Chapter 1: The Castle Draill

"Do you know where you are, lass?" the masked man demanded, out of breath. He crouched at the root of the dying tree where I had found refuge, wiping the wet blade of his sword upon the ground.

"No," I whispered, fixed upon the twisted, half-human carcass lying at his feet. The whole of the wood was strewn with more than fifty of the same creatures.

He slewed round warily, searching through the trees for a remnant that might give another attack. The tips of his tawny hair, dripping with sweat, peeked out beneath the brown leather head covering.

"You've trespassed on gobboling land, can't you see?" he upbraided, turning back to me. A rectangular hole in the mask revealed only his eyes, which quickly glanced my way, still scanning the wood. By his attitude I knew more of the creatures would be coming. I had to get away.

Shaking, I crawled out from between two great, bare roots, black with decay. "I know—I mean, I didn't know—I lost my direction."

"Tis a shame you didn't find it again!" he snapped. "Look at my sleeve!"

My gaze followed the arm he waved. His sleeve was torn in strips, like garlands hanging from elbow to his wrist. His belt, too, was tattered and clung by a thread, but I didn't mention it. I was struck by the senselessness of his comment. Why did it matter that his shirt was torn when only moments before those terrible creatures had bared their hideous fangs and come near to devouring us?

"I'm sorry!" I said with incredulity.

I dusted the black rot off the riding breeches I'd taken that morning, lifted my head, and saw he was studying me.

"Who are you?"

"Terese of Nouffrey. I work in the kitchens," I lied, taking the name of one of the kitchen maids there.

"You've never worked in a kitchen in your life," he returned. "You haven't a hard-earned muscle on you, else you would have made it up that tree when you tried for it." He pointed to the gnarled oak some distance away, which I had failed to scale before I'd taken to my hiding place on the hill.

"I—It is that I've been ill."

"With what? Black death?" He grunted. "Look at your hands. Not a callous. Smooth as the hind of a calf." He shook his head and pointed his sword at my chest.

I stepped back, but he was too quick. He flicked the blade and caught up the chain at my neck.

"No scullery maid possesses that kind of metal. No, you're not a servant. Someone's taken care to provide for you, someone with means."

I shook my head, terrified. "I don't have anything. Truly! I've—I've been disinherited."

"More lies."

"No!" I cried. "It's truth! What I told you before, about working in the kitchens…well, that was a lie. But I am of Nouffrey, and I've been disinherited by my father's wife, Lady Orinda Folke—I mean, Lady Berendine, Duchess of Istledon."

"An heiress disowned," he mused, "is worth less than one of these." He rolled over the dead beast at his foot and yanked my dagger out of its chest cavity.

My pride smarted under his contempt; but when I peered into the hideous face of the creature, so animal, yet so human, I forgot my indignation. Was this horrible, mangled thing a gobboling? I'd heard that gobbolings still existed in some parts of the land, but I had never imagined such a grotesque being living a day's journey from Nouffrey. Its skin was bloated like moldy, leavened dough. Its human features were grown over with black, thorny protrusions, a clump of them sticking out of the half-opened eye and through the lid.

"Is it true?" I whispered. "A gobboling? Is it—was it really a man?"

"That depends on what you deem a 'man,'" he answered.

"Do they think as we?" I asked. "Do they remember what they were before?"

"I think they do, but it doesn't matter to them." He had finished wiping my dagger and took up the sword beside him, which leaned against the arced root of the tree. "Come," he told me, offering the handle of the dagger to me. When I didn't move, he pushed the gobboling back over on his face.

"Where?" I asked, taking up my only weapon and holding it to my chest anxiously.

From our vantage point on the hill he motioned through the trees. "You'll see where just over the ridge."

My eyes grew wide, and I shook my head. "You're not going farther!" I exclaimed, astonished.

He walked ahead, taking up the satchel I'd dropped a few yards from the tree in my hurried escape. "We must, if we are to reach the keep. We will not be safe from the gobbolings until we cross the channel. They will not cross the water to the island."

"You don't mean the island castle of the Gobboling King?" Suddenly it all began to come together. I was near the residence of the master of these evil beings! I was choked with fear.

He studied me then. "Gobboling King? You fear a myth, lass."

There were only slits in the leather mask for his mouth, but I knew he smiled at what I'd said, and I heard the mockery in his voice.

"But he lives in the castle on the island guarded by…" My words trailed away as I stared back at him. "Is it not so? The gobbolings guard the castle, do they not?"

"There is no castle. I will show you. But quickly. More will come before we reach safety."

I followed him down the steep slope of a hill and over the crest of the next wooded rise. I saw the shadow of the island through the trees. The sun was almost beneath the horizon, and its rays danced hauntingly across the water that surrounded what looked to me to be a tumbled pile of pillars.

"There's your castle," he said at my elbow.

"It isn't ihabitable then."

"Of course it is. Anything is habitable if it's out of reach of the-,"

I saw the flash of movement as something leapt from the rock behind him. He read my face before I could warn him, turned, and swung. The blade sliced across the shoulder of the gobboling, severing the creature's head and lifted arm before its mangled feet hit the forest floor. The torso came down with a squashy thud. Strands of blood splattered across the underbrush. I was already sick in my stomach, but seeing that was too much. I dry heaved, my stomach empty. I hadn't eaten for almost two days.

He took my arm; and if he spoke to me, I didn't hear it. So many things had happened in the past three days, and none of it was real to me yet. I found myself at the water's edge, where sat a worn boat with bare wood so rotted the vessel was black with it. There was hardly room for two passengers; but when he motioned for me to get in, I did. I wrapped my arms around my knees and tried to make myself as small as I could. It wasn't difficult for me, being smaller than average. I've often been mistaken for a child. Even my stepmother had assumed me little more than twelve when we'd first met.

His elbow knocked my shoulder as he rowed us toward the ruins. His back to me, he faced the shore we'd left, rowing swiftly for the island. I craned my neck to survey our destination behind me. The sun to my left was almost down, so I knew we were traveling southward. I glimpsed broken levels of a stone wall. Most of the east side of the structure was an heap. The orange and indigo streaks of sunset across the sky limned the solitary bulwark left standing in the west. Behind it a portion of the castle wall remained.

As we drew near, I saw the outline of a courtyard abutting the lone castle wall. A half dozen archways and their columns were left, some of which were leaning precariously against each other like matchsticks.

We embarked on the bank just as the sun faded out of the sky and left the night to hide us. But the moon, three-quarters of the way full, and bright, gave me light to see the rotting poles of wood above the water's surface, the support for a missing bridge.

We climbed the shattered stone steps to the ruins. It was nearly two hundred steps, I'm certain. I looked across the water, and that's when I saw the flickering lights on the bank on the opposite side. Torches were at the water's edge, forming a line of fire along the shore. More from the forest joined the torchlight at the bank.

"What is that? The gobbolings?" I asked.

"Who do you think?" he returned brusquely.

"You said gobbolings didn't cross the water."

"They don't."

"Then what are they doing?"

"They are taunting me," he said. Even in the moonlight, I saw his bitter smile. "There is something I am looking for, something important to me, and they come each night to remind me I haven't found it."

"What is it?"

"It matters not," he answered. "It is lost to me."

I heard hopelessness in his voice and asked, "Is that why you were in the forest?"

"Yes."

For a moment I was quiet. The breeze of the sea from the southern side of the island blew across my arms, across the goose bumps that had risen. It was not the sight of the multitude of torches that left me cold. A chill ran through me at his words. Why would the gobbolings taunt him? I crossed my arms and rubbed them to keep warm.

"I'm glad you were in the forest," I told him, eager to deny the doubt that swept through me. "I wish you had found what it is you were looking for."

"No you don't," he answered. "Do not attempt to ingratiate yourself when you are afraid. It is cowardly."

I looked at him sharply but could not see his expression, for he quickly walked away. I followed him to the courtyard, stepping over the rubble. My father's boots that I had taken from the stable had rubbed blisters over the tops of my toes. The backs of my ankles were raw and sore, too, though I'd tightened the laces several times to keep them from sliding. As I clomped along the stones, I was more aware than ever of what a sight I was.

He dropped my satchel in the courtyard. "Here you are. The castle of the Gobboling King! Let us tour the chambers." He lifted his hand toward an archway opposite the way we'd come. Behind it was a torn down passage that crumbled in a sprawling line of stones.

"The corridor, which travels the circumference of the grand hall in the center of the magnificent Castle Draill. In the great hall you would have seen the likenesses of fourteen generations, all valiant men of royal blood who upheld the virtue of their ancestors. It is a rubbish heap now.

"And this," he said, motioning to the leaning archway that looked south to sea, "is the way to the baths. You will find a magnificent view of the water, and the heated stone is wonderful for joint pain.

"This goes to the stable, which was closed for lack of horses. That one leads to the gardens and the family chapel, which is in favorable condition, considering the state of the rest.

"The passage that is no longer here," he said, turning to point out the way we had come, "is still being used as the entry hall, though the door and main gate have been missing for some time now."

Exhausted and troubled, I laughed uneasily. His teasing mien in this "tour" seemed meant to divert me.

"And these three doorways correspond with the barracks, the servants' quarters, and the kitchen, respectively. I would advise you not to tour the barracks due to the rain we've been having. The steps are slick, and the tower is in disrepair. The kitchen hasn't any roof, though it works well for storage. The servants' quarters are an ill-advised retreat, since what is left of them is the underground portion and in shambles. You may blame yourself for any misfortune that would most certainly occur to you down there, I warn you."

He turned toward the single, low-walled structure that remained. "The last archway you might wish to circumvent, since its pillars may fall at any moment, but the corridor beyond leads to the queen's hall. It is usable as an overnight accommodation."

With that, he began to climb over the stones next to the matchstick columns. I picked up my sack and followed.

"There is water that still flows into the fountain." My eyes followed as he pointed to a small courtyard just outside the crumbled columns. "I will make you a fire. And afterward I believe I can procure a good deal of duck feathers to make your night's stay somewhat bearable."

There was a fire pit full of gray ash in the center of the hall. My host removed his leather gloves from his hands and dragged a small, rickety stool toward the pit to build a fire. I went to the courtyard and bathed my face. The water dripped from a high rock frosted over with opalescent shells. No water cascaded down the fountain. There was just the persistent drip of water that had pooled in the tarnished basin. The garden was on the bank of a cove. There seemed to be a system in which the salty water drained through the stony levels to drip into the basin.

After I had completed my toilette, I went back to explore the short arm of the room. The floor was covered in small glass tiles of green and gold. The design was of challises and tulips made with dark green stones, encircled by blooms of gold and yellow and decorated with pale fringes of long, narrow pieces of chalcedony. Before the floor broke away entirely, I stepped to the doorway of a narrow room. Inside was clammy. I could see that there had once been a stairway a few feet from the door, but the steps were broken and a large stone had been lodged in the opening above. A glimpse of the light of the moon was visible through a crack not filled by the stone. The silver light hardly entered the room, leaving the closet in shadow.

I returned to the main room, open to the elements, and saw the smoke coming from the fire. My rescuer was gone. I drew near to warm myself and picked up a branch among those stacked beside a wooden stool. I broke the branch in half and knelt, watching as the fire licked it slowly. The fire, still too weak to provide much heat, ate away at the branches. I watched it, waiting for the logs skirting the fire to catch. I shivered in the chill winds coming from the place dubbed "the baths." The thought of lying on the hot stone he'd mentioned made me feel colder. My bones ached with tiredness, and I wished I had never ventured into Draillen Wood. In the stillness, I remembered I was hungry. Yet, I was more fatigued than anything.

I settled on the floor beside the fire and drew the stool to me. It was made of branches tied with twine and vines. The seat was a section of tree truck, which had split and was broken off around the edges. I placed my satchel on it for a pillow to rest my head. Just as I'd drifted off, I heard the stones stir behind me. I lifted my head and saw the man. He no longer wore his mask. I thought his face very pale and drawn for one who had easily thrust through some fifty-odd of those terrible gobboling creatures. His golden hair shined like metal in the reflection of the fire as he crossed the courtyard carrying something large and unshapely. He tossed the sack down away from the fire, and brown, white, and gray down fluttered onto the colorful tiles.

"There. I wish you goodnight," he said and turned abruptly to leave.

"Before you go, I should like to introduce myself and know the name of my deliverer." He stopped but kept his back to me. "I think it unseemly that we should go on without introduction," I explained, feeling uneasy because of his cold manner.

He did not face round, so I stood and met him near the matchstick columns. "I am Esda the daughter of Lord John Berendine, the late Duke of Istledon.

He bowed, and I lifted my hand that he might kiss my fingertips. It was a gesture to which I was accustomed during introductions.

He did not take my hand, though he raised his head and looked hard at the fingers lifted for him to take.

I saw his placid smile by firelight. "I will not kiss your hand, Lady Esda," he said quietly. "If you know anything of the Gobboling King, you know my touch will imprison you here forever."