Stellan gripped her shoulders with pincer like hands. “Foolish woman!” he barked. “That was incredibly stupid of you! Incredibly stupid! I told you never to take that road, and I meant it!”
Clarysa clutched a fistful of his cloak to steady herself. It seemed a monumental effort to speak. “I…I came to warn you. Villagers attacked us as we returned. They were… Their eyes…so bloody. I think they’re infected! We need your help.”
Stellan’s furious gaze thawed, but only a touch.
“There was no one else to spare…only I escaped.” She tried to squelch the odd discomfort building in her chest and lowered her gaze. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Please…forgive me. I remembered your warning too late. I meant no disrespect.” Loosening her grip, she stepped back. Her hand reached behind, seeking out a wall to lean against. Finding none, she slumped against Midnight. “What…what other choice did I have?”
Stellan turned aside. “Patrulha!” he bellowed. In the dimly lit entry hall, Clarysa spotted a number of dark-clad figures approaching. One of them took the lead.
“Right here,” said a woman. She stepped into the light of the nearest torch.
Clarysa gazed at her with intense curiosity. For one thing, the newcomer towered above her. Patrulha had dark features and unkempt hair. Thigh-high boots along with a thick leather tunic adorned her body–a warrior’s garb. A black patch was slung across her right eye. Her left one lingered, giving Clarysa a brief appraisal before locking onto Stellan.
Stellan began to issue orders. “Assemble twenty of our men and saddle up. We ride to Aldebaran.”
Patrulha cocked a brow.
“Pestilence attack,” Stellan responded. “Humans, this time.”
Patrulha nodded and darted off.
Clarysa’s breathing became more labored. Nevertheless, she forced out her question. “Who is she?”
“Captain of my guard–such as it is.” He turned away to consult with one of the men.
Clarysa didn’t want to bother him, but then her chest constricted in an alarming manner. Gasping and wheezing, she collapsed on the floor. She heard an older woman’s voice cry out.
“Heavens above! The Lady!”
Stellan rushed to her side. “Clarysa? What’s wrong?”
Groans of pain spilled from her lips. “I feel so cold.”
He picked her up effortlessly. “Quickly,” Stellan shouted. “Draw her a bath by the fire!”
He carried her sluggish form across the entry hall. A cool draft made her shiver. Her gazed fixated on a piece of her torn and tattered dress as it dragged along the stone floor.
Next to a roaring hearth, he placed her in a big wooden tub. Warm water flooded into it, reviving her slightly. Clarysa opened her eyes.
A woman with an expression of unabashed curiosity stared at her. She wore a smudged apron over a patterned red frock. Clearly a servant. A rat’s nest of curly, brown hair streaked with gray crowned blunt features. Creases lined her mouth and eyes; here was a woman in her late forties, at least.
Clarysa wet her cracked lips. “Hello. I’m Clarysa.”
The woman propped a hand on her hip. “And I’m Gretchen.” Her warm, earthy voice was infused with a heavy accent. She smiled, the act revealing a wide gap between her two top teeth. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Stellan appeared at her side with a fresh bucket. “And I’ll be pleased if you’ll stop talking. Keep the water coming.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Gretchen winked before slipping from Clarysa’s view.
Stellan dumped the water into the tub. Clarysa could see the steam rising from it, but it didn’t feel as hot as it should.
Stellan gripped her shoulders and pulled her forward. She gasped as he yanked her dress halfway down her back. His fingers probed her skin, searching for what, she didn’t know. One spot in particular ached horribly. “What do you see?”
“Exactly as I thought,” he muttered, releasing the material and gently coaxing her back into the water.
“What’s wrong with me?” she asked, her voice sounding like an ugly croak to her ears.
“Imp’s Kiss,” he responded. “One of them was on your back. It bit you.”
Clarysa struggled to speak through chattering teeth. “W-what’s Imp’s K-k-kiss?”
Stellan knelt beside the tub. He pulled one of her arms from beneath the water. The healthy glow of her skin had dissolved into an unnatural pallor marked by dark blue veins. “You’ll freeze to death if we don’t keep you warm,” he said grimly, lowering her arm gently back under the water. “I’ll be right back.”
Stellan disappeared from view. After Gretchen had filled the tub with two more buckets of water, he returned. He raised a small vial to her lips. “Here. Drink this antidote. It will destroy the poison.”
Clarysa gagged; the concoction he had hurriedly tossed down her throat tasted horrid. It smelled of rotten meat and had a slimy, viscous feel as it slowly slid down her throat. Is this some kind of sorcerer’s trap? For the first time, she wondered if she had made a mistake in coming. Was that Edward’s gloating face staring up at her from the water?
By reflex, she tried to spit it back up, but Stellan clamped a hand roughly over her mouth. “Swallow it,” came his command. “Now!”
Tears sprung to her eyes, but she complied. No strength remained for any other response. Only when he was sure she had drunk the entire concoction did he release his hand.
Stellan grabbed a bucket from Gretchen’s hand as she approached the tub. He dumped it in quickly and tested the water. “It’s getting cold already. Have Ghyslain help you.”
Gretchen nodded and hurried away.
Stellan looked thoughtful. “The potion’s full effect will take time. You will stay here and recover. I’ll prepare a follow-up treatment for Gretchen to administer, and you won’t give her any trouble about drinking it. That is understood, is it not?”
Clarysa nodded slowly to indicate her obedience. Though firm to the point of being draconian, clearly Stellan was only trying to help her. I was wrong to have doubted you. “Where are you g-going?”
“My men and I will ride to Aldebaran to deal with the infestation. You are not given leave from my castle until I return. That is also understood.”
Clarysa reached out and grabbed his hand. There was so much she wanted to learn about him. Labored breathing impaired her ability to speak, and pains shot through her chest. She could only stare at him, his face unreadable. She wondered if he cared about her, or if he was simply performing his princely duty.
Stellan eased her hand back into the water. “Just rest,” he said, his voice echoing faintly in her head, “rest.” His face began to melt away and soon vanished altogether from her consciousness.
Chapter 11
A candle stump tried valiantly to pierce the darkness of the cascading stairwell as Stellan descended to his workshop. As he opened the door, a kaleidoscope of deep red and green hues splashed over him, emanating from the luminous contents of the glass jars stored inside. They contained potent mixtures he had fashioned over the years.
He placed the candle on the room’s rough-hewn table and gathered a number of jars from the shelves. Scratching sounds eked out from behind the walls, but Stellan paid them no heed. He had to work quickly if he was going to stop the Pestilence outbreak in time.
He unrolled a padded bundle of empty vials. He lined them up on the table along with bowls, funnels, measuring spoons, tubing, and stirring rods. Some of the potions required little more than precise measurement and mixing; others would only activate with heat, a task Stellan accomplished using a specially modified burner.
Occasionally, he flipped through a well-worn bundle of papers–his book of potions. He knew most of them by heart, but where Pestilence was concerned certainty was crucial.
Would his small arsenal be enough? Stellan had developed them through extensive trial and error over the years, and he was still learning. Other than an apothecary he’d o
nce known, he had only his memory of childhood studies to guide him in the magickal arts. Now he regretted not seeking out sympathetic sorcerers for consultation–if they even existed. The Black Mage ruled by instilling fear rather than respect. During his fifty-plus-year reign, only Stellan had dared oppose him.
His gaze followed a path up to the topmost shelf in the back of the room. There, a grayish glow oozed forth, easily drowning the rainbow-colored hues around it.
It was still there. Despite its obvious danger, its capricious results, Stellan was loath to part with it. Even now, its power called to him. Memories inundated him as he stood there quietly regarding the pulsing orb.
He had been fifteen when he’d stumbled onto that leafy path within Dungeon Forest. Even though he’d previously explored the area many times, he had never seen its inviting entrance. Curious.
* * * *
Horseless at the time, he’d crept along on foot. Rounding a bend, he’d encountered an impossibly tall man draped in a long, flowing robe. The stranger’s cowled, hidden face should have sent Stellan scurrying, but his desperate need for human contact had kept him rooted to the spot.
A slender, bony hand urged Stellan closer. He joined the cowled man beneath the shadow of a large oak tree. “What are you doing here,” inquired the stranger, “in this land so far from home?”
“I am searching for herbs with which to mix my potions. My name is Stellan. May I ask for yours?”
The man leaned on his staff and chuckled. “Of course you may ask, but do not expect a quick and honest reply. After all, a name represents that which makes a person. When one simply gives it away, he gives away a bit of his soul as well.”
Stellan had only nodded at the cryptic remark, not truly understanding its implications. “Well,” he’d said, “I’m going to leave now.”
“Wait!” cried the robed man. “I have something for you.” He produced an old earthen pot from his capacious robe, a pot spotted with age. “You said you needed herbs. This, I assure you, is far more potent than any plant.”
Confused, Stellan had frowned. “Why are you offering it to me, sir? I don’t know you and have nothing to offer in return.”
“Consider it a gift then,” the man said, “one to aid you in your magick. My bones are tired and old. I have need of it no more.”
Stellan was intrigued, so he stepped closer. “What is it?” he asked, bending over to study the mottled pot. He still hadn’t committed to accepting it. “Raven’s root? Calillon leaves?”
The stranger shook his cowled head. “The power to breach the walls of life and death.”
Now Stellan was definitely interested, for power was one possession he lacked. He reached for the container. The pot was smooth and warm in his hands. A thin slit of pulsing grayish light was visible where the lid met the body, but Stellan didn’t dare open it until he was back home. His heart rate sped up. This was a true find indeed!
Stellan looked up to thank the stranger, only to discover he was gone. He should have questioned the disappearance, but he was too excited about his new acquisition. Container in tow, Stellan turned and began the long journey back to icy Vandeborg.
* * * *
The memory faded. Stellan gasped at the sight of the jar in his hand. A shudder ran through him. He didn’t remember picking it up. As if it burned, he hastily returned it to the shelf.
Little had he known what unspeakable power dwelled within the dread container, but he’d been too eager to find out. Upon returning to Vandeborg, opening the lid was all he’d needed to do in order to unleash the power within. The result had been both magnificent and terrifying.
Yet the experience had nearly cost him his one true asset–his mind. No one could expect to survive such an encounter with their wits intact. Somehow, he’d managed to replace the lid and end the macabre parade before any more damage had been done. If it hadn’t been for Gretchen and her family, he would have succumbed to madness.
In retrospect, he should have questioned the stranger harder about his identity. Was he a rogue sorcerer? A demon? A spy sent by the Black Mage? Who knew what devil’s bargain he had unwittingly agreed to that day. Years passed before he’d realized such a “gift” came with a price. What price Stellan would yet pay remained to be seen.
Stellan bundled up his full vials. It was time to depart for Aldebaran. At the door of his workshop, he cast a rueful look toward the ominous glow on the topmost shelf.
“That’s not a mistake I’ll make twice,” he muttered, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 12
Clarysa awoke and discovered she was in a cocoon of thick blankets. Only her face was exposed. She opened her bleary eyes and stared into the flames of a robust fire. Where was she? Then it all came rushing back–Stellan’s castle!
She crawled from the makeshift womb of brightly colored blankets. Looking down, she fingered the rough cloth of the nightgown she wore. It was a far cry from the silk and fine linen filling her wardrobes back home.
Clarysa shivered in the brisk air. She wrapped herself in a blanket. At the foot of the hearth, she discovered thick woolen socks and a pair of slippers. Guessing their worth in the frigid castle, she donned them quickly. She raked her fingers through her disheveled hair. I must look a fright.
There. Now it was time to find someone, anyone. She had no idea how long she had lain there, but she remembered Gretchen coming to wake her periodically to take more of the potion. Clarysa put a hand to her lips, her stomach churning at the memory. Stellan! Had he returned? What about the Pestilence threat? She had to find answers.
Clarysa grasped the door’s large iron handle. Opening it took all of her strength. A cool draft of air rushed in and sipped quietly at the room’s warmth. After a few moments’ rest, Clarysa stepped into the hallway.
Yawning, she crept down the murky passageway. A light shone at the far end, drawing her like a moth. She shivered despite the blanket. I can’t believe how cold it is here. Even in the dead of winter, her father would never allow his castle to be so uncomfortable. This would take some getting used to.
Winded, she stopped to rest against the base of a pillar. Clarysa braved a look around and upward. The vaulted ceilings disappeared into fathomless shadow. Statues lined the walls, their visages appearing ominous. Most were of men clad in ancient armor. Hideous beasts of stone reached outward with coiled tails and dangerous-looking claws. A scratching noise mysteriously emanated from behind one of them. Though faint, it sounded purposeful. Clarysa shuddered, and continued her search.
As she neared the source of the light, Clarysa heard voices. She hoped one of them belonged to Gretchen. Shuffling up to the doorway, she peered slowly around the frame.
Ahead of her lay the kitchen. While expansive and well lit, it was also smoky and cluttered. Mismatched tables and chairs centered around the large hearth. Pots and pans of all sizes hung from rusty hooks. Everything seemed to bear the stain of careworn age.
Garlic and onions hung in sacs along the walls, and potatoes spilled from a huge bin in one grimy nook. Liquid bubbled from the iron pot atop the fire. The air felt toasty and smelled like slow-cooked soup.
Clarysa then gazed in wonder at the sight of a covered, brightly painted wagon in the opposite corner. It sat there like a plump, bulbous flower at the height of its bloom. Large wheels ran outside the body of the van, which sloped outward considerably toward the eaves. Deep blue curtains embellished the opening. Clothes hung drying on various ropes that stretched from wagon to walls. Clarysa thought it magnificent. Even with her avid reading of the history books, she had never seen anything like it.
“Well, come in, come in! Don’t be a stranger, my dear.”
Clarysa focused on the voice’s owner. It was indeed Gretchen. Her appearance resembled a brightly colored butterfly, accented by coin necklaces and bracelets that jingled as she expertly navigated the room’s obstacles. She wiped her hand on a towel and then used the same to reach for Clarysa’s elbow and assist her d
own the steps.
“How are you feeling?” The older woman took a moment to study Clarysa’s face, rubbing and pinching her cheeks with strong, calloused hands. “Aye, I think you’ve recovered for the most part. Come and sit. I was just getting us some lunch.” Gretchen nodded toward a young man seated at the main table. “This is Ghyslain, my son.”
Clarysa barely remembered him from the night of her rescue, but was glad of the chance to meet him properly. Brown hair tied in a ponytail and one large hoop earring accented Ghyslain’s appearance. He had the gangly bearing of a teenager but none of the awkwardness. He grinned and waved hello, then stood to offer her a seat.
Clarysa curtsied. But her weak legs rebelled, and she toppled over into a stack of carefully arranged baskets. Gretchen and her son rushed to her aid. They guided her into a sturdy chair by the wooden table.
“I’m so sorry! Please forgive me.”
Gretchen chuckled. “That’s what you get for using such fancy manners around this place. Ghyslain, the cups, please.” Gretchen busied herself at the hearth, ladling soup into three large bowls.
Metal silverware landed in the steaming bowls. It was dull and scratched, yet betraying skilled craftsmanship. Gretchen placed the bowls deftly on the table as the boy filled three earthenware mugs with water. She retreated to the pantry, returning with thick slices of dark, crusty bread. “Old family recipe,” she said, lifting her mug in cheer.
Clarysa smiled and turned to her meal. It was a thin potato soup with garlic and onion, speckled with carrot. She ate steadily for a few moments. “This is wonderful, thank you, Gretchen. How long have I been asleep?”
“Three days,” came Gretchen’s nonchalant answer. She slurped hard, some of the soup running down her chin.
Clarysa straightened up. “Thr…three days?”
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