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“What do you think you are doing?” Brodin asked as he watched his brother roughly stuff his clothes into his knapsack.
“Leaving,” Tor replied, without looking up.
“Can we not just stay for one more night?” Cirren whined.
“You can do whatever you want,” Tor replied angrily. “I am not prepared to spend another minute under the same roof as that woman if I can help it.”
Brodin sighed. “Why do you let her comments affect you so much? It is not as if you plan to take the throne anyway.”
Tor ignored him, shouldered his bag and walked towards the door. He pulled it open, but found Albian blocking his way, hand raised as though he was about to knock.
“Good, you are all here,” the man said, looking into the room. He sounded distressed.
“Not for long,” Tor said rudely and started to push past him.
“Please wait,” Albian said in a placating tone. “A messenger has just arrived. It is bad news I am afraid.” Tor looked at the bald man, then at his brothers. After everything they had told him earlier in the evening, what could he possibly class as bad news?
“Come in,” he said politely, moving out of Albian’s way.
“It would be better if you all came back to the dining room. Your mother is still there and she is very upset.”
“Just give us the news so I can be on my way,” Tor snapped, not believing for one moment that anything that could upset his mother would be of any consequence to him.
“Very well,” Albian replied, vexed. “A member of Petro’s quest party has arrived. He has travelled a long way and was exhausted by the time he reached us.”
“Petro is here?” Cirren asked in excitement.
“No your Highness, he is not,” Albian replied sternly. “Only a man called Graven. He made his way here as soon as the tragedy happened, knowing Queen Reena would want to know the news immediately.”
“What tragedy?” Brodin asked, not liking where the conversation was going.
“It seems your brother fell down a ravine to his death.”
Tor sank down onto his bed as his legs gave way. “Father have mercy,” he said.
“No,” Brodin shouted, anger overwhelming him. “This cannot be true. Tor found a way for us to continue this quest without any more of us dying. Petro was supposed to obtain the next clue then meet us at Patrick’s castle. He was not meant to die before he got there.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Albian said before diplomatically withdrawing.
“Well this changes things,” Cirren observed.
“It changes nothing,” Tor said. When he raised his head, tears were in his eyes.
“But we have to stay and comfort mother. We cannot leave now.”
“I can and I will,” Tor replied, getting to his feet. “All she will do is use this news to manipulate us into doing whatever she decides is right, regardless of how we feel. I am leaving right now. I will wait for you both on Shelton Island. Please try not to be too long. I have had enough of this quest and want it ended as soon as possible.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode out of the door.
“What do we do?” Cirren asked, looking to Brodin for guidance.
“We go with him,” he sighed and reluctantly stood up.
“But what about mother?” he cried out in genuine concern as he watched his brother head towards the door.
Brodin stopped and turned to face Cirren. “She is more than capable of looking after herself.”
Unlike Tor, once their bags were packed, Brodin and Cirren returned to the dining room and found the Queen still there. She was speaking with Albian and, if she heard her sons’ entrance, she hid it well. Eventually she looked across at them, her eyes drawn towards their bags.
“You are leaving?” she asked in an accusatorial tone.
Brodin grimaced. “There is no need to take that tone, mother,” he said. “Tor has already departed and we need to leave as soon as we can if we want to catch up with him.”
“Your brother is dead. Do none of you have the decency to stay with me while I mourn?”
Cirren started to speak, but Brodin held up a hand to silence him. “Tor knew you would not be reasonable,” he stated flatly. “It looks like he was right. We are going to finish the quest. Hopefully you will be more approachable when it is finally over. Goodbye.”
Without waiting for a response, knowing he would not like whatever Queen Reena had to say, he walked out of the room. Cirren looked from his mother to his brother and back again, full of indecision. Then he walked forward, hugged her quickly and almost ran towards the door. He sighed with relief when he saw that Brodin had waited for him and he would not have to race down the corridor after him; he hated to make undignified exits.
They found Tor in the stables, watering all of their horses. He knew his brothers well and had been expecting them. He had been confident that Brodin would realise that the decision to depart immediately was the right one and he had no doubt that Cirren would follow on behind. He could not suppress a grin as they walked in. Without saying a word, the three brothers prepared their mounts for departure, adjusted their backpacks and mounted up.
“We need to make a slight detour before we go to the island,” Brodin said after a few hours of silent riding. “In case you have forgotten, I asked a couple of my people to meet us in Zain and Modo went with them.” Zain was a small harbour town in the Jundel province of Emvale. It was the closest populated area to Shelton Island so it made good sense to go there. It would not be much of a detour so neither Tor nor Cirren objected.
As expected, the journey was long and monotonous, with nothing interesting happening to relieve the tedium. When they eventually arrived at the inn in Zain, the three brothers took rooms for the night, longing for warm baths and clean beds.
––––––––
Life on the island was no more exciting. Sam, for one, hated playing the waiting game and, while the men were happy to eat, drink and gamble amongst themselves, the women craved more stimulation. As Patrick could never be found, they asked Willard for permission to explore the castle and its grounds, which he willingly gave. The castle was vast, with numerous rooms spread over many floors; searching it kept them busy for several days. They started at the bottom, which contained large and small dining rooms, numerous reception rooms and, of course, the main kitchen. Out of politeness, they stayed out of the servants’ quarters. Every room they entered was fully furnished, but they had no idea what condition any of it was in, or in which period from history it had been bought, as everything was covered in large white cloths. Dust lay on every available surface.
“How long has it been since anyone entered these rooms?” Ria wondered aloud.
“Patrick has been on the quest with you for a long time,” Sam pointed out.
“It must be great living in a castle,” Quartilla said dreamily.
Sam nodded her head in agreement, but Ria had other opinions. “It must get very lonely unless it is filled with people. This place needs a family.”
“Has Patrick ever told you much about his past?” Sam enquired, sitting down on a covered chair and sending a cloud of dust into the air. “Was this castle ever fully populated?”
Willard, who happened to be walking past, overheard the question and popped his head around the door. “I can tell you a little bit about the castle’s history, if you would like me to,” he volunteered.
The three ladies eagerly agreed and willingly accompanied him back to the servant’s kitchen, where his wife was brewing coffee and slicing freshly baked bread. Sam smothered a slice with butter and let out a low groan of satisfaction. “This is the best butter I have ever tasted,” she complemented the cook, who glowed with pleasure.
While they snacked, Willard told them all he knew of his master’s past. His grandfather had been butler before him, so Willard had known Patrick for all of his life. He had grown up in the castle. His father had been a groundsman, but soon after his wife died in childbirth he went away, seeking employment on the mainland. The island held too many memories for him and he saw images of his wife wherever he looked. Eventually he could take it no longer and, leaving young Willard in the care of his grandparents, he left.
“I was three years old when my mother died,” he said sorrowfully. “The baby, a girl, also died. My father promised to send for me as soon as he was settled, but none of us ever heard from him again.”
“So how did you meet Mrs Willard?” Sam asked, hoping to turn the conversation to happier things.
Willard smiled at the question. “When I turned sixteen, I left the island for the first time and went in search of my father. I found no trace of him, but I did come across a very nice young girl working as cook and barmaid in her family’s inn. I planned to only stay for one night, but a year later I was still finding excuses to remain there. By that time I was being treated as part of the family instead of a paying guest and so there were no objections when I requested permission from the inn keeper to take his daughter back to the island with me.”
He took a sip of his coffee and his wife took over. “The cook here at the time was elderly and willingly took me on as an assistant. She taught me a great deal and, slowly but surely, I began to take over more and more of her duties until she eventually felt I was good enough for her to retire and live out the rest of her days with her eldest son. He is a blacksmith in Zain. I occasionally visit her. She is still fit and healthy, but the years are really beginning to take their toll.”
“Do you have any family?” Quartilla asked in interest. She found the couple friendly and easy to talk with and wanted to know more about them.
“A son and a daughter,” the cook replied, her voice full of pride. “Our daughter married the son of one of the grounds men and they now run their own farm on the mainland. Our son joined the army and has travelled the world. He is now a captain.”
“But that is enough about us,” Willard said, though he too was obviously proud of his children’s accomplishments. “It is Patrick you wanted to know about.”
He spoke at length about his childhood. Patrick had been around a lot in those days and often played with him, acting more like a favourite uncle than his grandfather’s employer. There seemed to be a constant stream of visitors, friends or business associates, and each new year Patrick would open up the castle to the residents of Zain and would put on a huge celebration for them. He did not leave often, but when he did, it was for months at a time.
“What about women?’ Ria asked, a wicked smile on her face. “I am sure he brought a lot of them back here.”
“Actually, no he did not,” Willard replied. “I have heard all about his reputation, and I am sure most of it is true, but not once did he bring any lady back here and he always slept alone when under this roof. I have no idea why.”
“I do,” his wife said. “This is his hideaway, a place where he can forget that he is doomed to outlive everyone he cares about. He does not want to taint the place with memories that may cause him pain.”
“You may be right,” her husband conceded. “Anyway, Patrick has always been the same. He never changes. His appearance is always immaculate, even when there are only his servants around to see him.”
“You’re worried about him, aren’t you?” Sam asked, hearing the trace of concern in his voice.
The butler nodded. “I have never known him to be like this,” he admitted. “He has stopped shaving. I do not think he has bathed since he arrived. He seems to be wearing the same clothes every day. He shouted at me when I suggested I find him something clean from his closet. He has never raised his voice to any of us before.”
“He will recover,” Ria said sympathetically, though she was not sure if she was telling the truth. She found herself wishing that Tor would join them soon.
Once the ground floor had been fully explored, they started on the next floor. This contained bedrooms and suites. Each suite comprised one or two sleeping rooms, along with a lounge, small dining area and dressing room. Some of these were currently occupied by the visitors, but most were empty and covered in dust sheets. Quartilla was thrilled to discover a music room while Sam’s dreams came true when she entered the library. It was huge. Every wall contained book shelves from floor to ceiling. Long velvet cloths hid the books, but when these were carefully dragged aside, Sam gasped. Every part of every shelf was full of books, with sliding ladders attached so that all levels could be reached. They were of varying sizes and thicknesses, and many different languages, but Sam found she could read all of the titles.
Ria did not understand why she was so excited. “It is a lot smaller than the one at St Cuthberts,” she commented.
“But when we were at the nunnery, we were looking for specific information. Here we can just read for our own pleasure.” The concept of reading for enjoyment seemed alien to Quartilla and Ria, so they left Sam alone for the rest of the day while they carried on exploring.
Sam spent as much time as she could in the library over the following few days, completely absorbed in the books. She was still there very late one evening when she had an unexpected visitor. The door opened and Patrick stumbled in, literally jumping when Sam spoke to him, making him swear loudly.
“I did not know anyone was here,” he said by way of an apology for the language he had just used.
“You look terrible,” she said before she could stop herself. She was not exaggerating. His hair was a mangled mess on the top of his head, much of his face was obscured by a scraggly beard, he was still wearing the clothes he had worn when Ellen had died and he appeared unhealthily thin. What worried her the most, however, were his eyes. Usually they were so dark brown they could be mistaken for black, but were full of life, even when he was angry or depressed. Now, however, they were dull and lifeless. They had paled significantly, their colour clashing with the grey tinge his skin had taken on. “Are you eating properly?” she continued.
Patrick shrugged his shoulders, then collapsed into one of the black leather chairs. “I think I ate yesterday. Or was it the day before?”
“You cannot go on like this,” Sam said in concern.
He gave a cynical laugh. “Why not? What is the worst that could happen? I die of starvation? I should be so lucky.”
The smell of sour wine assaulted her nostrils as he spoke. “You should cut down on your drinking before you do yourself some permanent damage,” she continued, ignoring him.
“What if I do?” he snapped, jumping out of the chair and striding towards her. She flinched momentarily, afraid he was about to strike her, but he didn’t. The anger drained out of him before he reached her and he sank onto the floor at her feet, sobbing. She did her best to comfort him, cringing at the feel of his hair as she stroked his head soothingly. She had no idea how long they stayed like that, her whispering soft, meaningless, words to him while he wept, his tears soaking into her skirt.
The door opened and she looked up. Feleen, the housekeeper, glided in. She assessed the situation in one glance and, without saying a word, swept the crying man into her arms and carried him towards the door. “I will put him to bed,” she informed Sam. Her voice was gentle, that of a friend not a servant. Sam tried to continue reading and put what had just happened out of her mind, but she was unable to do so and decided to retire for the night. She slept fitfully, waking often, and felt tired and unrested when she arose the next morning.
It took several days for Ria and Quartilla to persuade Sam to leave the library for a while and join them in climbing one of the towers. She had not been visited again by Patrick and had not mentioned his breakdown to anyone. She wanted to ask Feleen how he was, but she saw no sign of the strange female and did not wish to seek her out in case anyone wanted to know why.
They chose to ascend one of the north towers first, as they appeared to be shorter than the others. It may have been an optical illusion, but the sets of towers seemed to become larger towards the south side of the castle. The staircase which spiralled upwards was made of stone and, though there were windows at regular intervals, inside the tower it was not very bright. The steps themselves were not narrow, but there were no railings or hand holds and no lamps hung from holders which could be lit to light their way. As a result, the three ladies, with Ria out front holding a torch high above her head, stayed close together as they ascended. Other than a nice view from the windows, there was nothing to see until they reached the room at the top.
“My god,” Sam exclaimed as she entered the room. They were in a large round room, sparsely furnished with no windows at all. Lamps hung from the walls and some stood on the only table, so Ria quickly lit them all. The glow from their small fires illuminated the room, revealing paintings covering almost every part of the wall. A chain hung next to the door and Quartilla gave it an experimental tug. A noise from above made them all look upwards. Suspended above their heads was the largest lamp they had ever seen. The chain lowered it almost to the floor and Ria used the torch to light it. Once it was raised to the roof once more, the glow it emitted illuminated all of the paintings perfectly.
Ria whistled. “I know Patrick said he had some art, but I never imagined anything like this.”
They spent the rest of the morning examining the paintings. They were of excellent quality and, judging by the dates in the bottom left hand corners, covered almost all of Patrick’s life. Many had the name of the artist next to the date and a few even had titles painted either across the top or on metal plaques on their frames.
“Come over here,” Ria suddenly called out without taking her gaze away from one of the paintings. “Look at that,” she instructed, pointing to the silver plaque.
“I don’t believe it,” Sam exclaimed as she read. “You don’t think it’s the...” She did not finish the sentence.
Ria was nodding her head, a huge grin on her face. “It is the Shrieking Pheasant.”
They quickly extinguished all of the lamps and almost ran back down the stairs. They burst into the formal lounge where the men seemed to spend most of their time, expecting to find them engrossed in a game of cards, but instead they were all deep in conversation. And they were not alone.
“Tor,” Sam cried out as soon as she recognised the Prince, running up to him and throwing her arms around his neck. “Thank god you are here.”
Tor took her arms, gently breaking the stranglehold she had on him, and stepped back, smiling.
“When did you arrive?” Ria asked, peeved that nobody had sought the ladies out to let them know.
“We have only been here a short while,” Brodin explained. “We have not yet had chance to bathe, as you can see.”
“Or eat,” Cirren grumbled.
“Let me introduce two of my companions,” Brodin continued. Two men were standing nearby. One was short and slim. When he looked up he revealed the ugliest face Sam had ever seen. His nose was large and misshapen, as were his ears, which stuck out at different heights from the sides of his head. His brown eyes, which were sunk into his face, were almost completely hidden by his bushy black eyebrows. His long, black, coarse hair was pulled away from his face and tied behind his head by a piece of string.
“This is Fajfah. He is a half breed; human mother, dwarf father.” He grunted, which Sam took to mean hello. Her attention turned towards the tall man standing beside him. He had his hood pulled over his head, obscuring his features.
“Hello Sam,” the stranger said in a familiar voice. Sam’s head jerked upwards and she watched him draw back his hood to reveal his face. Her eyes went wide in shock and recognition. Then blackness enveloped her as she fainted.
Tor’s Quest continues in book 4: The Pendant.
From Trudie:
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