Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Recalling the warning Prince Anatole had given during their first meeting, the love-struck viscount wondered just how the Russian had known.

  “Hello,” he said, his smile as wide as hope itself. “I’m Henry. Welcome home.”

  Her lips parted, but no sound emerged from the slender throat. Her left hand reached out for his, and he took it.

  “Here, now, let me help you to sit.”

  The duchess gripped his arm, and Henry placed two pillows behind her head. “Thirsty?” She nodded. “Yes, I imagine you are.” He filled a small glass to the halfway mark and put the rim to her lips. “Take it slowly. You’ve been unconscious for many days.”

  She sipped a little and then pushed the glass away. “You’re Henry?”

  “Yes, do you remember my voice?”

  She nodded, wearily. “Where is Charles?”

  “I’ll explain in a moment, but allow me to assess your health before addressing that,” he stated as he examined her skin colour and eyes. “You’re still flushed, and your pupils dilated. Can you breathe?”

  She tried to inhale, but it caused a coughing spasm.

  “May I?” he asked, showing her the stethoscope. “I’d like to listen to your lungs.”

  “Why does it hurt to breathe?” she asked.

  “You’ve contracted pneumonia, or something akin to it. I fear you’ll be a couple of weeks mending.”

  “No, I have to find Charles!” she exclaimed, trying to rise from the bed. “He disappeared! The Captain—his watch started working, and he’s gone! I have to find him. Please, help me find him!”

  “I will. I promise,” he told her sweetly, his hands on her hers. “The Captain will want you well, now won’t he? Until then, you must do as I ask.”

  “But will you tell Charles that I’ve escaped?”

  “I will, but allow me to do my job first, all right? Tell me, do you know your name?”

  “Yes, of course, I do. I’m Elizabeth Stuart. No, wait. It’s Sinclair now. My mind’s all foggy, but I think my wedding was...it was...” she said, panic crossing her features as the memories clarified into harsh truth. “Charles was hurt! I remember now! Trent took me. He put a cloth against my mouth, and I think I lost consciousness. When I came ‘round, we were inside an empty house, and someone else was there. Rasha, I think. But he—someone killed him!”

  Her words came in a rapid-fire stream, like a desperate tide. Elizabeth took a painful breath, sorting through recollections that seemed impossible. “I can’t remember clearly, but someone else was there. I could hear them talking. William tried—he tried to hurt me. Force me to yield to him! He climbed on top of me, but someone pulled him off, someone helped me. I can’t remember who it was. I’m not sure, but I think he killed Trent. Suddenly, I was flying up in the air, and then the house caught fire, and then I saw creatures on another roof.” Her eyes rounded in shock. “Oh, no! Charles was thrown back onto the snow! Blood covered the ground, and... Please, tell me he’s all right! Tell me he isn’t dead!”

  The prince had been quietly standing in the corner of the chamber, out of her line of sight. He had no wish for the duchess to recall that awful night. To stop her, Romanov returned to the bed and reached for her hand.

  “Your Captain is well,” he told her. “Elizaveta, these memories are too much for you to bear. Think no more on them.”

  “Anatole?” she whispered. “Where am I?”

  “You are in my home. Do you remember how you came to be here?”

  “Yes. No wait, I don’t,” she corrected as the prince touched her forehead. “I cannot remember. I’m so very sleepy. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s right, my friend. Sleep, Veta,” he whispered. “Dream of home and your handsome Captain. Soon, you will be reunited.”

  She closed her eyes and relaxed against the satin pillow as though in a faint. The Scotsman glared at the Russian, anger colouring his cheeks. “What did you just do?”

  “I shall explain in due course. For now, come with me, Doctor. Katrina will keep watch on the duchess.”

  Before leaving the bedchamber, Romanov pulled the bell rope to summon the servant. The lady’s maid entered and curtsied.

  “My lord?”

  “Katrina, our patient will sleep for many hours, but we must still keep watch. I know it is late, but will you sit with her? The doctor and I shall retire to my private drawing room. Send for me, should you require us.”

  The prince led the physician down a tapestry-lined corridor that connected the northwest apartment to the rest of the castle’s first floor. Henry paused to examine several of the beautiful designs near the turning to another apartment. “Medieval histories?”

  “Some are,” Romanov answered. “Others are much more ancient.” They continued past the second apartment and into an extraordinarily beautiful parlour. The room was circular, and the ceiling soared overhead, curving into a dome. Every square inch of the walls bore bright murals, predominately red, silver blue, and gold in colour. The floor tiles were black and white marble, overlaid by a silk rug with an equally beautiful design in shades to match the walls. Though Henry had never visited Russia, the room looked Eastern and ancient and exceedingly opulent to his eyes.

  “The word magnificent comes to mind,” the Scotsman said as the prince led him to a large sofa. “Is the design Russian?”

  Anatole pulled a velvet cord near a carved marble fireplace. “Of course. I may not be of human origin, but my current form is. During these many centuries as a Russian, I’ve developed a great love for the styles and furnishings of the tsars. Do sit, Henry. I’ll have Vasily lay in a selection of food and wine for us. We shan’t be disturbed for some time, I shouldn’t think.”

  The viscount sat upon the curved sofa, his back against two brightly embroidered, suzani cushions with gold tassels at each corner. The room was as large as any royal state room and, over the centuries, had hosted hundreds of Russian dignitaries.

  “This room has always been my refuge,” the prince explained as he sat opposite his guest. “It is a copy of one in my Moscow palace. I hope you are comfortable, Lord Salperton. I appreciate how exhausted you must be after so arduous a task.”

  “That is an understatement. I’m decidedly weary, but filled with questions. To begin with, just where was I this evening? Hell?”

  “No. I told you plainly. You were in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. It has seven levels, the first of which is a complicated maze within the Realms of Stone. The Stone King has many names and many crowns, and he can transform into flames of fire, melting even the hardest of rock. He recognised you.”

  “So it seemed,” Salperton answered uncomfortably. “When my mother died, I had a terrifyingly vivid dream. That Stone King creature was in it, astride a dragon. Surely, a child’s fancy.”

  “Was it?”

  Henry had no wish to discuss it further, and he deflected by posing his own question. “What did you do to her? The duchess, I mean. She was trying to explain what happened to her, but you touched her forehead, and all her memories vanished.”

  “I helped her to sleep. That is all. The duchess is in too fragile a state to recall the tragic details of last Sunday. When she is stronger, I will return the memories to her.”

  “But she will awaken again? Tell me that you’ve not consigned her back to that hellish world!”

  “Of course not,” Romanov answered. “I would never harm her. Did I not send you to rescue her? Why, then, would I return her there?”

  “I’ve no idea. Honestly, I find all this rather disorienting, if not exhausting. What time is it?” the physician asked, swiping damp hair from his sweaty brow. “I feel as though I’ve run a hundred miles.”

  “I suspect your body grows heavy with the weight of responsibility and discovery. Few humans have visited the Stone Realms. I do not yet know why the duchess and her husband
were pulled into it, but I intend to find out. It may require that I leave you for a few days. If so, I pray you will remain with her until I return.”

  “Of course, I will. I won’t leave her.”

  Anatole smiled. “Because you love her.”

  “Because I am her physician!” he answered angrily. “Why do you insist on baiting me?”

  “Is it bait to pronounce fact?”

  “You enjoy playing with words,” Salperton noted, choosing to avoid the trap. “Your Highness, I’m more tired than I’ve ever been in my entire life, and yet I have a thousand questions swirling inside my head which will keep me awake.”

  “Then, you must ask them,” his host said kindly.

  “To own the truth, I’m not sure where to start. I suppose, I’ll begin with this place. This ghost castle. How old is it? When was it built?”

  Just as Romanov started to answer, Vasily quietly entered with a tray of fruit and sandwiches along with a silver-mounted decanter containing an amber liquid. “I promise to address your question in a moment, but first, I suggest you eat, Doctor. I’m sure you are famished after so arduous a night. Vasily has brought us brandy, but we have a cellar stocked with other options, as well.” The prince lifted the cut crystal stopper and sniffed. “Ah, the Bouchard ’26. An excellent choice, Vasily.”

  The viscount showed no interest.

  “Perhaps you prefer vodka? Being Russian, I keep several varieties, but I warn you, vodka is much stronger than what you Scots drink.”

  MacAlpin smiled, wiping at his eyes wearily. “The brandy will do nicely, but you might be surprised what we Scots drink, Your Highness.”

  “So I’m often told. Thank you, Vasily,” he told the servant. “Has everyone else retired for the night?”

  “All but Mr. Anderson, sir. He’s still adjusting to his medicine. Everyone else has gone up to their apartments. Katrina sits with the duchess, but there is another matter, Your Highness.”

  The butler bent to whisper, and Anatole’s light eyes rounded. “Is that so? Position guards at all the entrances. Come to me at once, if you hear of further news. No other disturbances, however, if it can be helped. Lord Salperton and I wish to speak privately.”

  Vasily left to carry out the orders, and the prince poured his guest a snifter of brandy and handed it to him. “If I appear secretive, it is not my intent. Vasily whispered that the local police have raided a gambling house on the other side of the cemetery. I’ve always thought it a curious place to conduct such business, but then the dead experience events different than we,” he added mysteriously.

  “Yes, very curious,” Salperton answered, not the least bit convinced of the explanation. “The castle?”

  “Yes, the castle. It is not called Ghaist, of course, despite what the locals choose to believe. Originally, its name was Vrata Raya. It is an older form of Russian, meaning Heaven’s Gate.”

  “An interesting choice of names, considering what I’ve just been through,” Salperton observed as he sipped the wine.

  “Indeed. The name is based on a local legend, anchored in truth. A fifth century tribe, descended from the Regni, once called this area of London home, and they told a story of divine beings who taught their ancestors the art of forging steel and producing superior weapons.”

  “Divine beings such as yourself?” Salperton suggested.

  Anatole smiled. “Yes, I was there, but I did not teach them these things. I discouraged it.”

  “Yet they continued to commune with these fallen angels?”

  “They did. Therefore, I placed guards over the gate to shut it.”

  “So you say.”

  “I do not insist you believe me, Henry. In time, you will decide for yourself whether or not I can be trusted. To continue the story, however, I kept close watch on the portal over the following centuries, and when the Muscovy Trading Company established itself in London, I returned here to broker that venture.”

  “You returned? But surely not as Anatole Romanov? That family did not take control of Russia until, what?—the early 17th century?”

  “1607 to be precise. A most auspicious year, historically speaking. The Bank of Genoa failed, England was severely flooded, Monteverdi’s opera Orfeo premiered, and Jamestown colony was established in the new world. One might say a new era had begun. My current form is based on a man whom I admired during the reign of Michael I, the founder of the Romanov dynasty. As with all my kind who walk the earth, I create histories for myself, should anyone ever wish to investigate my past.”

  “You lie.”

  “No, I merely invent. You would be surprised how often humans encounter my kind, though they are blissfully unaware of it.”

  “Hebrews 13:2,” the viscount noted, smiling. “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby, some have entertained angels unawares. My mother often quoted it. And this trading company offered you an opportunity to return to the site of this gateway?”

  “It did, indeed,” Romanov replied. “My attentions had been drawn away to other matters in a distant part of the world, and in that time, someone discovered the covering stone and removed it. The gateway stood open once more. Rather than risk the same occurring again, I built this castle upon the portal.”

  “How is any of this possible? If you knew the Regni, then that would make you two millennia old!” the medical man argued.

  The prince said nothing, merely smiled.

  “You’re that old?”

  “Much, much older,” the prince whispered.

  Salperton inhaled deeply. “Well, then, I may require a sample of that vodka. After all, I can’t get any madder than I am already, can I?”

  Romanov filled a pair of chased silver cups, decorated along the rim and handle with finely crafted roses. “I think you’ll find this outmatches your Scotch whisky for strength, but with a more complex flavour.”

  “I’ll reserve opinion for the moment,” MacAlpin answered.

  “I like you, Henry. I always told your mother that you would grow up to be a fine man. She was a very beautiful, compassionate woman. Talented, and quite bright. She loved you as few mothers love their sons.”

  “I loved her in return,” Salperton answered softly. “I miss her yet today. That ache never leaves me.”

  “Until now,” Romanov dared suggest.

  The viscount cast the prince a sharp look. “Do stop insinuating that I am in love with my patient. I am not.”

  “If you say so,” the prince agreed, though his expression made it clear he hardly agreed at all. “Henry, did you know that one of your mother’s paintings was of me?”

  “You?” Henry asked in shock. “My mother saw you?”

  “She did. We even conversed a few times. I tried to conceal myself, but your mother’s eyes cut through my veil. Her eyes were very sharp, much like your own. You will find the watercolour portrait inside the box of treasured memories you keep inside your study. The box is made of carved oak and bears the Salperton crest upon it.”

  The physician stared. “How can you possibly know that?”

  “You keep the box in a safe, hidden within your study wall. Behind an oil painting of a tricolour spaniel dog. Your childhood friend, Droigheann.”

  “No one outside my family knows about that dog! Even if you broke into my home, that painting bears no plaque.”

  Romanov smiled. “I had already informed you that I visited your home, remember? Droigheann was a sweet-tempered animal, and very brave, was he not? His name is Gaelic for bramble.”

  “Yes, it is,” the physician answered, his brown eyes softening. “He was a stray, by all accounts. I found him lodged in a thicket near the woods outside Inverary. Poor thing was a mess of briars and nettles. Despite the pain, he never once complained. Our butler spent over an hour cutting thorns out of the dog’s fur. Finally, he clipped it all down sho
rt. Practically shaved the animal. It grew back, though,” he added, smiling as he recalled the childhood event.

  “Droigheann was small but fierce. He died protecting you from a wolf.”

  MacAlpin’s face paled. “How can you know that? Just what are you? You claim to be two thousand years old...”

  “Older.”

  “Yes, so you say, but how is that even possible? You’re not a spirit. I can touch you. If I put a stethoscope to your chest, would I hear a heartbeat, or are you merely a figment of my mad imagination?”

  “I am one who watches, Henry, and I’ve been watching your family for generations. My human form is real, though I did not steal it. I fashioned it using science unknown to humankind. It is the kind of knowledge my rebellious brethren taught to Adam’s descendants. Indeed, they still teach it! Did you ever hear your mother speak of a man named Trent?”

  He shook his head. “No. Should I?”

  “Did she ever mention a group called the Round Table? Are you sure? What of the great wolf? A red-eyed beast as large as a horse.”

  The annoyed physician tipped back the vodka in one quick gulp without so much as a blink. “Whisky is stronger,” he declared, setting the cup neatly on a marble-topped table with a carved dragonfly base. “Why do you ask about the wolf? What have my childhood nightmares to do with you, the duchess, with any of this?”

  “That wolf was not a nightmare, as you well know. Did you dream Droigheann’s death? No, he charged the hellish beast and saved your life. Afterward, your mother told you about a man called Trent. She told you that he was evil. You have no recall of this? I rather doubt that, Henry.”

  Salperton poured another shot of vodka and drank it down, wiping his mouth with his hand. He looked completely worn down and pale, as though the prince had lanced a festering boil and drawn poison from his system.

  “When I was at Oxford, a classmate at Queen’s College suggested that I join this Round Table group. The fool thought them nothing more than a social club, but I knew better. My mother had warned me of their plots, and I’d spent years looking into their history. They are a fellowship of political miscreants who espouse revolution and riot. They plot to unseat the rightful sovereign and place their own man on the empty throne. Despite my warning, I fear my friend did join. Why do you persist with this, and what has this to do with my mother or me?”