The Tower of Ravens (46 page)

Someone stood by the bed.

Rhiannon’s heart slammed hard, and she said with a sharp rise in her voice, “Roden? What’s wrong?”

The boy said nothing.

“Roden?”

“So cold,” he whispered. “So cold.”

Rhiannon lay very still. “Who are you?”

He stepped closer. In the darkness he was nothing more than a pale shape. She could feel him trembling. “Please…” he whispered. Then an icy cold hand touched her face.

Rhiannon screamed.

Felice sat bolt upright beside her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“A boy… a ghost!”

“Ye’re just dreaming,” Felice mumbled. The candles on the mantelpiece flickered into life, showing the bedchamber was empty. “There’s naught here. Ye were just dreaming. Ye’re sick. Go back to sleep.” The candles snuffed themselves out, and Felice rolled over and was instantly asleep again.

Rhiannon lay, every muscle rigid. Then she slowly brought one hand up to cover her cheek. It was chill to the touch. She shuddered.

After a moment she very slowly and carefully put back the bedclothes and got up. In the darkness she pulled on her woollen stockings and boots, and wrapped her cloak about her. It was so dark she had to feel her way to the door, but the hallway was lit dimly by a lantern left on a side table, turned very low. For a moment she stood, listening. Then she picked up the lantern, turning up the wick so it cast a circle of warm light into the frigid darkness. Immediately her heart began to slam against her ribs again.

At the far end of the corridor the boy waited. He was dressed in formal clothes, and his feet were shod in buckled brogues that seemed to rest solidly enough on the carpet. He had dark, sombre eyes and ruddy hair. He was shivering, and had his arms wrapped tightly about his skinny body. He looked back at her, then made his way slowly round the corner. Rhiannon followed him.

He led her away from the guest quarters towards the northern tower, which Rhiannon knew was set aside for Lady Evaline’s use. He went swiftly and steadily, but not so fast that Rhiannon had trouble keeping up with him. She was just beginning to think that he was perhaps a real boy, a pot-boy who liked to play silly tricks on guests, when he passed straight through the great oak door that led into the tower. This discomposed her so much she stopped, fighting to regain her breath, her heart galloping like a runaway horse. Her nerve almost failed her, but her hunger to understand was greater and so she went on again, opening the door as silently as she could. There was no sign of the ghost, and she was angry with herself. She moved on through the narrow stone corridor anyway, its walls hung with faded tapestries. She came to a spiral staircase and began to climb it, her shadow preceding her up the round walls like some black, formless giant. Then she rounded the central pillar and saw the ghost standing there, only a few steps ahead, staring at a door half-concealed behind a tapestry. As she shrank back, instinctively shielding the light of her lantern, he looked back at her, beckoned urgently, then stepped forward and vanished through the solid wood.

It took Rhiannon a long time to find the courage to open the door. Her hand was trembling so much the lantern’s flame flickered and shook, sending shadows swinging everywhere. She steadied it at last, and saw a sight which chilled her to the very marrow of her bones.

Inside was a boy’s bedroom. There was a little bed with a patchwork counterpane, a rocking horse, a wooden castle with tiny soldiers lined up along the battlements, a puppet theatre, and a basket filled with balls and wooden animals and toy swords. There was a big barred window with a cushioned window seat and faded curtains covered with prancing red horses. Against one wall was a cupboard painted with stars and moons, and against the other was a toy chest, its lid propped open.

The room was filled with the ghosts of boys. One rode the rocking horse back and forth, back and forth, its rockers creaking. Another examined the puppet theatre, a few more were crouched over the castle. One was curled up in the big chair, trying to look at a book. One crouched on the window seat, sobbing into his arms. Another lay weeping on the bed. One boy was dripping wet, sitting in a puddle, shivering and crying. Another rocked back and forth in silent terror beside the door. Some were dressed in nightgowns, others in rough homespuns, a few in neat suits with collared shirts, a few others in heavy winter coats and red woolly hats. The more she looked, the more ghosts she saw, some as insubstantial as heat rising from a sun-baked stone, others looking like living boys, except that as they moved about the room, their bodies merged into each other and materialised again on the other side, like flickering shadows.

The ghost Rhiannon had seen first was standing in the centre of the room, his arms huddled about him. He turned his face towards her and said pitifully, “All lost. Canna find their way home. Lost.” He shuddered violently and said in a thin whisper, “So cold. Mama, it’s so cold.”

It was cold. Rhiannon’s inner ears ached painfully. Her breath came out in frosty plumes, and she was shivering so violently the oil in the lantern slopped about and the flame sunk away into darkness. All she could hear was the muffled whimper of crying and the creak, creak of the rocking horse.

Slowly Rhiannon backed out of the room, the lantern dropping from her nerveless fingers. The sound of it breaking went through her like a shock of lightning. She slammed the door closed, then ran down the stairs. She felt faint and sick, so faint she was afraid she might lose her wits again. Back through the dark hallways and galleries she ran, and ran, and ran, down unlit stairs and through cavernous chambers, banging into furniture, becoming entangled in hanging curtains, bruising her hips on unexpected hall tables, and, horribly, coming face to face with the gloomy eyes of ancient paintings, until the stitch in her side forced her at last to slow, fighting for breath. Only then did her panicked mind admit that she had no idea where she was, or how she was to get back to her room. She was lost.

For a while she huddled on a couch in an immense, high-ceilinged room, her cloak wrapped tight around her, overcome by such terror that unconsciousness passed over her in black, roaring waves. The muscles of her urinary tract had relaxed involuntarily, so that she felt a sopping patch on her nightgown grow, the initial warmth passing to bitter cold. All she could do was fight to get breath into her paralysed lungs and try not to lose control of her other bodily functions, which threatened to shame her further. No-one could endure such extremities of emotion for long, though, and eventually she was able to control the shudders that wracked her, wipe the tears from her face and get up. She felt her way to the paler oblongs of the tall windows, looking for some clue as to where she was in the vast, silent castle. There was no moon to help her but the sky swarmed with stars. She wrenched the window open and leant out, breathing in great gulps of fresh, cold air, fixing her eyes on the familiar constellations above. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she was able to see the shape of battlemented walls and the pointed roofs of towers silhouetted against them. She gave a smile of pure relief, realising she was back in the main part of the castle, looking across the inner ward to the gatehouse.

She made her fumbling way through the room and out to the gallery above the main stairs. Here another lantern glowed softly in the darkness, lighting the landing. More light spread out in an arc from a door down on the next floor. Rhiannon hesitated for a moment with her hand upon the lantern. With its help she thought she could find her way back to the warmth and safety of her own bed. But she could not help wondering who in the castle was awake at this late hour, and what they were doing. Since seeing the ghosts of so many little boys, Rhiannon could feel nothing but the deepest horror and suspicion of everyone in the castle, but it only sharpened her desire to know, to understand. So she made her slow, tentative way down the stairs and put her eye to the crack of the door.

She saw high shelves of books, flickering in the dancing shadows of flames, and the high back of an old leather chair, and the gleam of a wooden desk. The air breathing out of the room was warm and smelt pleasantly of smoke. Everything was quiet.

After a while she gently pushed the door open. Still there was no sign or sound of life. She looked about her warily. Long wooden cabinets lined the walls. She pulled open a drawer. Inside were hundreds of old bones, all laid out neatly and tagged. Another drawer held a collection of desiccated claws and paws. She recognised the black massive hand of an ogre and the yellow claw of a goblin, a snow-lion’s heavy white paw, and a scaly webbed hand that she guessed must belong to one of the sea-folk. In the drawer beneath it were rows and rows of human hands, all severed at the wrist. Some were badly preserved, some bare bones, but most looked as if they had just been cut away from a living body. Her stomach quivered uncomfortably. Rhiannon touched one. It was cold and hard and left an oily residue on her fingers. She swallowed and wiped her fingers on her nightgown. She felt, suddenly, very cold and frightened.

The warmth of the fire drew her irresistibly. It had only just been built up with fresh wood and roared away merrily on the hearth. She tiptoed towards it. A dead baby floated in a jar on a shelf. An ogre’s head glared from another jar. Nailed to a board was a glittering scaly skin in the shape of a man. In another jar was a pile of strange white round things. Rhiannon could not bring herself to examine them closely. She stood before the fire and warmed herself, wondering what kind of man would surround himself with such things.

The hands of the clock on the mantelpiece were moving towards twelve o’clock, the only time Rhiannon could tell. She held her icy hands to the fire, watching the smaller hand tick round, wondering why the room was all lit up and the fire burning, when no-one was there. When the front of her body was so hot she had to hold the cotton of her nightgown away from her, she turned and basked her backside.

A huge woolly bear stood in the corner of the room, muzzle snarling, claws raised. Rhiannon bit back a shriek. Wildly she looked round for a weapon. Her daggers were back in her room. She cursed herself for leaving them there, even as she seized a heavy silver ornament from the mantelpiece. As she swung back round to face the bear, her impromptu weapon raised, she wondered in amazement what a woolly bear could be doing here, in the lord’s own library. Lewen’s parents had kept one as a pet, though, so she supposed it was not as uncommon as she would have imagined.

Breathing fast, she stared at the bear, who stared back at her with glassy eyes. For a long moment they eyed each other, then Rhiannon slowly lowered the ornament and took a tentative step forward. The bear did not move. She took another step forward. Still the bear did not move. She crossed the room warily, and reached up a hand to its stiff, cold snout. The stuffed bear stood frozen, yellow teeth exposed, huge claws curved. Rhiannon shook her head in wonderment.

Then she saw something that made her eyes widen and her breath catch. One section of the bookshelves had swung sideways, revealing a narrow doorway. She would never have seen it if she had not gone to examine the stuffed bear. Rhiannon tiptoed to the secret door and looked inside. All was black and chill. It smelt like a grave.

Rhiannon stared at the secret passage for a long time, her breath coming short. Every instinct in her body bade her flee back to the warmth and safety of her own bed. Her brain, however, told her that the gaping hole in the wall must hold some clue to all that was wrong and malevolent in this castle.

Rhiannon was not deceived by the affability of their host, or the sweet face of their hostess. From the moment she had ridden in under the portcullis, Rhiannon’s skin had been prickling with an awful sense of dread and horror that had only grown with every moment spent inside the massive walls. Terrible things had happened here, she knew that as surely as if blood oozed from every stone. Everyone who lived within these walls felt the weight of disquietude and fear. She had seen it in the nervous mannerisms of the maid Wilma, in the belligerent stance of the castle guards, the surly sideways glances of the grooms, the nervous obsequiousness of the gatekeeper, the awkward deference of the dinner guests to their short-tempered lord. The sight of that dreadful playroom, haunted by the ghosts of dozens of murdered little boys, had only confirmed what she had already feared.

And whatever secret was hidden behind the lord of Fettercairn’s smiling face threatened Rhiannon and her companions, she was sure of it. The satyricorn girl had lived all her life in the Broken Ring of Dubhslain. She knew this foul weather was unnatural. She knew gales of such ferocity did not last day after day after day, at a time when the skies were normally fair and the winds warm. She had watched the eyes of the lord and lady follow young Roden about, and she had seen the anxiety on the nursemaid’s face as she begged them to take the boy and get away. She had come to recognise the white dents that appeared beside the lord’s mouth when something was said to displease him, and knew that all about him dreaded that tightening of his jaw.

On the desk were a decanter of whisky and a glass. Rhiannon put down the silver ornament and swigged half a dram for courage. She knew she could not go back to her bed without finding out what secret Lord Malvern had behind his smooth manner. If danger was threatening them, Rhiannon wanted to know from which direction it would come, and when. Though she coughed and spluttered, the whisky did give her both warmth in the pit of her belly and the nerve to go into the hidden passage. Remembering Lilanthe’s words, she turned her cloak inside out, so that the grey camouflage was on the outside. Then she took one of the branches of candles and the tinderbox off the mantelpiece, for she was more frightened now of the dark than anything, and went through the narrow portal.

Freezing cold, musty air flowed over her. She walked quickly, trying to warm herself. The passage was only narrow, but high enough for her not to have to worry about hitting her head. The walls and floor and ceiling were all made of the same massive grey stone blocks as the castle. She thought she must be passing through the middle of the thick walls, and wondered where the passage was taking her. The floor began to angle downwards, and then she noticed the walls were now rock, damp and slimy to the touch.