green and fecund, with autumn bleeding through the trees in vibrant shades of yellow and fiery orange,
though we had not encountered many villagers along the way so I could not yet ascertain the friendliness
of the local inhabitants.
I did not blame the villagers for hiding. Though beautiful, it was said these were perilous lands,
dangerous for those on foot, particularly now, with the evil of a corrupt Vargr on the loose—a werewolf
who kills for its own pleasure.
I had never seen a Vargr, either dead or alive, but stories abounded in our own realm of such things. Men
who became wolves to placate their own nefarious hungers. It gave me something of a delicious shiver to
think of it, for in our lands, there were no more werewolves, evil or otherwise. They had all been hunted
to extinction decades before I had ever been born. I wondered if I would see one during our stay at
Blackstone Hall.
I admit I sighed to think of it. Adventure. The only adventure I had ever really known past childhood
games was in my father’s libraries. A wealthy man who had made his fortune in shipping, he had a
thousand books spanning every possible subject: science, alchemy, romance, chivalrous adventures with
knights and pirates. I swore I had read them all at least twice. Growing up, reading about fierce warriors,
and pretending I was one among their number, had been my two great passions in life.
Less than hour later, I saw “the Hall,” (as the locals called it), standing mistily upon its distant rock for
the first time, its highest spires and flapping banners rising far above the summit of the land. Even from
this great distance, Blackstone Hall sprawled large enough, and certainly grand enough, to house a king or
emperor.
It had been built in a time that no one remembered by the hands of the Fae Folk, according to folklore. It
was said the King of the Fae built the great keep for his Queen and court, and he had done so out of pure,
shining white stone carved from his mother the moon. But some great tragedy had occurred there, and the
Queen of the Fae fell dead, a dagger in her heart, and as her sacred blood spilled upon the floor of the
Hall, it turned all the stones in the structure black. Or that was the story, anyway.
No one knew who had really built it, or why. According to Father, only the Rothschilds had occupied it in
the last few hundred years after their ancestor, the fierce and bloodthirsty warlord Alaric Rothschild, had
conquered the land and set his flag upon the highest turret.
As we rumbled nearer, I could just make out the black banner sinister with the white dragon upon it, the
sign of Rothschild house. Father had stayed here at Lord Rothschild’s court as a child when Elric’s own
father had invited him here visiting, and he had many tales to tell of it.
As we crossed the spindly bridge that spanned a yawning and seemingly bottomless chasm on our last leg
of the journey to our destination, I marveled at the vast, rambling darkness of it—the chipped, battleweary
ramparts and battlements, the craggy side chapels and gatehouse. The outer walls of the Hall stood
five hundred feet high, with a tall, pinnacle tower twice that size rising from the center of the courtyard,
enshrouded by a yellowish, poisonous-looking mist.
The black-as-soot flagstone of which the Hall was constructed made me think of some burned leviathan of
a dragon, the spines of its carcass shimmering high in the heavens. The few windows on display were of
colored glass, giving the place the brooding look of an abandoned monastery. The land surrounding the
hall was different than the countryside—jagged and strangely lifeless, with virtually no trees and only
patches of melting snow and cold, churned mud, which made crossing the vast, arched bridge treacherous
and slow-going.
The sun was beginning to set by the time we approached the portcullis, and as we rode under the
gatehouse, I marveled at the enormous, black stone dragons and gargoyles crouching overhead, seeming to
watch us with their cruel, idiot stone eyes.
Then we were past the stone sentinels, the gatehouse and attached livery, and coming out in the courtyard
where that mysterious tower stood in the most awkward of places, taking up at least half the space. It rose
up like a black finger toward heaven, making my neck crick in my attempt to find the top.
My father saw me looking and said, “A wizard’s tower, my dear. Or, at least, that’s what they used to call
them.”
“Is it really?”
“The Rothschilds have long been dabblers in the Craft.” He inclined his head. “Not unlike yourself. In
fact, I hear that Elric Rothschild is quite the magical adept, as well as being young and comely of face…”
“Come now, Father,” I laughed a little nervously to cut him off. “Your attempts at matchmaking are sorry
at best, and desperate at worst.”
He took my hand. “Would it be so very despicable to find yourself in a state of marriage, Marie? I shan’t
live forever, and you will need the protection after me.”
“I hardly despise marriage, you know that. But you also know about my standards. He must be strong and
sure of himself, a warrior and a protector.” I smiled at my father. “Fear not. I shall meet him one day.”
“Marie,” he chided gently. “The man you seek exists only in books of romance.”
I laughed even thought I truly did believe he existed! Once, long ago, I cast a spell upon a pond of water
near our estate. A water nymph had answered my summons and had told me my one true mate was out
there in the world, waiting as I was, and that I would meet him one day. He would be a powerful warrior,
and a protector to me. I hadn’t stopped looking since!
As we crossed the courtyard I spotted several house servants waiting for us, lanterns held aloft to ward
off the quickly descending dark. They swept forward to greet us, enshrouded in their long, fur-lined
cloaks. Quickly they pulled open the coach, footed us down, efficiently and with little ceremony.
“We should hurry, Lord Belmont,” one of the servants told my father as they rushed us toward a pair of
huge, iron-banded doors. “Night has already fallen and these are not lands to be about in.”
“Yes, of course,” my father answered.
I had only time to gather my gown and cloak before a particularly stout man shoved me along. His strength
and determination surprised me. I was a tall, hardy woman like my gypsy mother. There was meat on my
bones and I was not so easily moved. My legs had gone all pins and needles during the long ride, and my
knees all but buckled as we dashed into the hall as thought the hounds of hell were nipping at our heels.
Only when we were safely inside the cold, torch-lit corridor, the iron-banded oaken door securely locked
behind us, did the men finally relax and offer up the proper bows and courtesies that our respective ranks
demanded. Then we were ushered down the cold, swarthy corridor to the end, where a rough-hewn, stone
staircase spiraled upward into darkness.
We’d be staying in one of several guest towers, and the idea excited me. I wondered how much of the