Lightning flashed, turning the afternoon sky a brilliant white and striking a tree across the field. It burst into flames. Cas thought he could hear his brother’s curses all the way from the back of the train.
Lena reached past the king, covered Cas’ head with a warm towel, and rubbed vigorously. When she pulled the towel away, everyone in the carriage smiled. He could only imagine what he looked like, hair stuck out in every direction. “It will be dark soon.” Lena swiped at his face with a gentler hand. “Be careful.”
“Lady.” Cas returned her smile and rode off.
He took Bittor and two others with him. They rode as fast as the storm allowed, dodging holes and keeping a sharp eye out for wolves and lynx. Neither were spotted, but Cas heard them occasionally. Howling from the mountains. Hissing in the rain.
A stone arch signaled the entrance to the castle. They rode beneath it, their pace slowing considerably as they navigated the overgrown path. Trees and ivy closed in on both sides. The carriages would only just be able to travel through. Cas and his companions came to a halt at the end of the road and stared in dismay.
Bittor was the first to speak, rainwater dripping off his nose. “I say we risk the storm.”
“Hear, hear,” another soldier muttered.
Cas was tempted. A less welcoming home he had yet to see. This was not the place he remembered visiting during his boyhood. The castle stood three stories tall, built of pewter stone that mimicked the color of the sky. Black slate tiles covered the roof. Half the windows were broken. The wind and rain whipped the draperies out into the open between the shards and the cracks. Steps led up to a set of doors, each bearing a red cross. Faded, but still unsettling. This had once been a house of plague.
Lightning struck again, followed by the long, ominous roll of thunder.
From Ventillas, Cas had learned that the pestilence had struck Lord Pastor and his entire family. A wife and two young children. None had survived. The closest sheriff lived in a town days away. He had come, eventually, to see to their burials and to wrap chains around the front doors. By then, the servants had died or fled, and the house had been looted down to the floorboards. All that had been left were the corpses, moldering in their beds. A tragic place.
Still, they needed whatever shelter it could provide. “We’re too near the river,” Cas said. “We can’t risk the carriages being caught in a flood.”
“What about . . . ?” One of the soldiers gestured at the painted crosses on the doors.
“It’s been a year. It doesn’t linger in a home for so long.”
Cas directed one man to check the stables, another to locate a brush to scrub away the crosses. For that, rainwater would be useful. Cas made quick work of the chains on the doors with his mace, prompting Bittor to say he would be getting one of his own at the first opportunity. Cas shoved open the doors.
Even with Ventillas’ warning, he was unprepared for the sight of the great hall. He remembered gracious furniture and tapestries on the walls. There had been blazing torchlight and a fireplace so large ten men could stand shoulder to shoulder within its vastness. The fireplace was still here, cold and dark. Everything else was gone.
Bittor whistled. “This is brazen work. Did you know the family?”
“A little.” Cas turned full circle, heart heavy with the sorrow of their passing. “We came for the children’s naming ceremonies. Pastor would have been . . . ten? Clara five by now. They were a nice family.”
Bittor went to stand in front of the fireplace. His sopping cloak left great puddles in his wake. With his back to Cas, he said, “My sister’s name was Clara.”
“Was?”
When Bittor turned, his expression was unreadable. “A year ago. She was twelve.”
Cas remembered standing by the lake in Palmerin, believing his own brother had been taken by the plague. It had felt like the end of the world. He placed a hand over his heart. “I am sorry.”
Bittor looked away. He cleared his throat. “I say we skip the clearing. No one’s been here in ages.”
Bittor had a point. The dust was thick beneath their boots. No prints but their own were visible. “I told Ventillas we’d clear it. You start back there. I’ll go upstairs.”
Sighing, Bittor walked off. While one soldier scrubbed industriously at the red paint, the second came in from the rain. The stable was empty, he said. Every saddle gone. Every iron bucket. Someone had even removed the wooden boards separating the stalls and carried them away. Cas sent him to help Bittor.
Cas went upstairs, bringing a torch with him. It was colder here, wetter. All these broken windows. The wind whistled through the fractured panes, causing his torchlight to sputter and dance. Cas shivered. This floor was not as empty as the one below. Furniture had been left behind. Giant trunks and carved chests, heavy mahogany bed frames. Pieces too cumbersome for thieves to transport. The mattress ticking was nowhere to be seen, and he could only hope someone had taken the time to burn it.
Two chambers looked as if they had once been meant for a boy and a girl. He did not linger in those rooms.
“Oy!” Bittor hollered from below. “There’s no one here. What now?”
Cas retraced his steps. The men were gathered near the front door, where the crosses were no longer visible. He sent Bittor and one other to meet the train. They would need help avoiding the ruts and pits in the gathering darkness. The third soldier would stand guard by the main entry, beneath the arch.
As soon as they departed, Cas started on the fire. He collected pieces of broken furniture, a chair leg here, a shattered table there, and tossed them into the fireplace. There was no way of knowing beforehand if birds had built nests high in the chute. Once the flames caught hold, he watched with bated breath to see if a sparrow or robin would tumble down. To his relief, no birds appeared. The fire burned clean.
When that was done, Cas went upstairs to search the rest of the castle. The torchlight threw shadows into every corner. On the second floor, he found a smaller stairwell, steep and narrow, that led to the third floor. It was only because he was looking down, making certain he did not miss a step, that he saw them.
Footprints in the dust.
They went up and they went down. The prints overlapped one another. He lifted the torch high and considered. It was too late to climb the steps quietly. They creaked and groaned beneath his weight. If there was someone hiding above, they knew he was coming. He left his mace at his back. Maybe he would have cause to regret it, but he did not want to risk frightening whoever was up there. The footsteps he followed belonged to a child. One who wore no shoes on this wet, miserable autumn day.