Wulfyddia (The Tattersall Trilogy Book 1) (10 page)

Sansano
will come for the Book

He
will kill

“…Us.” Daphne
whispered.

“Not
necessarily,” Spencer said. The castle was a seething cauldron of plots and
secrets. There was no knowing who Sansano planned to kill.

“Easy
for you to say,” Daphne told him. “You’re just a peasant. Princesses and other
royalty are always killed first.”

It had
been Spencer’s experience that this was not true. Princesses and their
relatives may be the first to be targeted in the stories, but what the stories
frequently glossed over was just how many of the castle guards the villain took
out on his way to the royal chambers. It was something that he had grown
accustomed to, as a commoner, but it still irritated him to hear Daphne say
that she would be the first to be killed when there were literally thousands of
members of the Royal Guard who had vowed to die for any single member of the
Royal Family. “For all you know it could be me,” he said, “just for getting
into so much trouble with the two of you.”

“What
does it matter who?” Lorna asked indignantly. “We don’t want
anyone
to
die. She told us because she wants it stopped. We have to find out who Sansano
is and why he wants the book.”

“Well,
since you know everything, maybe you should tell us how we’re supposed to
figure it out… without getting killed ourselves, preferably.” Daphne sounded
miffed, as she usually did any time her younger sister had an independent
thought.

“We need
the book,” Lorna said.

An
uneasy glance passed between the three of them, as they remembered the
circumstances under which they had last hidden it.

Daphne wasn’t
pleased. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why
not? It all comes back to the book, doesn’t it? The ghost, Sansano, whoever he
is. We need the book.” Lorna said again.

“Not
exactly.” Spencer put in. “The book won’t tell us who Sansano is, and it won’t
tell us who stole it in the first place.”

“Well,
in that case,” Daphne said. “Perhaps what we need is the glove.”

***

The
library reminded Spencer vaguely of the dungeons. It was deep underground and accessible
only via a network of musty passages that grew increasingly colder with each
step he took. When they finally arrived at the enormous, iron-banded door
Spencer fully expected it to be locked, but, much to his surprise, Daphne
pushed it open without difficulty.

“No
wonder there’s a problem with theft,” he whispered to Lorna.

“Oh,
it’s not getting inside that’s the trouble,” she whispered back. “It’s getting
out
.”

“Hello?
Is anyone here?” Spencer flinched at the way Daphne’s voice echoed as he
followed the sisters into the cavernous library. He would never before have
thought of a library as creepy, but this one was. It was lit only by torches
that flickered from brackets on the wall, and everything in the library seemed
ancient. The shelves were elaborately carved of some dark wood, and many of the
shelves were protected with dusty glass. On one side of the room was an
enormous ornate desk, a maze of drawers and shelves. A mass of papers and
several books that appeared to be in the process of being restored covered the
surface of the desk.

“Royal
Librarian?” Daphne called confidently. “It’s Daphne and Lorna Lucretius. We’ve
come to speak to you about a matter of grave import— oh!” Daphne gave a little
yelp and stepped back quickly, crushing two of Spencer’s toes, as a shadow from
the corner of the library detached itself from the rest of the shadows and
strode forward, quickly revealing itself as an old man as it approached them.
Spencer blinked, not quite trusting his eyes after the man’s bizarre
materialization.

As the
Librarian approached them, there was no missing the faintly hostile glance he flicked
at Lorna and Daphne, the grooves in his brows deep with resentment and
disapproval. Surprisingly enough, the old man’s gaze then settled on Spencer,
and he seemed to be appraising him with great thoughtfulness. Daphne followed
the Librarian’s gaze to her companion, and Spencer could practically see her
shoulders quivering with indignation as she lost the Librarian’s attention to
someone she considered her inferior. “Royal Librarian,” she began stiffly,
calling his attention swiftly back to her. “We are here on a matter of great
importance.”

The
Librarian’s silver brows shifted upwards. “I’m sure. How may I be of
assistance? A book of fairytales for your sister, perhaps? Another romance for
you?”

Daphne’s
cheeks turned ruddy with embarrassment and she shook her head quickly. “No. I
don’t read anything like that.”

“Ah, I
must have you confused with someone else then,” the Librarian said with a shake
of his head. “You must forgive me— old age, you understand.” He shifted his
weight, leaning on a cane that appeared suddenly in his hand.

“And who
is this young man?”

“Spencer
Tattersall, sir,” Spencer put in before either of the sisters could introduce
him.

“Tattersall,
hm? And where do you hail from, Spencer?”

“My
mother works at the Haligorn, sir.”

“Ah.” If
the Librarian had any opinions about the Haligorn or what went on there with
Justine, he kept them to himself. “And how have you found yourself in such
esteemed company?”

“We like
him.” Lorna said matter-of-factly. Daphne scowled at her sister’s revelation,
but the Librarian chuckled. Spencer was somewhat taken aback. He had been under
the impression that they only enjoyed torturing him.

“Actually,”
Daphne explained, “we’re here about a very important matter. It’s about the book.”

The Librarian’s
expression shifted from amusement to wariness in an instant. “Which book?” He
asked quickly.

“The one
that was stolen.”

As
usual, Daphne was going for maximum effect, keeping her expression cryptic and
her tone severe. Not in the mood for more of her games, Spencer decided to
speak up. “Actually, we’re here about the thief.”

“The
thief?” The Librarian repeated.

“Melisande
said that he… left something behind? Something that might identify him.”

“Ah, you
mean this.” The Librarian pivoted, and withdrew from the labyrinth of his desk
a single black glove, pinched between his thumb and forefinger as if he held a
dead rodent by the tail. Suddenly Spencer remembered the glove and cloak that
Rolf had fished out of the moat, and wondered if there was some connection. It
wasn’t inconceivable that the thief might have disposed of the rest of his
clothes in the moat, expecting them never to be found.

The
Librarian dropped the offending garment into Daphne’s hands. “As I’m sure
Melisande told you, a witch could, were she so inclined,” he rasped irritably,
“use this to determine the identity of the owner, and therefore the thief.”

“But
Felunhala won’t do that?”

“She
requires a direct order from the Crown, and apparently there are matters of
greater importance to her Majesty.”

“What’s
so important about the book?” Daphne interrupted curiously.

“It’s
old.” The Librarian answered shortly.

“Everything
in this library is old.” Daphne persisted. “What’s special about the one that
was stolen?”

“It’s
very old.” The Librarian said dismissively.

“You’re
not telling anyone what book it is, are you? You didn’t say in court either.”
Lorna said.

“If the
Queen asks me to reveal the significance of the Book in a private audience,
then I will. Otherwise, the title of the book is irrelevant. All that matters
is its return.”

There
was a pause as Spencer and Lorna shared a guilty glance. Daphne was apparently
beyond shame. “But it’s important?” She pressed the Librarian. “Maybe even…
dangerous?”

Spencer
cleared his throat, working up the courage to make a proposal.

“Yes?”
The Librarian asked. “Speak up if you have something to say.”

“I know
a witch.” Spencer blurted out. “Well, I don’t know her, but I know of her.”

“No
witch that serves Felunhala and the crown will perform the spell without a
direct order from the Queen.”

“She
doesn’t serve the crown,” Spencer said. When all three pairs of eyes widened,
he hastened to amend, “well, she’s loyal to the crown, I mean, but she doesn’t
work in the castle. She lives down in the Bottoms.”  He felt his conviction
growing weaker. “I… I know someone. She’ll give us two-thirds price…” His voice
trailed off until it was almost a whisper.

“I like
it,” Lorna announced, unexpectedly coming to his aid. “It’s a good plan.”

“What if
she knows the ruffian that stole it?” The Librarian grumbled.

“But you
don’t think it was stolen by someone from outside of the castle, do you?”
Daphne guessed, with her usual almost sadistic acuity. “You think the thief is
someone at court.”

“I… I
never said that.” The librarian did look uneasy now. It had taken her a few
tries, but Daphne had managed to unsettle him.

“But you
do. You won’t tell a soul anything about the book. It must be because you’re
afraid that the information will get back to the thief. What are you afraid
of?”

“Daphne
Lucretius, you may be royalty, but I have a sacred duty in my maintenance of
these archives, and in that duty I answer only to your grandmother. I will
allow you to borrow the glove and visit your… contact, in the Bottoms. Under
better circumstances I would never part with the garment, but it has been made
abundantly clear to me that the usual channels are not available, so I will
avail myself of your assistance in this matter. Return it to me within a
fortnight.”

“Excellent!”
Daphne almost pried the glove from the Librarian’s grasp, but he withheld it at
the last moment.

“If the
witch is able to identify the one responsible for the theft of my archives, you
will inform me before taking any other action. I must be the first to know. Do
you understand?”

“Of course,”
Daphne said, and this time she was successful in her capture of the glove. “We
understand.” She smiled sweetly and turned to go.

“Thank
you.” Spencer added as the sisters paused near the door, staring back at the Librarian
with expectant eyes.

“You are
welcome,” the Librarian answered, and then he waved his hand, as if as an
afterthought, and Spencer heard a click as the enormous door unlocked. Daphne
opened it swiftly.

“Be careful,”
the Librarian added. When Spencer turned back to nod farewell to him the Librarian’s
gaze was almost stricken, as though letting them leave with the glove was
wearing on his conscience. At that moment Spencer’s own conscience gave a
twinge, as he remembered that they knew where the book was at that very moment,
and could easily return it to the Librarian who so fretted over its safety; but
the problem had grown so complex so quickly that he couldn’t be sure returning
the book was the right— or the safest— thing to do.

Melisande
reached absently for her tea but her fingers found the warm wax of the candle
instead. Jerking her hand back before her fingers were singed, Melisande
glanced up from the bestiary she was perusing long enough to locate her tea,
but when her hand closed around the mug she found that it was cold to the
touch, so she let it be and turned the page instead.

She had
located the legend of the beast; now all that remained was to discern the
species, well, the species it would be most like if it were real, she reminded
herself. Almost certainly the creature was a mere figment of Rathbone’s
imagination, a ghoul summoned from the depths of his tormented mind. But
perhaps a name would help him, much in the same way a diagnosis helped a
frightened patient, by giving a name to the menace.

She was
tempted to switch bestiaries, however. This one was highly illustrated and full
of very colorful and deeply vivid paintings of all manner of creatures. At
first the lurid images hadn’t upset her, but as the hour grew later and the
castle fell silent around her, she found herself growing increasingly anxious
with each page she turned.

On the
current page, a clawed hand clutched a man by the chest, gripping him so hard
that red blood spilled from the gouges in his chest. Nothing could be seen of
the beast that was pulling him into the darkness of the night, save for two red
eyes that stared out of the abyss, devilish in their intensity. In the next
illustration, a man grappled with a beast that looked almost human, save for
joints that were bent in ways no mortal man’s body could bear. It was more than
half again his size, and its face loomed above his, teeth bared as if it were
about to bear down on his neck and savage the flesh of his throat. Its face had
been painted in great detail, and the visage was arresting, almost nauseating.
Its anatomy tread a faint line between man and beast, but its expression was
purely human, made of equal parts pain and rage, and the suffering in its face
and the contortions of its form almost seemed to suggest that it was more
anguished than the man.

Melisande
finally tore her gaze from the parchment, swallowed, and turned the page. She
reached for her tea again, and this time she let a few drops of the
unappealingly chilled liquid slide down her throat. There was a low moan at the
window, and the shutter banged in the sudden wind. Melisande stood to secure
it, and as she crossed to the window, she was startled by the glow of the newly
risen moon. It was full tonight, almost too big for the sky, and she lingered a
moment, staring up at it with troubled eyes.

***

It was a windy night in the Bottoms. Shadows
swirled on the docks, bearing dry leaves, crumpled newspapers and the scent of
the sea. Most of the shacks along the wharf were dark and silent, but a few
were lit from within, illuminating grimy patchwork curtains and the silhouetted
figures that moved hauntingly behind them.

The hut they sought was near the end of the
row, and Spencer had no need to check the directions on the paper he clutched
between two chilled fingers. Unlike the other homes, which had just a few
tendrils of smoke curling from their chimneys, if the hearth was lit at all, the
witch’s chimney streamed strangely smelling smoke into the sky, and when the
ash floated past his face there was a strange tremor on the wind, as though
magic was riding on the air that night. The witch had to be quite powerful, for
magic was not usually meant to be felt by commoners, and yet Spencer could
sense it like a strange stirring in his bones. As they neared the door, he
heard the soft tinkling of a single bell. It rang once, twice, three times, and
then the block was entirely silent.

Daphne and Lorna were cloaked head to toe in
robes of black, meant to conceal their finery and hide their faces. It was the
only way they could travel to the Bottoms safely, but there was something
uncanny about walking down the street with them gliding behind him. It made
particularly disturbing a night that was already eerie enough.

Spencer hesitated at the door, unable to
shake the feeling that this next step was one he might regret. At his side,
Daphne stirred, reaching forward with a black silk hand. Unwilling to give her
the satisfaction, Spencer jerked to attention and reached out first, knocking
with far more conviction than he felt. 

The wharf was perfectly silent after the
sound faded. A muscle jumped in his cheek as he waited for some response from
the dimly lit cottage. Then a shutter banged as it was pushed open from within,
and he could make out a dark face and a thick head of hair silhouetted in the
night. “What brings you to my doorstep, strangers?”

“Um, well. Rolf sent us.”

“Who?”

“Rolf, the moatkeeper’s son. We’re looking
for someone and he said you’d give us two-thirds price.”

“Aah.” The head withdrew from the window.
There was a rustling from within the cottage and then the door opened. “I know
the moatkeeper. He hears the wailing of the drowned at night and comes to me
for a potion that will chase the nightmares away and bring gentle dreams. So I
pluck a hair from his son’s head and put it in a tincture of my own making, and
now he dreams of family.” She stepped back from the threshold and beckoned them
inside. “Come in.”

Daphne slipped inside first, and Spencer and
Lorna followed. It took Spencer’s eyes a moment to adjust to the interior of
the cottage. He found himself standing in a smoky workroom scattered with all
manner of occult paraphernalia, but most striking of all was the witch herself.
Mollfrida stood by the fire, which illuminated her in fits and flashes as the
flame jumped. He had never seen such an old woman wearing so much paint and
powder. Her weathered, wrinkled cheeks, tanned brown by a lifetime under the
sun, were brightened by twin moons of rouge, applied so thickly that excess red
powder had collected in the folds. Thickly smudged kohl outlined eyes of a
surprisingly pale blue. Iron gray hair was secured in a mass of dreadlocks, and
her hands were heavily tattooed, each finger marked with spidery black symbols.
Her thin neck was weighted heavily with amulets of all kinds; one or two looked
as if they might be crafted with semi-precious stones, while others seemed to
be made of bone.

“Who do you seek?” she asked them croakily.
Her voice was deep, and her breath was rank with smoke.

Spencer reached deep into his pocket and drew
out the black glove, unable to mask the faint tremble of his hands as he handed
it to her. “One who wore this.”

She turned it over in her old hands, brought
it close to her face and inhaled deeply, her expression betraying none of her
thoughts. “You want his location? His name?”

Spencer licked his lips. “Both. Can you do
it?”

“Indeed I can, but will I?” Her gaze flicked
from one robed princess to the other.  “I don’t do business with those who hide
their faces.”

There was a moment of stillness and then he
saw Daphne’s pale hand at her hood.

He turned anxiously to her, “I don’t think
it’s—”

“It’s alright,” Daphne, displaying more faith
in the odd little witch than Spencer could muster, drew back her hood,
revealing her damningly aristocratic skin, unmarred by scars, the sun or the
pox. To her credit, Mollfrida barely blinked.

“Daphne, daughter of Delwyn, son of Tryphena.
And which of your sisters joins us tonight?”

The hair on the back of Spencer’s neck raised
at Mollfrida’s faint chuckle as Lorna too pushed back her hood. The witch knew
the younger princess immediately. “Lorna. Princess of the Lucretius, youngest
save for that poor child in the Haligorn. My humble home is doubly honored this
night.” She dipped into a low and creaky curtsy, one that toed a delicate line
between heartfelt and mocking. “And who are you, handsome young escort of
royalty?”

It was a shock to realize she was talking to
him. “Spencer.” His throat was so dry his voice cracked, so he swallowed and
tried again. “Spencer Tattersall. My mother, Abigail Tattersall, is a servant
at the Castle.”

“Spencer,” Mollfrida’s careful gaze went straight
to his face. “Another child of the Haligorn. Tell me about your dreams, son of
Abigail. Do you sleep soundly on the edge of the Chasm?”

“My mother and I work hard. Our days are
long. Chasm or not, we sleep deeply.” He made direct eye contact with her for
the first time, determined to show her that he wasn’t afraid.

“Do you like your home here?” Daphne’s tone
was quite pointed, and if Spencer hadn’t known better he would have almost
thought that she was coming to his defense, drawing the conversation away from
him and towards Mollfrida herself.

“It suits me.”

“You’d probably like it better up at the
castle.”

“It’s close enough for me. Untroubled sleep
is difficult to come by in the castle.”

Spencer knew what she meant, but the sisters
had lived there all their lives and knew no other way, so they looked confused.

“What do you mean?” Lorna asked.

Mollfrida crossed to her window and peered
out into the night. From where he stood, Spencer could see the bulky outline of
the castle, crouched like a beast atop Mount Wulfyddia. “For some time now,”
the witch spoke raspily, “I have sensed great pain in that castle. Not from
many people, but from one. Someone with great power, whose suffering is also
great.” 

“A feeling like that can mean nothing good.
Pain attracts pain. If I were your grandmother, I’d devote some time to finding
whoever is so powerful and so tormented. Something should be done, before the
scent of it brings birds of darkness to circle the roost.”

There was a bang, sharp and sudden. Daphne
leapt nearly a foot in the air, and Spencer’s heart jumped to his throat.
We
should never have come here
. The thought flashed through his mind even as
he was reacting to the shock. A throaty chuckle stopped them in their tracks.
Mollfrida was laughing, her mouth open, expelling smoky air with every wheezing
laugh. “It’s the cat,” she told them simply, gesturing to the window ledge,
where a monstrous tomcat had materialized, fangs bared as he meowed at the
glass for admittance. “Shoo now. Shoo! He doesn’t come in unless there’s a
storm brewing, and he knows as much, the old beast. He’s waiting for my
senility to creep up on me. What a pity for him that I have never felt more,”
her eyebrows twitched, “
aware
.”

Now that their eyes had adjusted to the
gloomy lighting, Daphne seemed to be drinking the interior of the cottage in,
absorbing every detail. Lorna still looked uncomfortable, and Spencer just
wanted what they had come for. “So, you know who the glove belongs to?”

“In good time, Mr. Tattersall.”  The Witch turned
to the long workbench by the hearth, a jungle of assorted equipment and
ingredients. From the chaos she produced a handful of feathers, a mortar and
pestle, and two more items that Spencer could not identify. Daphne inhaled excitedly,
and Spencer turned to see her watching the witch with utmost fascination.

  “I’ve never actually seen Melisande perform
any magic.” She said excitedly. Lorna was watching silently, one hand
thoughtfully curled under her chin.

Mollfrida hunched over her workbench for a
time, muttering to herself. In the hearth, the fire began to flicker and dim.
Spencer stood alert, ready for anything, but for a few minutes there was
nothing but Mollfrida’s murmuring and the sound of her grinding herbs to dust.

The change, when it came, was abrupt and
startling. Mollfrida staggered back from her work bench, head falling back, and
Spencer was horrified to see that her irises had gone oddly pale, almost milky,
as though she were blind.

“What’s happening?” Daphne murmured, but
Spencer held up a hand to silence her.

“Ahh,” Mollfrida sighed suddenly. “Aha.”

“You know who it is?” This time Spencer spoke
up, hope blooming in his chest. She could end this nightmare for them.

Mollfrida squinted, her irises still milky.
“I see.” She said finally. “You will know.” She held out her hands, which
burned brightly with a strange flame like glow. “Here, come here quickly,
before it fades. Quickly!” Mollfrida urged when Spencer hesitated, but he was
wary to draw any closer to her hands when they shone like embers.

Daphne stepped forward when Spencer flinched,
and as a nod passed between the two women, Mollfrida stepped forward and
pressed her hand to Daphne’s forehead like a brand. Daphne’s eyes flew open,
though whether in pain or shock Spencer could not say.

“I see him! I see him!” She said
breathlessly, her eyes open and staring at something that remained unseen to
Spencer and Lorna.

“Who is it?” Spencer asked, but before Daphne
could respond the witch had rounded on him, clapping her free hand to his
forehead.

The vision came to him as swiftly as if he had
sunk suddenly into a dream. It was as if he was back in the gloom of the
library, though this time his vision was tunnel-like, so that he could see just
a narrow path in front of him. A black abyss loomed on the fringes of his
vision.

A cloaked man moved stealthily through the
shadows and found his way to a locked glass cabinet. Spencer knew immediately
which book he would reach for. It was hardly the most remarkable tome on the
shelf, but it was the only one with no title, and Spencer recognized it from
that first fateful day in the Haligorn. The robed man broke the glass, which
cracked strangely, crumbling rather than shattering, perhaps because some spell
altered the natural properties of the glass.

Spencer saw everything. He watched the man
grab the book and saw the glove catch on the jagged glass. He saw the man tear
his bleeding hand from the glove and flee the library, the door opening
unexpectedly under his hands despite the magic that Spencer knew protected it.
The man fled down some corridor, his shadow lurching on the wall behind him as
he retreated rapidly down the hallway.