Catherine Fisher - Darkhenge

She was cold. Clutching the shawl tight, she took one step away. His words confused and terrified her. A floorboard creaked; he must have heard it.

“Don’t leave me alone again, Chloe!”

She turned her back and ran, racing down the dusty stairs into the hall, grabbing the bag she’d left ready, wrenching the door open to the room where the winch was, to lower the drawbridge. It was huge and ancient, but he’d cleaned it and it worked easily, the chain rattling through by its own weight with a terrible roar that made her jump around in terror. She spun the wooden handle rapidly.

The bridge thudded down. Climbing up into the arrow slit, she looked down.

Then she froze.

Someone was moving out there.

Too vague to see, he flickered out of the wood, a man maybe, in a dark coat.

She leaped back instantly. Were these the enemies he was so terrified of? Was it men he hid from after all, not trees?

She fought for calm. This was the only way out; that was certain, because she’d explored every room of the small caer. The best thing would be to hide. And after they’d searched this room, try to slip out.

The fireplace was immense; they’d certainly look up inside it. There was a brass chest under the window; she ran to it and tugged the lid open and found it was empty.

There was nowhere else. She climbed in, tipped the bag of clothes over her head and lay still, breathless, curled in an agony of fear.

Then she heard footsteps.

Someone was crossing the drawbridge.

R. RUIS: ELDER

They’ve shunted me out into the corridor while the specialist is with her. “Come on now, Father. Get yourself a cup of coffee.”

The sister’s a good woman. She keeps looking at the cigarettes, but she says nothing.

I should have been here more often.

That night last month, when I came late and read Chloe one of those old fairy-tale stories. It was so quiet, with just the monitors humming, the words all around her, the branches tapping on the window. An old book I gave her when she was five. She probably hasn’t looked at it for years. The briared castle, the sleeping beauty, the beast. Are those stories where she is? Vetch would no doubt say so.

I’m beginning to think our dark druid has gone home.

And taken Rob with him.

Dry your eyes, Prince Elphin.

Too much sorrow will not help you.

THE BOOK OF TALIESIN

When the drawbridge slammed down, Rob had barely leaped out of its way in time; he fell into the overgrown moat in astonishment. Then Clare grabbed his arm and hauled him into the gorse. “Fool! Keep down. Someone might be coming out!”

Cold with sweat, they stared.

The dark gateway remained empty.

Finally, Vetch’s whisper came from nearby. “I’m going across.”

The poet rustled his way through the undergrowth to the end of the drawbridge and stepped out. In the twilight he was a shadow, tall and dark. He paused, listening, then walked softly across the bridge, his footsteps echoing on the hollow boards.

He ducked under the gateway and vanished.

There was a long silence.

Rob fidgeted. “It may be a trap.”

Clare sounded coolly amused. “If it is, it saves me work. But I’m afraid Vetch is only too experienced in surviving.”

Rob looked at her sidelong. “You really hate him that much? I think he likes you.”

Her blue eyes met his. “Both can happen at once. You love your sister?”

“Of course I do....”

“Just as she loves you.”

He was silent. When he answered, his voice was a whisper. “She will when I rescue her. I thought…”

Clare smiled sadly. “No, you never thought, Rob. You never noticed. Why should you? She was just little Chloe, doing what she should do. Looking up to you. In awe of you.” She moved, rustling the elder flowers. “Until one day something changed.”

A whistle.

Vetch had come back out, and was beckoning. Silent, Rob followed Clare across.

“No one in the hall,” the poet whispered. “I think they may be up in the west tower. I heard some sort of thud from up there.”

Clare nodded. “We need light.”

There was a candlestick on the table with seven candles in it. With Vetch’s tinderbox they managed to light it; then he took it in his hand and walked quickly up the stairs, throwing long mingled shadows behind him. Clare followed. Rob came last.

Halfway up he heard a sliver of sound behind him; a draft gusted the flames. He stopped and looked back.

The room beside the gate had its door ajar.

Clare had heard it too. “Go on,” she said. “I’ll check it.”

Vetch’s voice was low. “I looked in there. It’s empty.”

Then Rob heard it, a muffled shout and thump, as if someone was banging on a door above.

“It’s her! He’s got her locked up.”

“Stay here.” Vetch turned to Clare. “Go halfway down and watch the stairs. The King may come up behind us.”

“And what do you expect me to do if he does?” she said acidly.

“I’m sure you’ll deal with him.”

“What makes you think I won’t join him? Draw him into my revenge?”

Vetch looked at her ruefully. “Goddess, I never know what you might do.” He nudged Rob; quietly, they went forward.

The corridor swirled with dust; a dark niche opened opposite a nail-studded door, and a window looked out onto the forest’s dark branches, pressed tight against the glass.

Under Rob’s feet drips of candle wax had lumped greasily on the floor. “Someone’s been standing here.” Leaning his head to the wooden planks, he said softly, “Chloe! It’s okay. It’s me, Rob!”

Silence.

“Can you hear? It’s really me.”

After a second he looked at Vetch. “She may be gagged,” the poet said. Then his face changed, a glimmer of surprise turning into wariness. “Well, well. Look at this.”

The key was in the lock, tiny and silver. Vetch glanced back; at the stairs Clare was watching them, her face pale in the candle blaze. He reached out and turned the key.

The lock snicked.

Carefully, holding Rob back, he let the door swing wide.

Chloe raised the lid of the chest an inch and peered through the slit. Whoever had looked into the room had gone; in the hall echoes of voices whispered in the dusty shadows. It sounded as if they were going up the stairs of the west tower. Where he was.

She slid out, bundled the clothes back in the bag and slung it over her shoulder. At the door she peered around carefully.

The hall was empty. Quietly, she pattered over the black and white tiles to the shadows of the open gateway.

The drawbridge was smooth and wide; beyond it the forest rustled, the rich smell of its loam and leaves pungent after the mustiness of the empty rooms.

She slid around onto the drawbridge.

It was colder out here. A wind whipped at her long skirt and the shawl, so she tied it tight around her chest and glanced up at the stars. A shiver of sound behind made her turn, alarmed.

The gateway had creaked. Above, blocking the sky, the caer loomed, and she saw it was wooden, a great timber edifice that turned so slowly she could barely see its edge move against the coming night. She turned back to run.

And didn’t move.

The trees were nearer.

A living barricade, they had closed off the end of the drawbridge, elder and ash and elm, a vanguard of branches. In their green dimness a flock of birds erupted, scattering in fright. One tendril of ivy encroached stealthily onto the wooden bridge.

She had to go! Right now, at once, or she’d be trapped.