despite his command to depart, that she is undaunted and is in fact laughing at him.
“I hope there’s one thing you come to understand,” she says. “That nothing you say will make me leave. Hate me, despise me, be nauseated by me and this pretty bones-trinket, but here we are. We will stay until we learn what we must—this Fabled Nairis and I. Right, my dear?” With a grin she looks down fondly and pats the funeral box (it is the moment at which the Duke first seriously considers that she is indeed insane, and as a secondary thought, wonders what is contained in that box of death).
She, meanwhile, continues, “You may be rude enough to force me physically, to call the butler and a legion of servants—but I can resist. Both you and your men. And your sorcery. It’s rather quite unladylike of me, but as you say, I am a clown, and a very determined one. In truth—” and here she gleefully closes her hands and arms about the funeral box in a morbid embrace, “I do believe I’m going to enjoy myself here. When is dinner served?”
She ignores the Duke, ignores his eyes—which are dilated in outrage at being subjected to her insolence. She glances around the study—for this chamber obviously doubles as a personal library and a sitting room—and her gaze takes in minute detail.
He watches her in fascinated horror. His lips part as she suddenly moves toward the nearby writing-table of heavy antique mahogany and plunks down the box beside an open volume of esoteric philosophy, next to sacred yellowed pages that are liable to crumble from a too-strong breeze. . . .
And then she adds insult by speaking yet again. “Duke, my sweet, while you yourself appear to be clean, presentable, and debonair, this room, my Lord, this whole castle of yours, is one big compost pile. Yes, do not flinch now. Decrepitude and rot, everywhere. On the outside, weeds. Within, dust and dirt. Look around you! How can you allow these magnificent things to sit in such filthy conditions? Volumes of Maneille, and the Fire Magus, unshelved and littering a table! Ancient references removed from protective sleeves and left to grow brittle in sunlight! The encyclopedic works of Alghieri’s Sorcery shelved out of order and in most cases lying spine-down or flat on top of others—really, something must be done about this, immediately!”
“Harmion!” he cries, unable to bear it any longer. “Out! Get her out!”
“Oh, come now, tsk-tsk,” she says. “I suppose—I surmise you really don’t understand. If you prefer not to listen to anything else I say, then consider this. Not unlike you, my Lord, Nairis, this poor creature whose deathly remains are here before you, disgusting you so, was an Heiress to a Dukedom. An Heiress to Yellow, I believe, or possibly Chartreuse, as that noble branch calls itself. The man down below in your foyer who was peddling this item, told me all about it, which naturally got me interested enough to take her remains off his hands. And because of what she is, or was—do you follow my logic, Sir?—the curse of our kin applies to her also, even in death. Which means that she—or her remains—once brought in, cannot be normally removed from the confines of this castle. Can’t even be budged—I’ve tried it, and so has the unfortunate vendor. Why else do you think he would not leave?”
The Duke listens to her while things cold and slithering start moving in his mind, slow gears of a gigantic rusted machine.
“Now, unless you would like this box to grace your entryway permanently,” Izelle continues, “you might consider cooperation. I venture that only with my Cousin’s sorcerous help might y
ou remove this annoyance. Indeed, I can almost promise it—Cousin knows many things you’ll never guess. But—only after you agree to cooperate with me, or at least deport yourself civilly toward me. Now you see why I brought her—that is, Nairis—in here. Lucky coincidence? Thank heavens for traveling merchants who threaten mischief.”
Rossian’s jaw rises and he wets his lips. “But—what nonsense,” he says. “Are you blackmailing me with that thing? Do you think I really care whether an idiotic relic—no matter how distasteful to me—is somewhere in my castle? If it can’t be taken outside, I’ll have it removed to some far corner and stowed in a cellar. Anywhere out of my sight. And it wouldn’t bother me.”
“Oh, but obviously it would, my Lord; to quote the Poet, thou doth protest too much. Any fool, even a jester such as myself, can see that you’re afraid of it for some reason. What is it, the stench of death? Or the implications?”
“Damnation and nonsense yet again. Why should I be afraid?”
“I don’t know. Not yet. And really, it simply doesn’t matter for now. However, I promise you, at some point I will find out.”
The Duke looks at her, anger suspended behind a mask of stone. “If it doesn’t matter, then why in the world are we talking about it? I still don’t understand what the devil kind of leverage she, this deceased Nairis, represents for you against me—in your mind, verily, only in your mind! Devious, nasty little thing, are you? Your White Duchess certainly picked a gadfly to send as my tormentor. Only, regardless of your ability to sting, whatever either of you expects to find here, is . . . not.”
He pauses, breath failing his voice. He feels emptiness, a sense of futility, a need to simply turn around and pretend no one else is here in the room with him. How well it would be just to sit down in his familiar chair with its tall, padded back and comfortable, worn elbow rests and direct his gaze to a motionless object before him. Maybe something with yellowing parchment and crumbling pages, with smooth dark lines of symbols rendered in cursive. Follow the curving script into a trance, embark into a bright place of meaning. . . .
The Duke In His Castle Page 2