She climbed the stairs to his room much as she had on her first visit, and, as before, he was already up and pacing the floor. He opened the door immediately and her lips parted to exchange pleasantries, but something in his eyes stopped her.
“How?” He asked her. “How is it possible? My beast was no jester, and the jester was alive and well when I first saw my beast. How are there two of them?”
Melisande slipped inside of his room and took off her cloak, closing the door firmly behind her. It would not do for the rest of the boarding house to overhear their conversation. “There are some curses which are, in fact… contagious.”
Rathbone twitched and glanced down at himself reflexively, as though he feared that there might be some evidence of the beast’s contagion on his body.
“Only to those who are bitten.” Melisande said, “and even then, in most cases the disease won’t take. It requires a certain kind of victim for the curse to take root.”
Rathbone’s gaze sharpened. “What kind?”
“I haven’t determined that yet,” Melisande told him. “I only know that a victim must share certain… traits, with the man the beast was before he transformed.”
“But what if the beast mauls his victim to death?”
“The curse brings the victim back.”
“So the man who was killed last night…”
“Hopefully he’s not the right kind of man for the curse,” Melisande said grimly. “And he’ll be better off if he isn’t, believe me.”
“I know.” Rathbone said softly, an image of that ghastly, tormented creature flashing before his eyes again. “I know.”
Melisande sat down at Rathbone’s table and poured herself some tea. “What worries me is this new beast. Unlike the first one, he doesn’t appear to be restricting himself to the dungeons… if someone doesn’t put him down soon there could be a bloodbath.” Melisande’s final remark was made rather thoughtlessly, before she had a chance to consider how it might sound to Rathbone. By the time she’d given her words some thought, Rathbone had already fixed her with a dark gaze.
“Someone will,” he said, quite definitively.
“Of course… Crown Prince Delwyn and Princess Anise are rallying a hunting party. They hope to kill the beast tonight.” Rathbone only nodded, and Melisande sincerely hoped that he wasn’t thinking of trying to interfere in any way. “Anise is the best huntress this kingdom has seen in many years.” She kept speaking, “she will find the beast and kill it. It will torment you no more.”
Rathbone nodded, but there was a look in his eyes that Melisande could not define. “How do you know?” he asked. “How do you know which sort of man will become a beast himself, and which will simply die?”
“I don’t know.” Melisande answered.
“You said it takes a certain kind of victim.”
“Indeed it does. But I told you, I don’t know which kind. There is some speculation, but…” Melisande shook her head. “Nothing concrete. Nothing that can predict for sure whether a man will be killed or transformed.”
Rathbone did not look satisfied, but he nodded. “I see.” His gaze narrowed. “You should go back to the keep, surely?”
“Yes,” Melisande said vaguely, though she had no desire at all to leave. She was surprised by how comfortable she felt, sitting there at Rathbone’s table, drinking tea and talking, even if they were talking about a hideous beast that preyed on people from the shadows. She was rarely able to speak candidly with anyone. Her mistress was a fuse that had to be handled delicately to avoid explosions, and Daphne, much as she seemed to want to be close friends with Melisande, was royalty, and as such must always be kept at arm’s length.
At length, the witch’s apprentice sighed, stirring from her seat. “Farewell then.” This time, as before, Melisande could feel Rathbone watching her from his window as she returned to the castle.
***
Something was different. Melisande could feel it the moment she crossed the threshold of the witch’s chambers. The entire way back to the castle a strange resignation had been growing in her, as if she were about to receive bad news and already knew in her heart what the news would be. Her first thought was that Felunhala had found out about her deception and would be waiting there to punish her for lying about Valinsky’s potion. But the chambers were empty; the witch had gone out. What, then, was so different?
Melisande was torn between exploring the chambers further and making a pot of tea to warm herself when she caught sight of the witch’s cabinet. Felunhala had left the lock undone. The charm had not activated and the door was unprotected. Suddenly fixated, Melisande set the teapot on the desk, dropped her cloak on the floor, and knelt down to peer at the little cabinet. Her first thought was that it had to be a trap, but she could sense no lingering bad magic, no spelled trap waiting to spring. Melisande remembered how Felunhala had looked that morning, out of sorts and decidedly groggy. She must have forgotten to lock it. Crouched on her heels, mindful of any sound from the hall outside of the witch’s chambers, Melisande took hold of the little handle, and could not quite believe her eyes when the door swung open.
There was nothing magical in the cabinet, no powerful talismans or cursed wands. Instead there were papers: a number of scrolls, a bundle of letters, and several leather-bound journals. These were Felunhala’s personal papers, then. Half-expecting her mistress to return at any moment, Melisande quickly picked up one of the journals and flipped through it. There was nothing obviously incriminating about the information within. Mostly Felunhala seemed to use the journals to keep track of her day-to-day activities and write notes to herself. The one Melisande held in her hand was the most recent one, and it mainly contained lists of potion ingredients, spellcasting schedules and a record of all of the business they had done in the past year. Melisande put it down.
Melisande’s hand wavered over the letters for a moment, before she selected one of the journals at the bottom of the stack instead. It was much older, dating to around the time Melisande had first come to the castle. She browsed it until the name of her hometown caught her eye. It appeared that before Felunhala had gone to Arkestra to collect Melisande, she had made a few notes to herself about Melisande’s village and the recent conflict there.
Small village, it read, provincial, backwards. Melisande scowled at Felunhala’s dismissal of her birthplace. Razed to ground. All dead save child. Blaxton sympathizers. Harbored him during uprising. The scowl slipped from Melisande’s face. That made absolutely no sense. Why would Blaxton have destroyed a village full of sympathizers and slaughtered his own allies? Then an additional note scrawled at the bottom of the page captured her gaze.
To ensure Melisande’s cooperation, she must not know that the Queen & not Blaxton was responsible for the death of her parents!!!
Melisande blinked. The words were right there but she could not quite comprehend them. They seemed to float up to her face until they were all she could see, until her entire world seemed contained within the curve of Felunhala’s Q.
She must not know that the Queen & not Blaxton was responsible for the death of her parents…
To ensure Melisande’s cooperation…
The Queen…
Not Blaxton…
The Queen…
Responsible for the death of her parents…
The Queen
***
Spencer caught up to the sisters just before they reached the library, and in the shadows of a narrow corridor he related the tale of his latest encounter with the ghost. “We have to tell your grandmother,” Spencer said as his story came to a close. “We have to. The ghost has as much as told me that my life is at risk, and she certainly wasn’t wrong about the Fool. Whatever is going to happen, we can’t stop it on our own, and we would be fools to try when your grandmother has the whole castle at her command.”
Lorna and Daphne did not look happy, but they were still listening, and Spencer thought that perhaps they could tell from the fear
in his eyes that the threat was serious. He had not told them about Justine’s disappearance, having not yet come to terms with it himself. Besides, he still had hope that his mother would find her.
“I don’t know if I can get an audience with grandmamma right away,” Daphne said. “I will likely have to wait until her schedule clears.”
“How long will that take?”
“I don’t know. Maybe several days. She has many granddaughters; Lorna and I are hardly her first priority. Anise and Dimity are the important ones. They are the ones who usually see her in person. If Lorna or I ask to see her she’ll think it’s something silly.”
“What if you tell her it’s important?” Spencer found it hard to believe that a princess could have so hard a time seeing the queen alone.
“She’s the Queen, Spencer. All she hears all day are important things. I don’t think she expects anything of significance from me.” It seemed a painful admission for Daphne. “I will try, but most likely she will be busy, and I’ll have to ask Dimity or Arthur to relay the message.”
“Is that the fastest way?” Spencer could not explain why, but he was positive that time was running out.
“Most likely, yes,” Daphne said. “They spend much of the day with her.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“I will try to get an audience with the Queen,” Daphne promised. “And if I can’t, I’ll pass the book on to Dimity or Arthur.”
“Thank you.” Spencer said gratefully. He realized that it was the first time he had ever thanked Daphne. It was the first time she had ever given him cause for thanks, and she nodded stiffly in response.
“I’m going to fetch the Book. No, Lorna, you stay with Spencer and continue our research.”
“We should go with you,” Spencer said, startled that Daphne was willing to return alone to that wing of the dungeon after what had happened there.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “The beast only stalks at night.”
“Yes, but—” Spencer stopped. Daphne was already walking away, and he feared to press his luck with her. At his side, Lorna wrapped her arms around herself and gazed unhappily after her sister.
“I hope we’re doing the right thing.”
“Me too.”
Chapter 16
Her wrists were smoking, and the flesh was red and swollen. She had singed the marks from her arms, breaking Felunhala’s binding on her. The witch knew of only one reason why her apprentice might do it, and when the girl raised her head and looked up at her with eyes that were perfectly dry, and almost inhumanly clear, she knew that Melisande knew.
“Melisande,” Felunhala began, and then stopped. The girl was staring up at her wonderingly, as though she were looking on Felunhala’s face for the first time. “Melisande, perhaps we should have a discussion.” She broke off again, a thoroughly unexpected fear growing in her gut. She had considered what might happen if Melisande learned the truth, but she had never expected to fear the girl. Then again, Felunhala also hadn’t expected to face an unbound Melisande, one who was free to use her powers as she pleased. And there was something ghastly about the way the girl was staring up at her, with the wide eyes of a child, even though this was not a child’s sorrow and it was not a child that had seared the bindings from her skin.
“No.” Melisande said. Her voice was very high.
“I would like to talk to you about—”
“No. I think you are finished with talking.” Melisande said clearly. It was the only warning she gave before she struck.
***
It was with great reluctance that Daphne allowed herself to be shown into the antechamber of her grandmother’s apartments. She hated the place and visited it only when it was required of her. Otherwise, she preferred to leave it to the likes of Dimity and Arthur, who had experience dealing with Tryphena and knew how to avoid provoking her. But, much as she would have liked to, she could not ignore Spencer’s panic, or the gory warning he had relayed on behalf of the ghost. Whoever the spirit had been when she lived as a flesh-and-blood woman, she was firmly on their side and had saved them when the Fool sought to butcher them like animals. If the ghost thought this a matter of life and death, it likely was. Still, Daphne wished that there were an easier way than going to visit her tyrannical grandmother. Daphne steeled herself before she took that final step within the doors of the antechamber, preparing herself for the worst.
When Daphne entered, there was no sign of the Queen. Dimity sat in an armchair by the window, gazing pensively into space. Her fine brown hair was swept into a smooth chignon, and she wore a fine dress of red and black brocade. She looked like everything a royal granddaughter should be: refined, thoughtful and slightly austere. Daphne sighed. Getting past her grandmother’s watch dog would likely prove quite difficult.
“Daphne.” Dimity greeted her with some surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you. What are you up to? And where is your partner in crime?” Dimity asked with her usual faint disapproval.
Daphne had no patience for her sister’s reproaches today. “I’m here to see Grandmother. It’s quite important. May I see her now?”
Dimity’s brows drew low over her eyes in surprise. “You know Grandmother is terribly busy. You must make plans to see her well in advance.”
“I know Dim, but I have to see her.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you. Arthur is the one who manages Grandmother’s schedule, and she has no time for visitors today. Even family.”
Daphne scowled. She had expected as much. “There’s something I have to give her.”
“Oh? And what might that be?”
Daphne held up the book with its gleaming cover. It was hard to say if it was having the desired effect on Dimity, who was always so reserved, but Daphne thought she might have caught a faint gleam in her sister’s eye. Daphne had used the book before to get what she wanted, on that rainy morning in the Haligorn with Spencer. Now it would get her an audience with the Queen.
“If I can’t see her right away, will you give the book to her, and tell her that I want to discuss it with her?” Between the sign of the royal archives stamped on its spine and the obviously magical nature of the book, Tryphena would likely summon her granddaughter for an audience the minute she received the book. Daphne would only have to wait.
“Of course.” Dimity agreed. “It’s quite an odd book, isn’t it?”
“Don’t open it.” Daphne advised her sister as she handed it over.
“Hm.” Dimity smoothed her hands over the cover, and then glanced up at her. “Of course not. I never pry in grandmother’s affairs.”
“Of course not.” Daphne muttered. She would have liked to have a better relationship with her middle sister, but Dimity was so tiresome in her perfection. “Well, I’ll go now. Make sure she gets it immediately.”
“Yes. Stay out of trouble, sister,” Dimity called after her.
“Indeed.” Daphne didn’t look back at her sister as she left the room.
***
Locked within her private chambers, the Queen paced back and forth, her heart hammering an unsteady rhythm. Her skirts brushed stiffly over the rich rugs beneath her feet as she stumbled numbly back and forth across her room. Clutched in her hand was a single piece of jewelry, a delicate golden locket with words painstakingly inscribed on the inside. She didn’t need to read the words, couldn’t bear to read them. “How is this happening? Where is my hunter! Where is my…” she silenced herself, unwilling to summon her guards, or even Arthur, when she was so distressed. She took a seat on her divan and raised her arm as though to set the locket down beside her, but unexpectedly found that she could not quite bring herself to unclench her fist. Much as she despised the sight of it, now that she had it back after all of these years she could not quite bring herself to release it. Maybe it was as a result of some suppressed sentimentality she’d thought long since extinguished; maybe it was a form of self-loathing, a kind of self-flagellation, a constant reminder of the
past that chewed away at her even as the cold metal of the locket bit into her hand.
It was only by pure chance that she had entered the room ahead of her advisors, ahead of Arthur, and seen the locket first. If they had entered before her, if they had caught sight of it first….
If nothing, she reminded herself. She was queen, and they would not dream of handling an item from her private chambers. It was unlikely that they would have taken much notice of the locket at all, except perhaps to think that it did not seem their queen’s style, but rather like a piece of jewelry for a much younger girl. Which it had been, many years ago. The locket was only remarkable when one took into consideration the inscription and the miniature; otherwise it was merely a trinket of beaten gold, hardly startling in and of itself. Almost as disturbing as the reappearance of the locket itself was the fact that the priest, the man undoubtedly responsible for the delivery of the locket, had somehow snuck into her audience chambers, right under her very nose.
“I have to get ahold of myself,” she murmured, and the whisper seemed condemningly loud to her ears. Many guards had been reassigned following that bizarre incident involving the kitchen staff and the court jester. It was very likely that interruption of the castle’s usual routine had provided an opportunity for the priest to enter unseen. Meanwhile her hunter had been on the job for several days. It was unlikely that the priest would survive the night. Very likely he would be dead by morning, and her problems with him. That thought should have eased the tightness in her chest, but still Tryphena felt as though she could not quite breathe. For years she had been holding the great wound of her past closed, staunching the bloodletting and hiding the stains from prying eyes. Now, it was beginning to weep, and rivulets of black blood, the fruit of dark deeds, threatened to mar everything that she had worked for.
If she lost her grip, all was lost. She could rely only upon herself in this matter, and it was imperative that she remain calm and reasonable. However tenuous her grasp of the situation was beginning to seem, she had to remain calm and reasonable. All she had to do was wait; that old man could not possibly outrun her hunter. She just had to outlast him. The Queen pressed a hand to her forehead— her free hand, not the one from which the locket dangled, deceptively heavy in her grasp— and she waited for her composure to return.
Wulfyddia (The Tattersall Trilogy Book 1) Page 17