CHAPTER 8: FAMILY SECRETS
Alone in his bedchamber, Domeric stood before the open window, hoping to take some fresh air, but he found only smoke; thick stacks of it wafted up from the red-hot flames of the blacksmith's forge and smothered the stale air with a soft grey haze. Ominous it was, and it burned Domeric's throat and made his eyes water like ice melting in the spring.
The Dreadfort has declared me a foe, he thought as he wiped the tears from his eyes. Now it's trying to poison me. He coughed a deep, chest-rattling cough and tasted a sourness on his tongue.
"Such a queer place, the Dreadfort," rasped Maester Uthor as he entered the room with slow, laborious steps. "Even the air is foul and reeks of death and despair, but one gets used to it, I suppose." His jowls jiggled and his chain jangled as he shuffled along. It was a heavy thing, his collar, and seemed clunky on his heaving chest. Small wonder why he'd developed such an ugly hunch.
In his twenty years of study at the Citadel, he'd forged over thirty links derived from nine unique metals: gold, silver, black iron, copper, lead, pale steel, brass, bronze, and pewter. When he was young, Domeric had asked what each of the links represented, but the old maester's answers had long since escaped his memory. Now, only two were familiar to him: the silver link for medicine and healing and the lead link for poison (both of which seemed to greatly outnumber all others). Maester Uthor was very passionate about his leeches, believed they could cure any ailment, but according to Maester Rowan in Redfort, leeching was an age-old practice that had fallen out of favor with most maesters.
"Here." Maester Uthor handed Domeric a small vial of brown liquid. "For your cough. It tastes horrid going down, I must warn you, but it will sooth that burning sensation in your throat. I struggled with it for some time — years, actually — until I developed a proper cure. I thought my lungs would turn black as coal from all the smoke, and ash would spew from my lips when I coughed." He chuckled quietly to himself. "I only jest, my lord. Drink up now, unless you want to suffer."
At the maester's request, Domeric emptied the vial into his mouth and swallowed the bitter liquid in one gulp. His face contorted with disgust. "Oh, that is foul. What is in that?"
"There is bliss in ignorance, my lord. Believe me."
Domeric smirked. "Those should be the Bolton words, I think. There are so many dark secrets here ... I say you're better off not knowing." From his window, Domeric had a clear view of the Torturer's Tower, and he remembered the voices he'd heard in the night when all else was still. "When we were young, Drucilla would sometimes come into my room at night. The voices were keeping her awake, she said. Deanna, she could sleep through the loudest storm, but not Drucilla. No, even a whisper could wake her. We would stay up all night, the two of us, listening to the moans and the screams. We thought they were ghosts." He shook his head. "The truth is worse, I suppose. It usually is."
"Ruling comes with many responsibilities, my lord, and not all of them are pleasant. Your father does what he must so that our lands remain safe, so that you remain safe."
"Yes, I know, but I also know that he enjoys it more than any man should." He tore his eyes away from the window and glared suspiciously at the old man. "Why are you really here, Maester Uthor? You did not come all this way just to cure my aching throat. Who sent you?"
"Your mother, my lord. She has invited you to sup with her, privately."
Supping privately with my mother? She has more than food on her mind, that I know. It's a talk she wants. A long, long talk. Still, Domeric nodded. "Very well, then. If you would be so kind as to lead the way. It seems I have forgotten my way around my own home." He wondered if the old maester could hear the hint of sarcasm in his voice, and the anger which boiled beneath.
Regardless, the old man brought Domeric to Lady Bolton's chambers, where his mother was sitting alone at the table, a cup of wine in her hand. The warm candlelight shimmered across her face and filled her green eyes with a soft golden glow.
"My son." Lady Bolton went to stand, but Domeric politely asked her to remain sitting. It was, after all, discourteous to make a lady stand. Instead, he greeted his mother with a kiss on the cheek and then sat down across from her. Lady Bolton made a gesture with her hand, and two serving girls rushed out to fetch the first course while a third stepped forward with a flagon of wine and poured Domeric a cup.
"Will Drucilla not be joining us?" Domeric asked when he realized that only two places had been set.
His question brought a bitter smile to his mother's face. "I'm afraid not. Drucilla prefers to sup alone, you see, unless of course your father invites her to dine with him. She greatly prefers his company over mine. She always has, ever since she was a little girl. She loves him with all her heart and hates me with equal passion. I can see it in her eyes, those horrible grey eyes ..." She took another swig of wine and swallowed it down. "Now, if you can believe it, he sometimes invites her to sit on his council while he holds court."
"Does he?" He nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. "My, what an honor. Drucilla must feel very proud."
"I assure you, she does. The Little Lady of the Dreadfort, the servants call her, but never to her face. As for me, I think she would gladly take my place if she could. Sometimes I can feel her watching me, watching and waiting for me to die."
As she went on, Domeric drowned out her voice with as much wine as he could stomach.
The two dined on warm rabbit stew, a salad of green beans, onions, and beets, and — as a special treat for Domeric — blackberry tarts dusted with sugar.
"They were always your favorite," his mother said with a smile as she watched him eat his sweet treat. "Do you remember? You would always sneak into the kitchens and nibble on cakes and tarts until your supper was utterly spoiled. Both you and Deanna loved them so much." Her smile wilted, but only for a moment. "Drucilla isn't fond of sweet things. Such a strange child."
He too had lost his taste for sweet things, but Domeric didn't have the heart to tell his mother, not while she seemed so happy. "You know, I would have liked to have gone to Deanna's funeral," he said. "She was my sister, after all. I had a right to go."
Lady Bolton lowered her gaze to the table, as if to hide her face in shame. "Yes, I know."
"But you forbade it. I still remember when you sent that letter. I must have read it a hundred times."
"I couldn't let you. You had to stay far away from here. If you had come home then, your father would have never let you leave. It was the only way to guarantee your safety."
"Well, I'm home now."
"Yes, you are home now, and I am very glad to finally have my son back." She reached across the small table and gave his hand a loving squeeze. "But enough sad talk for now. Please, tell me about Redfort. Did you enjoy your time there?"
"More than I can say. The Redforts were like a second family to me. Lord Horton was the father I never had, and his sons were the brothers you never gave me. I was happy there, Mother, truly happy." He wrenched his hand out of her grasp and ignored the pained expression which overtook her face. His words had hurt her deeply, but he couldn't bring himself to apologize. His pride wouldn't allow it. "And I fell in love, if you care to know, with his daughter Cassandra. I intend to marry her one day."
"Oh?" Lady Bolton withdrew into herself and folded her hands upon her lap. "And have you spoken with your father about this intent?"
"I plan to immediately. Why?"
He watched his mother reach for her wine cup, and he saw the panic in her eyes when she realized that both her cup and the flagon were completely dry. More wine, she demanded from the servants, and then Domeric made a demand of his own.
"Tell me what you know, Mother. I know you are hiding something."
Before he could get an answer, the door opened and a young male servant entered the room.
"My lord," he announced as he twiddled his thumbs behind his back, "Lord Bolton sends for you. Please, come with me, and I will take you to him."
Domeric held back a snarl. He beckons me like a dog! "My father will have to wait. As you can see, I am talking with my mother."
The boy's eyes widened at the thought of returning to his lord with such a rude message. "But, my lord—"
"I will go when I am finished. Thank you."
Lady Bolton shook her head in disapproval. "Domeric, you should go to your father. We have the rest of our lives to talk. Your father is not so patient." She gave a reassuring smile. "Go on, dear. Don't worry about me."
"As you wish." Reluctantly, Domeric arose from his chair and kissed his mother good night before taking his leave. He followed the servant to Lord Bolton's private chambers and entered only after he'd been properly announced and accepted.
He found his lord father sitting upon a wooden chair facing the crackling fire. His eyes were closed and his head was tilted back, as if he was enjoying a peaceful rest. When Domeric stepped closer, he noticed that his sleeves had been drawn up to his elbows, and suckling upon his bare skin were four black, wriggling leeches: two on each forearm, slowly sucking drop after drop until they were full and fat. The sight of them made Domeric shudder.
"Those leeches you love," he boldly stated, "I do not think they help as much as you think they do."
"Leeches are good for many things," Lord Bolton answered with his eyes still closed. "Most diseases are caused by overabundances in the blood. Leeches, they suck away all the bad blood and bring balance to the body. When one's blood is in perfect balance, a man can do anything."
"Are those Maester Uthor's words?"
"No." Lord Bolton opened his pale grey eyes. "They are mine."
One by one each of the plump leeches fell off, leaving four small, bleeding marks on the lord's arms. The attending servant quickly gathered all the leeches in a shallow bowl of water and then bandaged the wounds before leaving.
Lord Bolton stood up from the chair and fetched a cup of his preferred drink: hippocras, a spiced medicinal wine. It was all he ever drank. Other lords were drunks and fools, but not Roose Bolton. No, he was a man who maintained complete control, over everything and everyone. Years from now, when staring death in the face, he would likely choose to take his own life rather than have it stolen by another man.
Domeric's impatience got the better of him. "Why did you ask me here?" he asked.
"I wanted to speak with my son, who has finally returned home after eight long years. Lord Horton has groomed you well, I see, and for that I must send him my thanks. But I wonder, are you still a Bolton beneath those Redfort clothes? If not, I might as well send you back to him." He paused for Domeric's answer, but it seemed to have gotten stuck in the boy's throat. "I hear you like to play the high harp and dance at feasts. I hear you have a natural talent for the joust and the makings of a champion rider. Is that what you wish to do with your life? Prance around on a horse and play the harp? If so, please return to Redfort at once because I have no use for such a man."
His father's words pierced like a knife in his side. "No," Domeric answered immediately. "No, my place is here. I am your son and heir."
Lord Bolton nodded, a faint smile on his lips. "Yes, you are. And as my son and heir, your first responsibility is finding a suitable bride. That much I have already done for you." He walked over to his desk and began shuffling through a small pile of scrolls. Urgent messages from other Northern houses. Important today, but by tomorrow, they would be nothing more than ash on the bottom of his hearth. "While you were away, I made a proposal on your behalf ... to Ned Stark." He found the desired scroll and handed it to Domeric. "I received his response a month ago. You are to wed his eldest daughter, Sansa, when she comes of age."
Domeric unrolled the scroll and carefully read every letter of Lord Stark's answer; then he went back and read them a second time, just in case his eyes had deceived him. They hadn't. He crushed the scroll in his fist. "You made a proposal without telling me?"
"The Starks are the most powerful house in the North. The alliance between our houses is centuries old, yes, but not set in stone. It was forged from a promise, and promises are easily broken. The best way to preserve that alliance and ensure House Bolton's continuing prosperity is to join our houses in marriage and bind them with blood. That is how we survive."
"Yes, I know, but—" Domeric bit back his words and hung his head in defeat. "As you say, Father. I will marry the Stark girl." What choice do I have anyway? In the end, Roose Bolton always gets his way. Always.
Without his father's consent, Domeric chucked the scroll into the fire and then stormed out of the room.
So this is why he called me home! He wanted me to return just so he could marry me off. And to Sansa Stark, of all people, when I had already promised my heart to another! His eyes widened. Did he know? Is that why he ...? No, he couldn't have known. I told only Creighton of my plans, and he said nothing to anyone,... but what if he had eyes in the Vale? Spies ... Spies, yes, of course. He has been watching me this whole time.
Domeric entered his bedchamber and slammed the door shut. What do I tell Cassandra? How do I tell her that I must break my promise after I swore I wouldn't? A mere letter would be cruel and disgraceful to her. The truth has to come from me, from my own lips, and it will surely break her heart.
That night, Domeric lay upon a soft feather bed with three layers of blankets to keep him warm in the cold Northern night. He'd asked the servants for more candles so that he might read before bed. A daunting task in the Dreadfort. For books, he had found only one sitting on a dusty shelf in Maester Uthor's chambers, and Domeric had already read it half a dozen times in his youth. It was a book about the Red Kings, the founders of House Bolton, and their bitter rivalry with the Kings of Winter, the Starks of Winterfell. Especially now, with his impending marriage to Sansa Stark, it seemed distasteful to be reading such a book, but his options were too few for him to cast it aside. He needed a good read to distract him from his thoughts. This one would just have to do.
Beneath the soft glow of candlelight, Domeric flipped through page after page until his eyelids grew heavy. The castle was quiet at this hour, but pleasantly so. Outside, the wind whistled through the wooden shutters and the wolves howled beneath the full moon, singing the sweet songs of the night. At times like this, Domeric thought, the Dreadfort wasn't so terrible.
Sometime later, the door opened and Drucilla Bolton, dressed in a white linen gown, poked her head into the dimly lit room. Her brown hair was unbound and flowing over her shoulders in loose waves. Her eyes were clear and bright and without fatigue despite the late hour. When she spotted the book in her brother's hands, she couldn't help but say, "You should burn that after you read it."
Domeric flipped the page. "Well, some people like to read a book more than once."
His answer made her nose wrinkle. "Why? Did they not read it carefully enough the first time?" Without invitation, she strolled into the room and sat down on the edge of his bed. "You know, Father always burns his books after reading them. That way, nobody can use the information against him. Isn't he brilliant?"
Brilliant and a tad paranoid, he thought as he closed the book and set it down beside him. "Why are you still awake, Drucilla?"
"Hmm, I couldn't sleep." She combed her fingers through her hair while she gazed aimlessly around the room, as if searching for a distraction from her thoughts. "I had a terrible dream, but strangely enough now I can hardly remember it. Don't you just hate it when that happens? What good are dreams if you can't remember them when you wake?" As she spoke, her right hand was twisting and tugging the left sleeve of her gown, exposing a set of scars which marked the inside of her arm, from elbow to wrist.
Where did those come from? "Drucilla, did someone hurt you?" Concerned, Domeric reached a gentle hand toward his sister, but she recoiled from him before his fingers could graze her scarred skin, and then she yanked her sleeve back down to hide the evidence.
"It doesn't matter," she said. "He's dead now. Father had him hanged years ago." She would have liked to have seen his execution herself, but her father said she was too young to witness such things. Still, she hoped he had suffered greatly before dying. Perhaps now his skin was hanging on a wall somewhere. Drucilla smiled at the thought. "Domeric, do you remember those nights when I would sneak into your room? And we would sit in bed and listen to the ghosts moan and wail?"
Domeric nodded. For him, it was a horrible childhood memory, so he couldn't understand why it would make Drucilla smile so brightly. While he sat in silence, she stood up and walked over to the window. Outside, the full moon was dangling above the sharp merlons of the Torturer's Tower. Any closer, she thought, and it might just crack in two.
"They weren't ghosts, were they?" she said. "They were real people, trapped and suffering in the tower."
"Yes."
"I still hear them, you know, and I dream about them ... and that room."
"That room doesn't exist, Drucilla."
Drucilla whipped around to face him. "Yes, it does."
"No, it doesn't!" Domeric sat up with a fury and threw aside his blankets. "The Boltons never flayed their enemies alive and wore their skins as cloaks. There is no room full of skins. It's just some story used to intimidate people. They're all lies!"
"They're not lies!" Drucilla hissed. "They really happened, and I can prove it! I can take you to the dungeon tower and show you where they flay men alive. I can show you where men scream forever in the darkness. Then you'll see. Then you'll know the truth, and you'll believe."
Domeric rolled his eyes. "And how would we get into the tower? We'd have to steal the keys from Big Balder, Balder the Boulder, Balder the Brute, Balder the—" He struggled to remember his other nicknames, of which there were many. He and Deanna had once spent an entire afternoon coming up with fitting nicknames for the bald-headed, boil-faced monster known as Balder. "Big Balder can crush a man's skull with his bare hands. How would you propose we get past him? Hmm?"
Drucilla shrugged. "Well, we wouldn't have to do all that because I already stole the keys from him years ago."
"You stole the keys from Balder the Brute?"
"Balder the Bum is more accurate, I've found. He is not nearly as intimidating as the stories make him out to be. In fact, he hums in his sleep. A lovely tune, too." She giggled and twirled and danced across the room with light, springy steps. "Shall we go now, then? Or have you changed your mind already?"
She was challenging his manhood, that clever girl. Their father had taught her well. "No," Domeric answered with a confident smirk. "We will go now, and I will prove you wrong once and for all."
Domeric grabbed his bedrobe while Drucilla snatched the keys, and under the cover of darkness, the siblings crept past the household guards and snuck out of the great keep. The night's chill stung their rosy cheeks and numbed their hands, but the excitement of their defiant and dangerous expedition lit a fire deep in their bellies. They dashed and darted through the middle bailey, past the barking dogs in their kennels, past the armory and the barracks (at which they were nearly spotted by Marvin the Maneater, who was stumbling around drunk), and hurried toward the unmanned gate of the Torturer's Tower. Domeric stood watch while Drucilla fumbled around with the giant ring of keys. In a matter of seconds, the gate was unlocked and wide open, as was Domeric's mouth.
"I see you've done this before," he whispered to his sister.
She smiled. "Once or twice. Let's go."
The passage was narrow and lit by rows of torches that burned bright and gave birth to strange shadows which seemed to peel off the walls and follow Domeric as he walked. One, he swore, had the angry face of a man. Domeric feared he might creep up behind him and stab him in the back with a sharp shadow dagger. He chuckled at his own childishness. Shadow men wielding shadow blades? Such things only existed in Hilda's stories.
They followed the mysterious passage into a huge chamber with gates on each side. Some were locked and blocked by heavy iron portcullises, while others were wide open and daring them to enter.
"Where's Big Balder?" Domeric asked as he searched high and low for the gaoler, who was said to stomp around the tower like a menacing giant. He listened for the jingling of his keys, but he heard only the quiet moans and groans of the prisoners as they starved and suffered in their cells. From the central chamber, he could look up and see the levels above him, but he couldn't tell how high they went. After the fourth level, the darkness consumed everything.
"Amazing, isn't it?" Drucilla said as she admired the architecture. "The cells, they get smaller and smaller the higher you go. Those on the highest level are little bigger than coffins and contain no windows at all. There's no light. No space to move. No air to breathe. Locked in there, a man quickly slips into madness. He thinks he's been buried alive. Those prisoners usually last no longer than a week. I've counted." She grinned. "Do you want to see them? The prisoners, I mean. Come, I'll take you to one of the cells."
Before he could refuse her, Drucilla grabbed his hand and dragged him up the winding stairs of the north-eastern passage to the second level, which contained three spacious cells, where scraggly men in tattered rags sat upon filthy, straw-covered floors that reeked of shit and piss. Domeric covered his nose with his hand and backed away, but Drucilla approached the nearest cell and peered through the gate.
"Drucilla," Domeric spoke through the webs of his fingers, "how often do you come here?"
She shrugged. "Whenever I'm lonely, or I can't sleep."
So she seeks the company of prisoners? Doesn't she find that odd? When I left, Drucilla was still playing with dolls and hiding under Hilda's skirt. What had happened to her while I was away? As he pondered this, he casually observed the prisoners in the cell, and he immediately noticed something strange. They all sat huddled together and far away from the gate, as if they were spooked by something ... or someone. Balder the Boulder perhaps; he was an intimidating beast of a man, after all.
Drucilla stepped away from the gate and smirked. "Are you ready to face the truth now, brother? The torture chambers lie below."
He nodded. "Lead the way, sister."
They took the stairs back down to the main chamber and then passed through the northern gate and descended into the dark chambers below. Down there, the air was musty and thin. After just a few steps, Domeric felt like he was slowly suffocating. His feet wobbled. His head started spinning. Before taking the long plunge, he reached out with both hands and braced himself against the walls. "Skulls!" he shrieked. "The walls are made of human skulls!"
Drucilla dismissed his comment with a wave of her hand. "Yes, skulls and other bones as well. You really have been away too long. You sound like a foreigner."
"I am a Bolton, the same as you."
"Then prove it," she shot back.
Why should I have to prove myself? Domeric angrily thought. Do we not share the same name? The same eyes? The same blood? From the moment he passed through the castle gates, Domeric felt like he'd been put on trial. Everybody was picking him apart and questioning his loyalty, as if he had abandoned his family, as if he had chosen to leave the Dreadfort! He had no choice at all. His mother made the choice for him when she left him in Barrowton. What must I do to prove my loyalty? Flay a man alive? If so, bring me the knife now!
But there were no flayed men down here, that much Domeric knew, and Drucilla was unable to prove him wrong. She had brought him to a dark, empty chamber which housed a tall wooden rack in the shape of a diagonal cross, but there was no evidence to show that a man had ever been strapped to it, skinless or not.
Domeric yawned. The hour was late, and he was exhausted from his long journey. "This is futile, Drucilla. There is nothing down here."
His sister wore her frustration on her face. "There are more chambers to see. We just—"
She took off once more, but this time Domeric grabbed her wrist and pulled her back. "Drucilla, how many times have you been down here? Several times, right? And during those many visits had you ever seen them flay anyone? Anyone at all? Tell me, have you found the chamber of skins? Have you? — No, you haven't, and do you know why? Because there is no chamber."
But there was a steady clink, clink, clink of keys smacking into each other. Big Balder had awoken from his slumber and started making the rounds. STOMP clink STOMP clink. The ceiling shook and coughed up dust. STOMP clink STOMP clink. The iron gate opened with a deafening screech.
"He's coming down here," Domeric realized, and so he pulled his sister into the nearest chamber and hid in the darkness.
A giant shadow moved across the floor. STOMP clink STOMP clink. Big Balder marched down the passage, whistling a light, cheerful tune. STOMP clink STOMP clink. His long, powerful arms swung back and forth like heavy hammers. STOMP clink STOMP clink ... STOMP clink STOMP clink ... Then he was gone, and Domeric heard not a sound.
He let out a sigh of relief. "Thank the gods."
"I saw a light," Drucilla muttered as she wiggled out of his grasp and climbed to her feet. "Before you grabbed me, I saw a light in one of the chambers. There's someone down there!" She took off running before he could stop her, so he had no choice but to follow, as tired as he was.
Domeric lazily approached the chamber his sister had entered. "Drucilla, there is nothing down here, just—" He went to turn and nearly smacked into his sister's back. She was standing at the entrance, standing and staring into the chamber with a haunted expression on her pale, pale face. Three times Domeric called her name, but she would not respond. Finally, he placed a hand on her trembling shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. "Drucilla? Drucilla, what's ...?"
She lifted her right arm and pointed a quivering finger toward the wooden rack.
What Domeric saw that night would haunt him forever. A man was strapped to the rack, bound by his wrists and ankles with tough strips of leather. At one point, he might have been struggling and screaming for mercy, but now he just hung lifelessly on the cross. Without skin, he hung. The Butcher had flayed him with his sharp knife, slowly peeled away the layers of his flesh until there was nothing left but blood, bone, and muscle tissue. Pink and red. The flayed man. Their house's sigil was standing right in front of them.
And now Drucilla was smiling at him. "Now do you believe?"
