The entirety of the castle staff had assembled in the Great Hall: two stewards, four chambermaids, two gardeners, two charwomen, the trio of cooks, the butterer, four scullery maids, the smith, herbalist, vintner, dyer, tailor, furrier, mercer, milliner, scribe, four grooms, a stable boy, woodcutter, food tester, sheriff, chamberlain, tax collector, treasurer, keeper of the wardrobe, her handmaiden, and the sergeant-at-arms with his six men. Lady Dulgath stood before them, demanding that the person or persons responsible for destroying Sherwood’s easel and paints step forward.
No one did.
Sherwood wasn’t surprised, but he was touched by the emotion in Lady Dulgath’s voice as she made her demand. She was angry. Perhaps — most likely — certainly — she was upset that his property was damaged in her home. She had suffered the embarrassment of failing to protect her guest. Still, Sherwood entertained the whisper-thin notion that she reacted so harshly because she liked him. She had said his name, after all. Wasn’t much to base a verdict on, but Sherwood was in a vulnerable state, and he clung to the idea like an ant riding a leaf in the middle of a flood.
The loss of his paints, palette, brushes, and easel was a mortal blow. They were irreplaceable. The set of tools had taken generations of master artists to build, amass, and perfect. Each painter loathed using up the better pigments, and was always saving to add more color to the collection. Some contributed a different brush or two; in Sherwood’s case, it was walnut oil. When he died, the collection would have been left to an apprentice; he just didn’t know who that would be. Now he had nothing to pass on.
Sherwood calculated that if he painted every noble’s face for the rest of his life, he still couldn’t hope to replace what had been lost. Deprived of the tools of his trade, he couldn’t even feed himself. But worse than all that was the deep disappointment of not finishing Nysa’s portrait. He had so wanted to. He needed to see all of what lay beyond the veil that could only be shown through the slow process of peeling back and layering up.
Feeling the winds of the hurricane blowing, Sherwood left the gathering and sat on the stone carving of a dragon that decorated the castle’s reception hall. Castle Dulgath was famous for its sculptures.
Or ought to be, he thought.
Much of the castle was crafted from stone, and so beautifully done that rumors persisted about it once being a dwarven fortress. Sherwood didn’t think that was true. He’d been to the ruins of Linden Lott and had seen the ancient dwarven capital. He’d witnessed the skillful precision on a scale no longer possible. The sort of creative artistry on display in Dulgath was wholly different.
Dwarven designs were massive, practical, and tended to use geometric shapes. Castle Dulgath’s statues and reliefs were whimsical and breathtakingly lifelike. The dragon, whose paw he sat on, lay curled up, eyes closed as if it were a sleeping dog — only one of many such decorations. The west tower that stood on the very edge of the sea-battered cliff was adorned with clawed feet at its base — a beautification that few ever saw. The stone railings that led to the fifth floor — the private quarters off limits to all but a few — were adorned with delicately sculpted ivy that hung down like the real thing. A stone otter playing with a pinecone was hidden in a corner of the kitchen pantry, and the wall in the courtyard before the common well was decorated with a bas-relief of a school of fish swimming past. After two months, Sherwood was still discovering hidden treasures. Who had been responsible for the secret wealth of artistry, he couldn’t discover. Apparently, no one remembered.
What am I going to do? The thought had been rattling inside his skull ever since its predecessors: Why me? and This isn’t real tired themselves out. Two new thoughts muscled their way in: I’m going to starve and My life is over.
Sitting on the dragon’s paw he felt tears welling in his eyes as the full weight of his loss descended. His mouth folded up, as if a purse string ran through his lips and a miser had pulled them taut. Just then, Lord Fawkes entered the castle. Sherwood hadn’t thought his day could get worse, but his hurricane of bad luck wasn’t done raining. Fawkes spotted him and changed course.
“Stow, I just heard,” he said, shaking his head with sympathy so blatantly false that Sherwood could hear the laughter behind it. “Bad break. What are you going to do now? You don’t have any extra supplies, do you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what you’ll do now or whether you have extra supplies?”
“Leave me alone, please.” Sherwood wiped his eyes, dragging the tears over his cheeks.
“Are you seriously crying over spilled paint?” Fawkes put a foot up on one of the dragon’s massive claws and leaned in. “People are dying every day.” He held out a hand about knee-high. “Children starving to death on crowded streets, women raped, men butchered in mindless campaigns for stupid rulers. The world is full of unjust misery, and here you are sobbing over paint? You’re quite the sniveling little quim, aren’t you?”
“Surely a lord of your stature has better things to do?”
“Of course, but I like to be generous to the downtrodden. I suspect you are low on funds — you artist types aren’t known for budgeting your money. I thought I would offer my assistance. I’ve purchased a horse this morning and wish to have it taken back to Mehan. I’m in need of a courier, and you could use the money. I’ll pay you to ride her home for me. I suspect Her Ladyship will be willing to provide you with adequate food and whatever supplies you’ll need, seeing as how she’s sort of at fault for your situation.”
“She didn’t do it.”
“She didn’t stop it, either, but that’s a triviality. What is important is that this is your lucky day, Stow. On the heels of your disaster comes good fortune. The horse is in the stable, a chestnut named Eloise. She came with saddle and tack. You can pack your bags and be on your way to Mehan by midday. I’ll pay you five silver for the trip because I’m feeling generous and because of your misadventure. So stop your blubbering and start packing.” Fawkes clapped his hands and grinned, eyes bright with happiness, as if this news was equally good for him and Sherwood.
“Excuse me,” Sherwood said. He got to his feet, turned his back on Lord Fawkes, and walked away.
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Sherwood had no idea where he was off to. Not thinking — not capable of sound thought — he’d taken the obvious path before him. He moved toward the light coming in the front doors of the castle instead of going back inside where he might have lost himself in the many corridors and rooms. All he wanted was to get away. Sherwood knew Lord Fawkes was watching; he felt eyes boring into his back.
He walked out through the big doors onto the stone porch. Castle Dulgath wasn’t built correctly. Sherwood had been to most of the strongholds across Avryn and even a few in Trent and western Calis. None were like this. The differences went beyond the intricate decorations. The porch was a good example — castles didn’t have porches. Fortresses were built for defense and were circled by a curtain wall with ramparts and turrets. The others all had a single massive entry composed of three formidable barriers — a drawbridge, a sturdy gate, and a portcullis. Such strongholds didn’t always have moats, but those without had ditches.
In contrast, Dulgath sported a wide porch with columns that held up the extended roof to shade it from the summer sun. This was less a fortress and more a glorified country manor. That was one of the things Sherwood loved about the castle and, by extension, Nysa Dulgath.
Once on the porch, he made a quick turn to the right to break Fawkes’s line of sight. Immediately his back felt better. Elevated as he was, Sherwood had a broad view of the courtyard. The shadow cast by the east tower divided the yard into dark and light, the contrast leaving those areas in the sun so brilliant they looked washed out. Having no place to go except away from Fawkes, Sherwood stopped three steps after making his escape and stood dumbly on the porch. He was acutely aware of how his arms hung pointlessly at his sides, how heavy his body felt, how dry his mouth was, and how none of it mattered. Depression was closing in; the dark clouds were circling, creeping up, preparing to smother. Just then, he saw movement, or thought he did.
Like his arms, his eyes had been left with no clear direction. Sherwood had been aimlessly staring because at that moment he found even the effort of shifting his gaze to be too much. If he had been walking or merely glancing around the way a person typically might, he never would have noticed the motion. Having seen the subtle shift of light and darkness near the well, he was slow to grasp the impossibility of what he saw. No one was there and nothing was moving in the breeze, because there wasn’t one.
A cloud — maybe? Or a bird’s shadow?
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Sherwood stepped off the porch and looked up. The sky was clear.
Everyone — everyone is in the Great Hall. So who — or what — is near the well?
The or what surprised him. Sherwood wasn’t usually a believer in the fantastical. He’d spent too many drunken nights with court entertainers. Minstrels, poets, and storytellers accepted him as part of their club and told him the real stories behind the tales of valor and wonder. At a young age, he discovered the truth about the world — mysteries were designed for a purpose, and if something seemed too fantastical to be true, it was. But he was the only audience in the courtyard, and he’d entered only a second before. What had moved in that corner of the yard didn’t look human. Nothing more than a shadow, but the movement was strange, too fast, and —
Didn’t it go up rather than across?
Such a thing wasn’t possible. There hadn’t been a sound. In the stillness of the empty, windless yard, Sherwood could’ve heard a leaf fall, but there was nothing.
Who or what is near the well?
The question lingered, and Sherwood realized that the hurricane — with its dreadful, smothering clouds — was holding off. The storm had miraculously been brought to bay by this aberration. Keeping his eyes locked on the spot, he descended the steps and started across the courtyard.
Along with the odd sense that what he’d seen wasn’t normal was the equally strong impression that it wasn’t good. With each step, he became more certain of two things. The first was the wickedness of what he approached, and the second was that it was still there. Just a day before, he would have returned inside, but it wasn’t the previous day and Sherwood found himself not so much brave as invincible. He was a soaked man caught in a summer rainstorm.
What harm can it do that hasn’t already been done?
The inner ward’s well was set in a niche surrounded on three sides by screening walls. Sherwood was certain something was hiding in that little space where his sight was blocked. Crossing the yard, he approached the well head-on, but saw nothing except the beautiful stone mural of fish and the side-cranking windlass that looked a bit like a sailing ship’s wheel.
“Sir?”
Sherwood jumped at the sound.
“Mister Stow?” Rissa Lyn had followed him across the yard. In both her hands, she held empty buckets.
He must have looked strange, creeping up on the well and staring at it. The expression on her face said as much. She even gave a concerned glance at the well, and then another behind her.
“Is the . . . ah — has Lady Dulgath concluded her meeting then?” he asked, trying his best to sound sane.
“Yes, sir.”
“No one admitted to it, did they?”
“No, sir.”
“I didn’t think they would.”
“Me neither, sir.”
Sherwood nodded and forced a smile that must have been miserable, judging by the way Rissa Lyn grimaced in return.
“I’m sorry. You’re here to fetch water. Don’t let me get in your way.” He gave a curt nod and started back toward the castle.
“Sir?”
He paused, turning to look at Rissa Lyn standing in the sunlight. She was still grimacing, but not at him. She looked frightened.
“What is it?”
“I know who busted up your things,” the maid said in a whisper, her sight darting toward the castle doors. Then she turned and walked to the well, setting the buckets down and reaching out for the windlass crank.
“Let me help you with that,” Sherwood said, and rushed over to rotate the wheel.
“Thank you, sir. You’re too kind, sir,” Rissa Lyn said loudly. Then, as he began cranking, she whispered, “I was woken by the noise, an awful cracking. I often sleep in the linen storage. It saves me from crossing the yard in the dark.”
She glanced around apprehensively at the old walls. “No one cares ’cause it’s just me who goes in there. So I was just down the hall, you see, and I heard it. I don’t know what I was thinking . . . going down there, I mean. It sounded like a monster was loose in the castle — crashes, shattering glass, cracks, grunts, and under all of that a muttering like someone was talking to themselves. I honestly don’t know how I found the courage to peer through the crack in the doorway.”
“What did you see?” Already Sherwood had convinced himself that the phantom shadow near the well was some ancient ghost or demon responsible for the destruction of his easel and paints. Rissa Lyn’s answer was both disappointing and depressing.
“Was Lord Fawkes, sir.” She emptied the water from the well’s bucket into one of her own. “He was in the study working up a sweat after taking a real dislike to your painting stand. Hard work, I guess, difficult to break.”
“Did he see you?”
“Oh — no, sir. I just took a peek, and when I saw who it was, I ran back to my cupboard. People think he’s swell and all, but — he scares me.”
Sherwood let the wheel spin, taking the haul back down to the bottom of the well. “Scares me, too.”
This made her smile at him for the first time. “It just wasn’t right for him to do that, not to someone as . . . well, as nice as you.”
“Thank you, Rissa Lyn.” He started cranking again. “Did you tell Lady Dulgath?”
The smile vanished and that look of fear rushed back. “No, sir.”
“Why not? She was asking for —”
“She was asking for the guilty to step forward. His Lordship wasn’t there. And if he were, he wouldn’t bother.”
“But you could’ve explained about seeing him.”
She shook her head. Rissa Lyn had curly hair that jiggled like leaves on a bush well after she stopped. “He would find out, and who would believe me? He’d just deny it, and then I would be in trouble for lying, even though I wasn’t.” She bit her lip, and he understood.
Sherwood wasn’t making idle conversation about Lord Fawkes being scary. The lord had the brutal aggression of ambitious men. He wouldn’t think twice about crushing or intimidating those he saw as below him.
Sherwood grabbed the well’s bucket this time and filled her other bucket. “You can still tell Lady Dulgath in private. Talk to her like you’re doing with me now. No one but you and she would know what you said.”
The curls shook again. “Me and Her Ladyship . . . we . . . I don’t speak to her.”
“You’re her handmaiden, right?”
When Sherwood was interested in a noblewoman, he usually worked through her handmaiden. They were the front door to any lady’s heart — or at least her bed. Noblewomen maintained a distinct delineation between servants and gentry, but exceptions were often granted for their personal maids, who were sometimes as close as sisters. This was one of the reasons why he’d always made it a point to say good morning to Rissa Lyn. He’d even brought her pretty shells from his walks on the shore and flowers from the roadside.
Rissa Lyn nodded, but behind her eyes was that same fear.
She’s not afraid of Fawkes. She’s afraid of Lady Dulgath.
“What’s wrong?” He set the haul back on the edge of the well.
“Nothing, sir. Thank you for the help, sir. And please, don’t tell nobody that I was the one who saw His Lordship, sir. I only told you because . . . I have to go, sir.”
She grabbed up the two buckets and ran off, spilling much of the water as she went.
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Sherwood stood in the well niche, watching Rissa Lyn disappear into the dark of the castle. She left an intermittent trail of damp spots.
“She’s hiding something,” a low voice said in his ear.
Sherwood jumped, pushed away, slipped, and fell on the decorative stone that fanned around the base of the well. Over him appeared a man in a long black cloak with the hood drawn up.
“I want to ask you some questions.”
When Sherwood’s heart stopped racing and his ability to breathe returned, he realized he knew who the man was — one of the two who had met Nysa the previous morning.
“Too bad. I don’t want to answer any.” Sherwood got his feet back under himself. “Go away.”
“Your wants aren’t my concern.”
Royce Melborn — at least he thought that was the man’s name — reached menacingly into his cloak.
Sherwood was already preparing his feet to run when the hand came out. He’d expected a dagger. What he saw instead stopped him. The man in the cloak was holding the glass bottle of Beyond the Sea. “I thought . . . I expected you would’ve destroyed that. Thrown it away or something.” He held out his hand. “Give it back.”
“No,” Melborn said. “You gave it to me.”
“I threw it at you.”
“Gave, threw — same thing.”
“No, it’s not.” He reached for the vial, but Melborn snatched it away.
“Better be the same thing because otherwise sending it my way could be interpreted as assaulting a constable. That’s a serious offense.”
“You’re not a constable.”
“I have a writ. Do you want to see it?”
“Have you forgotten I was there when you were presented to Lady Dulgath? I know you’re not a constable. Any writ you have is a forgery.”
“I don’t need a writ to get answers. I have better ways to extract information. Let’s go up to your room where we can speak in private.”
“No!”
Royce smiled and tossed the bottle of pigment high into the air. It spun, glinting in the sun.
Sherwood gasped as it came hurtling back down. He expected a brilliant burst of blue on the stone at their feet, but Melborn snatched it out of the air.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk?” Melborn asked, and motioned as if he were about to throw it again.
“Don’t! You don’t know what you’re doing!”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you even know what you’re holding?”
“This?” Melborn looked at the bottle, turning it back and forth. “This is Ultramarine, commonly known as Beyond the Sea, a pigment made from pulverizing the semiprecious stone lapis lazuli into a powder. It’s ideal for dyeing cloth or mixing with egg yolks to make tempera for painting.”
Sherwood stared openmouthed for a moment. “I actually use oil.”
“What kind?”
“Walnut.”
“Try linseed sometime.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Used to be in the business.”
“You were a painter?”
Melborn shook his hood. “Illegal imports. Beyond the Sea is one of the exclusive trade items brought in through the Vandon Supply Company — a pretty way of saying it’s pirated. This stuff goes for one hundred gold tenents an ounce. What is this?” Melborn held up the bottle to his ear and shook it. “Two, two-and-a-half ounces?”
“Three. Unless you’ve poured some out.”
“Nope, all still here.” Melborn began tossing the bottle back and forth between his hands. “Sure you don’t want to invite me to your room for some tea and cookies?”
“I don’t have either, but . . .” Sherwood’s stomach lurched with each toss. “Are you saying you’ll give that back if I cooperate?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Okay.”
“And one more thing.”
Sherwood cringed, knowing the offer was too good to be true. “What?”
“I want an apology for throwing it at me. That wasn’t very nice.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There, doesn’t that make you feel better?” Melborn stepped past him and led the way back across the yard.
Sherwood realized that the dark clouds had retreated a bit. That bottle — if he did get it back — would save his career and possibly his life. As much as he would loathe doing it, he could sell it in Mehan and use the coin to replace at least some of what was lost. There would be enough to get him painting again. Sherwood wouldn’t be able to take any noble commissions, not without his precious blue pigment, but merchants liked portraits, too.
As he watched Melborn’s cloak whip behind him, and the man slipped into the shadows of the porch, Sherwood was reminded of the thing in the shadows. The thing that wasn’t quite human. He’d found his ghost.