Calder returned to the main level to continue his search for Tessa, but immediately spied Ratcher at the far end of the corridor, proceeding at a rapid pace. He sped after her. The woman had supervised Tessa’s removal from the field; if anyone knew where she was, it must be her.
He stepped as softly as he could, but at one point a floorboard creaked and Ratcher paused and looked back. Seeing nothing, she continued until coming to an ornate door, over which a variety of strange symbols had been carved. She knocked and announced herself, and while she waited for a response, Calder snuck up directly behind her, trying not to breathe. She glanced back as if she sensed something, but shook it off when a man’s voice coming from inside the room told her to enter. As she opened the door and stepped into the room, Calder squeezed behind her, almost brushing her with his bag.
A beast with the head of a crocodile and the body of a dog leapt up from the floor with a loud, menacing hiss. Its bones were sharply outlined, its skin scaled like a reptile, its long tail lined with deadly spikes. Good god, what monstrosity is this? Calder’s instincts told him to flee, but when he looked back at the door, he saw Ratcher closing it. Instead, he scooted around a large vat, which was mounted over a flame, with steam rising from it. He glimpsed Lord Fellstone standing at the counter, grinding a purple flower with a mortar and pestle.
“Settle down, Fiend,” Ratcher said, thinking the animal was reacting to her arrival.
“It's only Ratcher,” Lord Fellstone told Fiend.
But the beast continued to hiss. From his hiding place, Calder could hear the tap of its claws on the bare floor as it drew closer to the vat. He had to do something before the croco-dog was upon him. But that meant getting into his bag without making a sound.
“Have you got her blood?” Lord Fellstone asked.
“Here, my lord,” Ratcher said.
Calder heard her making her way gingerly past Fiend. Anxiety that he might be discovered and perhaps devoured any second, kept him from speculating on exactly whose blood Ratcher was delivering.
“I trust this will be sufficient, your lordship,” she added.
“It will do.”
The inside of Calder’s bag was visible but hidden from the others’ view behind the vat. Calder searched inside it as Fiend drew closer, hissing and salivating. He wondered if his forehead, damp with perspiration, was starting to show.
“What’s wrong with you, Fiend?” Lord Fellstone said.
Just as the tip of Fiend’s snout appeared, Calder whisked out the vial of green, scent-hiding ointment. It looked like it was floating in air as he uncorked it and shook it over himself. Wherever the droplets landed, Calder became visible. Bits of his arms, head, nose, and legs appeared.
“Are you certain there's nothing there?” Lord Fellstone said.
Ratcher said, “I'll check, my lord.”
Calder threw the vial back into his bag and seized the invisibility powder. He shook it over all the visible parts, then tossed the jar back into the bag, closing it just as Ratcher peered around in his direction. Calder held his breath, unsure if he’d managed to cover himself completely. Fiend rounded the other side, uttering a guttural growl. It took all of Calder’s willpower not to bolt in the face of Fiend’s enormous maw, packed with crooked, razor-sharp fangs. Just as Calder thought he could bear no more, Fiend sniffed the air, grew quiet, and turned back. He settled into his corner and curled onto his bed.
“Did you have a bad dream?” Lord Fellstone asked Fiend. Then to Ratcher, with a harsher tone, “The girl could’ve been killed.”
Calder peered round the side of the vat to watch them. This appeared to be Fellstone’s conjuring room. The large chamber was filled with the tools of wizardry: jars of murky potions, vats of teeth, fingernails, hair, and eyes, goblets, hourglasses, ritual knives, and jewelry in the shape of symbols. Fellstone wore a smock over his tunic and trousers, which were of plain design but clearly sewn of the finest materials. He poured a noxious-smelling potion from a beaker into a vial which held a small amount of crimson liquid—no doubt the blood Ratcher had brought.
“My lord, she was never in any real danger,” Ratcher said. “No lasting damage was done.”
“She fell some distance.”
“Only her arm was hurt.”
Tessa’s alive. It filled Calder with such joy, he felt liked shouting it out. Only her arm had suffered; she would get over that. They had all made it into the castle alive. Though Ash was imprisoned, and Tessa’s whereabouts unknown, his heart rejoiced almost as fully as if their quest were complete.
“I suppose the dreadmarrow could heal her,” Ratcher said. “But of course, that’s only for your lordship’s use.”
“I’m not in the habit of sharing it.”
“No one would ever expect you to, my lord. I’m sure it’s quite out of the question.”
“It isn’t for you to say, Ratcher.” Fellstone paused in stirring the potion. “On second thought, I rather think I might allow it. It’s a small wound, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but does that matter?”
“I say it does. I’m going to allow it. Just this once.”
“If you’re certain—”
“Don’t make me repeat myself!” Fellstone stepped away from the vial and, using an elaborate key, opened a large cabinet made of heavy wood and decorated with gilded ornaments. “I see no harm in letting the child use it.”
Ratcher bowed her head.
It was a stroke of luck to learn the location of the dreadmarrow. But Calder didn’t like that it was to be used on Tessa. Who knew what effects it might have on her? Magic was known to take on a force of its own, and to influence those who used it for ill as well as for good. Bringing Tessa’s papa back to life could also have negative consequences, but the alternative of certain death made it worth risking.
Calder was most intrigued by Fellstone’s apparent interest in Tessa. He did not seem to bear resentment toward Faline’s daughter; quite the contrary, in fact. It could be a sign that Faline was still alive and in good favor. He had seen no indication of her presence inside the castle, nor heard anyone speak of her, but much of the fortress remained unexplored. There was time yet… if no one caught him.
Lord Fellstone removed a thin leather packet from the compartment. A heavy, ancient-looking book with strange writing on the cover could also be glimpsed within. He handed the packet to Ratcher and relocked the compartment. Returning to his vial, he poured its contents into a cup.
“This ought to bring out the bloodbeast in me,” he said. “The dreadmarrow has been leaving me drained of late.” He chugged down the potion, grimacing as his face went pale and perspiration erupted on his forehead.
“Sire, I look forward to your transformation,” Ratcher said.
TESSA
I had to pull myself together; this wasn’t the time to indulge in grief. I needed to find Ash and Calder, and after that, secure the dreadmarrow. Every tear I shed—every non-essential action I took—ate into the precious time remaining to save Papa. As for Mama… there would be time to seek her later, if we managed to escape from here alive.
First I had to change into something besides this ridiculous nightgown. My own clothes had been taken, and so I must make do with whatever I could find in the wardrobe. I glanced through the gowns again until I came upon the plainest one, a simple brown muslin which laced up the front. I put it on and considered myself in the mirror. It fit surprisingly well; even the length was just right. Mama would’ve been pleased to see me grown up and wearing something of hers. I slipped on a pair of fine leather shoes. Unfortunately, my feet were larger than hers, but I could manage with the minor discomfort of pinched toes.
I attached my pouch to my waistband and hurried to the door. Not surprisingly, it had been bolted from the outside, but in no time at all, I unearthed a skeleton key from my collection that perfectly fit the lock. I peered out into the hallway to make certain it was empty before I stepped out.
Few who lived in
Sorrenwood had ever viewed the inside of the castle, and yet everyone had an idea of what it must look like. Like most others, I’d pictured unlit hallways filled with unspeakable creatures crouching in the shadows, shabby doors that creaked when they were opened, and dismal rooms with broken furniture, spider webs in the corners, and rats scurrying across the floor. The reality could not have been more different than my imaginings. Sunlight poured in through rows of arched windows. Glittering chandeliers hung from the ceilings high above me. Bright frescoes portraying village life covered sections of the cream-colored walls. Rich red and gold carpets, so different from the ugly, threadbare floor coverings in my own house, overlaid the polished wooden floors. I marveled at every sight, and wondered if Mama, upon first seeing the castle, had believed she was the luckiest young bride in the world.
The first room I passed had these words painted on its door in red: “DO NOT ENTER UPON PAIN OF DEATH.” I wondered what could possibly be in there, that would make his lordship want to kill you if you saw it. But I had enough strikes against me already; there was no point in breaking rules I didn’t need to break. I would certainly not try to enter unless I learned the dreadmarrow was kept in there.
Just beyond this strange room, I came upon a large picture gallery with its double doors open to the hallway. Curious, I wandered into it and began to look about. The place was filled with the portraits of Fellstones through the centuries. Some had red hair, others yellow, brown or black. There were long faces, stunted faces, and fat faces… bulbous noses, upturned noses, hook noses, and pointy noses. Hairstyles changed; facial hair on the men came and went. But a powerful strain of arrogance ran through all of them. You could see it in their cold grey eyes, the arch of their brows, the lift of their noses and chins, even the placement of their hands.
At the end of the gallery I came to the portrait which put to end, finally and completely, any doubts I might still have held regarding my mother’s identity. I whispered her name to myself as I gazed at her likeness. She wore a white gown with a lace shawl and her hair fell over her shoulders in ringlets. She gazed out at the world with a plaintive, haunting look: a sheep among Fellstone wolves. My heart broke for her.
Then I noticed the ring she wore. It was just as Ash had described it, an enormous emerald held in place by golden tendrils. Exquisite and repellent at the same time; a symbol of her servitude to a man of extreme wealth and power. I imagined what must have happened the day she managed to escape. She didn’t run through the forest, as she had the first time when Arachne caught her, and Fellstone’s boarmen retrieved her. Instead she stole the windrider, became a sparrow, and soared over the castle walls. She landed in a quiet place—the graveyard—and changed back into herself. She saw her ring and realized she’d neglected to leave it behind in her haste. Perhaps it crossed her mind to sell it, but doing so would lead him to her. She must get rid of it, the symbol of everything she hated. She yanked it off her finger and buried it in the dirt. A graveyard seemed a fitting place for an object that reminded her of trampled desires and a life that was more like death. Long after she left it, the wind blew, the soil shifted, and the ring rose closer to the surface. Twin boys would dig it up and see it as a means to achieve their dream of owning real swords… but one of them would die for it. How Mama would have grieved to know her thoughtless disposal of the ring led to the death of a child. But she could not have imagined such a crime. The killing lay at Ratcher’s feet.
The sound of footsteps broke in on my reverie. I hurried to the doorway, filled with the hope that it must be one of my companions. When I looked out into the corridor, I saw to my surprise, that the door was open to the mysterious room which threatened death upon entry. I thought I glimpsed the shadow of movement inside. Now I was convinced it must be Ash or Calder. Who else would take such a risk? Perhaps the dreadmarrow was indeed kept within that room, and somehow, they had found it.
I approached the open door, paused at the threshold, and peered cautiously in. It was a gloomy place, more like the castle of my imagining, with the heavy scent of must and ruin. The curtains were drawn, the grate cold, and a thick layer of dust covered all the surfaces. It was a child’s room, with both a crib and a bed, tiny clothes laid out on a dresser, and raggedy dolls heaped on top of a toy chest. The place felt bleak and abandoned, as if no one had entered it in many years. I saw no sign of my friends, but still I stepped inside for a closer look.
An arm whipped out from behind the door and wrapped around my neck. A dagger pressed against my back.
“If I killed you now, no one could say you weren’t warned,” Ratcher said.
“Let me go!” I cried out.
“Why should I?” Her words slid like oil from her mouth.
“I meant no harm,” I said.
“Didn’t you?” She lowered her arm and shoved me toward the crib. “Go ahead, feast your eyes on the forbidden room.”
“What is this place?” I said. “Why are you here?”
“Why am I here?” She looked amused. “There are no restrictions on my movements in the castle, which is more than can be said for you.” She nodded at the crib. “Regarding your first question, I don’t think the answer could be any more obvious.”
The sheet and blanket were perfectly folded over the tiny bed, which had turned grey from years of neglect. “Yes, I can see it’s a child’s room. But why was it left like this?”
“It was closed up before the child ever got to use it.”
“Did the baby die?”
Ratcher gave a hard laugh. “Hardly. In fact she’s standing right here before me.”
I whirled around to check behind me, but no one was there. Ratcher’s gaze fixed on me. “I don’t understand,” I said.
“This is your room,” she said. “Is that clear enough for you?”
I still didn’t comprehend.
“His lordship ordered that no one, not even the maids, should enter this room, after your mother left with you,” she said.
“Left? I've never been here.”
“You have, but you couldn’t see it, nor could you walk through it on your own two feet.”
“Must you speak in riddles?” I said, my impatience growing.
“When you left, you were still inside your mother’s womb. It broke your father’s heart when she stole away with you.”
“My father…?” I trailed off. Papa? She didn’t mean Papa. Fellstone? No. It couldn’t be, I would never believe it. I shook my head furiously. “My father is Donal Skye, the locksmith,” I told her.
She shrugged. “If you say so. It's nothing to me.” She moved toward the door. “Come along now. I have orders to heal you.”
Tears gathered in my eyes and I wiped them away fiercely. Ratcher was lying. Of course she was. The woman was evil and she would say anything to hurt me. I must not listen to her lies. Papa is my father.
“Come with me,” Ratcher said. “His lordship wishes to heal you out of the goodness of his heart, and not because you're any relation of his. Definitely not.”
I followed her in a daze back to the room where I’d woken up. She ordered me to sit by the window, took the dreadmarrow from its case, and used it to direct a beam of sunlight over my injured arm, just as I’d seen her do with Lord Fellstone’s boils.
I struggled to return my thoughts to the problems at hand. Find Ash and Calder. Steal the dreadmarrow. Save Papa. “What happened to the boy who was with me?” I said. I knew Ratcher must already be aware of him, as I’d heard his battle cry on the field while the wraiths surrounded me.
“His accommodations are not quite as lavish as these,” she said.
He’s alive. I suppressed a surge of excitement. “I want to see him,” I said.
“That will depend on the grace of his lordship.”
“If my friend isn't treated well, I won't cooperate with any plans Lord Fellstone has for me.” If he chose to pretend I was his daughter, my cooperation would not come easily.
“You must tell him in
your own words,” Ratcher said. “I'm sure he'll welcome your demands and conditions.”
I wanted to ask about Calder, but what if he had managed to sneak into the castle without being seen? My question would give him away. I would need to seek him out for myself, as soon as I could get away from Ratcher. In the meantime, I had another object to pursue. “Something was taken from me,” I said. “A necklace I'm fond of.”
“The windrider?” Her eyes gleamed with amusement.
I should not have been surprised she knew exactly what I meant. “Yes, you saw it?”
Ratcher gave a cawing laugh. “It belongs to his lordship.”
“Oh? Is he always so careless of his possessions?”
“Your mother stole it, as I’m sure you know.”
“I suppose he could just make another,” I said.
“You underestimate the difficulty involved. Creating powerful magic comes at great cost.”
Then indeed, it was of more value than I’d imagined. I wondered about the crow; it had to be another windrider. Was it Ratcher who used it?
“I’ve heard conjurers can change into an animal at will,” I said.
“Every conjurer has a bloodbeast, which is unique to him or her,” said Ratcher. “It isn’t like a windrider. Those are all birds, and anyone, even a simple girl like you, can use one.”
“What is your bloodbeast?”
“An animal that would relish making a meal of your little sparrow.” Ratcher lowered the dreadmarrow. The bruising on my arm was entirely erased and the pain had disappeared. I watched as she restored the dreadmarrow to its case. My fingers itched to snatch it away from her; I would’ve done it if I still had my windrider. Without it, I would need to run from the room and then… well, I didn’t even know how to find my way out of the castle. Ratcher had only to shout down the corridor, and guards would no doubt appear and block my way. The theft of the dreadmarrow would have to wait.
Dreadmarrow Thief (The Conjurer Fellstone Book 1) Page 11