The Ancient and the Amber (The Wilderise Tales #3)

WELCOME TO WINWOLD

Chapter One

Ceri

It was the autumn of Princess Ceridwen’s reinvention.

The summer had been a disaster. Her father had dragged the entire court out to the middle of nowhere, and what was worse, she’d lost just about everyone she cared about.

The breakup with Isaac had set the whole thing off, but as she had realized in the weeks since, it had been a long time coming.

Ceri hadn’t known how her ladies-in-waiting really felt about her until she watched them abandon her one by one. It was the loss of Jerta, her closest confidante other than her brother since childhood, that had hurt the worst. Their final argument out on the terrace of Weldan House had struck Ceri to the core, and not just because of the cruelty of Jerta’s words.

No, like all of the best insults, Jerta’s words had hurt because there was, within them, an undeniable kernel of truth.

Ceri had dismissed it at the time, but Jerta was right about her.

She was selfish. She was spoiled. She was manipulative and, at times, cruel, and she was a terrible friend.

It hadn’t always been that way.

Ceri hadn’t had the easiest upbringing in the castle. Her mother was in and out for most of her childhood, unable to bring her children with her due to the iron will of her husband: Ceri’s father, King Derkomai. Prince Idris, her only brother, had left her alone there when he went to university. She’d been raised by a series of nannies, governesses, and tutors, but none of them could keep her from her father’s influence once he set his sights on her as his potential heir.

Ceri learned quickly how to adapt to her father’s mercurial moods. She let him spoil her when he wanted to, she stayed out of his way when he didn’t want her around, and she learned to talk to him in such a way that he allowed her to do what she wanted at least some of the time.

She was just pretending to be the person he wanted her to be, but perhaps if you pretend to be someone else for long enough, you can’t help but become someone else in the end.

Ceri didn’t notice herself slowly turning the skills she’d learned to survive her father onto her friends, but once it was pointed out to her, she knew it was true.

It was done now.

She was starting fresh at Winwold College. Her father hadn’t understood her sudden change in attitude towards attending university. She’d fought him on it the previous year when she had finally been old enough to enter, but, if she was being honest, she hadn’t wanted to go not due to a general lack of interest but because Isaac wasn’t going to be there.

She would be making no further decisions based upon the location of a man, no matter how handsome he was.

King Derkomai had been even more baffled when Ceri had told him she didn’t wish to attend King’s College, his alma mater and the nearest university to the castle.

No, she would be going to Winwold. Its primary advantage, other than being as far as from the castle as one could get while still being in Loegria? Idris would be working there this autumn as a guest lecturer, while the friends he’d met over the summer worked with a professor about that sun-powered ‘lectric machine she’d helped them “invent” a few weeks earlier.

Fine, so she supposed that was one final decision she made based on the location of man, but that man was her brother, and she had missed him terribly.

Ceri’s carriage conveyed her from the town of Norgate along a narrow, wooded path into the mountains. Winwold College’s campus was mainly in the town below, but the first-year students, colloquially known as “freshers,” were all sent to High House, a former manor which overlooked Norgate. High House was visible in the distance from the town, but it vanished from view the moment the carriage reached the tree line.

Indeed, in this dense forest, there was little to see at all. Ceri had never experienced a wood this deep and dark. The sun was so thoroughly and perfectly blocked from view that it had managed to fool an owl, which hooted softly in the distance even though it was still hours until nightfall.

At last the carriage reached an ancient bridge. Ceri leaned out the window, grateful to feel the sunlight on her pale skin and silver hair for a moment before being plunged back into the darkness of the forest.

Gods, it took so long to travel this way. Ceri had insisted on the carriage: arriving by air in her dragon form wasn’t exactly conducive to her goal of blending in. Finally, after what felt like hours, the carriage took a steep turn up a hill, emerging from the woods.

The road rose sharply to cross another bridge which led to the gatehouse, its filigreed iron emblazoned with the school motto: SIC ITUR AD ASTRA. Behind the gates stood High House.

It wasn’t exactly a manor house, but it also wasn’t exactly a castle. Ceri could see the similarities with a real castle, the King’s castle, Corycus, where she spent most of her childhood, mostly in the lower levels of stone. But there were additions in stone and wood and plaster, spires and towers and turrets which served no apparent function. They had been added during the manor conversion for aesthetic purposes alone, Ceri figured. She knew exactly what her father would say about them: “Waste of bloody coin.”

It was hard to deny the picturesque charm of it though, standing as it did on its own with the mountains rising behind it and the yellowing trees of the dense forest nestled up against it.

The gates opened at the royal carriage’s approach, and a man burst out a door from the gatehouse. He was wearing academic formal attire just like Ceri: knee-length robe, white shirt with black tie, and a black mortarboard hat, although his robe was crimson while hers was black to indicate his higher degree.

The carriage stopped before him. “Your royal highness,” he said, bowing so low to the carriage Ceri thought he might kiss the dirt.

“Rise, sir,” said Ceri. “Are you the dean of students?”

“Dean Whittaker, at your service,” he said.

Dean Whittaker was a half-elf of roughly middle age. His hair had gone grey, and his belly had gone round, but his nose and jaw were still fine and sharp. Winwold College had had just one other dean in its four-hundred-year history, Dean Whittaker’s mother, a full-blooded elf who had run the college for most of that time.

“May I show you to the royal suite? I’d be happy to take you on a tour of the grounds once you’re settled in.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Ceri.

“The tour?”

“No, the suite.” Although she’d agreed to arrive a day earlier than any of the other students, she had not agreed to the royal suite. “While at Winwold, I’d like to be treated just as any other student. You understand, don’t you?”

Godsdammit. There was that manipulation again. It wasn’t enough just to make her wishes known. Ceri had added that little innocent question at the end: you understand, don’t you? Those were the words she used, but she knew what the question conveyed: you know who I am, don’t you? Will you dare to defy me?

“Of course, of course. Ms. Asher, see to it that Ceri’s things are brought to a room. Yes, one of the ordinary rooms.”

“Right away, sir,” said a human who stood in the doorway. She hurried up the road to the main building as if she were being chased.

“If you wouldn’t mind, we can start with the tour to give Ms. Asher time to make the new arrangements,” said Dean Whittaker.

Ceri nodded, and the Dean gave instructions to the carriage driver, who dropped them off at a pair of grand double doors that marked the entrance into High House.

The Dean led Ceri through a series of rooms that were both familiar and peculiar to her. The great entry hall was lined with statues, busts, suits of armor, and so many paintings and tapestries that it gave the room a claustrophobic feel, as if the amount of space required far less than whoever had decorated it could allow. There was more variety here than in her father’s castle and various estates, but the contents were largely the same.

The scale of the accommodations was familiar as well, though the later construction meant there were more hallways than were present in the royal castle and palaces. The style had once been to connect rooms directly, but here at High House, there were long wood-paneled corridors, the weak ‘lectric lanterns too few to illuminate the entire lengths such that they appeared to fade into shadows, giving the illusion that they went on forever.

There was something eerie about this place, but Ceri couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

“And around this corner is the library. If I recall from your letter, you’re considering a course of study in Comparative Literature?"

This was a surprise to Ceri, who hadn’t exactly written the letter requesting her admittance far outside of the ordinary admissions window. Truthfully, she didn’t know what she wanted to study.

“It’s one option I’ve considered,” she said. “I understand that Winwold doesn’t require choosing a concentration until the second year of study? I'm hoping to keep my options open.”

“Very wise, your highness,” said Dean Whittaker. “Of course, Professor Sandak runs an excellent program in the Literature department, but there are no bad courses of study here. Now, let’s see if Ms. Redclaw is here—”

From beyond the closed library doors, there came a terrible crash.

And then a scream.

All the color drained from Dean Whittaker’s face.

“Oh,” he squeaked. He coughed and cleared his throat. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but I better go see if Ms. Redclaw needs—”

Dean Whittaker reached for the door just as it swung open with such force that it clattered against the wall, shaking some of the hallway paintings.

“How many times have I told you?” yelled a woman’s voice from within.

“But Ms. Redclaw—” began a man. Ceri tried to look inside the door, but Dean Whittaker blocked her view.

“Excuse me, Ms. Redclaw, are you quite all—"

“There’s been an incident,” said the woman, who must have been Ms. Redclaw, to the Dean. “The library is closed.”

“Ms. Redclaw—”

“Closed.”

Glancing around the Dean, Ceri caught glimpse of a small, grey-haired woman in a wheeled chair. She didn’t seem particularly intimidating, but Dean Whittaker backed away immediately, pulling the door closed behind him.

He took a moment to readjust his tie. “I’m sorry about that. Ms. Redclaw is very particular about her library. We’ll have to come by at another time.”

Ceri agreed, but the truth was, she was intrigued by the commotion. There were few things that were more tempting to her than closed doors. A lifetime of wandering the halls of the castle had taught her that most interesting things happened in the private places where people thought they couldn’t be overheard.

Ceri allowed the Dean to drag her along through the rest of the halls. He showed her the various departments with their offices and classrooms, noting with special pride the fine rooms which had been given to Prince Idris during his stay, no doubt at the expense of some tenured old fellow who would resent him for it greatly. (The prince himself was out for the day to greet his arriving companions.) He brought her into the grand dining hall, which was apparently a former cathedral to the Gods of Loegria, though the iconography and stained-glass windows had been replaced with depictions of scholars and significant moments in history, including the conquering by Ceri’s own ancestors. Finally, the Dean led her through a pair of doors into a cloistered courtyard.

“Destroyed in the Great Fire, but the east wing remains intact. It’s handy for avoiding the cold when walking to the dormitories during winter, but on a fine day such as this, it’s nice to walk outside, don’t you think, your highness?”

It was a fine and sunny day here in the courtyard, the oppression of the halls forgotten in the open air. Ceri could imagine groups of students lounging out here on the grass, reading books and discussing important things. She hoped she’d find a way to be among them.

“I said go away!” Someone was yelling in the far corner of the courtyard near the lone stand of trees.

Dean Whittaker once again put himself between Ceri and the commotion. “On second thought, it might be best to show you the way you’ll walk in winter,” he said, attempting to steer her back into a doorway.

“Go on! Get! I said GET!”

The distant figure seemed to be arguing with a crow.

“Who is that?” asked Ceri.

Dean Whittaker looked pained. “Groundskeeper Tomasar is…passionate about his work. Nothing to worry about.”

Particular and passionate. The staff at the college were much more daring than Ceri had expected. The staff and servants of the castle operated under the strictest code of conduct. Her father would have fired anyone who behaved as the librarian and the groundskeeper had done, but Dean Whittaker seemed almost afraid of his staff. Almost as soon as she had thought it, he delivered a warning. “Just don’t mess with the old yew there, whatever you do.”

“The yew?” At the base of the group of trees, a small cast iron fence had been erected with a sign that said KEEP OUT.

“That’s the Norminster Yew,” said the Dean, gesturing to the trees. “It’s all one very old tree; the middle part has rotted away. Tomasar is quite attached to it.”

Tomasar, an elderly dwarf in overalls with a scarred face and a long, grey beard, waved the rake he was using to frighten away the crows to Dean Whittaker and Ceri. The Dean waved back weakly as he led Ceri past the trees, through the breezeway beyond, and into the dormitories.

There, the human from earlier was waiting. “Your highness, your rooms are ready.” They followed her up a flight of stairs to a nondescript door with a set of small brass numbers: 213.

The room was small—no, tiny. Ceri’s dressing room at the castle was larger. Somehow, they’d managed to cram two single beds, two wardrobes, and two writing desks with chairs into the narrow space. Ceri passed the furniture and her trunks, which filled almost the entirety of the open floor, and headed to the window.

Through the heavy leaded glass, Ceri had a fine view of the courtyard, including Groundskeeper Tomasar’s continued fight with the crows.

“It’s perfect,” she said.

“I’ll leave you to get settled in,” said the Dean. “Dinner begins at six; there aren’t many here on campus yet, so we’ll all be eating at the head table. Generally, it’s rare for students to be invited to the head table, but of course, you are always welcome to do so.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Ceri. “Thank you for the tour.”

The Dean fidgeted with his tie, looking around the small room as if he wanted to say more about Ceri’s choice of accommodations, but he didn’t dare to do so. He bowed a little less low than he had the first time and took his leave.

Ceri pushed her trunks to the side of the room that had a little less space. Truly an unselfish choice—she hoped her new roommate would appreciate how generous and accommodating she was.

Her new roommate. Ceri had never shared a room with anyone before. She had dreamt as a child of having a sister; not that she didn’t love her brother, but Idris was nearly an adult in Ceri’s first memories, and she’d always longed to have someone her own age to play with. She’d had a number of friends, but they had been required to keep their distance on account of her station, and they frequently were sent away along with their parents at the king’s whims, no matter how much Ceri cried and begged for them to stay.

But now, she would share her space with someone else. Someone who would know her on a level that none but the servants did.

It was thrilling. And also terrifying.

Ceri began to unpack some of her things, brand new clothes in scholarly styles: straight skirts in dark wool that reached to the knees, finely starched shirts, warmed knitted jumpers, and ties in the college colors of crimson and black. There were new undergarments here too, lacy Gallic designs that could be put on without the help of a servant. (Her aunt Chloe had helped her procure those without the king’s knowledge.)

The wardrobe was filled with the contents of just the first trunk, with four more to go just like it.

That was a problem for another time. Ceri looked out the window to see the Dean reentering the dining hall on the other side of the courtyard.

Perfect.

She slammed shut the wardrobe, leapt over the trunks, then forced herself to slow down to pull the dormitory door closed quietly behind her, looking up and down the corridor. No one was there to stop her.

She headed back to the library.

Outside its double doors, she could hear nothing within. There were no voices, no crashes or bangs or any sounds of movement whatsoever.

Perhaps she had missed it.

She gently turned the right-side door’s brass knob, a creaking sound escaping from the hinges as she pulled it open.

The room was dark beyond, pitch black even compared to the poorly lit hallway she’d come from. She felt around, trying to orient herself but reaching into nothing but open air.

She considered stepping back out into the hallway and returning with a candlestick, but the door snapped shut behind her, engulfing her in darkness.

Something drew her further in.

She took another tentative step forward, her hands reaching into the darkness and the silence. The air in here was unnaturally hot, a stifling, oppressive heat that made it hard to draw air into her lungs.

Her hands found a bookshelf, old worn wood bowing under the weight of countless volumes. Her fingers grazed their exposed spines, feeling the variety of textures: stiff modern cloth with cool patches of neatly inked lettering, smooth leather with deep grooves where the titles and authors had been burned in by ancient hands, fraying linen with thick threads which caught under her nails and seemed to pull at her, almost in invitation.

A droplet of sweat formed on her forehead as she moved along the shelf and further into the library, entranced.

She reached the end of the shelf, keeping one hand on it as she stretched to find the next one. Then there was a crash off into the distance to her right, and the sound of thundering footsteps rapidly approaching.

She backed away, letting go of the shelf in her haste and reaching behind her for the door she’d just come through.

It wasn’t there.

She felt something moving to her left. Something, or someone. She panicked, twisting backwards away from the noise to her right and the movement to her left, desperate to find the door, to find her way back into the hallway and back to her room where she should have just stayed and minded her business, far away from whatever was moving here in the dark.

And then it collided with her, sending her to the ground as something else moved in.