Spell of the Dark Castle (Chronicles of Zofia Trickenbod Book 2)

by Lorelei Bell

  Percival strode ahead, passing more statuary of dragon-headed snakes, and bizarre monstrous insects with bat-like wings.

  They stepped under a roofed bridge, open on both sides so as to take in the view, and it was breathtaking. Across the way, a series of waterfalls cascaded into a modest-sized pool, just below them. This pond fed another horseshoe waterfall—that was pretty much deafening. The area beyond was hidden by tall pine trees. She realized the monoliths, pushed closed together, rested against a gradually rising mountain. There was no way of knowing how long these had been standing here, but it was long enough that the nearby mountain had gradually eroded—mostly avalanches—and joined them in the back. Now, the snow melt flowed down from above, through all the little tributaries, and funneled into the horseshoe falls. Eventually the falls spilled down the face of the two megaliths, creating a series of falls below that, until it reached a pool at the very bottom, which her carriage had driven past last night.

  Turning, she looked down on the village below, surrounded by the castle's protective walls. Beyond the stone walls, she took in the distant valley, and mountains, rising up to lofty snow-capped peaks.

  Zofia pulled in her gaze from that dizzying height to where they now stood.

  “Oh, my,” she said, gripping the railing, striving to regain her equilibrium.

  Percival was several steps ahead of her, and now realizing that she was still at the beginning, he rushed back to her.

  “Miss Trickenbod, are you alright?” he asked, concern actually drawing over his face, and notched in his voice. He reached for her, but as with all help, he would not touch her unless she were in dire need—which she was not.

  “I'm alright,” she said, hand up. “I simply looked too long and too far down.” Well, that's what she wanted to believe, anyway. Dizzy spells were all part of it, weren't they? That and barfing.

  “This way, miss, if you will,” Percival said, ushering her along the bridge now.

  The bridge spanned the gap between the two menhirs, and it was quite a distance. The bridge angled toward the other menhir and was made up of huge beams and cross braces, and she felt no movement as they walked.

  They strode slightly up, and then onto a set of wooden stairs. A small pond below was nestled in the pines and rocks. Ferns, moss and other lush growth clung to the cliff side. A long-legged white bird with an equally long neck stood in the pristine pool, eying fish swimming below.

  At the end of the risers, they emerged into the open. Striding up a stone path, the aroma of pine needles, and crisp air filled her lungs as Zofia spied a stone outcropping that rose possibly sixty feet from where they stood. Gazing upward, she noticed an oddly angled structure that seemed to cling to this rocky spire. At the top stood the oddest structure, that didn't resemble a castle at all, and yet was a magnificent study of canted windows of what must have been hundreds of individual panes of glass. The low roof thrust well over the angled windows, reminiscent of an Oriental painting one might find on First World. This was Dark Castle?

  They followed a series of stairs, now, toward what Zofia presumed would be some sort of entrance into this strange place.

  “Percival,” she began, “how long has Count Saint Germain lived here?”

  “Quite some time. I myself have only been here twenty years.”

  “I see,” she said. From what she remembered that Stephen had told her, and from the documents he'd given her, King Vlad had sold this place to the highest bidder—Count Saint Germain—in their year of 1189. The current year was 1233. Could this be right? That was forty-four years. Maybe the count was a handsome older gentleman? Even if he had bought the castle in his twenties, he'd be at least sixty-four or sixty-five.

  They attained the very top of the gradually rising steps toward an outcropping of stone. Percival reached the heavy Tudor before her. These doors were dark, and made up of very intricately carved panels. He held one of the doors open for her, and she stepped through, only to be engulfed by darkness.

  Pausing, she waited for her pupils to dilate and take in more light. Once she became used to the subdued lighting, she was able to move forward in halting steps. Natural and artificial light diffused into a smörgåsbord of unusual sights. The ceiling here was also low, held up by natural stone walls. Furnishings were tastefully arranged in coordinated groupings. What would be considered antiques on First World, took up nooks and crannies, which seemed to frame these unusual brass and stained glass lamps, or the unusual statuary.

  The odd angles and tight hallways gave the place the near feel of claustrophobia, but not quite. Just as she thought they had entered a room that appeared to have a dead end, they went up a couple of steps, turned, and entered another narrow hall. Nearby, a small gurgling pool drew her attention. This was similar to the one in the Nest, only slightly larger.

  Through another entryway, Percival continued ahead of her. How he knew exactly where he was going, was no small wonder. She couldn't remember how many corridors they'd just walked through, nor how many grottoes they had passed. She realized that the megalith, upon which Dark Castle was built, dictated every angle, and every stair that moved them through it.

  Now passing a slab of stone where a huge clay pot squatted, a stairway rose up into the gloom, and turned an odd angle. The gloom was broken by a rainbow of colors, yellow, tangerine, lime and cherry. She stared up at a quartet of stained-glass windows which created unexpected beauty as they stair-stepped their climb along with them.

  She had to assume these windows had been a later addition, as they were never mentioned in Barty's book at all. He would have mentioned these. They were absolutely breathtaking works of art.

  Once they gained the top, they breezed through yet another door and entered a short hall with that wall of canted windows—the ones she must have seen from below. The windows slanted out at a forty-five degree angle, allowing the casual observer an unobstructed view of a vast verdant valley below. Stationed before the window was a very long window seat. Zofia made a mental note that she would have to find her way here again and enjoy the view.

  “Miss Trickenbod?”

  She jerked around to meet his intense stair. “Oh. I'm sorry,” she said. “I was just taken in by the view. It's quite breathtaking.”

  “It has been commented by others in the same manner,” he quipped as though the very subject made him weary. Okay, the man was about as interesting as a turtle with his head in his shell.

  “Any time you wish to exit the castle, you may do so through this door.” He pointed to a door made up of those same carved panels, housed in a recessed nook of very evenly masoned flat stone.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Where will it take me?”

  “Out onto the lookout, and eventually to the gardens below, where you can take the bridge across.” Turning, he went up four risers, and disappeared through a new doorway. She followed him into the next dimly lit room. To her right she glanced at a hip-level cooking pit with small cauldrons and all manner of cooking utensils. As far as she could tell it had not been used in some time.

  Without preamble, Percival had stepped to one end of the room and opened another door and held it open. The castle was one big maze of doors, halls and stairs. She had no idea what level she was on, nor how many levels there were. She thought it might be three, but she wasn't at all sure.

  With a slight gesture Percival said, “Should you have need of a water closet.”

  She looked toward the way he'd gestured and found something that looked like a fish with a tail above the head, and the head bent up, mouth wide open. She neared it and realized it was indeed a toilet. The strangest toilet she had ever seen, but that's what it was.

  “I've never seen such an oddity before. What is it?” Only in certain castles—such as in Restormell Castle—were there anything like the flush toilet. All the commoners had pit toilets—and some were shared by a number of families. She had to continue the dumb act about things in this castle.

  “Yes, m
iss. I believe the inventor was named Thomas Crapper.” Well, that explained that.

  They came to yet another pool. This one was hip-level and Zofia's thirst had become overwhelming. She dipped her hand in and drank.

  “Miss, if you would like, I could bring you a pitcher and a glass,” Percival said, looking slightly alarmed.

  “No. I'm fine.” She dipped her hand into chilly water again. She took a long draw from her cupped hand and got another, and then another. Percival eyed her, but said nothing more. He was probably convinced she was quite the peasant.

  “The water's very good,” she informed him, and wiped her hands down her skirt, then wiped her mouth the same way, pulling up a bit of her skirt, and then managed to blush slightly.

  “It is spring water. It comes from inside the mountain, behind the menhir.”

  Percival led her up another couple of steps, and as she entered the room, he paused at a very narrow stair case which wound up through a wall of bookshelves.

  “This is one of the libraries which the master wishes you to begin work in.” He thrust his hand out.

  Zofia gazed up the wall of bookshelves which rose three stories high, following the stairway on at least two sides. A single red and yellow stained glass lamp hung down it's center lending light onto a a small library table below.

  She noticed many of the book's bindings were torn, or badly decayed. She was glad Stephen had thought to include materials for repairing books in her things. Many of the books were in very bad repair. They were actually deteriorating.

  “I see I've my work cut out for me,” she said almost reluctantly.

  “Indeed,” Percival said in his usual staunch way.

  She knew if she didn't ask the burning question about these lamps soon, Percival would think it strange. There was no such thing as electricity here on Euphoria. Since it seemed that they would be parting company soon, she decided now was the best moment to ask.

  “Percival, how does he make the light from these lamps? I know they aren't candles, oil, or kerosene,” Zofia said, doing her best to act as though she were ignorant of electricity. She really did want to know how Count Saint Germain achieved it here, because Barty had not mentioned this either, thus she had to assume that Saint Germain had somehow brought it here.

  “My master has many talents and hobbies,” he began. “And as I am not mechanical myself, I will try to explain it in the simplest terms that I have come to understand it. Waterfalls turn the paddles that turn the mills which turn what is called a generator. When the generator turns, it creates the electricity which lights the lamps like magic.”

  “A gen-er-ate-or,” she said slowly. She wasn't mechanical either. She only knew magic. She had no idea that the count would have the ability to construct something so complicated for his castle. Earlier she had examined the bulbs which he used on the lamps in her rooms. They were modern light bulbs with the same emblem on them as those she had bought for her house on First World. The only way Saint Germain would have gotten these bulbs would be by traveling to First World himself. She had to presume then, that he did indeed harness the the ley lines to send himself to specific places on First World.

  This whole series of thoughts set up new concerns. If the Portal that sucked up her neighbor, Lolly, her dog, and Zofia's cats, originated from this place, then would she not find them somewhere in Ravenwood? Or, maybe here, in the castle? Maybe Lolly was put to work scrubbing floors. She stalled on this image, and found her mouth quirked with amusement.

  “Mid-day meal will be served out there.” Percival gestured toward the next room where a grand piano angled back behind a paneled wall. Beyond this was a glassed-topped table and a couch that ran the length of the furthest wall, and angled back along the adjoining wall. It could seat probably a dozen people or more.

  Zofia thanked Percival, who stiffly strode back around and down the steps, disappearing from view.

  Percolating water from the nearby pool filled the silent void as she stood evaluating the chore before her. Gazing at this book collection brought back memories of her first job. It had been a long time since she had done this sort of work. She had been employed by an eccentric bibliophile when she first married Dorian while living in Withergyld. Brontus Merryweather was a strange old book geek who had an almost sick passion for books. He would sit in his large, red leather, wing-backed chair in front of the fireplace and drink his sherry and stroke his favorite books. He even talked in caressing tones to them, as though the books could hear him. He had really creeped Zofia out. She couldn't wait until Dorian began making more money so that she could quit. Merryweather was not a wizard, thank goddesses, but had had some strange mannerisms. The worst of which was that he ate sausage and sauerkraut almost exclusively, and the whole house stank of it—not to mention old Merryweather himself, whose pours seemed to ooze of the fetid odor, and his breath could take off paint. Once Dorian had achieved silver as a Knight, she was able to quit and never had to work again. By then she had been pregnant with Blanche.

  Why had she suddenly thought of that?

  Shrugging, she decided before she could catalog any of the books, she should begin repairs. It would be very tedious and meticulous work. But it was work she didn't mind doing. She liked it because she could be alone with her thoughts. Although lately, she wasn't so sure being alone with her thoughts was such a healthy thing.

  She decided to work from the bottom up merely because it was easier. She didn't know if Saint Germain had the books in any certain order—she could find none—and until she spoke with him, she didn't want to rearrange them. So, she took a shelf at a time, separating those that needed bindings from those that needed page repairs. And then there were those that needed both, or were in such bad shape and she'd have to have him decide what, if anything, she should do with them.

  After what seemed like two shadow passes had gone by, Zofia had mended several books, and her neck and shoulders were aching. She rose and stretched. Hunger pangs drew her away from her work table, wondering when she would have mid-day meal served to her. She didn't know what time it was, as the count had no time globe anywhere.

  Strolling into the next room which held the grand piano, she admired the statuary on stone shelves built into the wall. Studying the oddly shaped glass coffee table, she realized below was stained glass, and was lit somehow to show off it's beauty. How utterly creative, she thought. Saint Germain had excellent tastes in his unusual eclectic collections. Her curiosity over him was really beginning to build, and she really wished she could meet him sooner than this evening.

  Stepping down into the windowed hallway, she let her gaze drift out over the valley, giving her eye strain a rest from such close work.

  A sharp noise caught her attention, making her turn and look down the end of the hall. The sound came again, from somewhere beyond. Sounds didn't carry well inside this cocoon of rock and wood, and so, when it came and went, and came and went, her attempts to ignore the sound made her finally turn and step toward the noise. Once she moved toward it, she recognized it to be the sound of steel clashing against steel. Curiosity gnawing at her, she continued toward the sound. To some extent it conjured up a memory, but the memory vanished before she could bring it into focus.

  She knew what it was. Sword-play? Here?

  Strolling down the length of hallway, the sounds became louder. Taking a corner, she entered a hallway where delicately sculpted ivory pieces were displayed behind glass cases against black velvet the whole length of it on both sides. About half way down, she found the entrance of a much larger room than she had been in as yet. Here the walls were hung in gold damask. A vast collection of medieval weaponry hung all along the wall, a battalion of suits of armor to guard it all. From a heavily raftered ceiling hung a cut crystal chandelier ablaze with hundreds of the Edison invention rendering the room a bright contrast to any of the others she'd been through, save for the canted windowed room.

  But the architecture and design of the room was no
t what Zofia was focusing on. A man of moderate height, long, black hair pulled off his face into a four inch tail, wearing black knee breeches made of velvet, black hose and shoes with very shiny buckles, and a white satin drop yoke shirt, with a ruffled collar, wielding a sword, stood out against the decor. The man was defending himself against another sword brandished by a second, much shorter man with large eyes and wild, wavy brown hair that fell down into his eyes on one side of his face.

  Blades sharply clashed as the other man's quick wrist action drove the other duelist backward, against the chairs along a highly polished table. The table and chairs were pushed back and up against the furthest wall, as though to give the men room for their sport. One man's blade cut the air just across the other's white silk shirt, which had fallen open from his physical exertion, exposing a robust-looking chest. She knew this had to be the count. Obviously, Saint Germain was the one in the better clothes, and (she was happy to note), he was dark, very handsome, and if he was in his sixties, he was a very well preserved sexagenarian. But he looked no older than age fifty—if that.

  Neither man had noticed Zofia as she was not in their rage of view. In fact she was across a room that was the size of a small barn, so she knew with their intense battle, they wouldn't even notice her if she remained for a moment or two. She strove to not bring attention to herself, and knew she really shouldn't stay—shouldn't be there, in fact—but was frozen to the spot. She simply couldn't stop watching such exciting dueling—which she had never seen before (except in Ugwump movies). Upon first sight, she didn't know if this duel was serious or for sport. But now, as their gasps and curses rent the room, and they both wore tight grins on their faces, she could tell they enjoyed this contest of swordsmanship.