I tried to stretch my second sight to the limit and beyond. To push back the darkness that seemed to thicken as we progressed. Yet I felt the limits of my vision more than its gifts. The castle’s Shroud poured over the Dark Hills. It enveloped them just as it did the three of us. For we were flying into the land, as Rhia had once put it, where the night never ends.
With effort, I sensed some of the contours of the hills rising below. No trees dotted this terrain, no rivers creased its slopes. At one point I felt the land fall away into a steep but narrow canyon, and I heard the faint cry of what might have been an eagle. To the north, a dense group of flaming torches mingled with the raspy shouts of goblins. And to the south, eerie lights flickered that chilled me deeper than the wind.
On the slopes above the canyon, I detected a few clusters of buildings, which once had been villages. A strange, uncertain yearning arose in me. Might I, as a young child, have lived in one of those villages? If I could somehow view this land in the light, would it bring back at least a little of my lost memory? But the villages below were as dark and silent as my own childhood. No fires burned in any hearths; no voices lifted in any squares.
I doubted that any laborers like Honn still toiled away in this terrain, as their ancestors had for centuries before the rise of Stangmar and the onset of never-ending darkness. It was even less likely that any gardeners could have survived in such a place. For the land of T’eilean and Garlatha at least still clung to twilight, while the lands below existed in permanent eclipse.
The darkness deepened, pressing against us like a heavy blanket. I felt Trouble’s rapid heartbeat, pulsing through the veins of the bird’s neck. At the same time, the beating of the wings slowed down just a notch, as if the darkness inhibited flight in the same way that it inhibited vision.
The merlin leveled off. More and more, his wings faltered, sometimes not completing a stroke, other times missing a stroke entirely. As the cold winds gusted, he weaved unsteadily. His head cocked to one side and then the other. He seemed confused, trying to see what could not be seen. He struggled to stay on course.
I clutched my feathered steed. If Trouble was having such difficulty seeing, how could he possibly guide us safely into the ever-spinning castle? Perhaps that was the point of Domnu’s final warning, that getting near the castle would be less difficult than getting inside it.
With a slap of fear, I realized that our only hope now lay in my own second sight. I, whose own eyes were blind, must somehow see for the hawk! Although my second sight had always grown weaker as the light around me faded, I could not let that happen this time. Perhaps second sight did not require light after all. Perhaps I could see despite the dark. I summoned all of my energy. I must try to pierce the darkness.
Minutes passed. I could sense nothing different. And why should I? I had never before been able to see at night, even when my eyes functioned. What made me think I could change that now?
Yet I continued to try. To probe with my mind’s eye. To see beyond the grays, beyond the shadows. To fill in the swaths of darkness, just as Rhia showed me how to fill in the empty places between the stars.
Meanwhile, Trouble’s flight grew more erratic and uneven. His wings labored as the fierce winds buffeted us. The bird hesitated, changed direction, hesitated again.
So very gradually that I myself did not at first notice the shift, I began to sense wispy images through the thickening darkness. A curve in a ridge. A depression that might once have been a lake. A twisting road. An uneven line that could only be a wall of stone.
Then, in the deep distance, I detected something odd. A vague, throbbing glimmer on a far ridge. It seemed both moving and stationary, both light and dark. I was not even certain that it really existed. Firmly, sinking my arms deep into his feathery neck, I turned Trouble’s head toward the spot. The bird resisted at first, then started to shift the angle of his wings. Slowly, he changed direction.
In time I detected a structure of some kind, mammoth in size. It rose from a high hill like a black ghost of the night. I thought I could see strange rings of light on its sides, and some sort of pinnacles at its top. As foreboding as Domnu’s lair had felt, this structure felt a hundred times worse. Still, pushing firmly on Trouble’s neck, I guided us closer. By now Trouble not only accepted my steering, but also seemed heartened by it. The wings beat with renewed strength.
I reached farther and farther with my second sight. Now I could see the flat hilltop, scattered with stones, where the strange structure sat. Yet even as the land surrounding it became clearer, the structure itself remained blurred. A low, rumbling sound swelled as we approached, a sound like stone grinding against stone.
At once I understood: The structure was slowly turning on its foundation. We had found the Shrouded Castle.
Biting my lip in concentration, I steered the hawk to fly in a circle around the revolving castle. The blurred outlines immediately sharpened. The pinnacles revealed themselves as towers, the rings of light as torches seen through the spinning windows and archways. Every so often, within the torch-lit rooms, I glimpsed soldiers wearing the same pointed helmets as the warrior goblins.
I focused my vision on one lower window where no soldiers seemed to be present. Then I guided Trouble into a dive. We aimed straight at the window. The battlements, the towers, the archways drew near. Suddenly, I realized that we were flying too slow, dropping too far. We were going to hit the wall! Across my mind flashed the terrifying dream I had experienced at sea.
I pulled with all my might, forcing the hawk to veer sharply upward. Shim, clasped in the talons, screamed. We whizzed past the battlements, barely above the stones. In another split second, we would have crashed.
Refocusing, I brought Trouble around again. This time, as we circled the castle, I tried to gauge our relative speeds more closely. Yet I faltered. The truth was, I had no eyes, no real vision. Did I dare try again, guided only by my second sight?
I sucked in my breath, then urged the hawk into another dive. We shot down toward the same open window as before. Wind tore at me, screaming in my ears.
As the window neared, my stomach tightened like a fist. Even the slightest error would send us smashing into the wall. Our speed accelerated. We could not turn back now.
We tore through the window. In the same instant, I saw a stone column straight ahead. Leaning hard, I caused Trouble to swing left. We brushed past the column, slid across the floor, and slammed into a wall somewhere in the bowels of the Shrouded Castle.
35: THE SHROUDED CASTLE
When I regained consciousness, the first thing I noticed was how small Trouble had become. The valiant bird sat on top of my chest, poking at me with one wing and then the other. At once I realized the truth. It was I, not the bird, who had changed size. I had grown large again.
Seeing me wake up, the merlin hopped down to the stone floor. He released a low, quiet whistle, much like a sigh of relief.
A similar sound came from the far corner of the bare, shadowy room, beneath a sputtering torch fixed to the wall with a black iron stand. Shim sat up, looked at Trouble, patted himself from hairy head to hairy toes, blinked, and patted himself again.
The little giant turned to me, his nose cradled by a bright smile. “I is gladly to be big and tall again.”
I raised an eyebrow, but kept myself from smirking. “Yes, we are both big again. Domnu must have worked her magic so that it would wear off if we entered the castle.”
Shim scowled. “How kindly of her.”
“I am grateful to her for that much.” I reached to stroke the hawk’s banded wings. “And more.”
Trouble gave a resolute chirp. The yellow rims of his eyes shone in the torchlight. He scratched his talons on the stone floor, telling me that once again he was ready for battle.
Yet the hawk’s feistiness buoyed my spirits for only an instant. I scanned the rough, imposing stones surrounding us. The walls, floor, and ceiling of this room showed no adornment, no craftsmanship w
hatsoever. The Shrouded Castle had been built not out of love but out of fear. If there had been any love at all during its construction, it was merely the love of cold stone and sturdy defenses. As a result, unless this room was an exception, the castle would hold no beauty, no wonder. But it would in all likelihood outlast the Dark Hills themselves. I felt sure it would outlast me.
Only then did I notice the continuous rumbling around us. The rumbling swelled, faded, and repeated, as incessantly as ocean waves. The sound of the castle turning on its foundation! As I clambered to my feet, I felt thrown off balance, both by the continuous shaking of the floor and the steady pull toward the outside wall of the room. I stooped to pick up my staff. Even with its support, I needed a moment to stand firmly.
I turned to Shim. “I would feel a lot better if I still had the Galator.”
“Look,” he replied, standing on his tiptoes by the open window. “It’s all so darkly out there! And feels the floor moving and shaking all the time. I doesn’t like this place.”
“Neither do I.”
“I is scared. Very, very, very scared.”
“I am, too.” I nodded in his direction. “But it gives me courage to be with friends.”
A new gleam appeared in Shim’s tiny eyes. “Courage,” he said softly to himself. “I gives him courage.”
“Come.” Carefully, I crept to the doorway. It led to a dark corridor, lit only by a hissing torch at the far end. “We must try to find Rhia! If she is alive, she is probably below in the dungeon.”
Shim’s small chest inflated. “Such a terribly place! I will fights anybody who is hurtsing her.”
“No you won’t,” I countered. “The castle is guarded by warrior goblins and ghouliants.”
“Oooh.” He swiftly deflated. “We should not fights them.”
“Right. We must outfox them, if we can. Not fight them.”
Trouble fluttered up to my shoulder, and we set off. Down the dimly lit corridor we stole, keeping as quiet as possible. Fortunately, the steady rumbling of the revolving castle covered most of our sounds, but for the slightest clacking of my staff against the stones. I reasoned that as long as we could keep ourselves from being discovered, the castle guards were probably not alert for intruders. On the other hand, I vividly recalled expecting the same thing of the goblins patrolling the notch near the Haunted Marsh.
When we reached the hissing torch, crudely jammed into a niche in the stones, the corridor turned sharply to the right. Arched doorways lined both sides of the next section, while only one narrow window slit opened to the outside. As we approached the window, I tensed as I saw shafts of darkness streaming through it, as shafts of light would pour through a window in any land not choked by the Shroud.
Gingerly, I placed my hand in the path of one of the shafts. Its coldness nipped at my fingers. My skin felt withered, half alive.
With a shiver, I withdrew my hand and moved on. Shim’s bare feet padded softly by my side, as Trouble’s talons hugged my shoulder securely. One corridor led to another, one sputtering torch to the next. All the rooms that we encountered were empty except for the writhing shadows of torchlight. I could only imagine how many such empty floors lay within this vast castle. Yet, for all our wandering, we did not discover any stairs.
Cautiously, we prowled the maze of corridors, turning left then right, right then left. I began to wonder whether we were traveling in circles, whether we would ever find any stairs to the lower levels. Then, as we approached one doorway, Trouble fluttered against my neck. Suddenly I heard several raspy voices trading rough remarks.
Goblins. Several of them, from the sound of it.
We waited outside the arched door, unsure how to get past without being seen. Trouble paced agitatedly on my shoulder. Then an idea struck me. I tapped the merlin on the beak, while pointing inside the doorway.
The hawk seemed to understand instantly. Soundlessly, he floated down to the floor. Keeping to the shadows by the wall, he slipped into the room. Just outside the doorway, Shim and I traded nervous glances.
A few seconds later, one of the goblins yelped in pain. “You stabbed me, you fool!”
“I did not,” another retorted, over the crash of something metallic.
“Liar!”
Something heavy thudded against the stone floor. A sword slashed through the air.
“I’ll show you who’s a liar.”
A brawl began. Swords clanged, fists struck, curses flew. In the commotion, Shim and I sneaked past the doorway. Pausing only long enough for Trouble to swoop back to his perch on my shoulder, we scuttled down the corridor. As we turned a corner, we found ourselves facing a stairwell.
Faintly lit by a flickering torch on the landing, the stone stairs wound downward in near darkness. I led the way, with Trouble riding close to my cheek, both of us trying to sense whatever might lurk in the shadows. Shim, whispering nervously to himself, stayed close behind.
The stairs spiraled down to another landing, sinister in the torchlight. Swaying shadows crawled across the walls. As we descended, the rumbling and groaning of the turning foundation increased, as did the stale odor in the air. We followed the stairs down to another level, gloomier than the last. And to another level, still gloomier. Here the stairs ended, opening into a high stone archway. Beyond that lay a dark cellar that reeked of putrid air.
“The dungeon,” I whispered above the constant rumbling.
Shim made no reply except to open his eyes to their widest.
From the darkened entrance to the dungeon came a long, painful moan. A moan of sheer agony. The voice sounded almost human, though not quite. As the moan came again, louder than before, Shim froze as stiff as stone. Cautiously, I moved forward without him, poking at the blackest shadows with my staff.
Passing under the archway, I peered into the dungeon. To the left, beneath one of the few torches in the cavernous room, I viewed a man. He lay on his back on a bench of stone. From his slow, regular breathing, he appeared to be asleep. Although a sword and a dagger hung from his belt, he wore no armor except for a narrow red breastplate over his leather shirt, and a pointed helmet on his head.
Yet the strangest thing about this man was his face. It looked like paper, it was so pale. Or like a mask without any expression. Whatever the reason, the face seemed alive—and yet not alive.
The man suddenly started moaning and wailing. As the sound echoed in the dungeon, I realized that he must be dreaming, recalling in his sleep some moment of pain. Though I felt tempted to wake him, to spare him such torment, I dared not take the risk. As I spun around to tell Shim, I gasped. The little giant was gone.
Quickly, I darted back to the stairwell. I called his name, loud enough to be heard over the rumbling of the castle, but not so loud as to wake the sleeping soldier. Looking frantically, I could see no sign of him. I called again. No answer.
How could Shim have vanished? Where could he have gone? Maybe he had, at last, lost his nerve completely. He might be hiding somewhere, quaking. In any case, I had no time to look for him now.
With Trouble riding tensely on my shoulder, I turned around and crept past the sleeping soldier under the sizzling torch. Deeper into the dungeon I pushed. Where chains hung from the walls, the stones beneath were darkened with dried blood. I passed cell after cell, some with their heavy doors wide open, some still locked tight. Scanning through the slit in each of the locked doors, I found bones and rotting flesh still on the floor. I could not imagine Rhia, with all her zest for life, imprisoned in such a gruesome place. Yet, given the alternative, I desperately hoped that she was.
Since the day the sea returned me to Fincayra, I had discovered a little, but only a little, about my past. And I had learned even less about my true name. Yet those unfinished quests now pulled on me far less strongly than my desire to find Rhia. I was willing to put aside my own unanswered questions, perhaps forever, if only I could somehow reach her in time.
I found a cell with a skull crushed beneath a h
eavy rock. Then one in which two skeletons, one the size of an adult and the other no bigger than a baby, embraced each other for eternity. Then one that was completely empty but for the pile of leaves in one corner.
More despairing with every step, I trudged on. Had I come all this way to find nothing more than scattered bones and a pile of leaves?
I halted. A pile of leaves.
I sprinted back to the cell. My heart pounding, I peered again into the narrow slit. Just loud enough to be heard above the rumbling, I made the sound that Rhia had shown me to make a beech tree come to life.
The pile of leaves stirred.
“Rhia,” I whispered excitedly.
“Emrys?”
She leaped to her feet and bounded to the door. Her garb of vines was tattered and filthy, but she was alive. “Oh, Emrys,” she said in disbelief. “Is it you or your ghost?”
In answer, I slipped my forefinger through the slit. Tentatively, she wrapped her own around it, as she had so many times before.
“It is you.”
“It is.”
“Let me out.”
“First I must find the key.”
Rhia’s face fell. “The guard. By the entrance. He has the key.” She squeezed my finger fearfully. “But he is—”
“A soundly sleeper,” finished another voice.
I whirled around to see Shim gazing up at me, an unmistakable look of pride on his small face. The little giant held out his hand. In it sat a large key wrought of iron.
I stared at him in amazement. “You stole this from the guard?”
Shim blushed, his bulbous nose turning almost as pink as his eyes. “He is a soundly sleeper, so it isn’t hard.”
Trouble, seated on my shoulder, whistled in admiration.
I grinned. It struck me that Shim might not be so small as he seemed after all.