the dark staircase,
followed the servant ever upwards. One, two, three flights she climbed.
She walked down a dim hallway.
Beside her, in the shadows, she could make out the twisted forms of her friends
and kinsman. Tortured faces gazed out at her, frozen forever in thick white
marble. Lamplight threw shadows across them, made their features change,
ripple. When he first summoned her here, so long ago, she had cried out upon
seeing the statues, and the shadows skittering along their faces made her
believe that they moved there in their marble prisons, writhed and screamed and
clawed to be free.
But such things, she came to
realize, were mere fantasy. Her friends did not rest in the statues. Only their
bodies. Their souls were somewhere else.
Faylle came to the end of the hall,
and the servant tapped on the door. Once, twice, thrice.
The servant opened up the thick
oaken portal.
“Wait here,” the servant said, and
entered. The door closed.
Faylle remained outside the door
and put her hand in her pocket, caressed the stone that rested there, wrapped
tightly in a handkerchief.
I keep my promises, she thought.
The door swung open soundlessly.
“Enter, enter,” came a voice; soft, deep.
Faylle obeyed, walked to the entryway
and stepped into a halo of bright white light. It took her eyes a moment to get
used to the light, and she blinked and squinted, held a hand up to her eyes.
“Too bright?” he asked. The
lamplights sputtered and dimmed.
Faylle found herself in his study.
The door swung shut silently behind her. He stood with his back to her, at one
of the small slit windows. Dust crept into her nostrils. She sneezed. The room
was small and cramped. Heavy tables stood pushed against the wall, piled high
with books and papers and diagrams. In the far corner of the chamber, a twisted
contraption of wire and glass lay, accumulating a heavy film of grime. Beneath
her bare feet, tiny bits of glass and metal and paper littered the floor. No
other doorway was visible, yet the servant was nowhere to be seen. Faylle
wondered it he had spirited it away, returned it to its marble prison.
The man turned away from the window
to face her. A shock of thick white hair covered his head, ran down over his
shoulders to his waist. Black eyes stared out at her from beneath heavy white
brows. His white beard was interlaced with braids decorated in beads and bits
of glass. The beard swallowed the other features of his face, all but his nose,
which stuck out from the mess of white hair like an eagle’s beak. He stood a
head and shoulders taller than she.
Clutching pale, bony hands in front
of him, he regarded her. “I summoned you here for a purpose, Wolf Lady. Tell me
of my sister.”
Faylle’s eyelids flickered. “I
spoke with the wolves.”
The man’s face remained unmoved.
“What care I for the wolves? Tell me of my sister and the package she was to
bring. “
“We spoke of your sister.”
Silence.
“They remember nothing now. I’ve
tried to talk with them, but they don’t remember who they were,” Faylle said.
She reached into her pocket, caressed the stone like a talisman, a ward against
evil. “My father doesn’t remember that I am his daughter.”
The man snorted. “Must we start in
with this again? Be thankful that I spared you, Wolf Lady. You used to be
pretty until sun and wind and age marred you. I have no use for you now but
messenger.
“Tell me, then, is today the day
you join them? Join your family and kinsman as they slaughter and fornicate
like wild beasts?” He paused, gazed into Faylle’s eyes. “No? Not today? I
thought not. Be useful and tell me of my sister.”
Faylle felt hurt and anger pounding
within her, deep in her chest. Color rose in her cheeks. With fingers that
trembled, she withdrew the stone from her pocket, held it out before her. She
gently pulled away the dirty white handkerchief that covered it. The stone
glowed a faint blue in the dim room, casting the man’s face in
followed the servant ever upwards. One, two, three flights she climbed.
She walked down a dim hallway.
Beside her, in the shadows, she could make out the twisted forms of her friends
and kinsman. Tortured faces gazed out at her, frozen forever in thick white
marble. Lamplight threw shadows across them, made their features change,
ripple. When he first summoned her here, so long ago, she had cried out upon
seeing the statues, and the shadows skittering along their faces made her
believe that they moved there in their marble prisons, writhed and screamed and
clawed to be free.
But such things, she came to
realize, were mere fantasy. Her friends did not rest in the statues. Only their
bodies. Their souls were somewhere else.
Faylle came to the end of the hall,
and the servant tapped on the door. Once, twice, thrice.
The servant opened up the thick
oaken portal.
“Wait here,” the servant said, and
entered. The door closed.
Faylle remained outside the door
and put her hand in her pocket, caressed the stone that rested there, wrapped
tightly in a handkerchief.
I keep my promises, she thought.
The door swung open soundlessly.
“Enter, enter,” came a voice; soft, deep.
Faylle obeyed, walked to the entryway
and stepped into a halo of bright white light. It took her eyes a moment to get
used to the light, and she blinked and squinted, held a hand up to her eyes.
“Too bright?” he asked. The
lamplights sputtered and dimmed.
Faylle found herself in his study.
The door swung shut silently behind her. He stood with his back to her, at one
of the small slit windows. Dust crept into her nostrils. She sneezed. The room
was small and cramped. Heavy tables stood pushed against the wall, piled high
with books and papers and diagrams. In the far corner of the chamber, a twisted
contraption of wire and glass lay, accumulating a heavy film of grime. Beneath
her bare feet, tiny bits of glass and metal and paper littered the floor. No
other doorway was visible, yet the servant was nowhere to be seen. Faylle
wondered it he had spirited it away, returned it to its marble prison.
The man turned away from the window
to face her. A shock of thick white hair covered his head, ran down over his
shoulders to his waist. Black eyes stared out at her from beneath heavy white
brows. His white beard was interlaced with braids decorated in beads and bits
of glass. The beard swallowed the other features of his face, all but his nose,
which stuck out from the mess of white hair like an eagle’s beak. He stood a
head and shoulders taller than she.
Clutching pale, bony hands in front
of him, he regarded her. “I summoned you here for a purpose, Wolf Lady. Tell me
of my sister.”
Faylle’s eyelids flickered. “I
spoke with the wolves.”
The man’s face remained unmoved.
“What care I for the wolves? Tell me of my sister and the package she was to
bring. “
“We spoke of your sister.”
Silence.
“They remember nothing now. I’ve
tried to talk with them, but they don’t remember who they were,” Faylle said.
She reached into her pocket, caressed the stone like a talisman, a ward against
evil. “My father doesn’t remember that I am his daughter.”
The man snorted. “Must we start in
with this again? Be thankful that I spared you, Wolf Lady. You used to be
pretty until sun and wind and age marred you. I have no use for you now but
messenger.
“Tell me, then, is today the day
you join them? Join your family and kinsman as they slaughter and fornicate
like wild beasts?” He paused, gazed into Faylle’s eyes. “No? Not today? I
thought not. Be useful and tell me of my sister.”
Faylle felt hurt and anger pounding
within her, deep in her chest. Color rose in her cheeks. With fingers that
trembled, she withdrew the stone from her pocket, held it out before her. She
gently pulled away the dirty white handkerchief that covered it. The stone
glowed a faint blue in the dim room, casting the man’s face in
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