Chapter 9: House of the Heron

Sable opened her eyes. Am I dead? was her first thought.

If this were heaven, there were no angels to be seen. But the bed in which she found herself might have well suited a heavenly host. It was softer than anything she could have ever imagined. Rich linens, heavy furs, silvery embroidered blankets. This was no prison pallet or rustic country inn. Her eyes took in the rest of the room: spacious, with hand-painted wallpaper, a fireplace with a low-burning fire opposite the bed, an elegant chandelier. A room, albeit a room like she'd never seen before.

It wasn't heaven. Nor was it hell. So where was it?

Sable groaned and forced herself upright to a sitting position. Thoughts raced. How long had she been out? She remembered the flight through the woods, a jolt of white-hot pain, and then…nothing. She had clearly not come here on her own. Someone had brought her.

Gaston. Had to be. She pictured the hunter's smug face and scowled. But why would her enemy bother to bring her to safety? The bastard had shot her like an animal. He wanted her dead; he wouldn't have cared how. No, not him. It had to be someone else. But who?

It occurred to her suddenly that the pain was all but gone. His arrow, she remembered, had gone clean through her shoulder. Now, when Sable looked down at herself, she saw only clean bandages wrapped tightly around the wound. Only a small spot of blood to betray the injury. There was pain, she realized, but it was a distant whisper next to the scream it had been before. Her other cuts and bruises, the ones she'd sustained during her ordeals in Ste.-Eulalie and subsequent escape, had been tended to with equal skill.

She felt healthier, and stronger, than she had in a very long time. Cleaner, too. Hungry and thirsty, for sure, but almost ready to fight again.

Her fighting clothes, the stained and torn buckskin tunic and pants, were gone, though, along with Gaston's arrow. She wore only a simple nightgown and slippers. The relief she'd felt upon waking was rapidly turning into panic again. Where am I, and what do I do next? What if my rescuer is in league with Gaston or those villagers who want me dead?

Don't think of what could go wrong, cheri, she heard her old mentor's voice saying in her mind. Bertrand had always been so calm. Think of what you can do right. It was, she knew, useless to panic. She forced herself to focus elsewhere. Since there was nothing else to do, Sable found herself exploring the room. It was lavishly appointed, unlike the rough boarding houses she was used to. This was what she imagined a queen's bedroom must be like. Along with the four-poster bed, there was a mahogany table and chairs, a heavy wardrobe stuffed with elegant dresses, a vanity. In this last, Sable caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and was forced to look away.

The scars were still there. There was no help for those. Thankfully whoever had saved her had left the leather mask on her face. Or maybe, she thought, they had seen what was underneath and put it back in disgust. She may have been physically healed…but there was no cure for ugliness.

Sable's eye turned to the far wall. A window. When she looked out, though, her breath caught in her throat. Snow was everywhere; the landscape was awash in white. She'd only seen snow a handful of times in her life, and never this much. It made the prospect of escape that much more difficult. Finding a way out, with a proper horse and weapons, cloak and map, was her plan. It would be a daunting challenge, in a whiteout like this, even for the most skilled tracker. The panic tried to claw its way to the surface again. Sable breathed in deeply, repressing the fear, turning her attention back to the problem at hand. The first step was simply getting out of this room. Then she could worry about the rest.

Naturally, the tall double doors were locked. There appeared to be no other way out, other than breaking the second-story window and tumbling out into the snow. Sable cursed. She tried for a few minutes to kick at the door's lock, hammer away with her fists, but it was useless. This was no simple barn door. It was, like everything else in the room, finely made. Something stronger was needed.

There was a set of iron fireplace tools on the hearth. Among them was a wickedly hooked poker. Finally, something she could use. She took it in her hands and tested it. Yes, this would do nicely.

Something clicked in the door. A key, by the sound of it.

Sable brandished the poker in her hands. If she had to kill whoever it was to escape, well, she'd killed before. She could do it again. The poker was raised over her head, ready to strike, but it never came down. Whatever Sable had expected to walk through the door, it was not this.

"I see you're awake, child." The figure before her was not Gaston. Not even a hostile villager. Instead, it was a woman of indeterminate age, stout, with a round face. She carried a tray laden with steaming porridge, sausages, and tea. "You must be hungry."

The woman did not seem concerned at all that she'd almost been struck with a fireplace poker. Sable lowered the weapon, feeling almost ashamed. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice rusty with disuse. "What is this place?"

"That can wait. Eat," said the woman. It was not a request, but a command.

Sable replaced the poker at the hearth and took up a spoon instead as she sat at the table. How long had it been since she'd had a real meal? Too long, she realized, scarfing down the sausages and hot mush and washing them down with tea. Delicious. She only wished there were more. The whole time she ate, she sensed the older woman watching her. Something about her didn't seem quite right. What it was, a certain je nais sai quoi, Sable didn't know. Despite the woman's seeming good hospitality, she decided to play it cautious. She was still weak and hungry, and in an unfamiliar place.

"Thank you for saving me," said Sable, guessing gratitude might be a good place to start.

The woman's wide brown eyes had become distant, out of focus. "Did I?" she said dreamily, as if to someone Sable couldn't see.

"I'm asking you."

No response. A moment ago the woman could have been someone's favorite dotty aunt or grandmere. Now she seemed like one of the madwomen whom Sable had occasionally seen late at night back in New Orleans. She was older than Sable had originally guessed: flyaway hair more grey than brown, wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. And those eyes. There was warmth, there, to be sure, but something else. Something dangerous. When she finally spoke, it was in a low, angry hiss.

"Are you with him?" The woman glowered from across the table, spitting out the last word.

It was impossible to say which "him" she meant. Gaston? The late Adrien? Someone else? Sable took a guess, hoping it was the right one.

"No. I'm alone," she said, hoping she didn't sound as scared as she felt.

In an instant the fire in the older woman's eyes was gone. In its place, only a slightly vacant expression lingered. "So glad to hear it. Now, about your dress. You can't go about the chateau dressed like that, can you?"

This woman has to be mad, Sable thought as she was forcibly led over to the wardrobe. A thousand questions begged to be asked, but she had to admit, the woman was right. She needed proper clothes if she was to escape.

"Now, you'll be wanting something in blue. Or perhaps green?"

The truth was, Sable wanted her leathers and boots back, not to mention a winter cloak. There was sadly nothing like these in the wardrobe, just the kinds of opulent clothes noble ladies wore. She looked at gown after gown, all satin and lace and velvet. These weren't the kinds of things she had ever worn, even when Adrien had bought her dresses and made her wear them under threat of beatings. How could she move in those silly things, let alone fight?

Finally one caught her eye which might serve her purposes. It was a warm-looking if plain indigo wool dress with matching leggings. "That one looks right," she said, not wanting to offend again.

The woman merely shrugged. Sable got the impression she didn't approve of the choice. Nevertheless, she was able to help her into the dress, which fit well if a little loosely. Now, there was the matter of getting her boots back, and hopefully finding weapons.

"You said this was a chateau. What is the name of this place?" Sable asked, tugging on a pair of shoes which were tight but about her size.

"It is the House of the Heron," the woman said solemnly. "You don't know this?"

The heron. Sable flashed back to the silver token she'd always carried. She was about to pull it out and hand it over, maybe get a few more questions answered, then remembered it she'd given it to Lefou in exchange for the horse. No such luck. "I'm not from here. There's a lot of things I don't know," she said in desperation, and it was the truth. "Can you at least tell me how to get to a village? A trading post, maybe? I won't trouble you for much; just my horse back, and a way out…"

"Leave? No, you won't be leaving." The woman interrupted her, the manic gleam back in her eyes. "This is the way things are meant to be," she insisted.

"You don't understand," Sable said, what little patience she had evaporating quickly. "I'll be leaving soon. I don't want to impose on your hospitality, but thank you for what you've already done for me…"

Though she was a head shorter, the woman terrified Sable in that moment. "You will stay," she repeated, sounding like a mother with her obstinate child, "if I say you will stay. It is the way things must be. Now, I must be off." The faraway look returned to her eyes as she gathered the empty food tray and headed for the door. There was a click in the lock, and all was quiet once more save for the crackling of the fire.

Sable knew following her, or questioning the order, was useless. The lock proved to be solid as before. She decided to wait things out. Over the past year she'd developed a knack for waiting. There was time enough, and plenty of tools to work with.

Outside her window, snow continued to fall.

~~s~~

Once she was sure the mysterious woman was really gone, Sable set to work on the door. She'd considered breaking the windows, but immediately dismissed the idea. It had to be the door. Her first thought had been the poker, but after a good fifteen minutes of hammering away, she'd only succeeded in ruining the fine paint and irritating her sore hands. She remembered something else Bertrand had been fond of saying.

Would you use an axe just to kill a fly?

A more thorough search of the room brought Sable to the vanity. There, along with a table full of ivory brushes, hand mirrors, and tortoiseshell combs, she found the perfect tool. A long, slightly curved metal hairpin.

She'd had plenty of time to try and pick locks in her various cells, stockades and prisons. Though she'd never actually succeeded, there was nothing else to be done. It was either that, or be kept by a jailer who just might be as crazy as Adrien had been. And Sable was done being kept prisoner. I'd rather die, she thought as she manipulated the pin in and out of the lock.

The lock finally gave way with a sharp click. Beyond was a grand hallway, and dimly lit passages. Sable decided to take the poker, for lack of a better weapon, with her. She left the safety of the grand bedroom behind her and went forth into the unknown.

If the bedroom had been grand, it was nothing next to the splendor of the rest of the place. Though there was only scant light…Sable hadn't known what time it was, but guessed around sunset…she couldn't help but stare at the walls as she walked down the long corridor. Almost every surface was covered with paintings in gilded frames, elaborate tapestries, and hunting trophies. Everywhere, she saw the crest of the flying heron etched into stones and embroidered into the backs of chairs. Something, aside from the emptiness and eerie quiet of the place, deeply disturbed Sable. Like her rescuer's eyes, she wasn't quite sure what it was. Then she looked up to see the portrait of a richly-dressed man holding the reins of a chestnut horse.

My God, his face. It's as if it's been stripped away. Every one of the portraits had been similarly defaced. She gasped despite herself. The other portraits were all missing their faces. So was all the statuary.

And something else, not just the blank stares of the paintings, had been creeping up her spine. Sable had spent enough time in the woods to know when she was being watched. It might have just been the madwoman with the tea and sausages. Or maybe not. Sable felt her stomach growl. If she'd been more compliant, perhaps she might have gotten a second helping. No time to think about that now. She pressed on through the gloom, not sure quite what she was looking for. Food and water, for starters. And a weapon more suitable than a fireplace poker.

What she didn't notice was the almost imperceptible opening behind her of the tall door she'd just passed.

~~s~~

Gaston found himself doing something he normally didn't do. Thinking deeply. For at least the tenth time, he asked himself the same question.

"How did I get here?" he said aloud, though only Leonidas could hear him.

It wasn't as if either of them was uncomfortable. That wasn't the problem. The stallion was bedded down in what was otherwise an empty stable. Gaston had found a room to his liking, with a roaring fire, a table full of rich food, and dry clothes in his size. Someone was eager to make him feel at home. Fine by him; he'd eaten his fill and even slept for a while on the fur-covered bed. He even liked the mounted bear's head over the fireplace. So why was he feeling so out of sorts?

He remembered the chase through the woods, the swirling snow, and firing the arrow. He certainly recalled hitting the girl squarely in the shoulder, and thinking she was as good as dead. Her blood had provided an easy trail for him to follow.

How had she escaped? It was impossible…unless she'd just vanished. And the next thing he'd known, he had been safely inside the walls.

Gaston could only think that it must have been the whiteout. Even something as big as a deer could seem to disappear in a bad snowstorm, if it knew where it was going. But deer could not walk through walls, and neither could Sable. The question was, had she known? And if so, where was she now?

After considerable thought, a memory had surfaced. He'd been here before, this chateau, though not inside it. It had been on a hunting trip he and his father had once taken, chasing an elusive stag deep into the forest. When he'd asked, Cristophe had only muttered something about ghosts.

"That place is cursed. You'd do well to stay well away."

Whether or not his father had just been trying to scare him, Gaston never knew. He'd only been about eight. And now, here he was again, not a child but a grown man. Ghosts didn't scare him. He didn't even believe in them.

Yet every instinct he possessed as a hunter told Gaston he wasn't alone. He paced through the hallways outside his room, bow at the ready. No one appeared. Someone, he knew, was watching. What that someone wanted, or why they had brought him here, was a mystery.

He decided he was going to find out. He was tired of waiting. Slinging his bow over one shoulder, he made his way outside again.

~~s~~

It was nearly dark by the time Sable found a usable torch and managed to light it. She was grateful for the light as well as the heat it provided. Whatever else this place was, it was cold. She kept wishing for a cloak, but so far she'd only managed to stumble across more bedrooms, a dining room, sadly without food, and more strange, faceless paintings. The chateau was immense and she had the feeling she'd only explored a small part of it.

The next door she opened creaked loudly, as if it hadn't been opened for a long time. When she held the torch up to see, she grinned. Finally, something useful.

This had to be an armory. Much smaller than any of the rooms Sable had gone into, it was more like a closet. It didn't matter. Rusting swords, coats of mail, long pikes, and broad axes hung from nearly every available surface. There were enough weapons here to arm a garrison.

Hand-to-hand fighting was her specialty, though. The most fighting she'd ever done with any sort of weapon had been on her long sea voyage. Not swords, or axes, but long wooden staves. Since there were none of these in sight, Sable decided on a polearm with a rusted but sharp-looking point. She tested its balance and nodded. It had both reach and heft, but was light enough for her to wield. Perfect. As an afterthought, she took up a belt with a long dagger attached and laced it around her waist.

Now, if the strange woman insisted on keeping her prisoner, Sable would have something to say about it. The torch, in the time she'd spent browsing the armory, had unfortunately gone out. For the time being there was no way to re-light it. It would have to wait; Sable could see in the dark better than most. She hefted the polearm and, leaving the fireplace poker behind, plunged back into the now dark hallway.

At first she thought her ears were playing tricks on her. Complete silence was rare. There was always the rush of water, or the sigh of wind through trees, or the gnawing of rats. There was only one sound now, and it was getting closer.

Footsteps.

The woman with the tea. She was coming back. Had to be.

Sable decided there was only one thing to do. She didn't want to kill the woman; in fact, she never wanted to kill again. She'd have to knock her out, steal the keys, and…

What? What would she do? She was still trapped without a clue where she was. It was as if Adrien had cursed her even in death. Sable was in an opulent prison, but without a way out, it was still a prison. Without a horse or winter cloak, map or money, she would not last even a few hours in the wintry storm outside.

And Sable was not just hungry now, but famished. The woman did know where the food was kept. That in itself made it worth keeping her alive.

The footsteps were closer now. They echoed loudly in the deserted hall.

Sable squeezed in behind the statue of some sort of angel, who stared upward with a blank visage. She said a quick prayer to whatever God might be listening. She'd have to be quick but not hasty, strong but not brutal. And she wanted to stun, not kill. All of which were going to be difficult. Though her wounds had been dressed, she was still weak.

It was all she could do not to peek around the statue. Whoever it was stopped just in front of her. Sable realized why. The armory door, which she'd forgotten to close. Of course. She cursed her stupidity. The smoke from the dead torch was probably still in the air.

She decided it was now or never. On cat's feet, she slipped out and behind the visitor, who stood back to her. One blow from the polearm, to the back of the neck. A perfect strike. The person fell to the ground like a sack of grain.

Sable immediately realized something was wrong. The figure was much too big to be that of a woman. Not even the biggest woman had shoulders that broad, or feet that big. When she moved to turn over the now-unconscious person, a cry of surprise escaped her throat.

She was looking into the handsome, and very unconscious, face of Gaston.

To Be Continued