Shirley Murphy - The Catswold Portal

She straightened the tray on the bedside table and refolded the napkin. She had turned away from the sick boy’s bed when suddenly the child spoke.

“What are you doing to my breakfast? What spell did you lay on my breakfast?”

She turned to look at him.

“Or were you eating it?”

“I’d thought of it,” she said, amused. “It seems a waste, if you only send it back. How can you get well if you don’t eat?”

He lifted an eyebrow. His pale face was regal in spite of the darkness under his eyes and his drawn look. A regal face, but emotionally empty, cold. His silk pajamas were rumpled and sweaty, and his dark hair was tangled. He said, “I don’t want to get well. I don’t like porridge and I detest pig meat. Throw it out.”

She studied his black eyes, so like his mother’s. He was pale to the point of grayness. “I can’t imagine wanting to be sick.” She looked at him for so long he began to fidget. She said, “You don’t go out of this room at all? You don’t ride? There are ponies in the pasture.”

“Of course I don’t ride anymore. I’m too sick. Horses are stupid beasts.”

“You don’t get tired of being in bed?” she said more softly. “You never want to be outside?”

“Why should I want to be outside? I’m too weak to go out. What business is it of yours?”

“It is none of my business.” She looked him over severely. The little boy deeply angered her.

She had left him and was hurrying past the deep bay window when she realized a man stood there looking out. She paused. He had his back to her. He was dressed in hunting leathers, and not until he turned did she realize it was the king. She drew back, and because his look confused her, she knelt. It seemed strange to kneel to anyone, particularly someone no older than she.

He stared down at her and laughed, then grasped her hands and pulled her up. His hands were pleasantly cold, as if he had just come indoors. Unsettled by him, she drew her hands away. She had turned to hurry off when his voice stopped her. “The queen said your name is Sarah.”

She faced him, waiting. He looked her over, then sat down on a bench, sprawling his legs comfortably in his fine soft boots, watching her. She looked back as calmly as she could.

“Come sit down, Sarah. Don’t stand there like a frightened doe.” His eyes were so dark she couldn’t see the pupils—dark eyes that burned with life. His mouth curved in the hint of a smile, but it was a soft mouth. He took her hand and pulled her down beside him. “That’s better—Sarah. That is the name you gave the queen.” He smiled again.

“What is your real name?”

“Sarah is my name.”

“You can tell me your real name. I will keep your secret.”

“Sarah is my real name. I must go. Briccha told me to hurry.”

“I am king, not Briccha. You will go when I dismiss you.” His features were soft, his chin rounded. But his eyes burned with stubbornness and the haughtiness of a young man used to getting his own way.

He said, “If you will not tell me your real name, then you will learn my name. Say, Efil, King of Affandar.”

She said it hesitantly, not liking the feelings that he stirred in her. “Efil, King of Affandar.”

“Say, Efil. ”

“Efil.”

“Say it softly.”

“Efil,” she breathed, growing frightened.

“Say it as if it means something to you, as if it is the most wonderful name you know.” His hands felt too warm on hers. His clothes were scented with vetiver, a magical herb that did nothing to calm her.

“Say it.”

But she rose and pulled away from him. As she turned, a door creaked open down the passage. He thrust her away so suddenly she stumbled. “Go on, child. Don’t stand in the passage dawdling. What will Briccha say?”

She went angrily, hearing men’s voices behind her. She hurried down the stairs, fighting not only anger but a more complicated feeling that she didn’t like.

All day she was irritable. When Briccha released her in mid-afternoon she slipped into the storeroom boldly, too tightly strung to wait longer. Snatching the moment, she fled for the cellar door and through it, and shut it soundlessly behind her.

She stood on the narrow, dark stairs, clutching the rail, listening. A damp, vegetable scent rose from below. But there was no sound. She started down through the blackness, feeling her way, daring not the smallest light.

Chapter 9

Feeling her way down the cellar stair clutching the rail, straining to see in the blackness, Melissa was afraid to bring a spell-light. Warily she listened for footsteps in the storeroom above her.

At last, stumbling, she found the bottom step. On the stone floor her footsteps echoed softly, even her own breathing seemed to echo. From somewhere ahead came the faint drip, drip of water. She could smell onions and smoked meat, and a sour animal smell. After some moments, when she could hear no sound from the cellars or from above, she brought a spell-light.

Beside her, bins of vegetables flanked the narrow passage. She moved past hanging hams and barrels of pickled cabbage, past bags of nuts and grains. Shelf after shelf held jars of vegetables and fruits, and farther on stood barrels of flour and grains, and of ale, then rows of wine bottles. She lifted a bottle from its bin, brushing the dust away. Its foreign-looking label was beautifully wrought with pictures of grapes and fields, and with fancy gold lettering. This was no Netherworld label handwritten and applied with wax, this was upperworld wine, brought down through miles of tunnels from beyond doors that opened only by magic.

She didn’t know whether the dungeons were on this level or a lower one, she only knew the palace cellars went deep, down into old caves and passages. Strangely, she felt a sense of repose here; the darkness seemed comforting, even the sense of being closed in seemed comforting. She felt almost as if she could see through the darkness.

Frowning, puzzled by her feelings, she searched for the dungeons, until at last, stumbling, she found a second flight of stairs. She had started down when a shriek from below made her douse her light.

She stood listening as the animal scream died. The smell of beasts rose so strongly she backed up a step. A second angry scream made her want to turn away. But she moved on, casting a strong spell-light down the steps. She found the lower corridor flanked with barred cells. Behind the bars, Hell Beasts stirred, their wings rustling in her light, their snaking coils unwinding, their eyes gleaming. Faces horned or scaled, all hostile, snarled and hissed at her. Paws and claws and deformed hands reached; she kept to the center of the aisle, moving on quickly.

She stopped, shocked, before a caged griffon.

She had never thought to see a griffon here. A griffon was not a Hell Beast; they roamed the oldest forests and were seldom seen. They were akin to the unicorns and the selkies and shape shifters. They were, like those beasts, generally creatures of goodness, though they could be unpredictable.

The Griffon slept pitifully cramped, his leonine body filling the cage, pressing against the bars, his golden wings crumpled in the tight space. His broad eagle’s head, golden feathered, rested in sleep on his lion paws.

But as she drew close the Griffon came awake suddenly and raised his head, watching her with fierce, yellow eyes. She said, “You do not belong here. How did she bring you to this place?”

He didn’t speak but lunged at her suddenly, roaring with uncharacterisic rage, crashing against the bars.

“What is it?” she said, coming close to him. “Oh, what has she done to you?”

He threw himself against the bars again, so hard she thought he would break through. But his yellow eyes were filled with pain. And when she reached through, stroking his face, all fierceness left him. He said, “Queen Siddonie killed my mate. And when I knelt before my dead love, Siddonie’s soldiers threw nets over me and pinioned my wings.”