Forest of Whispers Read online

  That’s what will undoubtedly happen.

  She will die.

  Her chamber will become empty, the house will fall as silent as a shroud, and my father will become a bitter old man. Perhaps that is why I ask after her condition each and every time I see him leave her chamber, such as now. Though I have no real interest in her life, or her imminent death, my fate does rest in hers, and I fear once she has passed, my father will either require eternal servitude of me or ignore me altogether. At this point, I cannot decide which outcome would be worse.

  I stare back and forth between the two doors that have just closed, and then find myself turning the corner of the hall, walking toward the other end where another door faces me—the door my mother used to live behind until the day she fled into the forest. My hand skims the handle, but I let it rest there instead of turning it. I will not find her behind it, for she resides beneath the earth upon the knoll outside the castle. My brother lies beside her, reminding me I am all that is left to bear the family name, that I am all my father has left for a son, and every bit a disappointment as he braces himself to endure another loss. He will not speak of the dead we have buried, but leaves them to another time he refuses to revisit. When I ask him of them, it only gives him another reason to turn away.

  Shrill, girlish whispers swell from the stairwell behind me. My memories melt away as I let go of the latch and turn to find two red-faced handmaidens. They quickly curtsy and avert their eyes as my presence reprimands their intrusion. The servants at Eltz live in a different world than I, one that is keen on invading privacy. They whisper and assume and speculate from dawn until dusk, sometimes alluding to the rumor that my family is cursed. After seeing so much misery, I don’t blame them for coming to that conclusion, for I am certain there may be some truth in it.

  It’s clear the two girls are up to no good, probably sent on a mission from the kitchen, and I squelch their adventure immediately. One has the audacity to peer up through her dark lashes in hopes of appearing demure, but she will not garner a smile from me just yet. Perhaps later I will visit her chamber, but until then, I stare them down until they scurry away like the rats that burrow beneath the castle.

  I take one last look at my mother’s door and hold on to the little memory I have left of her. She is forever the faint scent of lemon, the whisper at bedtime, the cool kiss on my cheek, nothing more, and I make my way down to the lower level of Eltz.

  “I beg your pardon, My Lord.” A voice summons from the bottom of the stairs as I descend, and I am soon face to face with the house messenger who stands in the middle of the Great Hall. Try as I might to recall his given name, it will not come to me, and I stare back at him with eyebrows raised as invitation to speak, hoping his delivery will be swift.

  “There is a visitor in the chapel,” he announces with a small degree of urgency.

  I peer beyond his shoulder, past the heavy brocade draperies that suffocate the windows at the east side of the castle, and see a large ornate carriage waiting outside. Of all days to come, the bishop has chosen this one. I swallow my annoyance, even though I’d like nothing more than to roll my eyes and be on my way, doing as I please. Instead, I nod my dismissal to the man and listen to the light step of his boots as he leaves me alone in the grand room. Even after I can no longer hear him, I make no attempt to hurry off to the chapel. Part of me doesn’t care if the bishop waits; he really isn’t here to see me. I glance up the elaborate staircase to the landing above and wonder if I should tell my father. I can still feel the pressure of his hand on my shoulder, but ultimately decide against it. He was weary when I left him. Besides, earning my father’s respect is crucial, as is proving to him I am more than capable of standing on my own and making him proud. Eltz, and all its affairs, will be mine one day, and proving I am worthy might change things between us. The gesture upstairs was small, yet significant to me. I want to believe my father feels something for me other than blame and disappointment.

  The path to the chapel is overgrown in a wild sort of way my brother would have loved. I stop and listen, hard enough that I’m sure I hear his laughter surfacing from behind the vines, and suddenly, I am little again, hiding among the shrubs, waiting until one of us comes close enough to send a thin branch snapping at the other’s backside. It is a memory of my childhood that grips me with such force that I quicken my pace and push past the rotund Provence roses my mother once tended. They still bloom as large as cabbages. I pass the Elderberry and the bright orange Calendula. She taught me all their names; my brother had no patience for such things, and I smile a little at the fact that I can still identify them. For years I believed beauty no longer existed at Eltz, that my home was as cold as the bitter winters blowing through all of Germany. Today is different, because the roses are blooming. Because of the little gesture my father has given me, I have reason to notice it again.

  I stop still upon the chapel steps and force the thoughts of happier times to the pit of my stomach. The bishop stands at the arm of the front pew with a measured look draped across his face, and I struggle with the reason he is here.

  “My boy,” he greets me. “But forgive me, My Lord, you are no longer a boy, are you?”

  I bristle at this personal observation, for the bishop is not my friend. He is cold and guarded, and always has been, making it difficult to warm toward him easily. I’m sure he is well aware that he makes me uncomfortable, especially since his visit is not a planned one, but still we keep up the charade. I am only here to prove I am worthy of being Electorate one day, and to earn my father’s trust.

  “Your Holiness.” I bend my head. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.” My welcome is forced, and my words feel as though they are made of a thick, unpleasant substance I am sure he can see. As long as I am respectful and pretend to agree, as my father would, then this meeting should be a brief one.

  “Your father?” The bishop looks past my shoulder in expectation.

  “Detained.”

  I watch as he nods, believing the Electorate of Burg Eltz is preoccupied with important business. He doesn’t need to know my father has confined himself to his chamber, dreaming of a way to save the wife who wastes away a few doors down the hall. The bishop wipes the perpetual beads of perspiration from his brow with a small square of cloth, and I watch as his meaty hand tucks it somewhere within the thick folds of his robe, where I’m sure it will become lost.

  “I’m afraid I come bearing grave news,” he says steadily. “Your neighbor, Pyrmont, has fallen.”

  I stare at him silently with narrow eyes as the cogs of my mind shift. I’m well aware that Eltz’s Guard has not been alerted, nor has the morning’s breeze carried the telltale horns of a breach, even one that is miles from here.

  The bishop can see that I am not following him.

  “From Plague, My Lord.” He says this appearing as if he too is stricken.

  Suddenly, I regret not taking the time to rush upstairs and find my father.

  “Are you certain?” I don’t mean to question that he could be wrong.

  “Nearly half the family,” he nods, finding the embroidered cloth again and twisting it to and fro. “I’m afraid the rest will be dead by nightfall.”

  I grip the worn, wooden pew behind me as I mentally map out the distance between the two castles, noting it is only a half-day’s ride from here. I’ve never seen Plague before, only heard of it, along with stories of the horrible, swift deaths it causes.

  “Have you been there yourself?” My face must show I am in the midst of making a terrifying assumption, one that is perhaps accusatory—has he brought the infection with him, possibly condemning us all to a similar fate?

  “Goodness no, Laurentz,” he insists. “Word was sent last evening to the nearby friary. By moonrise, the surrounding village was wiped clean. It’s spreading quickly, and I don’t advise either you or your father making the trek to look for survivors. By morning, I suspect the halls of Pyrmont will echo with the silence of death.
” His words fall, and there is a strange hum between us. More souls will be lost by tomorrow. It’s nearly unfathomable, and I struggle to digest the news. At least a hundred people live within the walls of Pyrmont—the Electorate’s family, servants, guests, the armed Guard. Yesterday they were alive, and by sunrise, they will be dead.

  “But I believe you might be safe,” he says, sounding hopeful. “Eltz is mostly surrounded by the river, with one side exposed to the forest.”

  “What will that do to protect us?” My voice bears no reverence, and the bishop stares at me, dumbfounded. I assume he wants to say something that would make me ashamed and fear God, or both, but I see he bites his tongue, for I am in a position he is not. I stand to become Electorate of Eltz one day, and if Plague is on the horizon, with my father slowly deteriorating, that day could come sooner than either of us realizes.

  He turns his back to me and faces the altar. His hand touches his forehead, chest, then shoulders, then meets the other and tents in prayer in front of him. I’ve offended him. Just as I am about to say something I hope will make amends, he changes the subject.

  “I trust you are aware of necessary tactical maneuvers, Laurentz? This is your second year in your father’s Guard, is it not?”

  “It’s my third.” I wait for him to turn around, curious that he would discuss military strategies at a time like this. “You speak of the feuds?”

  My father taught me several things—never let your guard down, be civil with your neighbor, and stock the Keep. Feuding between territories is as rampant as the wind that rushes through the Black Forest, and like the forest, you should never turn your back upon it. I feel the presence of the door behind me and wonder if I should excuse myself and make my way back. My father worked hard to establish amicable ties with Pyrmont; surely this news will weigh heavily upon him.

  “In a way, it is a type of feud, one I firmly believe is responsible for the fall of many places, Pyrmont included,” he says.

  My mind whirls as the soldier inside me begins to organize all there is to do. If there is a band of vagrants unleashing infection upon the strongest of sovereigns, being prepared is of utmost priority. I mentally ready myself for the tasks ahead—alert my father, the Guard, the servants, and pray the knowledge the bishop has given me will keep Eltz from succumbing.

  The air in the chapel is heavy and the bishop’s information warrants telling my father immediately, yet he makes no attempt to leave so I can do so. Instead, the bishop moves slowly, and I wonder if he really believes Eltz stands a chance against the affliction. Perhaps he is reluctant to face whatever lies outside.

  “Disease and famine have made their mark on Bavaria in the past, and so they shall again. But mind you, Laurentz, nobility has always prevailed.”

  He is telling me this so I won’t worry, but I can’t help hearing how his tone has changed from that of a nervous, fearful man to one who speaks as if he has a plan. He paces back and forth before the pulpit, his knuckles bone-white as his hands clutch the cloth.

  “The villages surrounding the region are tainted.” His voice is low and secretive. “They harbor all manner of contagion and are responsible for many of the afflictions upon this world. Forgive me for being so bold, Laurentz, but you are well aware of the difference between nobility and the rest of them.”

  “Them?”

  “Certainly you understand your place in this world, my young Lord, and that the Church has always protected those with souls worth saving.”

  My eyebrows arch at the words that hang in the air between us.

  “It is my understanding that the Church protects all souls, does it not?” I make no measure to hide my surprise at his implications of how degraded the villages are. I have grown up knowing my place, knowing theirs. Peasantry is not admirable, not by any means, but it should be respected, as should all forms of life. But to hear it spoken out loud, by this man especially, fills this space with the strangest of emotions. I may have grown to be bitter about things—my father, the death of my family, what the future holds for me—but I certainly do not hate the world and wish harm to befall anyone in it.

  “What exactly are you saying?” My question implies challenge, and by the grave expression his face holds, I see he is up for it. He plumps around his thighs the fabric that nearly drowns him, seats himself in the first pew, and gestures for me to join him. He studies my expression, and then tells me, “You look like your brother.”

  I find this hard to believe, because my brother never reached eighteen. He never had the chance to bear scars of disappointment, or of death. He never carried what felt like the weight of the world upon his young shoulders or faced bitterness from the one he pledged to serve.

  “You’ve been through your share of dark times, haven’t you, my boy?” he says, making up for the strange silence when I don’t answer him. “I am afraid to say there will be dark times ahead as well, but it’s best to be prepared.”

  I give a nod, for preparation is what I’ve already begun to do, and I cannot quite understand why we are sitting here, speaking of things I’d like to forget, when there is so much at stake. The look on my face sparks a light behind his dark eyes, as if I’ve just opened a gate that he is now eager to lead me through.

  “There is a source for all the wrong in the world, an evil that gives birth to all other evil. Darkness is a sneaky thing hiding among us, undetected. The sooner we stop it, the sooner we will all be saved.”

  “You mean to say there is something more than the Plague?” I ask.

  He leans forward and looks into my eyes. “I ask that you keep this between us, Laurentz. As successor to your father one day, you will have an advantage if you are aware of the real dangers among us.” The bishop twists the gold band on his finger. “Heresy is at play here. Be mindful of the cunning woman who hides from the others, if you value your soul.”

  Chapter 3

  Rune

  My breath is suctioned to the back of my throat, because when Matilde opens the door, it is not the butcher, but a cloaked figure, and my venture into the forest hits me all over again, hard.

  “Are you the crone?” a cautious feminine voice pushes through the open door into the small room where we stand.

  Matilde and I are silent, and I feel the fine hairs on the back of my neck rise. I do not like the word “crone.” It is degrading and harsh, and it bothers me to no end that Matilde assures me she has been called much, much worse. I ignore that she tells me I am much too protective of her and stare at the stranger with enough suspicion for the two of us.

  Matilde hobbles forward. “It depends who’s asking.”

  With slender fingers, the woman pulls the grey hood back, revealing a shock of dark blonde hair that frames a clean, pretty face. She is fairly young, but not as young as I, and dressed nicely from what I can see beneath the heavy wrap that covers her.

  “Forgive me, I mean not to offend. I was told to follow the path that divides the village from the forest; there, I would find the crone who could help me.”

  Still feeling the sting from her lack of tact, I let the bundle of Blessed Thistle slip from my hand and rest upon the table.

  Strangers have called at odd hours before. It’s not unheard of. I suppose it’s not as unusual as anyone assuming Matilde is anything but a crone. She has lived in the woods for much of her life, preferring solitude to the bustling, gossip-ridden village. What seems strange here is how obviously Matilde doesn’t try to hide her discomfort.

  I study the woman’s face, pay attention to her movements. Her eyes flit around, agitated, while Matilde assesses her in a calculated sort of way. And still, Matilde asks her to step in further. I cannot place what her trouble could be, since she appears neither sick nor in pain. She doesn’t clutch her stomach or ask for tea. Matilde takes on a peculiar determination, ushering the woman to one of the few chairs we own, and then setting about to fill the kettle unasked.

  “You seek something,” Matilde states as she adds more kind
ling to the fire. It is an odd thing, because Matilde usually doesn’t trust guests enough to turn her back to them, although we have very little for her to be interested in stealing. Perhaps Matilde feels confident that I am her second set of eyes and will notice anything out of sorts. When Matilde straightens, kettle in hand, she is very stiff, despite her usual bent stance. “I doubt you will find it here.”

  The woman is taken aback. “But I’ve come so far to see you. I am positive you are the only one who can help me with my…my ailment.”

  I am a little shocked myself. What bothers this woman is apparently invisible to me, and I fear I will never be as trained as Matilde to be able to read another person well enough that they need not explain.

  “Mutti, surely we can at least see what troubles her.”

  I have not intervened before, and the woman eyes me curiously. Surely she wonders why I’ve called the old woman my mother, and suddenly my face warms at my error. I am Matilde’s apprentice to anyone who visits, nothing more. The look Matilde gives me makes me wish I had kept my thoughts to myself, and I feel a strong prickling sensation behind my neck. She slowly walks closer to our guest, who now has a sweaty sheen coating her forehead and temples, causing the ends of her yellow hair to twist and curl ever so slightly. Her face is ashen.

  Matilde holds out her hand, palm up, implying that the seated woman should rest her own on top of it. A shiver courses through me, but one of excitement and anticipation, and I cannot help wonder what the delicate lines in her hand will say. Despite the odd air to the room and the look she had just given me, I am thrilled Matilde has not ushered me out of the cottage yet, like she has from time to time. My heart hammers away. I realize I might finally be able to see the old magick Matilde often shields me from. “Folk Magick,” she calls it. I’ve learned a little, but I’ve often felt there are some lessons Matilde believes I am not ready for. Hopefully, today will be different, and I amuse myself with wondering if this is what I am to be strong for.