Chapter 18 Rumple
eighteen
Rumple
Slivers of moonlight filtered through gaps in the partially collapsed roof, and the pale light caught on the fine grit scattered through Rumple’s hair.
It made him look old. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper, his gaze more haunted, and the thin set of his lips belied the gravity of his situation.
With a wave of his hand, Rumple renewed his corporeal form and immediately staggered in place.
His hands shot out and braced against the wall, one on either side of the looking glass.
Rumple shook his head and loose strands of hair obscured his reflection.
He’d known his shadows had been waning for some time—he’d felt them thickening, tightening, and resisting—but his magick had never been riven before.
He hadn’t realised the cost it would have on maintaining his human appearance.
Despite his weakened state, Rumple refused to recall his shadows.
It was an intolerable thought, to leave Boy unprotected, even if that meant Rumple wouldn’t be operating at full strength while he completed his mission for the Queen.
Besides, he had no idea where the Prince might have fled to.
If he was smart, he’d already have left the kingdom, so it would be a waste of precious energy to go off wildly into the night.
Steadfast in this decision, he straightened.
Rumple smoothed the flyaway strands of hair back from his face and secured them at his nape with a length of black ribbon.
He needed to both preserve his energy and stay close to his Heart, and the best place to do both of those things was in the shadow realm.
His gloved hands affixed the golden skull brooch in place at his collar, and he stepped through his reflection and into the atrium beyond.
From within his sanctuary, he could scan every looking glass in Falchovari for clues as to the wayward Prince’s whereabouts.
With a purposeful determination, Rumple strode across the dark antechamber.
It took a moment for that significance to register.
Only the lucent purple symbol that warded against intruders now offered any light.
Hastily, he slipped through the crevice beside it.
His leather riding boots struck the stone-tiled floor as he passed under the haven of the Midnight Tree’s gnarled and twisted branches, where the polished stone bowl, still full of crystal-clear water from its earlier use, awaited him.
Needing to get this mission over with as soon as possible, Rumple rotated his shoulders and shook loose his arms, then placed his palms flat on top of the wooden ledge and peered into the glass-like surface.
For this to work as intended, he needed to clear his mind of everything—of everyone—except the Queen’s son.
He closed his eyes and exhaled. Once, twice, and on the third deep breath, Rumple opened his eyes, peered over the lip of the basin, and began his search.
The Prince’s beauty had always set him apart; many in the Royal City emulated his fair unblemished skin and dark glossy hair, and so it was for these features that Rumple scoured every corner of the kingdom.
Faces drifted in and out of focus on the surface of the water.
He held his memory of the Prince at the front of his mind as the visions clarified.
A tavern Rumple recognised as one not far north of the Royal District had two raven-haired patrons slumped groggily over a rustic table, but both were far too old to be the missing Prince.
Rumple swiped the image away with a jerk of his chin to the left.
More blurry faces sped by until an almost pitch-black room came into view.
The looking glass only just caught the shape of a figure huddled against the cold under a thick blanket as they slept.
Their black hair was splayed outward on the pillow, but their face was obscured from view.
Rumple analysed the shape and size of the body before determining it to be close enough to be the Prince’s frame.
He commanded a shadowed tendril into the water.
It sank under the surface without so much as a ripple, then through the portal and into the quiet room.
Unseen and unheard, it snaked its way out of the looking glass, down the wall, and across the draughty floorboards until it reached the sleeping target.
Its weightless form eased under the blanket where it mapped the contours of the covered face, and Rumple compared it to what he knew.
Unless the Queen’s son had managed to lose three teeth and gain a deep scar across his chin since he left the palace, this wasn’t him either.
Rumple recalled his shadow, but the strain on his weakened form from interacting in the human realm caused it to solidify too early.
The tendril thumped heavily to the floor and startled the slumbering man awake.
It scratched over the wooden boards as it was dragged backwards into the looking glass, which drew a sudden inhale from the frightened human, who clenched tighter at the blanket over his head.
Rumple swayed on his feet, gripped the ledge where his palms rested, and widened his stance. His breaths came in shallow pants as he wrestled the intractable limb back into the shadow realm.
Water sloshed over the rim and splashed onto Rumple’s boots when the last of the tendril slipped from the basin.
Immediately, it was reclaimed by the dry and twisted roots of the Midnight Tree, and Rumple was left to stare at the distorted reflection of his face as the ripples in the basin slowly ebbed.
Was this how it felt? The beginning of the end? The greatest shadow geist in all of Falchovari was unable to pull off the simplest of hauntings for having cleaved his magick in two.
The corner of his mouth quirked into a sardonic smile—he’d done this to himself. Had he found his Heart sooner…
His eyes swirled with the blackened shadows of his resolve.
Rumple had never failed before, not a single task set for him by the Queen, nor a personal endeavour he had set his mind to.
His hands clenched into tight fists. His pride wouldn’t let him fail.
Rumple would find the wayward Prince, and he would protect Boy.
He was the strongest of his kind, after all.
Rumple pushed harder, searching further and further out from the Royal City.
Faster and faster, he scanned the homesteads and taverns and handheld looking glasses rammed deep into the knapsacks of weary travellers.
Frenzied now, desperate, he hopped between surfaces as the forest thinned out and gave way to the mountainous foothills in the south.
Images of dark-haired men and women sped by in a blur until—wait! There! Rumple slowed his search and skimmed back slowly over the last few scenes he had happened across.
The interior of a dimly lit, functional cabin—something akin to a hunting lodge—clarified on the surface.
Illuminated by moonlight, tall shadows of nearby pine trees played across the thin material draped over the window, and a slender body blocked Rumple’s view.
The young man pulled a white shirt over his head, carefully smoothed out the creases, then hung it on the wall.
Pale skin, bathed in lamplight, stretched wide across unblemished shoulders when he let out a yawn and pulled back the covers on a crude bed that was set apart from the many others in the room.
When the target suddenly snapped his head around, as if startled by a noise, and looked back over his shoulder and right into the looking glass, Rumple had the confirmation he needed. He had located the Queen’s son.
A sudden wave of melancholic despair rolled through his shadows.
It clouded his vision and fogged his view.
A loud sob came next, but not from the wayward Prince, who had climbed into bed and had the covers pulled up high to his chin.
When the sob came again, Rumple recognised it as one of Boy’s, and he instantly retreated to the grounding reality of his sanctuary.
Rumple hated the sound of his Heart’s distress, but he also hadn’t known this level of connection between them would be possible. Hadn’t expected that by leaving some of his magick with him he would be able to feel Boy’s emotions, and it caught him off guard.
Forbidden by the Queen from going to him, Rumple couldn’t risk using the looking glass to check on him either.
He knew that if he were to see those rich brown eyes filled with tears that the pain of being unable to go to him would be far worse than when he tore himself apart.
He took a step back from the basin, and his foot caught on something.
It skittered over the uneven stone floor and Rumple twisted to see what he had kicked.
There, nudged up against the exposed roots of the Midnight Tree, was the Handbuch der Geisterjagd.
Some of its pages were strewn from where he had been reading earlier, and Rumple stooped to collect the meticulously written book from the floor.
As he gathered the loose sheets of parchment, one caught his eye.
It was from the middle of the section on geists, and Rumple dragged his leather-gloved finger across the faded ink.
“How to control a geist,” he muttered.
Geists come in many forms, depending on the source of their magick.
They hide in plain sight, often invisible to the human eye.
Only the strongest geists can assume a corporeal form, and not all choose a living skin.
Many possess items carried close to their intended person so that they may overhear pertinent conversation.
It is believed that geists use the looking glass as a way to choose a human to haunt, and also to travel between locations with ease. These accounts vary by region.
Regardless, it is considered the case that all geists can only be controlled—and therefore exorcised from the human realm—through the use of their true name.
Learning the Law of Names, therefore, is of prime importance to all ghost hunters and anyone wishing to rid themself of an unwelcome spirit.
However, a word of caution: know your geist!
The older and stronger the geist, the less susceptible to this method of mastery they are.
Rumple scoffed out loud to himself and scratched along his jaw. He was the oldest and most powerful geist in Falchovari and yet…
He read on.
For this reason, it is considered bad luck to speak the true name of any geist out loud.
Whenever there is an opportunity, all records and mention of their true names should be erased as a failsafe.
There will be resistance to this. Scribes and elders across the kingdom treasure their scrolls and grimoires, but there are too many instances where such knowledge has fallen into the wrong hands.
Too many times when a child—often one trying to prove their mettle to a group of friends—has spoken a geist’s true name and called them forth.
This act of defiance renders the child an unwilling owner of a geist. Many are able to maintain their wits and repeat the geist’s name before harm can come to them.
But not every geist waits for an invitation to be emancipated and they take matters into their own hands by murdering their way out of the predicament.
On one rare occasion, one such child was also in possession of an artefact.
The magickal amplifier made it so that, even after the instance of the child’s death, the geist lingered close by and couldn’t leave.
Trapped, as it were, in some invisible cage.
The effects of such amplifiers upon the strength and abilities of geists is something hunters kingdom wide are endeavouring to learn more about.
Rumple flipped the page. This was the most useful information that he’d found, but the rest of the entry was missing. He rapidly scanned the other loose leaves, desperate to know more, but the topic abruptly changed to a different classification of geist and Rumple was left wanting.
He threw the book at the wooden cupboard and with a resounding sigh, thumped the back of his head against the tree. Just another fruitless tome to add to his collection. Queen Schon would never say his name, neither could he murder his way out of his predicament.
Rumple stiffened. The text had said that the amplifying effect of the artefact held even after the geist had murdered the human in possession of it.
Of course, the passage hadn’t detailed whether the artefact was a part of the human or not.
Likely not. Regardless, his shadows had made their stance quite clear, but Boy was vulnerable, and the Queen had threatened his head.
If he needed his Heart alive to claim it, then Rumple had to protect him indefinitely, but if he didn’t…
If he didn’t, then why did the thought of Boy’s death make it hard to breathe?