Wulfyddia (The Tattersall Trilogy Book 1) (17 page)

Spencer leapt back from the mirror and then
realized that the thing stood behind him and that he had only grown closer to
it. He whirled, hand raised, ready to fend off that hideous second self however
necessary, but the floor behind him was shockingly empty. He spun around once
more, feeling that he was losing his mind, and saw that the reflection was
still in the mirror, just as ghastly and horrifying as the first time that he
had seen it.

He flinched away, jumped to the side,
shaking. “Why?” he whispered when he found his voice. “Why?” the dreadful thing
only seemed to get closer and then he did lose his mind. He turned and ran
across the hall, heedless of how much noise his feet made slapping on the stone
floor. The moonlight had gone from the corridor when he reached it, but he
raced down it anyway, not caring that he was all but blind in the darkness.

The blackness was a blessing. He didn’t want
to see; he didn’t want to know what else she had sent to leer at him out of the
shadows. He just wanted to get back to his room. He almost overshot the door,
but spun around at the last minute and frantically reached for the doorknob. He
had a moment of fear that she might somehow have locked it and that he might be
trapped in the shadows with her, but then it gave under his hand and he threw
himself into the room and closed the door firmly behind him.

He heard another sound as he tried to control
his own loud panting and his spine stiffened before he realized that it was
only the ticking of the clock in the hall. He felt his way through the darkness
to his bed, suddenly wishing that the moonlight were back so that he could be
sure his chamber was empty. Instead he kept imaging what hideous creature might
be staring out at him from the shadows. 

He crouched by his bed and stayed that way
for a moment, calming himself with steady breaths. Yet while the effects of his
run slowly began to fade, he couldn’t help the way that the image of his own
dead face kept surfacing. As his chest stopped heaving, his body was wracked by
first one tremor, and then another. There was another and another until
suddenly he found himself shaking like he was having a fit.

It was only then that he allowed himself to
feel for her, to try to sense her presence. There was nothing. He was most
definitely alone, and so, suddenly feeling exhausted as well as shaken, he
slipped into bed and lay there trying to banish that horrible vision from his
mind.

“Why?” He whispered again, although he knew
he was alone and no answer was forthcoming. Why would a creature he considered
an ally torment him like that? How could she show him something so horrible,
betray his trust and his confidence in her so heartlessly? It was like he had
lost a friend.

He was certain that after this latest
excursion he would never be able to sleep, and for hours that was true. He
tossed and turned on his cot, unable to stop running over in his mind the
reasons why she might have shown him something so horrible. Maybe she was angry
with him. He couldn’t think of how he might have offended her, but perhaps she
had taken offense at something. Yet he hadn’t sensed any malice from her, only
fear. Had she misinterpreted something he did as a threat?  It was only in the
hours before dawn that he felt his thoughts beginning to slowly wind down, preparing
him to sleep once more. It was once he was half asleep, barely even aware of
his own head on the pillow, that he realized she wasn’t angry. She had just
given him his second warning.

Chapter 15

Spencer woke with the air closing in around
him. Long before his eyes had opened he could feel his body steeling itself
against a day that promised to be hard. Eventually he pulled himself out of bed,
not because he wanted to, but because last night he had caught a glimpse of his
own corpse, and death did not become him. There was work to be done, and he had
to talk to Daphne and Lorna.

But after dressing quickly and silently and
then padding out into the hallway, he found that he was not the only one who
was having a difficult morning. His mother was whirling about the tower like a
butterfly under a glass. When she heard his footsteps in the hall she glanced
anxiously over her shoulder and met his gaze with fear in her eyes.

“She’s missing!”

“Who?”

“Her ladyship! Justine! Spencer, we’re
ruined. I hoped at first she was hiding, but she’s never done that before, and
I looked everywhere. She was there last night when I brought up her hot milk
and tucked her into bed, but this morning she’s nowhere to be found. She’s been
acting strangely the past few days, but I never expected anything like this. I
can’t imagine her crossing the footbridge herself, but she must have.”

“Yes,” Spencer said softly. “She must have.”
But he couldn’t quite summon the panic his mother seemed to expect. A week
earlier, even the day before, he would have been beside himself, but now he was
strangely subdued. Not calm, for there was a tension building in his gut, a
warning he could not ignore, a portent of greater doom. He was quite certain
that Justine’s escape was not the disaster he could taste coming. No, whatever
fate he awaited, it was much worse, and he had to face it before it consumed
him.

Outside it was a warmer day than was usual
for this time of year. The snow had melted under the glare of a surprisingly
harsh winter sun, and a single sweater was quite sufficient to keep Spencer
warm as the wind ruffled his hair like a deceptively soft kiss. Within the
shadowy interior of the Haligorn, he could hear his mother, still opening
cabinet doors and rummaging through closets as though she expected to find the
adolescent princess crouched behind a mop in the broom closet.

“I’ll go look for her,” he said softly, and
he stepped out of the Haligorn, making for the footbridge, and the castle
beyond it.

***

“Where are you going?” Melisande flinched at
her mistress’s sharp words as though the woman had struck her. Felunhala had
been in a foul mood since her falling out with the Fool. The witch had been
reluctant to disclose the source of her quarrel with the jester, but late one
night after a few glasses of wine the words had tumbled out of her. Melisande
had been surprised, though not shocked. What was surprising was how deeply the
rift appeared to have affected Felunhala. The woman had become nearly
impossible to live with, and it seemed that this morning the witch was
particularly troubled. There were deep circles under her eyes, her hair had not
yet been brushed and she seemed half asleep, blinking blearily in the light
that streamed in the windows.

“Out,” Melisande answered, “to deliver Count
Valinsky’s potion,” she added quickly, lest her brief answer be mistaken for
impudence. The truth was that she had already delivered the potion the night
before. This morning she had an errand of her own to run, and she needed a suitable
excuse to leave the castle.

Felunhala grunted an unintelligible response
and bent down to unlock her cabinet, shooting a suspicious glance at her
apprentice as she did so. Not for the first time, Melisande wondered how
dangerous Felunahala’s secrets were, given how intensely the witch guarded them.
“Well then,” Felunhala snapped, when Melisande paused in the doorway to watch
her, “be gone. Valinsky won’t wait forever.”

“Indeed,” Melisande fastened her cloak and
left.

It was
with a strange foreboding that Melisande walked the now familiar path to
Rathbone’s home. She expected the worst from him, given the news. It must have
upset him greatly, to hear the lurid reports of the savage attack on the castle
cook.

She
climbed the stairs to his room much as she had on her first visit, and, as
before, he was already up and pacing the floor. He opened the door immediately
and her lips parted to exchange pleasantries, but something in his eyes stopped
her.  

“How?”
He asked her. “How is it possible? My beast was no jester, and the jester was
alive and well when I first saw my beast. How are there two of them?”

Melisande
slipped inside of his room and took off her cloak, closing the door firmly
behind her. It would not do for the rest of the boarding house to overhear
their conversation. “There are some curses which are, in fact… contagious.”

Rathbone
twitched and glanced down at himself reflexively, as though he feared that
there might be some evidence of the beast’s contagion on his body.

“Only to
those who are bitten.” Melisande said, “and even then, in most cases the
disease won’t take. It requires a certain kind of victim for the curse to take
root.”

Rathbone’s
gaze sharpened. “What kind?”

“I
haven’t determined that yet,” Melisande told him. “I only know that a victim
must share certain… traits, with the man the beast was before he transformed.”

“But
what if the beast mauls his victim to death?”

“The
curse brings the victim back.”

“So the
man who was killed last night…”

“Hopefully
he’s not the right kind of man for the curse,” Melisande said grimly. “And he’ll
be better off if he isn’t, believe me.”

“I
know.” Rathbone said softly, an image of that ghastly, tormented creature
flashing before his eyes again. “I know.”

Melisande
sat down at Rathbone’s table and poured herself some tea. “What worries me is
this new beast. Unlike the first one, he doesn’t appear to be restricting
himself to the dungeons… if someone doesn’t put him down soon there could be a
bloodbath.” Melisande’s final remark was made rather thoughtlessly, before she
had a chance to consider how it might sound to Rathbone. By the time she’d
given her words some thought, Rathbone had already fixed her with a dark gaze.

“Someone
will,” he said, quite definitively.

“Of
course… Crown Prince Delwyn and Princess Anise are rallying a hunting party.
They hope to kill the beast tonight.” Rathbone only nodded, and Melisande
sincerely hoped that he wasn’t thinking of trying to interfere in any way.
“Anise is the best huntress this kingdom has seen in many years.” She kept
speaking, “she will find the beast and kill it. It will torment you no more.”

Rathbone
nodded, but there was a look in his eyes that Melisande could not define. “How
do you know?” he asked. “How do you know which sort of man will become a beast
himself, and which will simply die?”

“I don’t
know.” Melisande answered.

“You
said it takes a certain kind of victim.”

“Indeed
it does. But I told you, I don’t know which kind. There is some speculation,
but…” Melisande shook her head. “Nothing concrete. Nothing that can predict for
sure whether a man will be killed or transformed.”

Rathbone
did not look satisfied, but he nodded. “I see.” His gaze narrowed. “You should
go back to the keep, surely?”

“Yes,”
Melisande said vaguely, though she had no desire at all to leave. She was
surprised by how comfortable she felt, sitting there at Rathbone’s table,
drinking tea and talking, even if they were talking about a hideous beast that
preyed on people from the shadows. She was rarely able to speak candidly with anyone.
Her mistress was a fuse that had to be handled delicately to avoid explosions,
and Daphne, much as she seemed to want to be close friends with Melisande, was
royalty, and as such must always be kept at arm’s length.

At
length, the witch’s apprentice sighed, stirring from her seat. “Farewell then.”
This time, as before, Melisande could feel Rathbone watching her from his
window as she returned to the castle.

***

Something
was different. Melisande could feel it the moment she crossed the threshold of
the witch’s chambers. The entire way back to the castle a strange resignation
had been growing in her, as if she were about to receive bad news and already
knew in her heart what the news would be. Her first thought was that Felunhala
had found out about her deception and would be waiting there to punish her for
lying about Valinsky’s potion. But the chambers were empty; the witch had gone
out. What, then, was so different?

Melisande
was torn between exploring the chambers further and making a pot of tea to warm
herself when she caught sight of the witch’s cabinet. Felunhala had left the
lock undone. The charm had not activated and the door was unprotected. Suddenly
fixated, Melisande set the teapot on the desk, dropped her cloak on the floor,
and knelt down to peer at the little cabinet. Her first thought was that it had
to be a trap, but she could sense no lingering bad magic, no spelled trap
waiting to spring. Melisande remembered how Felunhala had looked that morning,
out of sorts and decidedly groggy. She must have forgotten to lock it. Crouched
on her heels, mindful of any sound from the hall outside of the witch’s
chambers, Melisande took hold of the little handle, and could not quite believe
her eyes when the door swung open.

There
was nothing magical in the cabinet, no powerful talismans or cursed wands.
Instead there were papers: a number of scrolls, a bundle of letters, and
several leather-bound journals. These were Felunhala’s personal papers, then. Half-expecting
her mistress to return at any moment, Melisande quickly picked up one of the
journals and flipped through it. There was nothing obviously incriminating
about the information within. Mostly Felunhala seemed to use the journals to
keep track of her day-to-day activities and write notes to herself. The one
Melisande held in her hand was the most recent one, and it mainly contained
lists of potion ingredients, spellcasting schedules and a record of all of the
business they had done in the past year. Melisande put it down.

Melisande’s
hand wavered over the letters for a moment, before she selected one of the
journals at the bottom of the stack instead. It was much older, dating to
around the time Melisande had first come to the castle. She browsed it until
the name of her hometown caught her eye. It appeared that before Felunhala had
gone to Arkestra to collect Melisande, she had made a few notes to herself
about Melisande’s village and the recent conflict there.

Small
village
, it read,
provincial, backwards
.
Melisande
scowled at Felunhala’s dismissal of her birthplace.
Razed to ground
.
All
dead save child. Blaxton sympathizers. Harbored him during uprising
.
The scowl slipped from Melisande’s face. That made absolutely no sense. Why
would Blaxton have destroyed a village full of sympathizers and slaughtered his
own allies? Then an additional note scrawled at the bottom of the page captured
her gaze.

To
ensure Melisande’s cooperation, she must
not
know that the Queen &
not Blaxton was responsible for the death of her parents!!!

Melisande
blinked. The words were right there but she could not quite comprehend them.
They seemed to float up to her face until they were all she could see, until
her entire world seemed contained within the curve of Felunhala’s Q.

She
must
not
know that the Queen & not Blaxton was responsible for the
death of her parents…

To
ensure Melisande’s cooperation…

The
Queen…

Not
Blaxton…

The
Queen…

Responsible
for the death of her parents…

The
Queen

***

Spencer
caught up to the sisters just before they reached the library, and in the
shadows of a narrow corridor he related the tale of his latest encounter with
the ghost. “We have to tell your grandmother,” Spencer said as his story came
to a close. “We have to. The ghost has as much as told me that my life is at
risk, and she certainly wasn’t wrong about the Fool. Whatever is going to
happen, we can’t stop it on our own, and we would be fools to try when your
grandmother has the whole castle at her command.”

Lorna
and Daphne did not look happy, but they were still listening, and Spencer
thought that perhaps they could tell from the fear in his eyes that the threat
was serious. He had not told them about Justine’s disappearance, having not yet
come to terms with it himself. Besides, he still had hope that his mother would
find her.

“I don’t
know if I can get an audience with grandmamma right away,” Daphne said. “I will
likely have to wait until her schedule clears.”

“How
long will that take?”

“I don’t
know. Maybe several days. She has many granddaughters; Lorna and I are hardly
her first priority. Anise and Dimity are the important ones. They are the ones
who usually see her in person. If Lorna or I ask to see her she’ll think it’s
something silly.”

“What if
you tell her it’s important?” Spencer found it hard to believe that a princess
could have so hard a time seeing the queen alone.

“She’s
the Queen, Spencer. All she hears all day are important things. I don’t think
she expects anything of significance from me.” It seemed a painful admission
for Daphne. “I will try, but most likely she will be busy, and I’ll have to ask
Dimity or Arthur to relay the message.”

“Is that
the fastest way?” Spencer could not explain why, but he was positive that time
was running out.

“Most
likely, yes,” Daphne said. “They spend much of the day with her.”