The Autumn Castle (44 page)

Mandy considered. She was old; old bones were porous and snapped too easily. He slid down to the forest floor among the leaves
and sat, his back against a tree, to think. In his own world, he wouldn’t hesitate to catch her and kill her, but in a place
like this, where he had such a wide selection to draw from, he should conserve his energy for only the best kills. Mayfridh
he was saving until the very last, but not because of some misguided infatuation that allowed him unconsciously to want her
to escape (oh, no, she and the crow were far too securely guaranteed against that). The decision was purely practical. He
couldn’t carry corpses back and forth to Berlin from here, so he had to bone in the river. Boning by hand was an inexact science,
especially the volume he intended to do. He knew he could easily chip or scrape or splinter a bone. Mayfridh’s bones, imbued
with royal magic, were too precious to damage. She had to be scalped and dunked in the vat, simple as that. He plucked a long
blade of grass absently and chewed on it. The sun was mild, but far away, and a breeze high up carried its warmth into the
distance. He shivered and pulled his hat down harder.

Voices drew his attention and he glanced back toward the old woman’s garden. A young, dark-haired man leaned in the doorway,
talking to the woman and helping her up. Mandy smiled, pulled himself to his feet, and headed toward the cottage. By the time
he had made his way through the sagging gate, they were inside.

“Good morning!” he called as he approached the door. He peered into the dark room. The two of them sat at a rough wooden table.

“Good morning,” the old woman called sweetly.

The young man was more cautious. “Good morning,” he said. “Can we help you?”

Mandy knew his uneven grasp of their language might draw suspicion. “I am a stranger in this land,” he said, “a special guest
of Counselor Eisengrimm.”

The old woman beckoned him inside. “Are you lost?” she said, smiling a toothless smile at him. “I often get lost.”

“Yes, I am lost,” he said, moving inside the door and waiting politely near the end of the table. “The counselor sent me out
for a morning walk and I’ve strayed too far from the town. Could you show me how to get back?”

“A friend of Counselor Eisengrimm,” the old woman said, staring at him with shining eyes. “Sit down and join us and tell us
of life at the castle. Have you met the queen?”

“Yes, I have,” he said, concentrating hard to keep up with the conversation. Next time, he was going to have to murder someone
in their sleep; this was too difficult. He avoided the seat offered—their smell was too strong—and leaned on a cutting board
under a mullioned window, planning in his head. The woman would scream if he attacked the young man, but perhaps didn’t have
it in her to run for help. She was very frail.

“I’ve met the queen four times,” she boasted. “Haven’t I, Sig?”

Sig smiled fondly at her. “If you say so, Oma.”

“Is Liesebet not beautiful?” the old woman said to Mandy. “So much more beautiful than her mother.”

Sig patted Oma’s hand and winked at Mandy. “My great- grandmother gets confused. She forgets that Liesebet is gone and Mayfridh
is now our queen.”

“Is that so?” Mandy smiled to himself. Liesebet was Mayfridh’s mother. How clever he had been to kill her, and how much prouder
he would be when Mayfridh was dead at his hand too. Immanuel Zweigler: slayer of royal dynasties.

“The queen is very beautiful,” Mandy said, “and so was her mother.”

Oma popped out of her seat and came to the sideboard. She was more agile than Mandy had given her credit for. Would he have
to kill her too? Her smell was strong now, almost acrid.

“Here,” she said, “have some cake before you head on your way.” With a rusted cake knife she hacked some uneven chunks of
food onto a plate and offered it to him.

“No, thank you.” The thought of eating here repelled him.

“Ah, well. I shall give it to the birds, then.” She shuffled out of the room and through the back door into the garden. Birds
sat on the gate waiting for her.

Sig smiled at him. “She’s a dear old lady. Three hundred and thirty next week.”

“Good lord,” Mandy said, suddenly slipping into modern German. He had had no idea that faeries lived that long.

Sig joined him at the window and together they watched Oma through the tiny, thick panes. Her body was distorted by them,
oddly dislocated and misshapen. Mandy felt at his belt for the kitchen implements he had stolen from the castle. Cleaver,
knife, mallet. He slipped one into his hand and while Sig was still gazing lovingly at his great-grandmother, pulled it out
and raised it.

Sig saw him, his face registering horror. He reached for the cake knife; there was a struggle, a cry, and a great deal of
blood. Oma saw none of it. Suffocating her with the sack directly after was very humane, Mandy thought, as he hurried down
to the river with his sack full of warm faery. It would save her the shock of coming inside and finding her great-grandson’s
hand left neatly on the cutting board.

Twenty years of nightmares all in one night. Oh! Oh! Hexebart didn’t sleep well at all!

Now the morning is here and Hexebart feels a little better. Hexebart can’t quite get used to being inside and warm and comfortable.
Every surface is soft and she could sleep and sleep. She won’t, because of the nightmares. She tastes Immanuel’s food and
likes it, then sits down on the hard floor and listens the house some more. Hexebart can hear Jude and Christine talking,
has to make a quick spell to understand the language. Then Hexebart can hear a woman in another apartment, talking to nobody.
No, she’s talking on a telephone. But Hexebart can’t hear anything else and the warm is making her sleepy again. Hexebart
suddenly longs for the outside, for the cool air and the fresh ground.

Careful now, quiet now. Don’t let anyone know who’s here. In the Real World it’s not allowed for old ladies to go into people’s
houses and eat their food and sleep on their soft things. One step, two. Creeping past all the doors and out into the street.
Hexebart spies trees and grass and birds, and heads in that direction. Here’s a place to sit and take big breaths of morning.
In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . But the Real World smell is on everything and suddenly Hexebart feels homesick.

Silly old woman. Hexebart bites her own fingers to scold herself. The Real World is full of fun and promise, and Hexebart
won’t be put off by a little homesickness. She watches people walking up and down the street. Some of them look at Hexebart
and smile, but Hexebart darts her eyes away and hums an absent tune. Then the door to Immanuel’s house opens and a boy steps
out, and Hexebart knows immediately that this is the boy Jude.

“Hoy!” she calls. He doesn’t turn around so she stands up and calls, “Hoy, hoy!”

The boy Jude turns and cocks his head like a bird.

“Hoy!” she calls again, beckoning him.

And he comes, just like that. Hexebart follows him closely with her eyes; Hexebart is clever enough sometimes to read people,
but this boy is unreadable. This boy has many layers covering his secret self. Hexebart is glad she had the magic stuffs in
the pea shell, or else she would never have found out his secret.

“Come here, boy,” she says, in his language.

“What’s the matter? Can I help you?” he says, and he is wary and he should be wary because Hexebart doesn’t like such pretty
boys who hide secrets.

“I’m lost,” Hexebart lies, making her bottom lip tremble. “And I have no money and I am all alone in this place.”

Jude won’t stand too close and Hexebart can see he is holding his breath away. Ha! So he thinks Hexebart smells bad, does
he! Well, Hexebart thinks that his whole world smells bad. Perhaps she should tell him that!

“Could you help me?” she asks.

He reaches into his pocket and fetches money. Hexebart grasps at it and tries to touch his hand but he pulls away quickly.
“Here,” he says, “it’s all I have.”

Hexebart wishes she could tell if he’s lying. She suspects he is; she knows he’s a liar. Hexebart doesn’t like liars. Hexebart
doesn’t like Jude.

He turns to go.

“Wait!” she says.

“What is it?” he says. He’s trying to be patient with Hexebart. He’s trying to be patient with the crazy hag.

“I am alone,” Hexebart tells him. “Are you alone?”

He pauses, and shakes his head. “No,” he says, “I’m not alone.”

She touches the very edge of his sleeve and he flinches but doesn’t pull away. “Do you love someone? Do you have a beloved?”

Now Jude smiles, he’s decided that the crazy hag is harmless, perhaps even amusing. “Yes, I do.”

“And what is your beloved’s name?”

“Christine.”

“And does Christine know?”

“Know what?”

Hexebart’s fingers move to his warm wrist. “You know what I mean,” she says.

“Yes, Christine knows I love her,” Jude says. Hexebart is so amused by his stupidity that she laughs loudly and suddenly Jude
is not so sure and is trying to pull away.

“I meant,” Hexebart hisses, “does Christine know you killed her mother and father?”

Jude twists and wrenches and jumps back and he is simply horrified. Hexebart doubles over with mirth. “Hee, hee,” she says,
“I’ve got your secret.”

“Who are you?” he cries.

But she turns and scurries away from him, into the trees. He tries to follow her, but she uses a little glamour to make herself
blend among the trees and he searches for her in vain before heading back to the street. Hexebart climbs onto a branch and
sits there a while, thinking about Jude. Ha ha, that was fun. How many more friends does Mayfridh have here in the Real World
that Hexebart can play tricks on?

Hexebart isn’t homesick now; not even a little bit.

The blackness gave way to a paler wash of gray, and consciousness rushed on Mayfridh with a gasp. She opened her eyes. More
blackness. No—a little light seeped from somewhere. Firelight? Was she in her room? But the air felt dank and stagnant and
her whole body ached and shuddered. She certainly wasn’t in her bed. Why did she feel so dazed and—

Mandy!

Mayfridh sat up, regretting it instantly. She put her hand to her throbbing head. She tried to focus; where was she? The darkness,
the smell, the hard floor.

Of course. The dungeon.

She scrambled to her feet and grasped the door, shook it soundly and called out, “Help!”

“No, Mayfridh!” It was Eisengrimm’s voice, from nearby. “Don’t touch the door.”

She jumped back as though scalded. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

“Look through the bars. You’ll see.”

Mayfridh peered through the bars of the door and into the darkness. Opposite, she could see an amber glow like firelight.

“He’s run a rope from your door. Can you see?”

Mayfridh spotted it. A rope had been attached to the bottom of the door. It ran up to the ceiling where it slid over a rudimentary
pulley made of an old cart wheel and some kitchen hooks, then back down through the window of the dungeon opposite. “Yes,
I see it.”

“It’s rigged up to an iron cage and I’m inside. If you open your door, it will drop the cage. He has a drum of burning coals
beneath me. I’d be roasted alive.”

Now she could make out the shape of Eisengrimm, as Crow, behind rows of bars. Behind him, his shadow moved eerily in the firelight.
An overwhelming tide of dread and helplessness surged through her. “Oh, no,” she managed to gasp in the dark.

“So don’t shake the door. I don’t know how secure these knots are, and I don’t think Mandy much cares whether or not I die.”

“Eisengrimm, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I don’t know what he wants.”

“I do,” Eisengrimm said, and his voice sounded so serious that Mayfridh’s stomach flipped over. The horrible reality of the
situation rushed upon her, and she slid to the floor, trying to catch her breath.

“Mayfridh? Are you all right?”

“I . . . my head hurts. He hit me.”

“I thought you were dead when he brought you in. When he spent all that time rigging up the cage I was almost glad. He wouldn’t
bother securing your imprisonment so carefully if you were dead. I knew you’d wake eventually.”

“What does he want, Eisengrimm? What has he told you?”

Eisengrimm fought hard to keep impatience out of his voice. “Did you never suspect, Mayfridh? Did you overlook all clues to
his true nature?”

“Eisengrimm, you’re frightening me. I thought the worst Mandy was capable of was embarrassing me with a declaration of love.”

“Love, Mayfridh, is the last thing on his mind. He is full of hatred.”

“For me? What did I do?”

“Not just for you, for all of us. For faeries as a race. He’s a hunter of faeries, Mayfridh, and he collects their bones in
the name of art.”