Chapter Three
Anora stared with a hopeful expression out of her chamber window to the vast horizon, hands tucked under her head and elbows resting on the window’s ledge. It was another lonely day, one of the countless many she had endured in her secluded tower, isolated, and locked away. She always woke up with the lunar dawn, taking what time she could for herself before tending to the day’s chores. In those moments, she often looked toward the Fall Mountains to the north and thought about where she came from, whether the lands beyond the Fall would lead her to her birthplace. Although, they were too far away for her to see she knew what direction they were.
She knew little to nothing about her home, only that she was taken from it when she was a baby and brought to the high towers of Castle Blackthorn where she would spend the rest of her life in humble servitude to the countess of the keep. Nightfall was constant in Valtheia, where Blackthorn rested, a place where time was split between the lunar day and the deeper night. Outsiders called their lands cursed by eternal night, but to the Valtheians, it was the world they loved; a world they had fought for and cherished.
With little time left before she had to start her chores, she decided to read a few pages of a tome she had began the night before: “Anatomy of Lycanth Species” written by the fabled alchemists of the Puritanica as a study into the shapeshifting ability of the demi-wolf. It was a simpler means of distraction, simpler than sulking in her isolation and waiting for one of her keepers to call upon her for something routine or useless; or worse: ordinary.
When she was done reading, she yawned, stretched, and laid down on the bed in her chambers. Much could be said about being isolated, about how slowly or quickly time went. For her, eighteen years of being alone doing almost nothing had become tiresome to the point of near madness. She had alphabetized, re-alphabetized and reverse alphabetized her tomes countless times, even going as far as to arrange them by the first letter of the first word of the first chapter.
“Row eleven hundred B,” she whispered, recalling where the tome belonged on the tomecase. After returning it, she frowned. It was upside down. No, that won’t do at all. She thought, preferring things to be in order, and quickly straightened it.
Her room was sparsely furnished yet comfortable, reflecting both her status and role within the castle. A simple bed with a straw-stuffed mattress and plain woolen blankets occupied one corner, while a small wooden table and stool for meals sat by the room’s one narrow window. A trunk at the foot of her bed contained her two modest dresses and apron, along with a few other garments.
On the top shelf of her wardrobe were fragrances and vials of Lunar Water, which was crisp, unsoiled, refreshing and more importantly she knew where it came from. There was a stream nearby that she used to fill the vials. No one knew about it except her and that made it hers, and hers alone. She grabbed a clean hand towel and mixed the water with a dash of fragrance. Almost immediately, she was hit by the alluring scent of lavender and fresh flowers.
It took nearly three years for her to get the lavender fragrance, by nurturing the seeds she had found in the Gloomy Woods. It wasn’t as though she had any particular reason for using it, but she couldn’t help but feel like a woman and the desires that came with being one. Silly, she thought, it was silly that she wanted to smell nice even though there was no one to smell nice for.
A cheval mirror was situated near her bed, and she paused for a moment to look at herself. In her opinion, she wasn’t particularly tall or as “shapely” as other women she’d seen in paintings and lacked any sort of “life” in her appearance. Her pale skin and eyes complimented her long hair, which cascaded down her back, framing her delicate body. In fact, the only unique feature she felt she had were the two small wings sprouting from the sides of her head; which looked bigger than they actually were, in comparison to her petite frame.
When she was done, she rubbed a cocktail of Dorpen Nectar and Filament Oil over her neck and arms and paused as a feeling of regret came over her. Her master and keeper, the dark sorceress Odessa Lancroft, never approved of Anora’s use of perfumed oils. It was an indulgence Anora loved, one that brought calm and levity to her situation; a routine that, if she missed, would make her feel off. The lotion and oil soothed her muscles and made her skin feel as soft as velvet. She used an entire bottle of Flower’d Silk in her hair and combed it. There were always a set number of strokes she had for each side of her head: five hundred. When she had completed a thousand strokes, she let out a relieved sigh, grateful that she was done. She then quickly dressed in a faded gown and tattered apron, splashed some water on her face from the basin, and left the room.
***
Blackthorn Castle was made from dark stone and blackened wood and surrounded by ramparts and outbuildings. At the front was a massive iron gate and beyond it was the Gloomy Woods; a fog-shrouded forest with an unearthly feel to it. The upkeep of the castle was tended to by the handmaidens, one of which was Anora. She began her day by eating a meager breakfast, which consisted of a bowl of porridge, a hunk of bread and a cup of milk. Afterward, she swept the soot-stained hearth, scrubbed the floors. And when the nobles of the castle finally woke up, she drew their baths, laid out their clothes and fetched anything they requested. Then, it was off to the chicken coop.
The coop itself was simple, with rows of nesting boxes and perches for the chickens to roost. Straw covered the floor and light pierced through the cracks in the wood-planked roof. With basket in hand, she began cleaning and collecting the still-warm eggs from the clucking hens. She was always the first to arrive, and the other handmaidens, Mara, Klissa, Catrin and Rosie, followed shortly after—almost like clockwork. They wore peasant clothing but had bracelets to show they were handmaidens of the Castle.
“Good morning,” Anora greeted as they entered.
Klissa, the tallest and curviest, made it a point to glare sharply at Anora, never masking her disdain. The others made their dislike for her just as obvious as they went straight to work.
“Listen ladies, Odessa wants ten chickens for slaughter,” remarked Klissa to the other three.
“Ten?” exclaimed Rosie. Her face was plump, and her stature was short. “They’re all producin’ so well,” she hoisted up an egg for them to see. “Oi, look at this one! It’s as big as the lord’s ego, innit?”
“Right, ten chickens, one swine and not to mention fifty loafs of bread in two days,” added Klissa.
Catrin, whose short hair gave her a boyish look, chimed in, “They expect the four of us to get it all done?”
“When in the world do we ‘ave the time?” Rosie exclaimed, more dramatic than before. “Between scrubbin’ pots and dodgin’ the Lady Odessa’s tantrums, I reckon we’ll ‘ave to squeeze in chicken-slaughterin’ during tea break!?”
“Tea break?” Mara teased. Her appearance was sleek and slender, similar to a crow or a narrow snouted animal. “My dear, don’t you remember that we are servants?”
“I can help,” Anora offered meekly.
The four shot her stern looks, making their dislike of her painfully obvious. Anora wasn’t naïve to it, she knew that they didn’t care much for her; despite her attempts to make friends with them over the years.
Klissa approached, looking at her with contempt. “If we needed help from the spoiled dead girl then we’d ask.”
“I’m not spoiled,” Anora told her.
Klissa’s hand shot out, grabbing Anora by the wrist. “No callouses, soft…and spoiled,” she said, inspecting Anora’s hands. “Pick the fattest ones,” she told the others, before turning her attention back to Anora, “you want to help us, dead girl, then clean the shite out of the stables.”
As the girls started taking chickens from their nests, Anora left, going directly to the stables. She shoveled the manure from the horses and reflected on Klissa’s remarks.
I don’t blame them, she thought. After all, they shared one cramped room, whereas she had a chamber with amenities. A part of her wanted to relate to the girls, but deep down she knew that was nearly impossible.
When her morning chores were done it was required of her to report to the keep, which was located at the far end of the castle grounds. The keep an intimidating sight, made from blackened stone, with lance-like spires that pierced the night sky. Deep red, almost black, vines were coiled along the walls and grotesque statues of demons and devils gave it a menacing, haunting, appearance. It was there that Odessa waited every day. Anora was never one to be late, but the extra time it took to clean the stables put her behind schedule. As she neared the keep, she saw that the heavy oak door was open.
Before entering, she stopped to gather her composure. And after a few deep breaths, she calmed her nerves and stepped past the threshold. At opposite ends of the foyer were twin staircases that spiraled up to a loft, where Odessa the Pale Enchantress waited. She commanded the Castle and was cousin to the Deathless King. Her wavy brown hair rested on her shoulders and across her gown. Long spiral horns on her head twisted their way skyward and black metal nails hung from her rigid fingers. She was intimidating in her stature, a true Viempire witch in every sense, and her soulless eyes kept an unyielding gaze locked on Anora as she entered.
“You are late,” Odessa scolded angrily. “Explain yourself.”
Anora politely bowed, before joining her on the loft. “My apologies, master, I-I was tending to the grounds…they required more time than usual today.”
“The grounds that have not changed in years. Your chores never take you this long,” Odessa remarked, her tone biting. “Do not insult me with lies, child.”
Anora’s mind raced. “I...I must have been slow today.”
“Slow?” Odessa tilted her head. “I smell perfumes on you. Vanity making you sluggish?”
“No, I-“
Odessa cut her off, “Or perhaps you are you having thoughts of men?”
Embarrassed, Anora gave a shy answer, “N-no.”
“Good,” Odessa said sharply. “Men are rabid beasts, driven only by appetite. It would be best for you to suppress any girlish fancies.”
Anora bowed her head. “Yes, master.”
Odessa took a vial of clear liquid from one of many shelves in the loft. “I want to believe you, but you are a child and children lie.”
Anora scurried a few steps back, afraid of the bottle. “Please, I assure you, I spoke true! I shall not be late again.”
“All the same,” Odessa heartlessly replied. “Hold out your hands, girl.”
Anora hesitated. Her hands were shaking.
“Obey me!” Odessa declared.
Anora turned her head away and clasped her eyes shut, holding out her trembling arms. Odessa uncorked the vial and poured the liquid on Anora’s hands. Almost immediately the liquid burnt her skin clear to the bone. Anora dropped to her knees, crying in agony. The liquid fire boiled and sizzled as it ate away her flesh. Panic swept in when she glared at her mangled hands and watched as the skin melted away.
“Stay strong,” Odessa commanded boldly, pacing around her like a vulture. “Remember that you have the blood of the Aeldars. The pain will pass. Never show weakness. It makes you look feeble. Endure pain or conquer it. Now, get off your knees!”
Odessa was right about the pain; it had begun to pass, her breathing also paced back to normal. As the liquid dried, her hands regenerated. Muscle and sinew formed around the exposed bone, nerve endings, veins and tendons returned. The last thing was her skin. The pain was completely gone at that point.
“Clean the mess,” Odessa coldly instructed, holding out a handkerchief for Anora to use.
Anora stood up, unsteady at first, with as much stoutness as she could muster, not wanting to show Odessa that the ordeal had left her winded. She took the handkerchief and started to clean the liquid from the floor.
“You mustn’t forget why we are here,” Odessa stated with authority. “More importantly, you mustn’t forget your purpose,” she paused to look at Anora who was still cleaning, “perhaps I’ve been too generous with your chores?”
Anora finished cleaning the floor and stood up with her hands cupped in her front. “I am sorry.”
“Of course, always apologizing, Anora,” Odessa callously replied, almost instantly. “Never the one to receive one. How are you going to have the strength to fulfill your calling if you cannot face fear?”
Anora kept quiet, uncertain how to respond.
“You will recite the Mantra for a one hour,” Odessa instructed.
Anora’s shoulders dropped in disappointment.
“Make it three,” added Odessa with a bite, after noticing Anora’s dismay.
***
Anora stretched, let out a yawn and rubbed her tired eyes. She was nearing the end of hour three, repeating the mantra she had known since she could remember:
Oh, dark father, I pray to thee without despair. My body, my soul, and my life I will give as a free will sacrifice. When the hour comes, I will rest upon the altar and show no fear.
“I’m finished, master,” she announced to Odessa, who she thought was nearby but after a quick search discovered that she wasn’t.
The chapel wasn’t that big but had two levels. Anora was on the lower one, where the aisles and altar were. Behind the altar was a tapered window. A sea of dusk spread out across the sky, filling the chapel with a soft glow. Anora again checked to see if Odessa was there. She was not, and Anora took advantage of Odessa’s absence to write in her journal. She kept it hidden in her blouse.
With her journal in hand, she sat on the ledge of the window and opened it. Inside were notes, drawings, and maps all relating to the lands beyond the Fall. It took her many years to gather information about it, all the maps and atlases she was allowed to see showed only the area around the castle. Once, Anora found a map showing the known world; that’s when she knew there was more out there than just her life in the castle. Odessa took the map and she never saw it again. Ever since, Anora had tried to recreate it from memory.
Most of what she had written in her journal were memories or dreams. An image of a tree with white leaves and black bark was the most prominent one. It often appeared to her in dreams, where the leaves burnt like a fire. She dreamt once of being held under it by a woman, one whose face she couldn’t remember. What little she knew about her past was from vague memories. The only thing she knew for certain was that she was taken as a baby from her home by Odessa and raised to be an offering to the Dark One; the god of all darkness.
From the second floor she heard two people talking to one another. Ever curious, she moved closer to hear what they were saying and was able to recognize them: Odessa and Deucard Blackmont. Deucard was a nobleman in the Deathless King’s court and shared authority with Odessa.
“You’re giving her too much freedom,” warned Odessa.
“She has enough to keep her content” mildly replied Deucard.
“The sooner the ritual happens, the better,” Odessa stated. “Eighteen years here is plenty time.”
“That is not up to you, but for the Dark One to decide,” Deucard reminded her.
“I do not want her to value living. She is…changing,” Odessa explained.
“She’s becoming a woman,” answered Deucard.
“She is an effigy…the Child of Sacrifice,” Odessa replied heartlessly.
“Oh, you know full well she’s more than that,” replied Deucard. “Need I remind you why she was chosen?”
“I am reminded of it every day.”
Their voices faded as they descended the stairs. Anora quickly returned to the altar as Deucard approached. He was an older man, hair white and face wrinkled.
“Chores and prayers?” he remarked to her. “Exciting day.”
Anora turned to him. “’Tis my duty.”
“Well-trained answer, but I suspect it is not the truth,” he said with a smirk.
Odessa joined them, “Back to your chambers with you,” she ordered Anora abruptly.
“May I-“ Anora hesitated, realizing it was not her place to make a request.
“You have something to say?” Odessa asked bothered.
Anora shook her head initially and when Odessa went to leave, she found herself speaking again, “May I tend the garden?”
Surprised, Odessa turned and leered back her. But, Deucard smiled a pleased grin.
“With your permission, of course,” Anora added reverently.
Odessa ignored and went on. Deucard gave his consent, “Go, child. To the garden with you then.”
***
The garden in the atrium was modest, to say the least, and each time Anora visited it she swore it was getting smaller. It was only four rows, meager compared to other atrium’s she’d read about in her tomes and scrolls. Each row housed several breeds of plant-life, a few from around the world; Dorpen Ferns, Tinhousens, Oolaunders and a group of flat-leafed Starbrights with a couple of Hydrangea Tears for accent. Dorpen Ferns were known for having a bulb of light in the center of their petals.
The Tinhousens and Oolaunders were long and gangly stems of illumination that wormed like slithering snakes protruding from dark soil. Both were nearly identical, but the Oolaunders had thorns. Starbrights held a faint glow when under light, but in the shadows they showed a brilliant display of bioluminescence. Each Hydrangea Tear flaunted an impressive display of various colors, red, blue, purple, yellow; green stood out the most.
She carefully watered them with lunar water and sheered wild growth from their stems. As the water hit the plants, they lit up and showed a leveled glow for the duration. They also required shadow to grow, the darker the better. Anora secured the shades over the atrium window, blotting out the moonlight. Almost immediately the plant’s lights pulsated in unison, as if excited by the emersion in the shade.
“Alright, alright, settle down,” Anora said to them. It was as if she were talking to excited children. “We shall begin soon.”
With elegance and poise, she raised a flute that she’d brought with her. “Ready?” she asked, pressing the flute to her lips.
The melody she played was clear and familiar, one she’d played for the plants before, one that they kept the beat to with their lights. It had taken her years to train the plants to dance to her songs, but it was worth it. Their lustrous colors blinked and shuttered with the song, as if they were a part of the chorus. Playing and watching the plant’s illumination comforted her and took her mind off her burdens.
A light was out in one of the rows, a single plant not shining. She stopped playing and walked over to it. When she knelt to get a better look, she noticed that it was dead. She wondered how she could have missed it, after spending so much time caring for all her plants.
Did I not give it enough water? Did I give it too much? At what point did it die, and I not notice?
Looking at its gray, brittle, leaves she couldn’t help but feel responsible for its death. She was its caregiver and it died under her care. The mystery of how it died perplexed her, she’d always methodically cared for each plant and made sure that they were given proper maintenance. Perhaps there was no real reason. It died and it was as simple as that. She couldn’t accept that truth. She didn’t want it to be dead, singled out among the other flashing lights as the one that went out before its time.
No, she said to herself as she took the plant into her hands and gently stroked each leaf. Life returned to it almost instantly and its gray color was replaced by its original black. The once brittle condition of the leaves became vibrant and thick with life. Beads of water collected and formed pools in the mouth of the plant. Its once brittle and dead state was no more. All it took was for her to think about it returning and to focus energy from within her, bending reality and the laws of nature with her abilities.
She grinned proudly. “There,” she whispered, setting it back in the soil. “Much better.”
With a delicate touch she patted down the loose dirt around it, igniting a display of light. The light it gave off was not the same, something she hadn’t seen before. Its veins throbbed with a new color, growing livelier with each thump. Her ability to bring back things that were dead was not a new one to her, she had done it before. This time was different, however. The plant was alive, whether its new state of being was a good thing had yet to be determined. She didn’t know if it was better off or not, only that it had returned.
Joy and pride had shifted to unease as fear crept up. In all the years she had spent locked away, she tried not to think about her inevitable fate. She withdrew her hands and as she did, the cuffs of her sleeves lid back. Underneath were fades scars on her wrists. And as she gazed at them, memories of anguish resurfaced. She knew, from her earliest days, that her fate was to die for the Dark One. But, she never questioned why, she always accepted it as her destiny; a “sacrifice of free will”. Whether it was the cruel words of Odessa saying that she was an “effigy” or the frightening realization that she would die alone, an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness came over her and she wept into her hands from the bleak sorrow she felt.
