Oracles of Delphi Keep (2 page)

Ian crept a little closer to the door and peered through the crack by the hinge. He could see Madam Dimbleby handing the child, now dressed in a nightgown and wrapped in a blanket, to her cousin. “Well, would you look at that?” Madam Scargill said. “She’s fast asleep. I’m always amazed at what the little ones can sleep through. It must have been frightful out there alone in this weather,” she added, and Ian saw her severe features soften a bit. “How old do you think she is, Maggie?”

“I’d guess she’s near two years,” Madam Dimbleby said as she picked up the pot of tea and poured the steaming amber liquid into a cup.

“She’s small for two,” Madam Scargill replied.

“Yes, but her teeth are well formed, and those eyes were quick to follow my chatter until she fell asleep. I believe she’s between twenty-one months and two years. She’s also got an interesting birthmark on her left shoulder,” said Madam Dimbleby. “It almost looks like an eye.”

“You don’t say?” said Madam Scargill, and Ian saw her pulling gently at the neckline of the toddler’s nightgown. “Ah, I see it,” she said. “Yes, that’s quite unusual.”

“The girl appears to be in good health,” said Madam Dimbleby, sipping her tea. “She’s well fed and seems to have been well taken care of.”

“We’ll have to name her,” Madam Scargill remarked as she sat down with the child in the rocker.

Ian pushed closer to the crack, wanting to get a look at the new child.

“I think we should leave that up to Master Wigby,” replied Madam Dimbleby calmly, setting her cup back on its saucer in her hand. “After all, he’s been intent on watching every bit of her arrival.”

Ian’s eyes bulged in alarm and he jumped back flat against the wall, his heart racing as he thought about fleeing down the hallway back to his room.

Madam Dimbleby chuckled. “Won’t you join us in the nursery, Master Wigby?”

Ian gulped and took a deep breath. There was no getting out of it now. With his head hanging low, he pushed the door of the room fully open. “Hello,” he mumbled. “The man at the door woke me with all that pounding.”

Madam Dimbleby sipped her tea again, a smile at the edges of her lips. “I suspect the storm had you up even before that,” she quipped. “Now come in and say hello to our newest family member.”

Ian walked forward with leaden feet, knowing that the headmistress might be kind to him at the moment but children caught breaking rules were seldom left unpunished. And the rules of the keep were strict. They had to be, with so many orphans running about.

One of the central rules was that children were not to be out of their rooms past bedtime. He’d probably lose his breakfast over this, which was awful, because Ian dearly loved his breakfast. “She’s very pretty,” he said as he stood
before Madam Scargill, who did not seem nearly as amused by his presence as Madam Dimbleby.

“You are aware that children are not to be out of bed past their curfew?” Madam Scargill sniffed.

“He’s aware, Gertrude,” Madam Dimbleby said with a sigh. “But I expect you’ll want him punished for his curiosity.”

“Rules are rules, Maggie,” her cousin said haughtily. “Without them, all we’ve got is anarchy.”

“Oh, very well,” Madam Dimbleby said. “But I shall be the one to administer the punishment.” Setting down her teacup and saucer on a nearby table, she turned to Ian and said, “Your punishment shall have two parts: First, you must name this child, and think of a name that you like, Ian, because you’ll be using it quite a bit from now on. And the reason you’ll need to choose wisely is that the second part will be to entrust the care of this little girl to you. She will be yours to watch over as if she were your own flesh and blood, your own baby sister.”

Ian gulped again. Older children were often entrusted with the care of the younger ones. It helped establish a sense of family for the lonely orphans, and it also helped the two headmistresses keep order in a large keep full of children.

But orphans as young as Ian were never given ward of other children. Usually the responsibility fell to those no younger than seven. Madam Scargill complained, “He’s too young, Maggie.”

But Madam Dimbleby was not to be dissuaded. “He’s always been mature for his age, Gertrude. He’ll be fine.”

Ian looked at the toddler in Madam Scargill’s arms. She was petite and seemed fragile. Her hair was blond, like his
own, and though her eyes were closed, he suspected they’d also be light in color. Her face was oval, her cheeks were round, and her nose was a perfect little nub in the middle. As he looked at her, he realized there was something familiar about her that called to him. “All right, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll try to watch out for her.”

“Of course you will, Ian,” Madam Dimbleby said with a confident smile as she sat back in her chair and picked up her teacup again. “Now go along to bed and think on her name. We shall want to know it tomorrow at breakfast.”

“Oh, but I already have it,” Ian said.

Madam Scargill scoffed. “This should be interesting,” she muttered.

“What name have you come up with, then?” Madam Dimbleby asked with a smile, ignoring her cousin.

“Theodosia,” Ian said matter-of-factly “Theo, for short, and for a last name …” He pondered for a moment before he said, “Fields, for where she was found before she was brought to us.”

Both Madam Dimbleby and Madam Scargill looked surprised as they sat blinking at him for a beat or two. Finally, Madam Dimbleby said, “It’s a perfect name, Ian. Perfect.”

Ian beamed at her, then gave his goodnights and trotted off to bed, eager to get some sleep before taking charge of his new baby sister in the morning.

M
agus the Black stood before a stone hearth, staring blankly into the glowing embers of a flame that heated the room to an uncomfortable degree. Flanking him were two massive beasts, keeping diligent watch, their red eyes darting about the room as drool dripped from their long, vicious fangs. Outside, there was a loud clap of thunder as a storm began to rage.

In the corner of the small flat, lying prone on a dirty cot, was the prisoner, who was now barely recognizable after suffering so through her resistance. She was quiet after her long battle, but this hardly pleased Magus the Black.

Tendrils of inky smoke curled and twisted about the sorcerer’s dark cloak like irritated cobras, reflecting his own frustrations. The flame in the hearth flickered and danced, casting an eerie glow over Magus’s hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and blister-scarred skin. Thin lips pulled pensively over a double row of small, sharply pointed teeth, and two narrow streams of light gray smoke trailed out of his angular nose.

He had thought that the woman was stronger and would withstand the suffering. He’d been quite disappointed to find that she was weaker than she appeared. He growled low in his throat and the beasts eyed him nervously. He paid them no heed while his mind sifted through all that the woman had told him … and all that she hadn’t.

Suddenly, the beasts sniffed the air and growled like their master, their black greasy hackles rising as they both eyed the door. There was a knock and then the door to the flat opened. The beasts continued to growl and a quivering male voice said in his native German, “Master? You’ve sent for me?”

Magus turned and noted the slight flinch from the man in the doorway as their eyes met. The sorcerer’s lips curled slightly. He liked invoking fear. Before speaking, Magus held up his hands in a command to settle the beasts, and they ceased their growling at once and lay down on the stone hearth but continued to watch the man in the doorway intently.

“The woman has revealed that she left the babe in an open field somewhere near the village of Dover,” the sorcerer said, also speaking German, in a voice that was high-pitched and coarse like fine-grade sandpaper. “She believes a horseman she spied from the woods might have rescued the child. Take one of my pets, find the horseman, and bring the child to me—alive.”

The man in the doorway glanced nervously at the tortured figure on the bed. “Dover is a large village, master, and there would be many residents who might own horses. Can
she tell you anything more about the location of the field or the horseman?”

Magus turned back to the hearth and did not answer for a long moment. Finally, he said, “She can tell us nothing more, Dieter. Ever.”

“I see,” said his servant quietly. After a pause he added, “I shall leave for the village immediately and look for the boy.”

Magus turned back to Dieter. “It is a girl child you search for, Van Schuft.”

“A girl?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure …?” Dieter began, but then caught himself. “What I mean, master,” he said, quivering even more, “is that the prophecy states we should search for a boy child.”

Magus rounded on his servant, flames licking the edges of his cape as a choking sulfur stench filled the flat. “You
dare
question me?” he spat.

“No!” said Dieter quickly. “Of course not! I only meant … It’s just … I’m merely pointing out that …”

Magus glowered at the frightened man trembling in fear across the room. “I am aware that the prophecy names a boy,” he rasped in his awful voice. “It would not be the first time the Oracle has sent us in the wrong direction. The woman was clear. The child she bore was a girl.”

“Yes, master,” said Dieter, bowing low as he attempted to back out of the room as quickly as possible.

“And, Dieter,” said Magus.

“Yes, master?”

“Send your wife in to clean up this mess. The stench from that cot displeases me.”

“As you wish, master,” said Dieter, and he made a hasty retreat.

When Dieter had bowed his way out of sight, Magus eyed his she-beast. “Go,” he said, and the hellhound jumped to his bidding. “Kill the horseman, Medea,” he said to the four-footed fiend, “but bring me the child alive. I shall want to assess if she is the One before I kill her.”

To that the she-beast gave an almost imperceptible nod, then trotted out the door.

“W
hich tunnel do you like, Theo?” Ian asked, pointing to the crude map he’d made of all the tunnels he and Theo had discovered since they’d started exploring the cliffs outside their orphanage.

“It’s your birthday, Ian,” Theo said loudly above the noise of the wind coming off the water. “You choose.”

“Right,” he said, hurrying down the small path leading toward the cliffs and the sea. He stopped at one rocky out-cropping and climbed up a boulder to have a look at the landscape.

The White Cliffs of Dover soared majestically some three hundred and fifty feet above the turbulent waters of the Strait of Dover—the narrowest section of the English Channel separating England from continental Europe.

The terrain at the top of the cliffs was often battered by fierce winds that swept in off the sea, making the vegetation lean over on itself and the rocks and boulders look pock-marked. To the west, at the base of the cliffs, was the port of Dover, where ships from neighboring countries such as
France, Belgium, and the Netherlands docked. Ian and Theo would often watch the large ships come into port and unload their cargo of people and goods, and they would talk about the places they’d go when they were old enough to book passage and explore the world.

A kilometer behind Ian was the domineering facade of Castle Dover, a monstrous structure that stood sentry in its regal pose as it surveyed the surrounding countryside and offered the best views of the sea and the coastline of France.

And a kilometer behind Castle Dover was the much smaller structure of Delphi Keep, the residence of the Earl of Kent until Castle Dover had been built about five hundred years later. The keep had been turned into an orphanage by the current Earl of Kent, who held that an eight-hundred-year-old fortress that had withstood assault from foreign invaders for centuries could surely hold up against the thirty-odd children who ran, roughhoused, and played within its halls and called it home.

To the rest of the world, Dover was fairly small, but it was the only home Ian, Theo, and many of the other orphans had ever known.

Ian in particular loved this little patch of England because it offered him such opportunity for adventure. There were the keep and Castle Dover with their many nooks and crannies, the port at the base of the cliffs, the quaint village, and of course the rugged terrain where he now stood, which was host to an abundance of hidden tunnels and secret passageways carved out of the soft, chalky limestone that provided the white cliffs with their beauty and their name.

But at the moment Ian wasn’t thinking about the majesty of the cliffs or the port below. His attention was focused on his map as he turned atop the boulder and considered the terrain against the markers he’d carefully documented. Theo was standing at the giant rock’s base, looking up at him with mild curiosity. “Have you decided yet?” she asked him.

“I think we should check this area,” he said, jumping down from his perch and indicating a rather blank section on his map. “You never know when we’ll find that one tunnel that might contain a bit of treasure,” he added enthusiastically.

Like most boys his age, Ian loved the idea of exploration and hidden treasure. He often fantasized about discovering some gem or historical relic within one of the many tunnels he and Theo explored. His dream was to find something of value so that he could sell it and use the proceeds to help secure his and Theo’s futures once they left the orphanage. At the very least he considered these underground jaunts to be good training for the day when he became a
real
explorer, traveling the globe in search of lost civilizations and hidden treasure. This had been Ian’s life’s ambition since he was seven and read the book
Treasure Island
.

To that end, he and Theo had spent many happy hours belowground, tracing the steps of villagers and warriors from the Middle Ages who had first dug out and even lived in the chalky space under the earth.