Wulfyddia (The Tattersall Trilogy Book 1)

by Steele Alexandra

  “What book is that?” He really hadn’t meant to ask.

  “It’s my favorite.” Daphne looked up and her eyes were glittering almost black in the flame light.

  “What’s the title?” He asked, slowly standing.

  “It doesn’t really have one,” she answered softly.

  In her chair closer to the fire, Lorna had moved, put down her knees and shifted to face her sister. Her fingers were digging into the armrests.

  “It must have a title.”

  “But it doesn’t,” Daphne answered simply. “Come see for yourself.” She was still stroking the cover with her long fingers. He should have sat back down and gone back to brooding silently. Instead he crossed to her side, trying to keep a respectful distance and get a closer look at the book at the same time.

  “Here.” Much to his surprise, she handed it to him. It was heavier than he had expected. It felt more like a book two or three times its size, and he too needed two hands for it. “Have a look.”

  The cover was truly beautiful. At a distance it looked blue, but now that he had come closer he could see threads of many colors woven into the fabric. “Open it.”

  The clasp was shockingly cold under his fingers, and when it finally came undone the click was surprisingly loud. It startled his cat; she stiffened suddenly, fur bristling, and yowled loudly before darting from the room. Daphne stood, taking a few steps back, and Spencer slowly looked up at her. His vision rippled strangely, so that for a minute Daphne’s head was oddly distorted, but he could make out her encouraging smile, so he raised the front cover and opened the book to a page in the middle.

  Later, he would remember, as if from a dream, that the book was not full of words, but rather illustrations. Later he would squint, trying to recall the details of the pictures, of the images that had so consumed his mind, blocking out all else. From the moment he opened the book, Spencer was lost to the world around him, adrift in a sea of images, fingers glancing over the page as if he sought to draw himself into it and become one with the tome. Daphne watched him unblinkingly, ignoring the accusatory gaze of her sister. When it was clear that he would not be able to extricate himself from the enchantments of the book, the two girls pressed past him with soft, guilty giggles, vanishing into the darkness of the hall, the only sign of their presence the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

  Then there was another presence, this one not so much in the room as part of it. It seemed to skirt around the edges of the air, as though reluctant to engage directly with the space around Spencer. There was a soft sound, like a lady clearing her throat, and then a whisper that might have been a person sighing or might have been the swish of a sleeve through the air. It seemed to hesitate, to duck shyly out into the hall and then, on second thought, peek back into the room once more, taking in Spencer’s still figure with wide and invisible eyes. After drinking its fill of his image, it did not leave, but rather just faded.

  And still Spencer sat by the fire, hunched over the book in his lap, his gaze riveted by images that seemed to ripple and shift sinuously beneath his eyes.

  ***

  The flame was being difficult. Thunder crashed outside the walls of the castle as Melisande lit the torch anew. She was in her mistress’s study, a dimly lit room decorated with thick furs and dark velvet. The desk and cabinets were carved of ebony, and the tall paintings that adorned the high walls were shaded in rich tones of red, purple, gold and black. It wasn’t a cheery room, but they were lucky to have windows. Most people in the castle relied on candles and torches, but for the Court Witch natural light was a necessity. Today the view from the prized windows was decidedly dismal. Though it was just past noon the sky looked like night, and rain spat against the glass as if the heavens held a grudge. Melisande had not seen the sun since it first rose that morning.

  From the chamber next door she could hear the agitated tones of the Royal Librarian as he argued with Felunhala, the Court Witch and Melisande’s mistress. Felunhala’s voice, when it was audible, was slow, soothing, and carried the faintest undercurrent of annoyance. She successfully hid her temper from most people, but Melisande had seen the witch’s naked rage often enough to know when her mistress was feigning calm.

  Slowly, with the utmost gentleness, Melisande cupped her hands before the torch, and tenderly, like a mother beckoning to a child, tried to coax the flame into her hands. It wobbled a little, unsteady on the torch, and then slowly, like a drop of water winding circuitously down glass, it began to slide towards her. She could feel the heat on her fingertips but she willed it not to harm her and it capitulated to her command. The nest of flames settled easily in the palms of her hands, just barely warming them, crackling and feeding on no fuel but her force of will.

  This was when most beginners panicked, fearful at the sight of flames on their bare skin even though they felt no pain. Once they panicked, loss of concentration was inevitable, and then the flame would begin to burn them. But Melisande was not a beginner, and her difficulties were not the usual first-time tribulations. The flame did not burn her and sustaining it was easy, almost too easy. But then it began to grow. The flames reached higher and higher, until they were almost touching her chin, almost caressing her face, until she had to stretch her arms farther out to give it space to grow and breathe. The fire leapt still higher then, climbing and climbing until it was a great crackling column as tall as a man, obedient save for the fact that it would not stop growing.

  A door slammed in the hallway, and Melisande heard heavy footsteps in the corridor. She glanced frantically over her shoulder, knowing that the flame was now far too large for her to hide. Felunhala would know that something was wrong immediately. The doorknob turned and Melisande stifled a gasp as the flame, seizing upon her distraction, began to tingle painfully in her palm. She dropped the flame on instinct and the fire fell from her hands. The flame seemed to feed on the rush of wind as it fell, but as it neared the ground the air proved too much for it and it went out, little more than a ball of smoke and ash as it landed on the thick furs that covered the floor.

  Melisande sighed in relief as the door behind her opened, admitting the Royal Librarian, with Felunhala just behind him, her left eye twitching. But the sigh caught in Melisande’s throat as the faintest stirring of movement drew her stare back to the pile of ash at her feet. There was a soft chattering sound and then from within the ash, five or six tiny reptilian creatures, each no larger than her little finger, emerged and shook off the dust. Melisande reared back in astonishment as the miniscule creatures looked up, snapped tiny scaled jaws, and then scattered in different directions. One made a run for a pile of furs, another vanished behind a bookcase, and a third darted under the foot of the advancing Royal Librarian and escaped down the hall. Melisande stared at the remains of the ash in wonder. She’d had plenty of spells go wrong, but nothing like that had ever happened before.

  “This is a disgrace,” the Royal Librarian practically exploded in a whirl of overlong sleeves and cheeks ruddy with anger. “In the olden days anyone who dared to trespass against the sanctity of the Royal Archives would have been caught and killed before he so much as crossed the threshold with one of those precious books. These days it doesn’t even look like I’ll get my book back, let alone see the thief punished like he deserves.” Melisande noticed that there were tiny three-toed tracks visible in the ash, and she surreptitiously ground one velvet slipper into the mess until no sign of the little creatures remained. There were few secrets she trusted her mistress with, and this would not be one of them.

  “You will have justice, Librarian,” Felunhala said. “But this issue must be handled through the proper channels.” She was a tall woman in her mid-thirties, with a long, bony face and a commanding manner. Melisande had been her apprentice since she was twelve.

  “You are the proper channel!” The Librarian argued, “Your wards are the ones that failed and allowed the thief inside the library. Mine remained intact.”

  “My wards
did not fail,” Felunhala responded, her voice steely, “they were overpowered by someone very strong and very skilled. And the wards may have been for your library, but that does not mean that I am under your command. The Queen commands me in this, and any actions taken against the thief, any inquiries into the event, must come through the throne room. You cannot circumvent the Queen in this. If I take any action it must be because she orders it.”

  “But she does not care! She is absorbed with prophecies, with whispers of traitors in the castle. It may be months before she has the time to attend to this. And we do not have months. This is not a book that you want in the wrong hands.”

  “What book is it?”

  “That is my affair, not yours,” the Librarian snapped.

  “And witchery is my affair, not yours. In a case like this I must observe protocol, which dictates that I must receive a direct order from the crown. I have received no such order. I’m not about to start tossing spells around randomly, trying to catch a thief who may be long gone by now.” Felunhala had begun quite calmly, but by the time she finished her chest was rising and falling a little faster than usual, and Melisande knew that only the Librarian’s status as Keeper of the Royal Archives protected him from experiencing the brunt of Felunhala’s wrath.

  “As you wish. I’m leaving.” The Librarian announced unnecessarily as he flung the study door open. It led out into the antechamber, and from there he had access to the network of corridors that could carry those with an excellent sense of direction from one end of the castle to the other.

  “Take care,” Felunhala bid him, without the faintest trace of emotion in her voice. Her lips were pale from being pressed together. The slam of the door was her only answer.

  “What an unpleasant little man.” Felunhala said. Her tone was tight with controlled anger. Melisande nodded. In truth she had not spent enough time with the Librarian to form her own opinion of him, but it paid to agree with Felunhala when she was in a mood.

  “What’s that?” The Witch’s sharp voice drew Melisande’s attention to the furs, where the ashes were still piled incriminatingly at her feet.

  Melisande glanced down silently at the evidence of her misadventure. “Fire spell,” she murmured.

  Felunhala’s eyebrows shot up her forehead. “That was clumsy.” She didn’t know the half of it. “Clean that up. Then get back to work. You’re not here for your looks.”

  Melisande obediently went to fetch the broom, and mercifully while she was fumbling around in the closet Felunhala left the room. Melisande found the broom and worked quickly with her head down, fearful of seeming idle if her mistress returned unexpectedly.

  But when she finally glanced up it was not her mistress who was watching her. Rather, in the open doorway leaned the nightmarish figure of the court Jester. Most of his face was powdered or painted white, but a mosaic pattern of reds and greens and blues spread out across his cheeks and temples in a butterfly pattern, with his black-rimmed eyes the center of each wing. His hat and shoes were black and adorned with bells, and his garb was brilliantly colored with a metallic sheen.

  “Melisande.” The voice was silky, and sounded slickly intelligent, but when she met his gaze, his expression was vapid, his face paint garish and almost vulgar. His gaze flicked to her wrists, and without looking down Melisande knew what he was staring at. She had pushed her sleeves up while she cleaned, exposing the two slender black rings tattooed in delicate but permanent circles around each of her wrists. Against the white of her skin and the blue of her veins the tattoos were as livid as bruises. It made her nervous when people looked at them, but Melisande resisted the urge to pull her sleeves down. It wasn’t as though he could possibly know what they meant anyway.

  “The Fool is here!” She shouted as she straightened up, her dislike of him making her bold.

  He was a young man, no more than a decade older than Melisande’s seventeen years, and he might have been attractive. He certainly lounged about like he was, but who could say under all that face paint? Then again, Felunhala obviously saw something in him. For weeks now the Fool had been dropping by every couple of days and vanishing into Felunhala’s private rooms. Melisande was still surprised by it. As far as she knew this was Felunhala’s first affair in the five years since Melisande had first come to the castle.

  “Send him in,” Felunhala called from the next room.

  Melisande jerked one thumb over her shoulder, pointing the way to her mistress’s rooms. She wasn’t required to show him any formality. The Court Fool made his living from making an idiot of himself. No one was required to treat him with any dignity whatsoever.

  “Fare thee well, Melisande.” His voice was an unnerving whisper. It was extraordinary, the things he could do with his voice when the rest of him was so…common.

  “Good riddance,” Melisande muttered under her breath as he disappeared into Felunhala’s private rooms, the bells on his slippers tinkling with each step.

  Chapter 2

  The sound of the water was omnipresent. It bled from the stone above Rathbone’s head, trickled down the drain and beaded on the wall as if the very rock of Castle Wulfyddia perspired. The sound of it made him shudder.

  Rathbone’s cell was hideous, dank and cold, and he had been furnished only with a pile of straw to keep him warm. It was fortunate that he had been snatched with his coat and a full set of travelling clothes on; otherwise the situation might have been deadly.

  Yet it was hard to feel thankful for anything as he stared up at the dark rock above his head and listened for any other sound, some sign that he was not alone in the darkness. The guards had reopened an old wing of the dungeon for him, and he was its only inmate. Initially it had seemed a blessing, to be imprisoned apart from the other men, away from those who had hooted and screamed and babbled, pressing close against their bars, as the guards brought him through. Now he thought that perhaps the occupied cellblock was warmer than this one; perhaps the sounds of other prisoners snoring around him would have induced him to slumber as well.

  He was too edgy for sleep, too painfully aware of the bewildering situation in which he found himself. He was new to Castle Wulfyddia, but he was not new to the terrifying rumors about brutal Queen Tryphena and her heavy-handed justice. Many who were flung into the dungeons of Castle Wulfyddia never saw the light of day again for as long as they lived. That couldn’t be him. He had to go home. He had to see his mother again, to tell her that she was right about this horrid place.

  Restless and twitchy with fear and resentment, Rathbone huddled on his side with arms wrapped around his body for warmth. He thought of calming things, of happy moments, of memories that he didn’t want to lose. He thought of – what was that sound? It had been faint, but quite distinct from the other sounds of the night, the falling water and the creak of the dreadful old castle around him. It was sharper, and harsher. It was a whine, like the noise made by a neglected dog. It was repeated twice more, and each time Rathbone was racked with shivers. It was nonsensical to fear the beast, whatever it was. It wasn’t as if a large dog could get through the bars, and a small one that did manage to slip through might provide warmth and company. Maybe he would finally get some well-needed sleep. Rathbone cleared his throat as the plaintive sound came once more. “Here boy.”

  There was no answer.

  “Here. Here boy. Nice pup. Come now. Let me see you.”

  Still silence.

  “Come on boy.”

  Now there was a sound, a kind of dull scratching, as though the creature had moved closer. Then it answered him, with a growl. Oh, but what a growl. Rathbone sat bolt upright at the sound, stricken to the bone. It was loud, too loud for the hungry, mangy mutt he had pictured. This was the snarl of a wild animal, and yet at the same time it was also the cry of a man, harsh with anguish and fury. Rathbone scrambled back from the bars, arms instinctively going up to protect himself as the scratching came again, like the sound of claws on stone. It was coming for him. He could
hear it drawing closer; he could hear its limping, lurching steps and the ghastly scrape of its claws. It roared, and there was such violence in the sound that he pushed himself back against the stone wall of his cell, biting his lip to prevent a panicked whimper from escaping.

  It was not a man. It was not an animal. It was a vision— a feverish, devilish hallucination, a visceral experience of slavering, slicing fangs and hellish, rolling eyes. It grasped for him with malformed fingers, bent and crowned with claws. The scent of blood washed over Rathbone, the low, forbidding taste of rust rising in his mouth. A livid bruise bloomed on his brow as he dashed his head against the bars in fright. His fingernails cracked and broke as he scrabbled against the stone, desperately seeking an escape. The beast was almost silent now, except for the horrid rasping gasp of its breath as it inserted a single arm through between the bars and reached for him, snarling in frustration when its claws slashed air and not his throat. More horrifying was the way it drew back and stared at him, with a very human cunning shining in its bestial yellow eyes.

  Knowing now that it could not reach him, he curled in upon himself, cradling his face in his hands and rocking to and fro, desperately hoping that the nightmare would recede back into the shadows and leave him in peace. But the creature did not retreat, and throughout the long, black night Rathbone could smell the blood on its breath.

  ***

  “It just keeps raining and raining...” Lorna stared out of her garret window, watching the pale flashes in the distant darkness with her brow furrowed. Night had fallen, swallowing the storm into its black belly. The thunder was softer now but still omnipresent, and the rain continued to fall in sheets. She turned to her sister, dark eyes gleaming out of her pale face. “They say the Lake’s rising, you know. Pretty soon it’ll swallow us all.” Daphne was standing on her own bed, with her eyes closed, head tilted back and arms outstretched, as though she were conducting the thunderous orchestra. Lorna looked back at the window. “If only the rain would stop. If it’s still raining tomorrow I don’t think I’ll get out of bed.”