Wulfyddia (The Tattersall Trilogy Book 1) (13 page)

“There was a plague outbreak at the time— for
much of the century, in fact.”

“So she’s back to haunt us over a plague?” Lorna
frowned.

“Probably not.” Daphne conceded.

“No, probably not. And the book has to figure
into this somehow,” Spencer reminded them.

“I’m still researching,” Daphne snipped. “Go
back to your work and I’ll try to piece more together about her.”

“I don’t have any work,” Lorna answered. “I
haven’t been able to find anything.” Spencer nodded his agreement.

“Well, then why don’t you research Lavinia’s
family? Her youngest sister was crowned Queen Pomponia many years later.”
Spencer nodded. He remembered learning about Queen Pom in school. She was one
of Wulfyddia’s most successful queens, having reigned long and peacefully for over
fifty years. She sounded vastly preferable to Queen Tryphena, honestly. “There
was a middle sister, Cornelia,” Daphne told him, “but she was infirm— mad as a
hatter, it sounds like. They must have skipped her in the line of succession in
favor of the youngest sister, who wasn’t crazy.” Spencer nodded. It made sense.
It was a pity that the line of succession hadn’t skipped Daphne’s grandmother,
for he couldn’t imagine a Queen crazier than Tryphena. “Lorna, why don’t you
research Cornelia and Pomponia, and Spencer, you research their mother, Queen
Domitia.”

They went back to work, but this time they
didn’t spread out all over the library, but rather brought their books back to
the reading table to peruse next to Daphne. Spencer paged through a number of
tomes restlessly before he found one that discussed the Queen in question at
any great length. Her early life sounded largely unremarkable, and he found it difficult
to focus through page after page describing her childhood, education,
politically motivated marriage, and the births and deaths of her daughters. It
was only when he reached the end of her life that an anomaly presented itself
to him. The Queen was the only member of her immediate family who was not
buried in the same royal crypt. Instead, she was buried, not at sea, but in a
lake.

The Lady’s Lake.

Spencer blinked down at the page beneath him.
It seemed an insignificant detail, so why did it disturb him so? It wasn’t as
if he believed any of the rumors about the rapidly rising lake or the spirit
who was said to haunt it, and yet… was it a coincidence, for Lavinia’s spirit
to wander the castle, at the same time that the lake her mother was buried in
rose?

He was just opening his mouth to share his
unexpected finding with the sisters, when Daphne broke the silence. “That’s odd.”
Daphne scowled down at the book she studied as if it had done her a personal
affront.

“What?”

“Lavinia.” Daphne cocked her head.

“What about her?”

“She was buried nine days after she died.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Daphne rubbed her nose, leaving a smudge of
dust on her cheek. “Everything. She was buried nine days after she died because
they were observing a nine-night vigil.”

“Isn’t there always a vigil?”

“Not for plague victims. Never for plague
victims.” Daphne reached across the desk and pulled another book towards her. 
“Lavinia died in 7765. They were in the grips of their third plague outbreak of
the century. They were burning diseased corpses— Immediately. But they kept
hers around for nine days and then buried it. The Queen herself was by the body
the entire time. They would never have risked the life of the Queen like that.
And they shouldn’t have buried her. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does if she didn’t die of a fever.”
Spencer contributed.

“Maybe they weren’t sure how she died,” Lorna
suggested.

“I don’t think they would have risked it.”
Daphne said.

“Not unless they knew that however she died,
it definitely wasn’t a fever.” Spencer felt an odd foreboding in the pit of his
stomach.

“But why lie about it?” Lorna asked. Spencer
turned to Daphne. She knew far more about the lies and secrets of the
aristocracy than he.

“Scandal.” Daphne answered at once. “Something
they didn’t want getting out.”

“What kind of scandal?”

Daphne shrugged. “Maybe she died in
childbirth? She was unmarried; that would have been a terrible scandal. Maybe
she had a lover who murdered her?”

“Murder.” Lorna shivered.

“We don’t know for sure,” Daphne said,
unusually sensibly. “We don’t even know if she is the ghost. And even if she
is, it doesn’t mean that she had to be murdered. There are plenty of ghosts who
weren’t murdered.”

“I think she’s the one,” Spencer said. “I
think it’s Lavinia.”

“We’ll see. Lorna, what did you learn about
Cornelia?”

“She died.”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Well, obviously.”

“No, I mean young. She died young. They
didn’t skip her in the line of succession at all. She was already dead by the
time Pomponia took the throne.”

“How did
she
die?” Spencer asked, but
Lorna’s answer was interrupted by the chiming of a large clock somewhere in the
depths of the stacks.

“It’s late.” Daphne observed.

“Daph, we have to go.” Lorna reminded her
sister.

“Oh.” Daphne seemed subdued. “There’s a
midwinter’s feast tonight. We have to go prepare.”

“Oh.” Spencer’s response was simple because
he had nothing else to say on the matter, but the sisters seemed to take his
monosyllabic reaction as something else because they both hurried to assure
him.

“We would invite you, but we’re not allowed
to bring any guests to this feast.” Lorna said quickly.

“It’s only for members of Court,” Daphne
explained almost apologetically.

At first Spencer felt oddly gratified that
they had thought to explain themselves to him. Then he felt insulted to have
been excluded. “I understand,” he said stiffly, and suddenly an affair that had
been perfectly simple was strangely awkward.

“Wait for us to do anymore research,” Daphne
said, sliding off the stool and closing her book reluctantly.  “We’ll be back
first thing in the morning.”

“Okay,” Spencer agreed, but even after the
sisters had melted away into the shadows he remained, lingering over the pages
that were all that remained of Lavinia’s life.

***

Rathbone
sighed in satisfaction as he leaned low over the fire, warming his hands until
the skin was singed. He had done well today. His newly concocted poison was
perfectly potent, and he had a new specimen to experiment on. Stifling a little
snicker, he turned and shot a glance over his shoulder at the creature spread
on his autopsy table. It was an odd little thing. The face was vaguely
draconic, but the body was sort of reminiscent of a… newt. It was startlingly
large though, the size of the Landlady’s dog, and he had found it preying on
cats in the alley.

At any
rate, what mattered was that it was a creature. The species was irrelevant. It
was some sort of beast, and as he had just proved, it could be killed. If it
could be killed, then, maybe, he could kill the other beast, and perhaps he
would be able to sleep at night again.

***

Cicely
wondered if any of them had stopped to listen to the words. They danced madly,
the spirit flowing freely in their veins. A dancer’s head was thrown back, eyes
closed, the face a mask of disoriented pleasure, powdered white with wine red
lips. A courtier lifted a lady to his shoulders and her skirt flew into his
face. They laughed until they could not breathe, until they began to weave back
and forth, unsteady in their mirth. They laughed until they sounded like they
were choking. The music soared over it all. It lent rhythm to their movement
and grandeur to their revelry. But, she wondered, had any of them listened to
the
words
?

It was
an ancient song, older than the Lucretius family itself. It told of a hunt, and
not the hunt of an animal, but the hunt of a man, an old King, too long on the
throne, too vicious in his rule, stalked by a bastard son seeking to murder his
father and seize power himself. Because the King and his son were not of the Lucretius
line, Queen Tryphena overlooked the treason, the regicide, perhaps believing
that it had nothing to do with her. She, too, must not have listened to the
words. Even the tone of the bard was a warning. Anselmore was his name, and of
all the bards, his voice was the richest. He was the only one besides the Queen
not dizzy with wine, and his face was grave, almost stricken as he used words
to paint a portrait of murder and misery.

Cicely
looked deeper, peering into the hearts of the courtiers, seeking to understand
how they could twirl to a song that told of tragedy, but their minds had always
been a mystery to her. They moved in time to a rhythm that she could not
understand, and while she could
see
all that there was to see, she could
not make
sense
of their sickly adoration or their thirst for royal
approval. Then there was something else, trespassing on the edges of her mind,
plucking at her consciousness like a child tugging on her skirts. It touched
her shyly at first, but then with ever growing boldness, drawing her away from
the foolish courtiers and the grave-voiced bard.

And
Cicely turned her eye outward, letting the crowns and the curtsies and the
great smoking fire and the wine-soaked sycophants all fade. The music hung in
the air longest, unsettlingly so, as if it sought to imprint itself on her, to
press close against her chest and warn her. Indeed, there was a prickling at
the base of her spine, as though a shadow had pressed alongside her. Cicely
flung her attention outside the walls of the castle, where a bitter wind set
the frozen trees swaying, where the snow had fallen so thickly and drifted so
high that it seemed to protect the world against human incursion, creating a realm
inhabited only by the beasts of the forest and the frost faeries of winter.

But
there was one human invader. Anise was there. Cicely could feel her sister
before she saw her, for Anise’s soul was a unique marriage of utter savagery
and painstaking control. She was a force of nature in the body of a future
Queen, more at home in the brutality of a snowstorm than in the stifling warmth
of the castle she was destined to inherit. Cicely recognized the beat of her
sister’s heart at once, though she flinched a little at the ferocity of it, as
always.

Anise
was a lithe shadow, wending her way through the thickly falling snow with
carefully calculated steps. She was alone in the darkness with her bow, seeking
silence and the rush of the hunt. The stag she stalked had not scented her, had
no sense of her presence as it, too, wandered the forest. It was a magnificent
beast, antlers glistening with frost, rich flanks gleaming under the pale
moonlight as it stepped silently through the snow. Anise moved silently behind
it, fingers flexing quietly on her bow, white frosted eyelashes framing eyes
that were frighteningly dark and fixed on her prey. Everything moved in perfect
unity, the subtle shift of her black boots that balanced her weight, the frozen
white fingers that nocked the arrow, and the tilt of her chin as she took aim. The
arrow that lit from her bow was high, silent, and straight.

The stag
jumped, turned one way and then another, quivering at the shocking pain,
stricken with terror at the way the quiet night had betrayed him and brought
Anise and her bow to torment him. He reared up, flank tensing, hooves pawing at
the air in the whirlwind of his fear and fury. He edged the other way, scenting
for the source of his agony, but all the while his veins leaked hot blood into
the cold and hungering air. He was beautiful even when his legs could no longer
hold him and he fell, magnificent even as he struggled to raise his head, still
fighting to reclaim his escaping spirit.

Anise
came for him, snaking over the snow with the wind pushing at her hood and her
cold fingers curled around the dagger at her hip as she bent to end the
creature’s mortal struggles. Cicely was no hunter, and it wasn’t Anise’s
killing that drew her gaze. It was the second hunter, the one who stalked the
stalker. Anise was not the only black-robed intruder in the forest that night,
and for all her inhuman instinct, she was not aware of the eyes at her back as
the snow ran scarlet at her feet. The blood was warm on her hands as another
figure emerged from the shadows of the snow-burdened evergreens. The newcomer
was slight of build, but heavy with hatred and burdened with malice. There was
no sound to alert Anise as the unannounced one reached for a dagger, fingers
dancing over the killing steel as the huntress’s hunter battled to overcome the
fear of regicide and murder the heir to the throne and the realm of Wulfyddia.

Anise
was oblivious when the moment of choice came. The combating urges of the one
who hunted her warred with each other, and for a moment the hunter teetered on
the brink of treason. Then fear conquered all, and the figure turned away and
moved back into the forest, leaving the heiress of the realm with a chill that
did not come from the snow or the biting wind. Anise knew nothing, heard no
one, but Cicely saw the face that was hidden by the hood, and she wept.

Chapter
12

Melisande’s breath was a warm white cloud on
the air as she navigated the cobblestone streets to the boarding house where
the Physician Rathbone claimed to live. It was the furthest outside of the
castle she had been in a long time, and while the cold of the frigid dawn was a
shock to her, the quiet streets and the haze of fog over the forest brought her
a strange sense of clarity. She felt aware for the first time in weeks, as
though all those ceaseless hours hunched over her workbench had suddenly merged
into a single dream, now half-forgotten and less real than the crunch of her
boots over the faint crust of snow on the streets.

The house where he boarded was old and
beautiful, especially against the backdrop of the foggy woods. There was a
single light burning, in the dormer window at the top of the home, and though
Melisande had never visited Rathbone before and knew nothing of his habits, she
felt quite certain that the lantern was his. A small dog barked and snarled at
her as she passed over the threshold, but she turned and fixed him with eyes
that were not quite… human, and the power in them had the stout-hearted little
beast retreating slowly down the hall back to his mistress’s room, not afraid,
but reluctant to engage her and certain that she meant no harm. Melisande
passed ghostlike down the second floor hall, and climbed silently to the third,
to the attic door behind which she could hear someone pacing, tracing a
well-worn path in the floorboards.

It was him. She knew it was. She knocked, and
the pacing ceased. There was no sound from behind the door, until it finally
creaked open, and she was confronted with Rathbone’s sickly pale face and the
small dagger he clutched defensively in his hand. She did not find the weapon
as off-putting as perhaps she should have. But then again, she knew that the
blade was not intended for her.

“I hope it’s not too early,” she told him,
and he smiled bemusedly, shaking his head. He seemed to catch sight of his own
dagger out of the corner of his eye, and abruptly it vanished behind his back
as though he was embarrassed by its presence at their meeting.

“Not at all,” he told her, stepping back and
grandly gesturing for her to come in, as though she were royalty. Her smile
lasted until she saw the creature stretched out on his table, scaly eyelids
closed in death. It was one of her salamanders, and it was enormous, larger
than the dog downstairs. “Hm.” Rathbone said as he closed the door behind her.
“As you can see I’ve been quite busy. You’d be surprised all of the creatures
that roam the castle. I’m convinced there’s one living in the moat. Maybe two.”

“Yes.” Melisande said vaguely, taking a few
steps closer to stare down at the fallen creature. Unexpectedly, the sight of
its mutilated body filled her with anger. Melisande blinked and tried to
understand the source of her fury.

Then Rathbone was pulling out a chair for her
and offering her a cup of tea, and Melisande remembered that she and Rathbone
were allies, not enemies, and there was no reason for her to seek revenge on
him. He was, after all, only responsible for the death of a salamander, and something
had to be wrong with the fire-creature; as far as she knew, they weren’t
supposed to grow like that. It was abnormal, and brought to mind disturbing
questions, such as the problem of what fueled their development. What were they
living off of? Meat would be enough for ordinary creatures, but these were
magical and someone’s power was sustaining them. Melisande did not feel any
different, could not feel any pull on her life force, but she could not escape
the suspicion that somehow, it was her spirit that fed them.

“Tea?” It was odd to see Rathbone in this
setting. He was bustling about his little room in a way that reminded her of a
kindly grandmother or a friendly aunt. For a moment she caught a glimpse of him
as he must have once been, a wholesome and homegrown young doctor from the
countryside, likely much doted-on by his relatives and used to country
hospitality.

“No tea. Thank you.” Melisande told Rathbone,
but he did not listen, and for some reason the way he ignored her refusal
angered her. Again, the rage came, and she sat there with almost complete detachment
and felt the fury overtake her as though she were watching someone else. She
stared down at her hand and found that her fingers were shaking. When had she
grown so easily riled? For years she had put up with all manner of abuse from
Felunhala without losing her temper, yet lately the slightest affront, even
unintentional had her quivering with rage. Where did the anger come from? It
seemed that no answer was forthcoming, so Melisande sat quietly while Rathbone
fetched her tea and slowly her ire began to recede and she felt more like
herself.

“Now,” Rathbone said, seating himself across
from her, his eyes glittering eagerly, “what have you discovered?”

“Well, there have been rumors about of a
beast in the dungeons for over a century.” She told him. “The first mention of
it I could find was in 7836. Nine men were killed mysteriously by an animal
that year, most of them prisoners or guards in the dungeons— you know which
part. But there were three who weren’t guards. One was a young woman, a lady of
the court, newly married to a lord. She was the first to die. Later her father
and an elderly aunt were also slain. The last man to die was a prison guard. Someone
saw the last attack, a man who worked in the kitchens and was a little too fond
of his wine. He claimed that the attacker was a beast with yellow eyes that
came out of the shadows and dragged the guard away. They organized a hunting
party, but they were never able to find or catch the beast. The guards that
remained were terrified, so they moved the prisoners to a newer wing of the
prison— the one that they use now— and the old dungeon was locked up. The beast
has been little more than a legend for over a century. But, if that’s the
creature you saw, it would appear that he is back.”

Rathbone had been nodding anxiously
throughout her speech, and now he shook his head impatiently. “But what does
that tell me about the beast?” He asked anxiously. “I know its history, but how
do I know what it is? How do I kill it?”

Melisande stared back at him. “It’s very
important to you, isn’t it? That you kill it?”

Rathbone almost leapt across the table. “It’s
important to everyone! How can people live like this? How can they walk in the
sunshine and eat and play and make merry when they know what walks in the
shadows? How can they be… at peace with this darkness? How can I? This thing
has broken my mind. I do not eat, I do not sleep. I pick up a book of medicine
and the letters flail and writhe under my gaze as though they are alive, as
though they seek to scramble off the page. The words mean nothing to me and I cannot
think
.” His voice was almost a snarl, and at first Melisande drew back,
alarmed, but as he spoke she relaxed, once again aware that his rage was not
meant for her. “I must stop it. I must repay it for the theft of my mind. I
must have justice.”

So it was vengeance, then. Indeed, there was
more uniting them than Melisande dared think about and once again she felt a
flush of sympathy for him.

“There are rumors about his origin,” she held
up a hand to silence him when he began to interrupt. “Rumors that suggest
exactly what kind of creature he might be, but I can’t vouch for the validity
of any of them. I haven’t seen the creature myself, and even last century these
rumors were mere gossip, not accepted fact.” Melisande was unsure at which moment
she had crossed the line from humoring a madman to counseling a beastslayer,
but at some point she had accepted his beast as a flesh-and-blood demon and not
a phantom of his mind, and now there was no going back.

“The bride who was killed,” she began, “the
beast is rumored to be her husband. He had disappeared not long before her
death. Rumor has it that he was a handsome young man of good family but ill
reputation. He was said to be quite charming, and it was a matter of great
surprise when he chose to settle down so young. It is said that his bride’s
family did not approve of him. In order to punish him, the bride’s aunt is said
to have cursed him, disfiguring him and forcing him to live as a beast, ruled
by a beast’s appetite and a beast’s instincts. The rumor differs here: some say
that the aunt cursed him knowing that he would kill his bride; others say she
never intended for her niece to die. At any rate, his first act as a beast was
to kill the one he loved. They say he took his revenge upon the bride’s family
and then banished himself to the dungeons to live off of the guards. No one
knows exactly what sort of beast the aunt is said to have made him in to, but
some say that a spear of ash that pierces his heart will drain his life’s blood
and send him, at last, to rest.”

“That was no ladies’ man that came to me that
night,” Rathbone said grimly. “I have my doubts about his origin story, but if
they are correct about how to kill him, well… his days are numbered.”

“Be careful,” Melisande said, suddenly
concerned for Rathbone. She did not want his life on her head. There was only
one man she wanted to send to his death, and Rathbone was not that one.

“I’ve survived him once,” Rathbone asserted.
“I will live to triumph over him.”

They sat in silence together, until the
distant tolling of a bell roused them and reminded Melisande of her many tasks
for the day.

“Do you have anything else for me?” Rathbone
turned hungry eyes on her as though she were his salvation.

“I’ve told you everything,” Melisande
answered. That was not, strictly speaking, true. There was one fact she had
omitted, but it had nothing to do with the legend of the beast. She had not
told him about the disappearance of one member of the Court. Sansano, the
Queen’s Fool, had gone missing recently, and while many fanciful reasons for
his disappearance had been put forth, the generally accepted explanation was
either foul play or some highly unfortunate accident. For several days there
had been talk of dredging the moat, but the Queen had put a stop to that right
away, and Melisande was glad. She had no idea where the Fool was, but she hated
to think what might have been discovered in his stead had the moat been
dredged. It had been undisturbed for centuries, quietly collecting the castle’s
darkest secrets in its depths. At any rate, in light of Rathbone’s tale of the
beast, the midnight disappearance of the fool took on an entirely different,
more sinister light.

“I must go.” Melisande rose from her seat,
leaving a cooling but untouched cup of tea in her wake. Rathbone stood
immediately as well, going quickly to the door.

“Of course, of course,” he said quickly. “I
know how busy you must be… witch’s apprentice, so many things to do.”

“Yes,” Melisande agreed vaguely, hiding a
cringe as the marks at her wrists throbbed unexpectedly. She hoped it wasn’t
going to be a painful day. She had so much to do and it was easier to concentrate
when she wasn’t holding back tears from the pain.

“Be careful,” she told him again as she moved
to go.

“Of course,” he repeated, holding the door
open for her.

She hesitated in the doorway, meeting his
gaze. One of his earlier questions, uttered in the heat of his distress, had
stuck with her and it bothered her now. She licked her lips. “People in this
castle, they do not think about the shadows. If they did they would be
paralyzed; there is precious little good here.”

He watched her curiously as her last words
faded. “I am surprised that you find yourself here, given your history with the
Queen. One would think that you’d had enough of the battles of royalty.”

Her eyes widened; she had not told him of her
history, but his gaze was knowing and it unsettled her. She did not respond,
merely nodded, tight-lipped, and turned to go. As she let herself out onto the
street she could feel him standing at the window, watching her long and weary
walk back to the castle.

***

Anise
returned at dawn, her boots black with mud and her cloak rank with the scent of
blood. The attendants at the gate swarmed her, reaching for her horse, for the
carcass slung over her mount. They knew better than to touch her, however, and
Anise dismounted without their assistance, leaving them to tend her horse and
carrying into the castle only her bow.

The
Princess Frederica was on the stairs when her eldest daughter came home, and
they passed each other with little more than a nod. Prince Delwyn and Princess
Frederica had long since divided their children between them, and Anise was
quite firmly her father’s daughter. Frederica’s nose wrinkled at the scent that
wafted from her daughter’s clothing, and her stomach, unsettled by morning
sickness, rolled uncomfortably at the stench.

Frederica
was startlingly forgettable. She was of average height and build, had a mild
sort of prettiness now fading with the years, and was quite unassuming in
manner. Upon first meeting her, people often found it difficult to believe that
she was royalty twice over: she had been born into a foreign ruling family and
at a young age had married the Crown Prince of Wulfyddia. She spoke slowly, and
her words were carefully chosen. Her children rarely saw her angry, or
otherwise overtly emotional, save for when she spoke to or thought of her
mother in law. Justine’s forced isolation from the rest of the world had
sparked a hatred in Frederica that not even time had erased, and Tryphena’s
recent order that Justine be removed still farther— all of the way to the Haligorn—
had only deepened the divide between the two royals.

Arthur
had been on his way to attend the Queen, but when he caught sight of the slim
young daughter of Delwyn he paused to pick lint off of his sleeve and dared a
few furtive glances at her as she passed him. She barely seemed to notice him,
which was more or less what he was used to, but he couldn’t help the smile that
touched his lips at the sight of her. Even the reek of blood didn’t put him
off. It was only as she vanished into the royal breakfast chamber that he was
able to return to the task at hand.