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

by Lorelei Bell

  “It was late spring, turning warm, and the night was filled with many creatures, and I knew that it was dangerous for us to be out, but it could not be helped. When Randal pulled the horses up, I thought here would be trouble. And there was. I could hear the racket of what sounded like wild dogs, or wolves fighting. The sound of such creatures viciously fighting one another is enough to make even the bravest man's blood turn to ice. Even when armed to the teeth.

  “Randal shouted to me that the fight was just up ahead, right in our path. I had him drop my riffle down to me as I got out. 'I will make them move', I said and took aim. I managed to hit one wolf well enough to drop him. I shot two more, but not with as much accuracy since they were already scattering.

  “And then I saw what they were fighting—or should I say, rather—what they were mauling. It was a man. But he wasn't wholly a man. I could see, even from a distance of fifty paces, that he was covered in thick fur, and yet he had the body shape of a man.

  “I called to Randal to fetch my medical bag, as I always have it on hand, as one never knows what one might come across. We approached cautiously. I must admit, I have never seen one before, and I have been alive for centuries. But I knew what I was looking at all the same. It was a wolf-man. He had the muzzle of a wolf, pointed ears, and fur covered his entire body. There were terrible bites all over him, and his flesh was torn in many places on the back, legs and arms. Fortunately, they had not been able to get to his belly, or he would have perished before I could do much good for him.

  “We wrapped him the best we could in a blanket from the coach, and put him gently inside. He was unconscious and so we were in no danger, but I dare say, even if he had gained consciousness during the trip, he was in no shape to make a worthy attack. Nevertheless, I had my pistol on me, and it is always loaded with silver bullets.

  “We took him home. I patched him up the best I could. And at some point during the wee hours of the morning, the wolf in him disappeared and only the man lay in the bed, resting quietly. I was astonished that he came awake enough to thank me, and tell me his name—in Arpiesian, of course. After which, we had him suck some nourishment through a straw, and he went back to sleep for a day and a half.

  “He remained in my castle, gaining strength as each day went by, and his wounds were healing very nicely. Finally, after a fortnight, he revealed to me that he had been bitten by a werewolf, about a year before, and thus he was doomed to become a wolfman at every full of the moons. He told me that those were not mere wolves attacking him, but werewolves. His kind are not welcomed in their territory. They would shun and kill any other that is not like them, you see. He had been living close, on the margins, but to venture into their territory, as he had—let just us say they did not take kindly to it.”

  Zofia nodded. “I can't imagine someone having to endure such a secretive life.”

  “As you may well have guessed, Jacques is very grateful to me and offered to repay me, but I refused payment. That was when he suggested that he could do odd work around the castle. Whatever I needed. I was happy to have him in my company. It had been ages since I'd been able to carry on in conversational French. And I found the man was multi-talented. He is an excellent cook, as well as an avid gardener, and a fairly good swordsman—which is a little surprising, since he'd had no up-bringing in swordsmanship, but merely learned it from me.

  “So, you see, Jacques has been in my home for all this time and perhaps he is like a loyal dog who would protect me—his master—from any and all danger. Even if it is misplaced concern, he means well. I do not understand how he would consider you a danger to me.”

  Zofia gently bit her lower lip. This would be where she would admit all of her sins to Saint Germain. That is if she were that woman he was referring to. The woman that he believed was not dangerous. Breath held, she wondered just exactly what thing she should tell him first. Which thing was less threatening? Actually, which thing would not make him loose it and throw her out on her ear? The fact that she was a sorceress did seem like the less threatening thing. Much less threatening than being a Knight, for example, who was spying on him.

  “You're not dressed yet?” Saint Germain interrupted her thoughts.

  Her held breath came out in a puff. “I'm sorry.” She took stock of herself. She was still in her camisole.

  “Come, come,” Saint Germain said, adjusting his stocking—the one that he'd had on crooked last night. “Jacques' soufflés do not last forever, you know.”

  * * *

  “Tell me about these three rogue wizards you saw yesterday, and this man they called Cagliostro,” Saint Germain asked as he sat across from Zofia at one small table in the large dining hall, fingering the goblet which held his Elixir. He'd mixed her a very quick philter he'd jokingly called his “Anti-up-chucking elixir” so that she could eat and not become ill. All around them hung nearly every weapon invented by Ugwumps devoted to either hacking, stabbing, or shooting at people. Saint Germain wasn't particularly fond of this collection, he'd informed her, but he'd had it for some time now, and really didn't want the Ugwumps on this planet to get hold of it. Neither did Zofia. When she asked why they were dining in here, he had simply said, “It's Wednesday”—on Earth, maybe.

  Sliding the fork into her mouth, Zofia closed her lips over the most delicious soufflé she had ever had. “Mmm—” She slid the fork from her mouth, moved the food to one side and in answer to his question said, “He spoke Tuscan. At least it sounded like Tuscan.”

  “I'm sorry? Tuscan?”

  “Oh, here on our world there is a Provence called Tuscany,” she explained, but didn't go any further with this. They referred to their language as “Tuscan”, but she knew on Saint Germain's Earth, it was called Italian. It would be too difficult to explain right now. She would have to admit to having lived on First World, and they just didn't have time for her to go into that story.

  “He wore a funny hat and odd clothes. Looked like a hippy,” she went on.

  “What is a hippy?” Saint Germain said, looking slightly flabbergasted.

  Zofia chewed for a moment thinking of the time she had posed that very same question of her friend, Monique, of First World who had pointed out an old man with long hair and beard and wore worn out jeans and a tie-died T-shirt. She'd called him a 'hippy', and Zofia had asked what that was. Monique simply couldn't believe Zofia had never seen, nor heard of the word hippy before. When she'd finished with her explanation, Zofia had understood them to be throw-backs to a time about 30 years previously—on First World—and had never grown out of their past, or changed with the times. This prompted a search on the Internet, by her son, Elton. She eventually knew more than she wanted to about hippies and the era called the sixties.

  “The closest thing to a bohemian, in the literal sense,” Zofia said, choosing not to relate something she didn't quite understand herself (apparently one would have had to experience it themselves).

  “What was he wearing?”

  “A pair of faded jeans and an old flannel shirt. Like they wear on—” Oops. That was close.

  “Like they wear where?”

  Her mouth closed around the fork again, buying time. After making a deliberate act of chewing thoroughly, she said, “Oh, I suppose it wasn't like anything I'd ever seen before.” He stared at her, but said nothing. “But from what I could tell, they seemed to need some sort of work of his. I guessed it might be a certain rite for some ritual they want to perform.”

  “I do not know how they found Cagliostro.”

  “Who is he?”Zofia asked. “Why would wizards on my world want him?”

  “I'm not really certain.” Saint Germain straightened, picked up his goblet and held it up without drinking from it. “Count Alessandro di Cagliostro—an alias. His real name was Giuseppe Balsamo. Magician, alchemist—and I use the term very loosely—and sometimes physician, necromancer, Freemason and—let us not forget—thief.”

  “And you know him well,” she said, remembering
what he'd recounted of him before.

  “Unfortunately,” he said, drumming the fingers of this other hand on the table. “Cagliostro tried to steal the secret of producing the Philosopher's Stone from me.” He set his cup down on the table. “When he failed in that, he stole one of the first Philosopher's Stones I had painstakingly made.”

  “He stole the Philosopher's Stone from you?”

  “Yes. I foolishly presumed he would not be brazen enough to break into my laboratory and steal it. But he tore every bit of my lab up, trying to locate it.” Saint Germain rose and strode the floor. He stepped over to one of the very large fireplaces, leaned against the marble and brooded into the hot coals for a few seconds. “He and I had both attended a lecture by Paracelsus, who had had some very good luck in producing the Philosopher's Stone. Paracelsus had shared his knowledge with all of us. Cagliostro could have simply gone through the process, as had I, but he did not have the patients, nor—I think—the mental inclination for making it. That was when he pretended to be my friend.”

  “And that's why you gave it to me last night for safe keeping?” she said, realizing she had been right in her guess as to what was in that glass phial in her dresser drawer.

  His eyes flashed up to her. A smile crossed his face. “You are correct, my heart. I hope that you have concealed it well.”

  She nodded. It might look like a small ampule of powder for her face, or some bath salts. Who would guess it was not? It was right next to her hair brush and the handkerchief with the diamonds he'd given to her. She'd left the diamonds out in plain view, thinking that someone looking for another thing would be so startled to find loose diamonds and would steal them, and leave everything else.

  “So, your Teleport Machine can take a person to First World and back?” Zofia asked, picking up her fork and cutting into more soufflé. “Just like our Bubble, or Sorcerer's Tree.”

  “Yes. It can,” he said, striding back to the table.

  Zofia reviewed everything she now knew, and realized a lot of her questions seemed to be answered. Even those she hadn't even asked. Phineas had apparently sent one of his fellow miscreants to First World to bring Cagliostro here because he had some works that they needed. Yesterday, Dorian had told her about the secret cult called the Fraternal Order of the Egyptian Lodge, which was either something Phineas had started, or brought back into popularity by someone else here. The only way Phineas could have come up with the name of Cagliostro would be if he was in some way associated with this Egyptian Lodge during his life time, and Phineas had somehow come across his name. Dorian had said that the Order had originated on First World. But she couldn't just blurt this out. This was knowledge she'd gained from someone else, someone that was not part of Saint Germain's inner circle, and so she had to some how bring the conversation around to how Cagliostro might play a part in the whole scheme of things.

  “What do you think Cagliostro might have that these wizards want? What do you know about him, other than what you've told me so far?”

  Saint Germain pulled in a breath and let it out forcefully on a heavy sigh. “He sold love potions, miracle elixirs, powders and philters, amassing great wealth during his life—when he wasn't in jail or running from the law. He and his wife, Lorenza Feliciani, were involved in several scandals throughout Europe, and one landed him in the Bastille. Later on, he was banished from France.” He paused, took a swig of his Elixir and set it down on the table. He dabbed his mouth with a cloth napkin and went on. “He was reputedly successful in necromancy and—” a small bark sounded suspiciously like a scoffing chuckle “—manufacture of diamonds by alchemy.”

  “You laugh. Why?”

  “I think Cagliostro was a very good cheat and liar. I think he duped a number of people out of their real diamonds, telling them he had a way to increase their size, and he would bring them very good fakes.”

  Zofia nodded. She had to wonder if Saint Germain was proficient enough in this area, since it was reported that he had paid for Dark Castle in huge, uncut diamonds. Probably. After all, he had made a gift of the small diamonds to her. People didn't just give diamonds away like they were inexpensive gifts. She would test them on a piece of glass later and see if they were real or fake. She had a feeling they were the real deal.

  “In fact, the very scandal which put him in prison was over a diamond necklace. It was to be bought for Queen Marie Antoinette.” His eyes gleamed on the very thought of the queen. She could see he was caught up in some revery.

  “Franz?” she prodded, hoping to pull him back to the present.

  “Hum? Oh, yes. He had traveled many places, including Rome, where he was arrested for heresy and condemned to death. Unfortunately, he was commuted to life in prison.”

  “Where else did he travel to?” she asked. “Anywhere exotic?”

  “I believe he traveled to Arabia, Greece, Persia, and Egypt.” She felt her heart begin to gallop like a race horse.

  “Egypt? Really?” she wanted him to embellish a little bit. She hoped he knew more than the fact that he'd been to Egypt.

  “You've heard of Egypt?”

  Her heart thundered to a near stop with his words. She had to think quickly. “Well, of course!” she made an exasperated sound. “Our ancestors came from your planet,” she went on. “In school we learned all about Earth. That's why we call it First World.” Heart rate eventually resumed normal beats in her chest, and she eased the breath from her lungs.

  “I see.” He smiled, eyes glittering. “I'd forgotten that one little thing about your people here.”

  “Back to Cagliostro,” she steered the conversation back on track. “Why do you think he would travel to these out of the way places?”

  “Oh, it was the popular thing to do. But mostly I think it was so that he could come up with new schemes and ways of deceiving people, no doubt.” Saint Germain took another sip.

  “Egypt,” she said, trying to think of some way to pull something more out of him. “What do you think he learned in Egypt? Necromancy?”

  “Maybe. But soon after, I believe he founded something called The Egyptian Lodge.”

  Bingo. I am so smart!

  “What do you know about it?” She wanted to pat herself on the back. She was getting pretty good at this spy business, and grilling her suspect. Of course, she didn't think of Saint Germain as her suspect. Maybe that's why it seemed to be going so well.

  “I think it was an excuse for getting women to come and take their clothes off.”

  “What?”

  Saint Germain's one brow arched at her shocked reaction.

  “Oh, yes,” he said very calmly. “His Egyptian Lodge became quite the thing in Paris. France was hungry for anything unusual, with a little naughtiness added to the mix. Sorcery and magic, as well as devil worship was quite popular at the time. He and his wife had created an elaborate ritual. If I recall correctly, I believe he called it the Grand Copt, or some such nonsense. Cagliostro himself was lowered into a room on a golden sphere, quite naked and holding a snake.” Saint Germain laughed. “He would urge all his female disciples to take off their clothing, telling them it was the only way they would receive 'the truth'. They would then read something called the Egyptian Letters—something he said he'd discovered in some bookstall in London. He became the sole authority on its rules and vows. It's content and proprieties were quite secret, and somewhat obscure, as were the rites. The scandals surrounding his lodge brought in more people, curious whether what he promised could be an actuality.”

  “Which was?”

  “Promises that the adherents would live at least five thousand years.”

  “And did they?” she asked haltingly. She knew better, but she needed to allow him to tell her as much as he knew about it. Anything could be important to understanding the reasons behind what the wizards were up to.

  Saint Germain eyed his goblet, took one last swallow and set it down very deliberately, then looked up at her. “My dear, if all the people whom he had
duped into giving him money for 'eternal life' had lived as long as I, wouldn't you find yourself running into people who have been around for at least four hundred years?” He paused as if he wanted her to ponder on this. “At any rate, we now know that he has successfully cheated death, as have I.”

  “So, why do you think they need me? What would they need me for?” She knew why Phineas wanted to use her, but in what way? Why was it imperative that she was the offering?

  “I'm sorry, but I do not know, my dear.”

  “So, you don't know anything about the Egyptian Lodge?”

  “Other than what I've told you? No.”

  “But I overheard them talk about me becoming an offering to Apep!” Her voice had gone shrill.

  “You will be no one's offering, my pet,” he said. “I shall not let you out of my sight.”

  “You plan to keep me by your side all day and night?” she asked, feeding him a look of disbelief.

  “Well, perhaps not every moment. No. But night time, that should be a real challenge.”

  She chuckled lightly. His humor, when placed in the least expected places surprised her.

  Percival was suddenly in the room, standing next to Saint Germain. He held something that looked like an envelope. He bent to Saint Germain and whispered something to him. Saint Germain's eyes squinted at the envelope. He looked back up and then nodded at him. Percival walked the envelope around the table to Zofia. This all took less than five heartbeats, but Zofia felt as though the man were walking in quick sand.

  “This came for you, madam, just now,” Percival announced, handing her the letter on the small silver tray.

  “Oh, thank you,” Zofia said, feeling her face flush suddenly. She didn't know who it was from—expecting it might be another note from Stephen.

  It wasn't.

  “May I ask who it is from?” Saint Germain asked, looking slightly curious.

  Zofia examined the envelope. The only way to tell who sent it was by the seal. She didn't recognize it at first. And then realized that the attached gold ribbon made it officially from a school. The large M embossed into the sealing wax helped her identify it easily enough. It was from Elton's school; Myrddin's School for Sorcerers & Wizards. A good thing on her planet, there wasn't much use for the return address on envelopes. You either knew where it was from, or you didn't. Sometimes you just had to open it up to learn who it was from—which was half the fun. Euphoria did not have a postal service. It was still free to send a letter anywhere on Euphoria, as long as you had a good strong-winged bird, and one that knew the way.