by Lucia Ashta
I was such a fool. I was the only one who wouldn’t consider telling the magicians around me that I could do this. I was the only one too overwhelmed with a new life I was insufficiently trained and prepared for to lose sight of what might be important and what wasn’t. I was the only truly different one, even among the underworld of magic.
I no longer fit into the “normal” world. And I set myself apart from the world of magic, even if I did so unwillingly. I was a witch, but I remained an uncommon witch.
The unsettled thoughts, a muddle of not-knowing and assumption, did nothing to soothe my already frazzled nerves. I trembled, an embarrassing sign of fear that I had no way to hide. My body wouldn’t do what I commanded. I couldn’t settle my mind enough to do it.
My breathing became ragged and irregular. My shoulders, arms, and hands throbbed with the yearning memory of normal blood flow. Once I was loose of my bindings, I didn’t know if my arms would know how to behave any more. Would they regain their proper range of motion, or was it too late for them? Three days of numbness was a long time.
Winston’s horse reached the first of the cobblestones. The click clack of hooves changed. The sound became sharper and echoed.
I wondered, was it too late for me too? Would it be too late for the man I loved and our owl companion?
The cobblestones paved a long approach to the castle. Our horses’ footsteps rang out loudly, announcing our arrival. Each one made me tense, wishing there were a way we could come and go from this large fortress of a castle without its residents’ knowledge.
However, there was no hiding from our fate.
Our approach rang louder in my ears the closer we got. The castle loomed larger and more terribly above us until Winston led us to its side and dismounted. He tied his horse to a post and walked to me.
“Get down,” he said, already reaching hands to my hips to assist me.
I flared my nostrils and glared at him, wanting desperately to slap his hands away.
A wicked smile played across his lips at my resistance. He sprawled his fingers across my hips and gripped harder, pulling me out of my saddle.
My instinct was to kick at him, but Sir Lancelot still perched on the horn of my saddle, feigning sleep even while his talons clutched the leather beneath him in a death grip. It was all I could do to make it off the saddle without hurting the pygmy owl.
Winston yanked on me and dragged me down. When he released me, I stumbled.
Winston led my horse next to his, and the instant his back was turned to us, Sir Lancelot flew to my shoulder. His flight was as quiet as any owl’s when it approaches its prey below. Regardless, certainly Winston must have noticed, and since he didn’t react, I was left to assume Winston didn’t feel threatened by an animal he could crush in the palm of his bare hand.
Our small friend immediately pretended to return to sleep upon my shoulder—a ludicrous pretense that further endeared him to me.
Winston tied my horse next to his and moved toward Marcelo’s horse. But before Winston could pull Marcelo from his saddle, Marcelo swung a leg across it and slid down the side of his horse awkwardly. With his hands tied behind his back, he was lucky not to fall or otherwise hurt himself, but I understood why he did it, and I half-wished I’d had the nerve to do it myself.
Marcelo glared at our captor. Winston chuckled wickedly and left Marcelo standing there, regaining his balance, while he led his horse next to the others.
Winston walked over to us, smiling nastily the entire way. He mock bowed at me and said, “After you, milady. We mustn’t keep our gracious host, the Count, waiting.” He extended his arm signaling the way, as any proper gentleman would.
When I didn’t budge and Marcelo only moved next to me in a protective posture, Winston growled, all his play—which had been for his enjoyment only—gone. “Get in there. Now.” He shoved Marcelo and me from behind.
We stumbled forward, Sir Lancelot’s talons gripping my shoulder uncomfortably. But then I stopped again. Marcelo waited at my side. He looked at me with concern, but with much more calm than I was managing. I wondered if it was an act or if he could truly feel confident of our survival.
Winston brought a hand to his sword, strapped to his hips, and fingered its pommel playfully. He said, “Either you walk on your own, or I’ll motivate you properly and then drag you in there. It’s your choice.”
As if we had a choice. His meaning was clear.
When Winston pushed me again, this time more forcefully, Sir Lancelot flapped his wings to maintain balance, his wing feathers tickling the left side of my face uncomfortably. I pulled my face away from the pygmy while stumbling. But this time I continued walking, realizing that each step I took delivered me into the hands of someone worse than Winston.
My footsteps were heavy with dread as I closed the distance from the side of the castle and across the paving stones of the approach. I had to force my feet to follow my commands when it was time to climb the shallow staircase that rose to the castle’s entrance. And when I reached the landing, I thought I’d be sick with each small step that brought me closer to the castle’s large front door.
Once I stopped at the door, Winston barreled between Marcelo and me and pushed open the door without knocking—as if he lived there. That realization hit me hard. The one possibility—that Winston was associating with Count Washur—that I hadn’t wanted to consider because of how awful it was confirmed its truth on the sound of well-oiled hinges.
The entryway was silent. Far too silent for a castle this large that must have a significant staff to maintain it.
But it appeared empty. At least, it was as of yet empty of Count Washur and Marcelo’s nephew. The indoors bore a peculiar resemblance to the Castle of Irele, and I caught Sir Lancelot peaking his wide, yellow eyes open to inspect our dire surroundings. It was odd that the homes of two enemies should be so similar, although the art that adorned the castle here was much more gruesome and purposeful in its darkness even than the odious ancestral dark art collection of the brothers.
No magical candles burned. Instead, the castle and its inhabitants were left to an overpowering darkness that dragged them out of the springtime of outdoors and into a relapse of winter.
Winston closed the door behind us, sealing our fate.
“Count Washur?” Winston called out. His voice echoed down the entry hall.
I gulped uncomfortably, discovering how dry my throat was.
There was no answer.
For the first time since Winston ambushed us, doubt and concern replaced his usual arrogance.
“Count Washur?”
Still, silence. A thin line of sweat cropped up on Winston’s forehead.
My thighs trembled with fear and the relief of not being in a saddle anymore.
If Count Washur weren’t here, what would Winston do with us now? If Winston were the only threat, I’d break free, even if I didn’t get the chance to suggest the possibility to Marcelo first.
But where was all the staff? In a house such as this, as large as this, there would almost certainly be a staff of servants. A butler would be here to open the door to us. Even if their master were absent, many of them would remain behind to tend to the duties of the house.
Winston’s entreaty was more tentative this time, laced with disappointment. “Count Washur? Anyone?”
When the silence was final, Winston pinned his attention on us. It was as unnerving as having insects crawl across my bare skin. He put his hands to his hips and considered. I did my best to appear innocent and unthreatening.
Until Winston’s eyes gleamed wickedly, whatever plans he had for us reaffirmed despite the hiccup of Count Washur’s absence. “I guess I’ll have to do something with you until Count Washur returns,” Winston said. Then he smiled.
I hated that smile.
Chapter 10
Winston went back over to the front door and opened it. But he didn’t take his eyes from Marcelo or me. Forty or so feet away from us, I couldn
’t hear the spell he was casting, but I could see his lips moving.
Whatever magic he was summoning, I was quite certain I wouldn’t like it.
It only took a minute before several bundles of rope landed heavily in Winston’s arms. Evidently, he’d come prepared to restrain us properly. I imagined he’d cast some kind of spell to transfer the bundles of rope from his saddlebags to his arms.
So he’d learned at least two spells. How to bind with rope and how to move items. I couldn’t predict if a tally of his magic would help or not, but I was keeping track.
Winston cast a measured look toward Marcelo and me, and then moved over to Marcelo first. Apparently, he considered me the lesser risk, despite whatever he’d heard of me.
He dropped two bundles of rope next to my feet and threaded his arm through the other one. With his free hand, he grabbed Marcelo’s shoulder, spun him, and then yanked—hard—on his arms, still tied behind his back.
I grimaced. I imagined a yank like that would be painful on arms that were undoubtedly as devastatingly numb as mine were.
Winston led Marcelo to a wide pillar that framed a grand staircase. “Sit,” Marcelo barked.
I watched, worrying, wondering if Marcelo would put up a fight. My memories of seeing Winston beat Marcelo nearly to death were far too fresh. My eyes widened in panic. Marcelo couldn’t think he’d achieve much with his magic bound and his hands tied behind his back.
Marcelo hesitated, but when Winston pushed him down, he allowed it.
It’s not like it was a good turn of events, but I sighed in relief regardless.
Winston mumbled another spell while he extended the arm with the rope. Like a snake, the rope uncoiled itself from his arm and fastened Marcelo to the pillar he leaned against. Even from the distance that separated us, I could tell the rope held Marcelo tightly. He sat rigidly against the pillar.
Once Winston was satisfied, he walked over to me, retrieved the rope from the floor at my feet, and pointed the way with his hand. “To the pillar across the hall from him.”
He didn’t have to say more. His eyes said it all. If I didn’t comply, I’d regret it. I walked over to the pillar and slumped awkwardly to the floor against it. A jolt of pain rose up my tied arms.
When Winston mumbled the spell again to bind my back against the pillar, I couldn’t focus on his words at the intensifying pain from my arms being pressed between my back and the stone pillar. Stars flashed across my vision from the pain, and I directed all of that into a seething look at our tormentor.
Winston ignored my murderous look and turned his attention to Sir Lancelot. Up until then, I’d barely said a word. I knew words wouldn’t get me anywhere good with this man, and I had no desire to fuel his pleasure by responding to his cruelty and taunts. Bullies fed on the pain and anger of others.
But I had to say something now. “He’s a harmless owl. Just a pet. He poses no harm.” My words were a bit too desperate. I’d read books on birds in the library at Norland Manor that described how fragile the hollow bones of owls were. Sir Lancelot was far from a pet, and I feared for him even more than I did for Marcelo and me. Winston could crush him without even trying, and I imagined Winston would definitely try, especially since my voice revealed how much the little owl meant to me.
I wished I’d been able to control myself better, but Winston had pushed me too hard and too far. I was dangerously close to snapping any self-control I had, one thing I realized I couldn’t afford. I swallowed my regret and waited for Winston’s judgment.
His eyes studied me and the owl. He appeared to weigh the final coil of rope over his arm. Then he yanked at Sir Lancelot violently. It didn’t take much to pull him from my cloak. Sir Lancelot was intelligent to the point of genius. He’d realize his best chance to survive this was in not resisting. If he tensed his body and fought Winston, he’d almost certainly get hurt.
Winston gripped Sir Lancelot—too firmly, I was sure from the terrified look on the owl’s face—and walked up the staircase behind us. When he was halfway up the stairs, he crouched next to the balustrade and muttered the same spell quickly while he outstretched the arm that held the rope. With his other hand, he held Sir Lancelot against the balustrade.
Sir Lancelot didn’t move a feather while the rope wound itself against his diminutive body.
I wasn’t the praying type, but I prayed then—to what I don’t know, perhaps to Maggie’s God—that Sir Lancelot would survive this. Because if the ropes crushed his body the way they were crushing mine, I suspected it’d be more than enough to shatter his delicate bones.
With a disgusted look toward Marcelo and me—as if we’d done something to him!—but without another word, Winston walked down the hall and out of sight.
The darkness swallowed him up, so that not even the echo of his footsteps reached us for long. Presumably, he was going to look for Count Washur.
I waited until the stale, dense silence of the castle settled around us again. And then I rushed to interrupt it. “Marcelo,” I whispered as loudly as I dared. “Why haven’t you wanted me to untie myself?”
“What?”
“Why haven’t you wanted me to untie myself?” I said again with urgency. I needed to know.
“What do you mean untie yourself? You can untie yourself?”
I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t told him. My spirits sank somewhere around my numb wrists. We could have avoided all of this! Or at least the worst of it. If I’d untied myself on our trek here with Winston, there was no guarantee I would’ve been able to overpower him before I was able to untie Marcelo. But it would have been worth the risk of exposing this one secret about me Winston obviously didn’t know.
And Marcelo hadn’t known either. I groaned in a very unladylike manner. In the aftermath of the battle, I hadn’t shared that one remarkable detail with him. There’d been so much risked and so much lost that the paths that got us there hadn’t seemed as important.
I could have untied us and saved us three days of agony. It was unbelievable. I slumped against the column, my arms surrendered to the pain that minor movement brought.
“Clara! Are you serious? Can you really unbind yourself?” Feverish eyes wiped the shock from Marcelo’s face.
My ears strained for the sound of returning footsteps. “Yes. I thought you knew. I thought when you shook your head at me, you were telling me not to untie myself.”
Marcelo groaned as loudly as he dared. “I’d never willfully allow that brute to do what he did to you, and I’d never allow him to bring you to Count Washur.” Another pregnant sigh. “Oh no. Oh my god. I can’t believe I didn’t see it. And thank all our blessings that Winston didn’t notice.”
“What?” I said. I had no idea what he was talking about.
“When Winston… spit on you.” Marcelo seemed to have trouble accepting that he’d done such an offensive thing. “You sent his foulness back onto him. That was you. Doing magic. Even after you were bound. And I didn’t even put that together. I don’t know what I was thinking? That the water element would just do that on its own? Dammit. Clearly I wasn’t thinking at all.”
And clearly Winston wasn’t either. Thank goodness. Or my secret would’ve been revealed for no reason that was useful to us.
“Ugh,” Marcelo growled. He sounded terribly disappointed in himself.
I didn’t know what to say, but I didn’t want him blaming himself for something he shouldn’t. So I said, “I’m sorry,” and I was truly sorry for so many things. Winston was after me, not him or Sir Lancelot. Winston’s fixation was with me and his twisted desire to possess me, something the law might actually back him up on. The law had been set by men to protect men, not women.
“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for,” Marcelo said, his voice sad. “‘Tis I who’s sorry.” He sighed again, and it sounded very much like the sound of defeat. “Well, if you can untie us, hurry up and do it now then. Get us out of here before he returns. Move as fast as you can, and if he shou
ld return while you’re in the middle of the magic, just pretend you’re still tied.”
I nodded.
“Now, Clara.”
I closed my eyes amid a silent prayer that I would have the time I needed. If I didn’t succeed, it would be bad. I would have revealed my secret advantage for no purpose.
I found the elements right away, and I knew I’d be able to untie us quickly. The five-petal knot was waiting, as it always was. It waited for me to learn of my power, for me to call on it, for me to be a co-conspirator of incredible creation.
I’d already discovered the elements within the rope while we were outside, and they stood out for me now. With a calm that had been unfamiliar since Winston ambushed us, my intentions reached out to the elements. They didn’t need me to spend time with them before acting, they seemed to understand the urgency. They were eager to comply as if they shared my disgust in Winston, that I should be subservient to a man as vile as him.
Easily, with a refreshing grace, the rope untied from my hands. It unraveled as delicately as if it were made of silk, though the raw gouges in my wrists wouldn’t allow me to believe it for long. I left the other end of the rope tied to the post and moved my thoughts to Marcelo.
Just as simply, I reached for the elements that made up the rope that bound him. I could tell the rope had been cut from the same longer piece. The origins of the rope were identical.
I smiled. Even though the rope that was untying now didn’t touch me, I followed the path of the elements and experienced it happening.
Without intending it, another groan escaped Marcelo, this one of pain. He looked at me, alarmed; it had been too loud.
Urgently, he stood. “Untie Sir Lancelot. Quickly.”
I repeated the process with the pygmy, and it was faster this time. Once I untied him, I watched him, concerned, wondering if he could still fly. By some miracle, he could, and he flapped rapidly over to my shoulder again. We didn’t need to tell him how important it was that we move quickly.