Spell of the Dark Castle

Chapter 3-2

“You'll find appropriate clothing in your bed chambers,” Stephen said, as he led them to the main door where two huge guards stood at attention. Their long swords at their sides, their armor consisted mainly of a half-coat of mail, large heaters (a three-sided shield with a straight upper edge and the two sides curved to a point at the bottom), and half-helmets, which only covered the head, eyes and a piece of protective metal came down the nose. Heavy dark beards bristled out from beneath the helmets so that you could not see their faces. Zofia had forgotten how terrifying these guards were. They were built not unlike professional wrestlers on Ugwump TV. No one in their right minds would dare challenged them, as they stood nearly nine feet tall, and were most likely part giant.

“I would suggest you change into your garments as soon as you reach your chambers,” Stephen continued in a rebuking tone as he took in Blanche's manner of dress. She was in a white lace corset, and a denim mini-skirt—which revealed way too much thigh—cork sandals rounded out the ensemble. It was the newest fashion on First World, according to Blanche who whined expertly in the store to Zofia who could only roll her eyes and dig out her credit card. But here, on Euphoria, she now looked more as though she'd forgotten to dress and was parading around in her underthings.

The main door flung open and a gangly youth in drab olive robes with silver bands around the edges of the sleeves and hem, and a floppy matching hat with a white feather—the dress of the page—bumbled out.

“My Lord! My Lord, welcome back!” the page, who may have been about thirteen or fourteen, exclaimed. Grasping his floppy hat, which had dropped over his eyes, he yanked it off and did his best bow to his lord and master. His hair was a non-color, not quite brown, wasn't red, and it wasn't blond. He had a greasy pimply look to him as though no matter how much water and soap he used, he would never be rid of it, nor of that odd oily smell he exuded. His features were the kind you could forget the instant he walked away. Eyes popping wide, he zeroed in on Blanche. Zofia could hardly blame him, since he probably saw young women rarely, and never any as under-dressed as she was now. To say this irked her beyond measure was putting it mildly. It had taken her a very long time to relax her dress code on Blanch and Elton—but mostly Blanche—and now she would have to come down hard on her, and she could almost hear the loud arguments over hem lengths now.

Stephen barely acknowledged the boy, and instead his gaze included Zofia and her family standing beside him.

“I've itineraries made up for the both of you,” Stephen said in a casual tone as he spoke to Zofia and Dorian. “The children are to attend the Induction Feast, as well. In between, they shall remain in their rooms.” Turning to his page he said, “Nelms, if you please?” Hand out, he waited for Nelms, the page, to hand him something. “Nelms?” He turned to regard the youth, only to find him gaping open-mouthed at Blanche.

Finally noticing this, Blanche rolled her eyes. “Take a picture,” she drawled, “it lasts longer.” Arms crossed she turned away from the boy.

Seeing all this, Stephen whacked the boy on the back of the head. Nelms dropped his hat, and then snatched it up off the ground, seemingly having no ill effects from the slap. This seemed to bring him out of his momentary teenage awe, however. Stepping up, Nelms pulled something out from under his hat, and handed, first Dorian, and then Zofia a short piece of parchment each. They were elaborately penned.

Zofia read hers carefully.

Consultation with the Head Commander of the Knights

North Tower, Eighth Floor—11th Shadowpass

TEA—Garden Room off East Tower—12th Shadowpass

Induction & Feast—Great Hall—15th Shadowpass

“Consultation with the Head Commander?” Zofia read aloud. Her eyes snapped up to engage Stephen's. Consultation? About what? She wanted to ask him right there, but couldn't. She could barely breath. This was an official edict. He obviously knew about the demon, Erebus. After all Stephen was their most talented necromancer. Her stomach tumbled, and her hands trembled with the thought. No wonder he had told her she was to come with them, and that it was very important that she did.

“Well, come in, come in!” Stephen gushed, escorting them through the doorway and up a set of stairs which wound up through the tower. Stephen and Dorian strode side by side, their long legs moving them swiftly ahead of everyone else, setting the pace. Stephen's golden tail of hair shimmered down a blue velvet cloak with silver edging and a light blue silky lining. He spoke in a breezy, happy voice which bounced off ancient stone walls. “The Brotherhood is just itching to see you, Dorian,” he said as they rounded the stairs ahead of Zofia and the children. Zofia listened carefully, hoping to get a glimmer of what Stephen needed to see her about. But it proved futile. He would not openly speak of his meetings with anyone. Obviously his meeting with Zofia was very private, and quite serious.

The stairway in front of them poured out into a long hall draped in purple bunting, white silver damask covered the walls. Gold and crystal chandeliers held great, white tapers, yet unlit, as the low sun speared through mullioned windows. Blanche took in all this affluence without a word. Elton, however, gasped at every turn as they all Transvected up the stairs.

“Is there a great hall where we eat?” he asked excitedly.

“Yes, there is,” Zofia said as they continued up the wide hallway. “We'll be dining there tonight.”

“Where is that servant of mine?” Stephen grumbled as they made the landing. “Clive!”

A small man popped out from a doorway several feet ahead of them. Hands clutched together, he looked apprehensively at them. He was not much taller than the Monks, but he did not have all the physical attributes as they did—except the bald patch and a frieze of scraggly, wavy gray strands over each ear, circling to the nape of his neck. He wore very thick, wire-framed glasses, bugging his eyes out.

“An Ugwump,” Stephen said low to Dorian, “but he's very good, really.” Turning to the servant he said, “Are the rooms ready for our guests?”

“Yes, my Lord,” the odd little servant said with a deep bow.

“Very good.” Will you show our guests to them?”

“Of course. This way, Master Grandier,” Clive said with a slight bow, and extended his hand down the hallway.

“I'm off to tell everyone you've arrived,” Stephen caroled, as he cruised up the hallway, then disappeared through a stone arched threshold.

While Dorian and Elton were taken further down the hallway, Zofia and Blanche stood before their rooms, at the end of the wide hallway. The doors set across from one another in an oddly angled cul de sac.

Although Zofia had not forgotten the splendor of Restormell Castle, she had to marvel at what she took in through the open door.

Blanche made an impatient sound, whirled about, her hair fanning out as she did. “Why are we separated?”

“I don't know, exactly, but the bedrooms look cozy enough,” Zofia said over her shoulder. “Besides, you're used to having your own room.”

“Well, yeah, but not in a creepy old castle.” She wrinkled up her nose as she said, “Smells musky.”

Zofia sighed and returned a slightly put off look. “It's over eight hundred years old. What do you expect? And may I remind you, you're a guest here and you will mind your manners, young lady. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Blanche said glumly, and slumped through the door, as though she had been banished into a dungeon. “Oh, wow,” her gasp came from within the room. “Purple and black? My favorite colors! How could they know?”

As Blanche's voice drifted out of earshot, Zofia stepped into her own quarters. The wall coverings here were white and silver silk damask, while the drapes were midnight blue velvet with decorative silver stitching mimicking stars and moons. The matching bed canopy drapes were hung back on massive posts, and the mattress looked as soft as a cloud. Most of the furnishings were upholstered in the same dark blue velvet. She'd not had such a room when she had stayed here when she was young—she stayed just short of within the servant's quarters. She now had to wonder why she was getting such royal treatment now.

Spying a cabinet next to her bed, Zofia arrowed for it and opened it up. There she found typical clothing of her world. Two chemises; one was soft cotton. It would be worn as a night shirt, and under the everyday outfits, like a bodice and outer garments. The other one was white-on-white jacquard, very elegant for dressing up. Next to this were two outer dresses. The emerald green one was accented with lace and gold piping and roomy sleeves. The other was peacock blue with puffy sleeves, and wide gold piping and lace. The blue one was for day, she determined easily enough, while the green was made of velvet and that was for evening meal. The low-scoop necklines of the chemises had silky cords that tied in the front. A woman who was daring enough to let it fall off her shoulders would be labeled a wench, and get what she deserved. A proper woman would make sure it showed just enough of the neck to the collarbone, but no cleavage—unless she was very well endowed. Zippers, and even buttons were not a Euphorian invention, therefore clothes here resembled very much those which they'd worn in the Middle Ages on First World, before they had moved from that world to this one.

Although what she was wearing was quite permissible, Zofia stripped completely n***d, and donned the softer undergarments made of luxuriously soft flannel, then pulled the cotton chemise over her head, and then took out the blue dress from the closet, gasping, “Yes! I'm home … yes!” over and over as she wiggled into the dress. She rounded her waist with a silver-coined belt she found in another drawer. Then, she toed off her First World sandals, and slipped on the divit toed shoes with beads and embroidering on black satin. They would look good with anything she wore.

Looking up, she caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror. She had to pause, once again very conscious of where she was after so many years of being away. She noticed right away that she seemed to glow. Her cheeks had a rosy hue to them, and her large dark eyes sparkled like they had not in a very long while. She didn't know exactly why. Not for a few seconds, anyway. Not until she turned to examine her still svelte figure. She brought her hands to her abdomen and ran them down across its flatness. She wouldn't show for a while. She had to tell Dorian what she had done, she reminded herself. She would do it gradually, she decided. She realized it didn't matter what Dorian had done with Xilomorah—if he had bedded her, or she him—it no longer mattered. She could find it in her heart to forgive him. She just hoped he would forgive her. That is, if she ever got a chance—and the guts—to tell him.

Her stomach quivered under these anxious thoughts. She knew why she had been told to return. She would have to answer for what she had done. She only hoped that Stephen would recommend a short sentence in Hamparzum's, because she had killed both Blood and Xilomorah—or at least caused their deaths. That counted for something, didn't it?