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Nathalie stood at the door with a lantern, its feeble light casting long, eerie shadows across the snow-dusted ground. Edward approached, his figure emerging from the darkness. The witch lifted the lantern higher, trying to read his expression through the swirling snowflakes, and then, whispering under her breath, followed him inside.
“There’s blood on your shoes and on your breast,” she whispered anxiously as they reached the dimly lit chamber at the back of the house.
Edward collapsed into a chair, a low moan escaping his lips. Snow clung to his hair and shoulders, melting into icy droplets that mingled with the tears he buried in the crook of his arm.
“Zerdusht and his master have abandoned us,” Nathalie whimpered, her voice cracking with fear. “I couldn’t conjure any spells tonight, and the mirror showed nothing.”
Edward’s voice was muffled, his face hidden in his arm. “What good is magic now? I should have stayed in Frankfort.”
Nathalie gently removed his wet cloak. “Haven’t I warned you? Hasn’t the brass head foretold that the young scholar would bring ruin and shame upon you?”
With a sob, Edward turned to the fire. The dim lamp barely dispelled the cold darkness, and the feeble flames on the hearth flickered and died, leaving them in near darkness.
“Look at his blood on me!” Edward cried, staring at the crimson stains. “His blood! Balthasar and Ysabeau revel in his lands, but my hatred will haunt them yet. I should never have left Frankfort.”
He leaned his head against the mantel, his tears glistening in the sickly light. Nathalie peered into his face, seeing the sorrow in his wet eyes.
“Who was this man?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“I did all I could,” Edward whispered. “The Empress shall burn in hell.”
The sickly flames cast an eerie glow on his pallid face and the small hand clenched at his side.
“This is a cursed night,” moaned the witch. “The spirits remain silent, the flames refuse to burn. Some dreadful misfortune looms.”
Edward gazed into the half-dark room, his mind churning. “Where is Thomas?”
“Gone,” Nathalie rocked back and forth on her stool.
“Gone!” Edward shivered. “Gone where?”
“Right after you left, he slipped out, his face twisted with malice. He vanished into the street.”
Edward paced the room, his steps uneven, his mind restless. “He’ll come back. He has to come back! My heart aches! You say Zerdusht won’t speak tonight?”
Nathalie trembled over the dying fire. “No, nor will the spirits come.”
Edward shook his clenched fist at the air. “They shall answer me!”
He strode to the window, flung it open, and peered into the black void outside. “Bring the lamp.”
Nathalie obeyed, holding the faint light to the window, revealing only the hastening snowflakes.
“Maybe they’ll listen to me. Nay, they shall listen.”
The witch followed him, the lamp swinging in her trembling hand. Together, they made their way through the darkness and snow, passing between the skeletal rose bushes, their feet sinking into the wet, cold earth. They reached the trap-door at the end of the garden, leading to the witch’s kitchen. Nathalie paused as Edward heaved the stone aside.
“Surely the earth shook then,” Edward muttered, his voice trembling. “I felt it quake beneath my feet—hush, there’s a light below!”
The witch, Nathalie, peered over his shoulder, her eyes wide with fear. A faint glow rose from the open trapdoor, casting eerie shadows. Suddenly, Nathalie’s lamp flickered and went out, plunging them into darkness.
“Will you dare descend?” Nathalie muttered, her voice barely a whisper.
“What should I fear?” came Edward’s low, wild answer. He placed his foot on the ladder and began to descend. Nathalie followed, her breath catching in her throat. They found themselves in a chamber lit by an immense fire. Before it sat an enormous man in black, his back to them, a huge black hound stretched out at his feet.
Snow dripped from their garments, hissing as it hit the hot floor. They stood still, the heat almost unbearable.
“Good evenin’,” said Edward in a low voice.
The stranger turned, revealing a face as black as his garments. Around his neck hung a collar of brilliant red and purple stones.
“A cold night,” the stranger replied, his voice deep and resonant. The earth seemed to rumble and shake again.
“You find our fire welcome,” Edward responded, though Nathalie shrank against the wall, muttering to herself.
“A good heat, a good heat,” said the Blackamoor, his voice almost a purr.
Edward crossed the room, his arms folded on his chest, his head held high. “What are you doin’ here?” he demanded.
“Warming myself, warming myself.”
“What have you to say to me?”
The Blackamoor drew closer to the fire. “Ugh! how cold it is!” he exclaimed, thrusting one leg deep into the seething flames. Edward stepped closer, his eyes narrowing.
“If you be what I think you are, you got some reason for bein’ here.”
The Blackamoor plunged his other leg into the fire, the flames licking up to his knees. “I have been to the palace, I have been to the palace. I sat under the Empress’s chair while she talked to a pretty youth named Thomas—ah! it was cold in the palace, there was snow on the youth’s garments, just like there is blood on yours, and the Emperor was there...” He spoke to the fire, not looking at Edward.
“Thomas has betrayed me,” Edward said through clenched teeth.
The Blackamoor withdrew his legs from the fire, unscathed. The hellhound at his feet rose and howled.
“He has betrayed you, and Ysabeau accuses you to save herself. But the devils are on your side, for there is other work for you to do. Flee from Frankfort, and I will ensure you fulfill your destiny.”
He finally glanced over his shoulder. “The witch comes home tonight. The work here is done. Take the road through Frankfort.”
The Blackamoor stood, his head brushing the ceiling. The gems on his collar emitted long rays of light. The fire dimmed, and the Blackamoor transformed into a thick column of smoke that spread throughout the room.
“Hell will not forsake you, Ursula of Rosewood,” his voice echoed as he disappeared.
Edward fell back against the wall, thick vapors enveloping him. He covered his face with his hands. When he looked up, the room was clear, lit only by the dying fire. He searched for Nathalie, but she had vanished.
With a sob lodged in his throat, he sprang up the ladder into the cold, outer air and rushed toward the desolate house.
Desolate indeed; it stood empty, dark, and cold, the snow drifting through open windows, fires extinguished on the hearths, a dead place, never to be inhabited again. Edward leaned against the door, breathing hard. Here was a crisis of his fate—betrayed by the one he loved, deserted now that Nathalie had disappeared.
The Blackamoor...he remembered him as a vision, a delusion perhaps. Oh, how cold it was! Would his accusers come for him tonight? He crept to the gate that led to the street and listened.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Nathalie!” he cried forlornly.
From the distant darkness came the sound of hurried commotion. Horses, shouting, eager feet—a populace roused, hunting the dealer in black magic with fire and sword for the witches.
Edward opened the gate, stepping from the witch’s garden for the last time. He wondered if Thomas was with the oncoming crowd, though he doubted it. Probably Thomas was in the palace, perhaps already regretting his betrayal. But the Empress had seized her chance; her accusation falling first, who would believe his word against hers?
He wore neither cloak nor hat, and as he waited against the open gate, the thick snow covered him from head to foot. His spirit had never known fear and did not know it now, but his frail body shivered and shrank back, as it had when the angry students confronted him at Basle.
He listened to the noises of the approaching crowd, until another sound, nearer and stranger, caught his attention. He turned his head, the sound coming from the witch’s house.
“Nathalie!” called Edward, a glimmer of hope in his voice.
But the blackness around him erupted into flames. Swift tongues of fire sprang up, and a column of gold and scarlet enveloped the house and garden in a curling embrace. Edward ran out into the road. The fire’s glare lit the swirling snow, casting a trembling circle of light. Shielding his eyes, he stared at the flames that devoured his books, his magic herbs and potions, the strange, rich, and beautiful things Nathalie had gathered over her long, evil life. Then he turned and ran down the street, away from the crowd surging in at the other end. They recoiled in horror before the mighty flames that mocked them with their destructive welcome.
Dismayed and angry shouts echoed behind Edward as he fled through the snow, his pace quickening toward the eastern gate. The gate was not yet shut; light of foot and swift, he darted through before the guards could challenge him, perhaps even before they saw him. He was a fine runner, not easily fatigued, but he had already strained his endurance to the utmost. After he had cleared the city gates, his limbs failed him, and he fell to a walk.
The intense darkness disoriented him, making him feel light-headed. He kept looking over his shoulder at the distant lights of Frankfort, reassuring himself that he was not unwittingly stumbling back toward the gates. Finally, he stood still and listened. He must be near the river, and after a while, he distinguished the sound of its sullen flow coming faintly out of the silent dark.
Of what use was the river to him now? He was cold, weary, pursued, and betrayed. All he had were a few pieces of white money and a little phial of swift and keen poison that he always carried in his breast. If his master failed him, he would not go alive into the flames. But despite the hopelessness of his situation, he was far from resorting to this last refuge. He remembered the Blackamoor’s words and dragged his numbed, aching limbs along. After a while, he saw a light glimmering ahead of him.
It was neither in a house nor carried in a hand, for it shone low on the ground, lower than his own feet. He paused, listened, and proceeded cautiously, fearing the river, which must be close to his left. As he neared the light, he saw it was a lantern, casting long rays across the clearing snowstorm. A glittering, trembling reflection beneath it told him it belonged to a boat roped to the bank.
Edward crept towards it, went on his knees in the snow and mud, and beheld a small, empty craft, the lantern hanging at the prow. He paused; the waters, rushing steadily and angrily, must be flowing toward the Rhine and the town of Cologne. He stepped into the boat, which rocked as the water splashed beneath him. With cold hands, he undid the knotted rope.
The boat trembled for a moment, then sped with the current as if glad to be freed. An oar lay in the bottom, which Edward used to help himself along, fearful of pursuit. Then he let himself float downstream. The water lapped around him, and the snow fell on his unprotected, already soaked figure. He stretched out along the bottom of the boat and hid his face in the cushioned seat.
“Hugh of Rosewood is dead, and Thomas has betrayed me,” he whispered into the darkness. Then he began sobbing, very bitterly. His anguished tears, the cruel cold, and the steady sound of the unseen water exhausted and numbed him until he fell into a sleep that was half a swoon while the boat drifted toward the town.
When he awoke, he was still in the open country. The snow had ceased but lay thick and untouched on the ground, stretching to the horizon. Edward dragged his cramped limbs to a sitting posture and stared around him. The river was narrow, the banks flat. The boat had been caught by a clump of stiff, withered reeds, and the prow was driven into the snowy earth.
On either side, the prospect was wintry and dreary. A gray sky brooded over a white land. A pine forest stood dark and mournful in the distance, while a few bare, isolated trees nearby bent under their weight of snow. The very stillness was horribly ominous.
Edward found it ill to move, his limbs frozen and clothes wet, clinging to his wincing flesh. His eyes smarted from weeping, and his head throbbed with giddy pains. For a while, he sat, remembering the horrors of yesterday. His face hardened, lips pale and set, as he painfully crawled out of the boat. Before him lay a sweep of snow leading to the forest, and as he gazed with dim, hopeless eyes, a figure in a white monk’s habit emerged from the trees.
The monk carried a crude wooden spade and walked with a slow, deliberate step toward the river. Edward waited. As the stranger neared, he lifted his eyes, which had been cast down, and Edward recognized him as Saint Ambrose of Menthon. Nevertheless, Edward did not despair; before the saint could recognize him, he resolved upon his course of action.
Ambrose of Menthon gazed with pity and horror at the forlorn figure shivering by the reeds. It was not strange he did not immediately know Edward; his face was ghastly, eyes shadowed and swollen, hair lank and clinging to his small head, clothes muddy, wet, and soiled, his figure bent.
“Sir,” Edward said, his voice weak and sweet, “have pity on an evil thing.” He fell to his knees and clasped his hands on his breast.
“Rise up,” answered the saint. “What God has given me is yours; poor soul, you are very miserable.”
“More miserable than you wot of,” Edward said through chattering teeth, still on his knees. “Do you not know me?”
Ambrose of Menthon looked at him closely. “Alas!” he murmured slowly, “I know you.”
Edward beat his breast. “Mea culpa!” he moaned. “Mea culpa!”
“Rise. Come with me,” said the saint. “I will attend to your needs.”
The youth did not move. “Will you solace my soul, sir?” he cried. “God must have sent you here to save my soul—for long days I have sought you.”
Saint Ambrose’s face glowed. “Have you, then, repented?”
Edward rose slowly to his feet and stood with bent head. “May one repent of such offenses?”
“God is very merciful,” breathed the saint tenderly.
“Remorse and sorrow fill my heart,” murmured Edward. “I have cast off my evil comrades, renounced my vile gains, and journeyed into the wilderness to seek God’s pardon...and it seemed He would not hear me...”
“He hears all who come in grief and penitence,” said the saint joyously. “And He has heard you, for has He not sent me to find you, even in this desolate place?”
“You feed me with hope,” answered Edward in a quivering voice, “and revive me with glad tidings...may I dare, I, poor lost wretch, to be uplifted and exalted?”
“Poor youth,” was the tender murmur. “Come with me.”
He led the way across the thick snow, Edward following with downcast eyes and white cheeks. They skirted the forest and came upon a little hut, set back and sheltered among the scattered trees. Saint Ambrose opened the rude door. The inside was sparsely furnished, but warm, with a small fire crackling in the hearth and a simple cot pushed against the far wall. The saint motioned for Edward to enter.
Edward stumbled into the hut, shivering and weak. “I am alone now,” he said softly, as he entered. “I had with me a frail holy youth, who was traveling to Paris; last night he died. I just laid his body in the earth, his soul rests on the bosom of the Lord.”
Saint Ambrose glanced at Edward with a wistful look. “Maybe God has sent me this soul to tend and succor in place of that He has called home.”
“If I might think so,” Edward whispered humbly, standing meekly on the threshold.
The saint opened an inner door and said, “Your garments are wet and soiled.”
A sudden flush stained Edward’s pale face. “I have no others.”
Ambrose of Menthon pointed to the inner chamber. “There, Blaise died yester-eve; his clothes are there. Enter and put them on.”
“It will be the habit of a novice?” asked Edward softly.
“Yea.”
Edward bent and kissed the saint’s fingers with ice-cold lips. “I have dared,” he whispered, “to hope that I might die wearing the garb of God’s servants, and now I dare even to hope that He shall grant my prayer.”
He stepped into the inner chamber and closed the door.
Inside, the small room was sparsely furnished, with a simple wooden bed and a small table. Blaise’s habit lay neatly folded at the foot of the bed, a stark contrast to the desolation outside. Edward’s fingers trembled as he reached for the clothes, their rough fabric a comfort to his numb hands.
He stripped off his wet, soiled garments and donned the habit. The coarse wool scratched his skin, but he welcomed the discomfort as a penance for his past sins. As he dressed, he caught a glimpse of himself in a small, cracked mirror hanging on the wall. His face was gaunt, eyes shadowed with fatigue and sorrow, but there was a flicker of hope in his gaze.
Edward stepped out of the chamber, now clad in the humble garb of a novice. Saint Ambrose’s eyes softened with approval. “Come, sit by the fire,” he said. “You need warmth and food.”
Edward obeyed, sinking onto a low stool by the hearth. The flames licked at the logs, casting flickering shadows on the rough-hewn walls. The warmth seeped into his bones, bringing a measure of relief to his frozen limbs.
Ambrose busied himself with a pot over the fire, stirring a simple stew. The savory aroma filled the small hut, making Edward’s stomach growl in response. The saint ladled a portion into a wooden bowl and handed it to Edward.
“Eat,” he urged gently. “You need your strength.”
Edward took the bowl with trembling hands and began to eat. The stew was plain but nourishing, and he ate with the hunger of a man who had not tasted food in days. As he ate, he glanced at the saint, who watched him with kind, knowing eyes.
“Thank you,” Edward murmured between bites. “For your kindness.”
Ambrose nodded. “God’s mercy is boundless. You are not beyond redemption, Edward. You have taken the first step by coming here.”
Edward lowered his eyes, tears stinging their corners. “I have sinned greatly. I fear I am beyond saving.”
“No soul is beyond saving,” Ambrose said firmly. “You must trust in God’s forgiveness and strive to atone for your sins.”
Edward finished his meal in silence, contemplating the saint’s words. The warmth of the fire and the food in his belly brought a semblance of peace to his tormented heart. Perhaps, in this remote hut, under the guidance of Saint Ambrose, he could find a path to redemption.
The storm outside raged on, but within the hut, there was a fragile sense of sanctuary. Edward knew the road ahead would be fraught with trials, but for the first time in a long while, he felt a glimmer of hope. He whispered a silent prayer of thanks, resolved to follow the saint’s guidance and seek forgiveness for his transgressions.
As the night deepened, the two men sat by the fire, the warmth of the flames and the promise of redemption their only comforts in the vast, dark wilderness.