Marek (Buried Lore Book 1) (14 page)

Going
with Zola meant I had to have faith that Celeste would be safe. It was the only
way I could leave the city. Once I had met with my sister, and learned
something of my mother and my past, I would enlist Oleander to help search for
her. I believed that Celeste and I were meant to find each other again.

Zola

Marek
became more and more interesting. He genuinely seemed fond of me,
and when I held him after our confrontation, the feeling was mutual. How did a
mere witch exercise such power? I was determined to not let this go any further
at least until he was converted. If something was to go wrong in the process
then I would surely be held accountable, whether it was in fact an error of
judgement
on my part or not.

I
refused to speak any further with Jean earlier that morning and we parted on
bad terms. He of course couldn’t see that he had done anything wrong, so
innocent was his look when he was questioned about the interference in
Marek’s
room. The rest of the evening was my idea, I am
ashamed to admit, for it seemed at first harmless enough.

Jean
and I agreed to play a game with
Marek
and the
fishermen but I am not proud of how it eventuated. He was not supposed to
remember so clearly. We came close to giving our guise away and Oleander would
not have been pleased. The awakening was supposed to be her privilege. And what
of Jean in
Marek’s
room? He said it was nothing, a
misunderstanding, and surmised that Celeste had attempted to suffocate our
other guest during his drug-induced slumber.

But
I knew he was lying and that perhaps he was still continuing his game even
then. I did not read any malice towards
Marek
in
Celeste’s thoughts.

I
was also angry with him for hitting
Marek
hard on the
head. It split the bone and I had to heal him immediately. At times, Jean could
be so infuriatingly silly.

I
knew then that I couldn’t trust Jean to accompany us and I would have to keep
Marek
close until he was delivered safely to Oleander, and
maybe even beyond that. In the meantime another package was on the way to her.
The ridiculous fray that night at least forced an opportunity for disposal.

Celeste

I lay in darkness on the back of a
cart, my hands tied behind my back. I could not see the driver but he was in a
hurry. The wheels careered over bumps and dips in the track, and the horse
skidded on slippery ruts. My shoulder was
pummelled
into the wooden flooring on every bounce.

It
was not my own life that I worried about but the life of my master. It was
still dark when I awoke earlier that morning, my head fuzzy with the poison
those witches had given me at dinner. A shadow had passed by my door and I
stood up from my bed, my legs weak. I opened my door a fraction to see Jean
disappear like a ghost into
Marek’s
room. I followed
his secretive step.

Marek’s
door was slightly ajar. Jean leaned over him whispering and I stepped into the
room. Memories of Zola in the forest came flooding back and the scene before me
was unthinkable. Jean’s lips were drawn, his teeth resting on
Marek’s
neck, the skin not yet broken. Though still not
clear of thought, I instinctively jumped on his back pulling him backwards, and
pushing my fingers into his eyes. I was convinced, and it concurred with
previous stories from my youth, that it was the eyes of these beasts that held
all the power.

This
clearly had an effect. Jean shrieked in pain and thrashed at me from behind,
hitting at my legs. I refused to let go despite the strong blows from his
fists. His panic only strengthened my resolve. I would not let him do to
Marek
what I had witnessed in the forest by Zola.

We
fell into the hall and Zola came so quickly it was as if she slipped through
the attic floorboards above us. She already knew what had happened and scolded
Jean for being so irresponsible. She separated us by a physical strength that I
had never seen in a woman. Then she turned to me. ‘She must be gone now!’ A
coarse blanket was thrust over my head. My arms were pinned to my sides by his
more powerful ones, and I was carried downwards and away into the early
morning. Jean’s strong floral scent seeped through the thick weave of the
blanket. There were words spoken at the bottom of the stairs between Zola and
Jean: hurried terse directions like a tradesman to his apprentice.

In
the cart, my head buzzed and my mouth was dry. I could feel the air gushing
above my head. Even the horse sometimes slowed as it struggled against the
heavy headwind.

When
the cart stopped I heard the voices of people walking past, oblivious of the
blanketed package only feet away. There was the clanging of iron being forged
close by, and the smell of village wood smoke and food stalls. I felt thirst
and hunger but it was not as strong as the desire to be free. I tried to kick
at the side of the cart to alert a helper, for I was surely being sent to my
death. My struggles proved useless with the binding so tight.

Having
witnessed Jean’s actions I was convinced that
Marek
was not truly one of them; that he was not in on their vicious plans to be rid
of me the first moment they could. But I knew that he desired Zola. I had seen
the way he looked at her and this infatuation could be his downfall.

The
cart moved again and the reassuring street chatter gradually disappeared. I had
been gagged with a rag but for no purpose. I wriggled my body around the cart
to avoid further pain in my shoulder. Other objects prevented me from moving
too far.

Exhaustion
eventually turned to sleep and when I woke the morning birds were calling once
again.  The cart took a sharp descent and then a loud jangling and grating
of chains hurt my ears. A doorway opened and the horses took several more steps
forward.

When
my mask was pulled from my head I saw that we were inside a large, dimly lit
room with high ceilings. It appeared to be a servant’s entrance, where sacks of
kitchen waste sat at the bottom of stairs. Water ran through a channel in the
middle of a stone floor, and several stairways led up into other parts of the
building.

I
did not
recognise
the grey-haired man who rode the
cart, dressed in simple worker’s shirt and slippers. He pulled me up in a
sitting position but did not look into my eyes. Another man in finer clothes
greeted him formally. This man looked at me with some interest before handing
the older man a bag with coin. The driver did not count it; this appeared to be
a regular service. He was just a transporter doing his job, no questions asked.
There were several items in the cart: rolled silks, meats wrapped in linen,
apples, tools, fabrics and silverware. I was just part of the merchandise.

The
older man cut the binding from my ankles and helped me off the wagon, while two
servants unloaded the rest of the goods. The other formal man barely
acknowledged me as he led me up a staircase by the rope around my wrists. These
people were handlers and housekeepers only. Something told me I was yet to meet
my foe.

We
entered a large galley. There were cooks and maids busily at their tasks over
steaming cook pots. From the amount of food, it looked as if they were
preparing for a large banquet. They took little notice as I was led past and
down more stairs through hallways that wound through the base of a very large
building, parts of which smelt of damp and rot. We came to what I thought was a
dead end and my guide lit a torch on the wall. He then bent down to open a
square door on the floor.

Beneath
the trap door were more stairs leading down into blackness. He pulled out a
knife and I turned in fright, falling over my own feet and landing heavily on
the side of my face. My guide stepped over me casually to cut the shackles from
my wrists, his expression bland and uncaring as if this experience was normal.
He pulled me up roughly leading me to the trap door again.

‘Down,’
he said, pointing to the stairs. But I saw only blackness and thought that once
inside I might never come out. I made a desperate move for freedom by shoving
the fire torch towards his face, close enough to singe his eyebrows. He swore
and cursed, grabbing at his face, and I used the time to run down the hallways.
There were turns everywhere but I soon came to the stairs returning upward to
the galley. I checked behind me. There was no sign of my captor or the sound of
his footsteps. I turned forward once more to run headlong into Jean.

Marek

With my head still buzzing from the
effects of the wine and the events of the night before, I began to wonder
whether I was on the precipice of madness. I was balanced finely between
reality and what happened in my dreams. For those so-called fictitious memories
were linked to more physical sensations such as a smell or a touch. I could
remember vividly the feel of the rough wood on the edge of the boat, and
this perhaps could be supported by a splinter I examined under my
fingernail
. And the smell of fish blood soaked into timber still
lingered about my person. Surely these things were not made up. There was no
point in confronting Zola again. She would again tell me unconvincingly that I
had imagined it. Yet, despite her lies, there were moments I doubted my own
convictions. Perhaps it was that I wanted her to lie to me so I did not
confront what I had become – an accomplice to murder.

A
horse and carriage clattered to a halt outside. From my window I watched the
driver enter Zola’s house. The world outside was black and white, and veils of
snow
unravelled
from the sky. The river beyond was
nearly frozen. It was a most splendid sight and nothing like I had experienced
in the warm sunny days of my youth. The streets appeared unsuitable for travel.
The wheels of carts had cut a path in the snow and horses trudged and dragged
their loads begrudgingly. I hoped that Celeste was somewhere warm.

Clothes
had been laid out for me on a chair. A long, quilted jacket made to fit tightly
to my chest and waist. The black tights were made from animal skins, and lined
with silk. Everything was tailored perfectly as if I had been carefully measured
in my sleep. It looked ridiculously fine for such a long day of travel ahead. A
packed bag lay at the end of the bed. Inside were my clothes from Valona,
cleaned and folded. I carried my
woollen
cloak over
my arm and headed down the stairs. Zola was moving around downstairs ordering
workers to carry bags.

She
was dressed in charcoal velvet, trimmed with white and black lace. Her milky,
soft skin above the bodice was flawless, her full lips
coloured
rose-pink
, and her auburn hair curled and pinned to
the back of her head. She completed her dress with a hat trimmed with feathers,
and a short black cape around her shoulders. The effect was both beautiful and
masterly.

We
sat in the carriage opposite one another with the boy next to Zola. Zeke was
dressed in a new shirt with ruffles at the front and a small fur lined jacket.
He wore boots also lined with fur. His face had been scrubbed of weeks of dirt
and his hair washed and trimmed. He looked a lot fairer now he was cleaned.
Zola chatted about the city, pointing out interesting features from our window
along the way. The city gradually disappeared from view and we entered
well-used cart tracks. After several hours, through which mostly I had dozed,
we were ready for a chance to stretch our legs. A short time later, I was
relieved to arrive at an inn where we ordered roast duck and fruit brandy. Zeke
was given hot milk with honey.

When
we returned to our transport the night sky was nearly upon us and the air had
grown thick with fog. The driver complained that we would have to go slow. The
tracks began to narrow and it was clear from the bumpy ride that this was a
route rarely travelled. Outside our carriage all we could see were tall pines
and snow. And beyond was more dense mist. It gave me the feeling that we were
trapped and travelling around in circles. For several hours, the view never
changed; around and around we went, tree after tree, with the repetitive
swooshing of wheels and the rhythmic clopping by hooves.

*

Zola put her hand on my knee.

‘We
are here,
Marek
,’ she said excitedly. Zeke had been
sleeping on her lap and sat up craning his neck to peer through the small
window. ‘Look! Your new home.’

I
had slept heavily and was shocked to learn that it was the afternoon of the
following day. The sun was buried deep within the clouds and it seemed at first
that it was the same view I had seen for hours the previous evening. Then
through the fog it rose. Inch by inch, foot by foot, the house appeared –
a large grey spiky beast on the horizon. It was monstrous, much larger than the
monastery in Gus. This structure had multiple turrets and several levels built
with large ashen blocks. Sculptures guarded the gated entrance and as we drove
closer I discovered they were terrifying to look at. Part animal, part human,
with horns on either side of their heads, poised to pounce, their fangs
extended, their claws outstretched. They loomed through the mist as if they
might jump at our carriage. We stopped abruptly when the horses reared and
whinnied. The driver shouted and cracked his whip before we were able to
continue. I can now appreciate a horse’s intuition: our beasts were aware, long
before Zeke and I, of forces unseen.