Chapter 19
All splayed out in ghastly splendour
Gwen was ranging around the clearing like a hunting dog questing for a scent. Isobelle desperately wanted to be useful, but couldn’t think of a way to contribute, beyond staying out of her champion’s way.
‘They’ve taken her,’ Gwen muttered. ‘I should have seen it coming.’
‘Who did this?’ Isobelle asked, gazing at the wreckage of their ritual.
Too many thoughts and feelings were cantering around her head, entirely out of control – the relief of feeling Gwen’s arms around her again mingled with the guilt and worry that her embrace had done nothing to dispel, the frozen horror of hearing Tabitha’s screams. It all tangled together and rendered her useless.
‘Whoever we were trying to find,’ Gwen replied. ‘They couldn’t let her succeed. There must be a trail somewhere, she would have fought them, her feet should have scuffed … here!’
Gwen was off like a shot, with Isobelle scurrying behind her, trying not to audibly wheeze. Maybe silk and careful coiffures were a bad call for tonight, after all.
‘We’ll have to come back for the horses,’ Gwen called over her shoulder, keeping her voice low. ‘We can’t ride and follow a trail, and they can’t have carried her far.’
The dark of the woods, which had seemed so thrilling and mysterious to Isobelle such a short time before, was now full of danger – undergrowth grabbed at her dress and cloak, branches hung down to catch at her hair, roots rose beneath her feet to trip her.
An owl screeched somewhere – a bloodthirsty, hunting sound.
She tried desperately to cling to the last dregs of that incredible golden glow she’d felt during the ritual, and wrap it around her as a shield.
It had felt like the first time she’d tried hot chocolate.
It had felt like her first kiss with Gwen – the absolute rightness of it, the knowledge that she was just where she was meant to be.
Had that really been a spell going wrong? It had felt so … right.
It had felt like magic.
‘Shit,’ said Gwen up ahead, and Isobelle grabbed at the rough trunk of a tree to stop herself crashing into the other girl’s back.
Looking up, she saw the tower itself rising to block out the stars.
Her breathing shallowed, as if some great hand was squeezing her ribs, and she felt her heart speed up like a frightened rabbit’s.
‘You think they took her …?’
Gwen stepped forward, glancing up at the branches blocking the moonlight in irritation, then grabbing hold of the nearest tree, hauling herself up into its fork to get a view of the ground from above.
‘No,’ she said suddenly, jumping down to land squarely on her feet. ‘They headed towards the tower, but they doubled back again. Maybe it was supposed to be a false trail, make us think the tower was the final destination. The trail heads up here, through the trees.’
Despite her many recent nights in forests on their travels, Isobelle was still in no position to tell one tree from another, let alone follow a trail.
As Gwen set off at another blasted jog, Isobelle clung to the last shreds of her golden glow.
The warmth of it (the glow, not the jog, though that was causing some perspiration on Isobelle’s part) kept alive a flicker of hope.
And then the trees petered out and the two of them reached a moonlit clearing. In its centre, quiet and unobtrusive, was a cottage.
The cottage itself was in good shape, though the fence around the garden had tumbled down near the gate, vines growing over the fallen stones.
There was a stillness about the place, as if it were sleeping, and Isobelle found herself treading lightly as she and Gwen walked forward together. Nobody lived here anymore.
Wordlessly, Gwen pointed to a scuff mark in the dirt at the gate, which had swung open long ago and probably rusted that way. Someone’s foot had dragged there, and not long before. The knight kept her hand on her sword’s hilt as they made their way into the garden.
Tangles of herbs and flowers tumbled over one another, reaching out onto the path to brush against Isobelle’s skirts.
The crisp night air was scented by earth and green, and she saw tiny moths fluttering around huge white flowers that had all their petals open, as if it were the middle of the day, pointing their faces up towards the moon.
At the end of the path was the silent shape of the cottage itself, its wooden door slightly ajar.
Isobelle stopped at the door, cocking her head, and closing her eyes to focus all her energy on listening.
There was no noise on the other side, no sign anyone was within.
She glanced over her shoulder, and at Gwen’s nod, slowly pushed the door open.
Inside, the cottage was lit only by moonlight. It was all one room, and it was clear that it was empty. Tabitha’s kidnappers might have brought her here, but they had already left.
Shelves lined the walls of the place, stuffed with jars and bottles.
Isobelle stepped closer to inspect one, then abruptly stepped back as she caught a glimpse of some long-dead animal floating in cloudy liquid.
Bunches of dried herbs hung from the rafters, but when she reached up to touch one, the leaves crumbled to dust.
On the far side of the room was a bed, covers crumpled, as if their owner had risen one day and simply walked out the door, meaning to return and straighten them later. And to the right was a long workbench, covered in books and dust.
‘They can’t have been here more than a few minutes,’ Gwen muttered. ‘We must have been close behind them. Why bring her here at all?’
Isobelle walked over to the workbench, drawn by an urge she couldn’t explain. There were more books here than she’d ever have expected to find in a humble country cottage. How had whoever lived here come by them? How had they afforded them?
She ran her eye over the titles. On The Naturale Worlde, read one. On Anatomie, read another. Carefully she slid a finger under the cover and the first few pages, easing it open. Inside was a dreadfully detailed diagram of a frog, all splayed out in ghastly splendour.
Isobelle squeaked, jumping back and flipping the book closed. She was quite certain that nobody was ever meant to see anything’s insides to such a degree, and if those sorts of things were lurking inside her, then she simply didn’t want to know.
Under any other circumstances she’d have absolutely relished the atmospheric adventure of exploring such a place, but tonight …
‘This is a witch’s cottage,’ she said, looking back over her shoulder to Gwen. Then, reflecting on the dead creatures in jars, on the books, ‘The sorceress’s, perhaps. But you’re right – why would they bring Tabitha here? The only way it makes sense …’
‘Is if they had some sort of connection to the sorceress,’ Gwen said.
The rest of it hung between them, unspoken: could Bingleton’s ridiculous stories have hit upon some version of the truth? Had the sorceress returned? Or was her lover out there, trying to resurrect her? Why else come to such a place?
By silent accord, they both began to move around the cottage carefully, touching little, but inspecting everything.
A sudden sound made Isobelle startle and spin around – Gwen had found flint and was striking it to light a taper.
She lifted it to a pair of candles in turn, and though each took a long time to catch, eventually their wicks surrendered to the little flame.
Isobelle walked over to claim one, and when she returned to her careful study of the room, the light made all the difference.
One book stood out from the rest immediately – now she could see there was no dust on its cover, the leather gleaming in the candlelight.
Also gleaming was the gold title on the front, in a particularly ornate script – no expense had been spared on the trailing bits or curlicues: On Necromancie.
Isobelle exhaled sharply and nearly dropped her candle.
The flame quivering as her hand shook, she opened the book to where a thick ribbon lay between the pages as a bookmark, and began to read.
As she made her way through the two pages that now lay open – holding the last of her golden glow tightly against her, wrapping it around her heart to keep the darkness of this book at bay – she read snatches aloud to Gwen.
‘… the passage of time is no barrier to a resurrection, save in that a vessel of connection will be more difficult to find.’
And then, a moment later: ‘To raise the lost, the scales must be balanced – one must be given, for the one who is returned.’ And then: ‘If the body is no more, the body of the vessel will be inhabited, and in some cases transformed.’
She could hear that Gwen had stopped moving, as she finished.
‘The vessel must have some connection to the lost – the greater the connection, the better the chance of a return.’ Isobelle lowered her candle, mouth dry as she tried to swallow.
‘Do you think Tabitha being a witch would be enough of a connection?’
‘I think their connection was more than that,’ Gwen said, a note in her voice that made Isobelle turn.
At first, she couldn’t see what Gwen was holding.
Then, she couldn’t understand why she was holding it.
It was a child’s toy made of twisted wood – an old, thick vine stem, maybe.
It was fastened to a short plank at each end, and in between it twisted and dipped and rose in loops and twirls, a couple of beads strung along it.
Isobelle had had one like it when she was small – the idea was for the child to push the bead along the length of the vine, hopefully taking quite a bit of time and concentration, during which they couldn’t get up to much trouble.
Isobelle had found the whole circuitous process extremely aggravating, rather like court politics.
Then Gwen changed the angle of the thing, and Isobelle saw not random shapes but a word, in a looping, cursive script.
Tabitha.
Her brow furrowed. ‘I don’t …?’
‘Tabitha was a child here,’ Gwen said quietly.
Isobelle’s eyes widened. ‘But that would mean the witch who was her mother …’
‘Was the sorceress,’ Gwen replied, setting the toy down.
Isobelle’s breath escaped her in a gasp. ‘Oh, Tabitha! Do you think she knew?’
‘She thinks her mother was one of the sorceress’s victims,’ Gwen replied. ‘Or, at best, one of the witches rounded up by the paladins.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I thought someone grabbed her to silence her, to stop her from outing whatever they’re doing here. But it’s worse.’
‘They want to use her as a vessel,’ Isobelle whispered. ‘To bring her mother back. Gwen, we have to save her!’
‘We will,’ Gwen replied, pushing to her feet. ‘Since Tabitha and her abductor aren’t here, they must have gone somewhere else – the tower? We’ll go get the horses and make for …’
But though Gwen turned for the door, Isobelle remained where she was.
Resolve rose, firming within her. The fear was still there, absolutely – her stomach was in knots and the hand holding the candle was shaking, sending shadows scurrying across the walls.
But at her core, there was a new certainty.
Tabitha had tried to help them. Now Tabitha was a prisoner, and they were the only ones who knew. Whatever came, they would face it. It was their only choice.
She gazed at the way the candle flame flickered over the woven quilt hung on the wall, and willed herself to think of a plan.
‘I don’t think we should storm the tower,’ she said, trying to steady the candle. ‘Towers like that are designed for defence, and …’
‘I don’t disagree,’ Gwen replied, pausing in the doorway. ‘But we’re short on options.’
The warm place within Isobelle, the golden glow that wrapped around her heart, seemed to be spreading out to warm her limbs, and she firmed her grip on the candle. Shadows danced over that wall covering, drawing her eye again.
They were moving a little too much. Why?
Because the candle’s flame wasn’t the only thing moving. The quilt stirred as well, as though a faint breeze were behind it.
Gwen said nothing as Isobelle stepped forward to pull aside the tapestry from where it covered the wall. Behind it were a series of wooden panels.
She tapped on the first one. There was a heavy thunk. She moved to the next, and tapped it. Thunk. She tried the third.
Her tap echoed with a hollow sound.
‘You cannot be serious,’ Gwen muttered, as Isobelle bent down, holding her candle to the wooden panel to inspect it. It was the work of a moment to find the small imperfection in the carving around its edge, where a hint of a breeze was coming in. Carefully, she pressed on it.
The secret door opened soundlessly on its hinges, swinging inward to reveal a dark passage beyond, and steps leading down. Isobelle looked back at Gwen with deep satisfaction and permitted herself to raise one eyebrow.
‘How do you just believe things into happening?’ Gwen asked helplessly.
Isobelle smiled, holding tight to the golden certainty in her core, and absolutely ignoring the quivering part of her that wanted to go straight back to the tavern, jump into bed, and pull the covers up over her head. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘No time to waste.’