Chapter 11
Cressyda
CRESSYDA WATCHED THE priests disappear one by one from the Sanctuary balconies, their purple robes fluttering as they melted into the darkness above.
When the last priest had slipped from sight, she eased out of the shadow of the entrance, her gaze sweeping over the vast room.
All was quiet. Only the faint rustle of the ceiling ribbons broke the silence, their silken ends swaying in an unseen breeze.
She ducked beneath them and hurried to the back of the Sanctuary.
She knew she did not have long before the priests returned to begin another set of prayers, and she needed to act fast.
Cressyda stopped before the floor-to-ceiling scroll racks set into the back wall.
Dust motes shimmered in the pale, autumnal light from the diamond-shaped windows, drifting past the cubbyholes stuffed with tight cylinders of parchment bound in faded ties, their aged tags curling.
Tugging at one of the rolling ladders, Cressyda chose a set of shelves she had not explored yet and hitched up her long skirts, climbing on to the rungs.
She selected a shelf at random and began teasing out parchments, peering at their tags.
This was her fourth time searching through the Sanctuary’s ancient scrolls and she desperately hoped it would be more successful than her last attempts.
The shadowed creatures had not gone away – she had seen one only last night while walking down a corridor on the west side of the castle.
It had been a shuddering, hunched shape, blurred and undefined, scurrying about at the edges of her vision, and she had quickly turned her back before she could make out anything more.
But she had heard the awful sound it made: a horrible, chilling whistle.
No one else around her had reacted. No one else seemed able to see it or hear it, and she was still no closer to understanding why.
Night after night Cressyda had sneaked back to the castle’s library, flicking through page after page, but while she had read countless volumes in her relentless search, she had still not found what she was looking for.
Her spirits had started to wane and so she had resolved to widen her search, deciding that the ancient scrolls in the Sanctuary might offer what the books in the library did not.
But the dusty parchments Cressyda now held in her hands appeared to be nothing more than records of battles with Journier from over one hundred winters ago.
She pushed them back into their cubbyhole with a sigh.
Turning to climb higher, a sudden wave of dizziness swept over her, and she stumbled.
Cressyda lurched, clutching the edge of a shelf to steady herself.
Bursts of light whooshed across her eyes and her heartbeat thumped in her ears.
She waited, teetering, until the rung of the ladder seemed to settle beneath her and the ringing in her head dulled to a faint hum.
Queen Flavria had instructed her to fast in preparation for the upcoming Harvest Feast celebration because she had special outfits planned for them with tight, nipped waists.
Cressyda had eaten nothing since the afternoon before, the Queen hovering over her at every mealtime with a grave expression.
Now Cressyda’s body betrayed her: light-headed, hazy, her limbs trembling.
She clenched her jaw, willing her hands to still.
Then, drawing in a shaky breath, she dragged herself upwards, one rung at a time, determined to search the higher racks. She could not let herself stop.
Cressyda dug through scrolls on border disputes, tax ledgers, and grain inventories so ancient the ink had bled into the fibres.
One brittle tie even crumbled beneath her fingers, scattering flecks of red silk into the air.
She sneezed, wincing at the sound, then held her breath to listen. Nothing stirred in the Sanctuary below.
Climbing higher, she reached up and pulled free a heavier scroll bound in cracked leather, its tag written in an unfamiliar script fuzzed with dust. Something about the weight of the scroll, dense and reluctant to leave its resting place, caught her attention.
Studying the tag again, she realized it was written in an antiquated form of Diaspass.
It was similar enough to Galasquese, which took its roots from the Diaspass language, that Cressyda could translate what it said: ‘The Battle of Silicia’.
She paused.
Silicia was the highest of the Mountain villages, and she knew from her broad reading on most subjects that the Battle of Silicia had been the last conflict between the invading Diaspass army and the Mountain folk.
It had led to the agreement of the Maiden Sacrifice treaty, when Princess Tiannie had surrendered herself to the Great Dragon to save her people.
This was not what Cressyda was looking for and she was about to push the scroll back into its cubbyhole when something stopped her.
The outline of the treaty was recited at every Maiden Sacrifice as part of the ceremonial rhetoric, but Cressyda had not studied or read the details of the event herself before.
There had never been a lesson on it in the schoolroom or any discussion of it at court.
The Maiden Sacrifice was deemed a necessary evil – a price the Mountain folk had to pay for their continued freedom in their mountains – and though there were occasionally vague noises about one day negotiating an end to the treaty, there were always more pressing matters for the Royal Council to consider instead: taxes, trade embargoes and wars.
Cressyda picked at the knotted tie and unravelled the scroll, promising herself she would just skim the contents out of curiosity.
She began deciphering the old Diaspass slowly, stumbling over the script’s looping strokes and flourished serifs.
The parchment crackled with each shift of her fingers, releasing a dry, musty breath as though it resented being disturbed after so many winters.
Her eyes skimmed over the first few paragraphs of formal battle terminology and ornate, legal phrasing, before narrowing on a passage half buried near the bottom of the scroll.
She read it though once.
Then again, frowning and bending closer.
Finally, she raised one finger and pressed it to the parchment, reading each word aloud: ‘The Great Dragon decreed that on the first day of spring, one of our kind must be sent into the mountains or else face the mighty creature’s wrath …’ She trailed off, her frown deepening.
Cressyda read the phrase again before scanning the rest of the text, but there were no further details. Carefully she rerolled the scroll and twisted its tie back into place.
Perhaps there were other documents with more information elsewhere in these racks, she reasoned as she returned it to the cubbyhole. Perhaps she had misunderstood the intricacies of the old Diaspass language.
But a tinge of unease lingered.
A faint rustle broke the stillness in the Sanctuary and Cressyda froze, one hand on the ladder, listening. She heard the creak of a door and realized with a rush of disappointment that the priests were returning to the balconies.
Her time was up.
With hurried, fumbling feet, she descended the ladder.
Her soft shoes touched the tiled floor as the distant shuffle of sandals and the low murmur of voices carried from the high vaults.
If she lingered any longer, she would be spotted beside the scroll racks with no excuse to give.
Ducking beneath the dangling ribbons, she slipped along the wall towards the side door, heart pounding.
As the priests began chanting their prayers, Cressyda stepped unseen into the courtyard outside.
She blinked at the brightness of the morning, the crisp air biting at her cheeks. Servants carried sacks of grain and piles of folded linens back and forth before her, shoulders hunched against the breeze, while guards idled in one corner, smoking pipes.
She sighed, her breath clouding the air. She had wasted precious time reading that old scroll. Now she would have to wait until tomorrow before she could risk returning to riffle through the racks again.
Turning away, she passed through an archway leading into the castle’s main corridor, trying to shake off her disappointment.
Ottone and Alinore would be waiting in the western stairwell, ready to walk with her to their afternoon lessons.
No doubt they would both have many questions as to her whereabouts.
She had promised to meet them after lunch and by now they would surely be wondering what had kept her.
Over the last winter, Cressyda had gradually grown closer to Lady Alinore.
At first, they had tentatively sought each other out during gatherings of the Queen’s household and stood together while they listened to ballads or sewed samplers.
Alinore was different from the other court girls – she was unlike anyone Cressyda had ever met before.
Her honest, funny, outspoken behaviour shocked and delighted Cressyda, who found herself giggling and smiling whenever they were together. And, slowly, friendship had blossomed.
Cressyda did not know who was more pleased about this – she or Ottone.
Her brother claimed that he hung around them in his free moments to ensure they were not up to mischief, but it was clear how much he enjoyed their company.
Together the three of them whispered jokes in the Great Hall and passed silly notes back and forth during lessons in the schoolroom.
Cressyda treasured these moments: rare bursts of laughter and ease in a life that was always so heavy with duty and expectation.
Many times, she had considered telling Ottone and Alinore about the shadowed creatures.
The words rose often to her lips when they were together, pressing against her tongue, willing to be spoken and shared.
Yet she always held them back. She had no proof beyond chilling glimpses and snatched sounds.
If she tried to explain it, the whole thing would sound like madness.
She would be attempting to describe something she did not even understand herself yet.
So she said nothing and continued her search for answers alone.
Cressyda trudged up a flight of stone steps and crossed a passageway, humming under her breath.
As she headed down a corridor in the direction of the western staircase, she passed a tray of food on a side table.
It must have been left over from lunch, the cooked vegetables softened to pulp and the slices of ham pale and cool.
Her gaze fell on an untouched bread roll, its glazed crust glowing in the dim light.
Her stomach clenched.
Cressyda’s steps slowed. She licked her lips.
She stopped beside the tray and glanced behind her.
The corridor was empty.
Cressyda’s hand shot out and she sank her nails into the bread roll, tearing at a corner. Snatching the handful into her mouth, she furiously chewed, her stomach rumbling painfully. The soft flesh of the bread swelled in her cheeks. She grabbed another piece and then another.
A door beside her opened.
Panicked, Cressyda tried to chew faster, the muscles in her jaw burning with the effort. But she was not quick enough.
A figure loomed. Its head turned left and right before catching sight of her. It smiled.
Cressyda froze.
‘What are you up to, Little Pet?’ said Samsel.
Cressyda tried to swallow, but the bread had become a hard, dry lump in her throat.
‘Stuffing your face while no one’s looking, are you? I thought you were supposed to be fasting with the Queen? My mother would be so disappointed.’
She shook her head, frantically brushing crumbs from her lips.
‘Naughty Pet.’
Before she could escape, Samsel lunged towards her and grabbed hold of her chin, yanking her head back. He held her still, fingers digging into her jaw.
‘Spit it out.’
Cressyda stared at him. She wanted to run, but she knew he would be faster.
Recently he had started pinching and jabbing her when no one was looking, leaving mottled, mauve marks.
She had taken to keeping a general watch on where he was at all times, trying to stay out of his way.
She had not expected to see him here now; he was supposed to be attending the King’s council meeting.
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Samsel hissed. ‘Spit it out or I’ll tell the Queen.’
Cressyda wished Alinore were here. Or Ottone. But the corridor was empty and there was no one else.
‘Spit it out.’
Cressyda pushed the half-chewed mush through her lips with her tongue. It dribbled down her chin and splattered on to the floor.
Samsel smirked. He released her and wiped his hand on the front of her dress. ‘Good Little Pet,’ he said.
Further down the corridor, another door opened. An attendant appeared and hurried towards Samsel.
Cressyda breathed out in relief.
‘His Majesty asks if you have found the parchment you were looking for yet, Prince Samsel?’ gabbled the attendant, dropping into a bow.
‘All right, all right,’ muttered Samsel. ‘I’m coming.’
He turned and marched away, leaving Cressyda standing shaking and silent.