"I will not allow it!"Six-year-old Connor Macleoden heard the high, angry voice of his mother the very moment he crawled under the middle staircase. The dark, dusty space was his favorite place in the whole house, a perfect hiding spot for when he really needed one. On any given day, the cook might be mad at him for eating a slice of her freshly baked pie, or the teacher wrathful over Connor's inability to sit still and concentrate, or, even worse, his older siblings bored and looking for amusement. His sisters Catrine and Emmala delighted in dressing him up as a girl, with ribbons in his hair and narrow shoes on his feet. His brothers Padrick and Warrell preferred making him stand against a tree while they pitched rotten apples at the board he held against his chest. Better to hide from all of them, to curl up under the stairs and dream of heroes, dragons and adventure.
"We have no choice," his father said.
Connor moved forward stealthily and thwacked his head against a wooden beam.
"There's always a choice," his mother retorted.
"Ouch," Connor whispered, rubbing his forehead. He crept forward with more caution, and felt splinters dig through the thin fabric at the knees of his trousers. The maid who did the sewing wouldn't be very happy with him.
"Of course there's always a choice," his father said. "We simply tell the King's tax collector that we can't afford to pay in coin what we intend to keep in child. In which case, I'm sure he'll be more than happy to take this house, our livestock, our land - "
"I'll sell my jewels," his mother said.
Connor brushed a cobweb aside and put his eye to the spyhole in the wall. From his low angle, he could clearly see his parents in the library. His mother, Irine, stood by the fireplace with her arms folded stubbornly across his chest. Her flame-red hair had fallen loose of its bun again. His neatly dressed father, Bartolom, thrust a poker into the fire and sent a shower of sparks up the chimney.
"You've already sold most of them," his father said bleakly, looking at the empty shelves where books had once been. "What's left might pay for half of what we owe. No more."
"We could leave Daranell," his mother said, her chin high.
"And go where?" his father asked. "What other land, what other kingdom? Shareya, Hoorand, Minyar? They all have monarchs and they all want money."
"I will not give up Warrell," his mother said.
Warrell! Connor felt a surge of joy. Warrell would be going away to work off their father's debts. Connor imagined him laboring in the kitchen cutting vegetables, or cleaning the stables day in and day out, or even having to scrub the King's laundry. Best of all, Connor would inherit a bigger bed, and there would be far fewer rotten apples thrown around, and no more nasty tricks with the bedpan in the middle of the night.
His father moved to sit in Connor's favorite chair, the red one with the padding almost worn through. Sunlight through the windows shone on Bartolom's feet. "Well, we can't give up Padrick, he's my heir. The girls are to be married, if we ever raise enough money for their dowries. And Connor's too frail and weak to ever survive in the King's service."
Frail and weak! The words burned in his ears and made his eyes sting. True, everyone said he was small for his age. He got sick more often than anyone else, and more than once the doctor had used leeches to bring down his fever. He couldn't run very far, or climb very high without getting dizzy. But frail and weak!
His mother rose to his defense. "Connor is not frail, nor is he weak. He's . . . "
Connor waited to hear the good words. He'd always loved his mother more than his father, anyway.
". . . delicate," his mother said.
Delicate! Delicate was even worse than weak and frail. Connor rubbed angrily at his eyes. He decided then and there that he would never leave his hiding place. If his own parents thought so little of him, it was no wonder his sisters and brothers did, too. The servants probably shared their low opinion. The whole village. The whole countryside. Well, he'd show them. Somehow, he'd show them.
"I think Connor will do well as a cleric," Connor's father said.
A cleric! Connor would never be a cleric. The bearded monks of Daranell were not only servants of the gods, but the most respected scholars in all the seven kingdoms. They loved teaching and they loved books. Connor hated writing and reading, and math, and science, and anything else that involved sitting at a desk when he'd rather be playing outside. Even when ill - his own parents thought he was weak and frail! - he wouldn't open a book, but instead raced small wooden horses for hours over the hills and fields of his blanket.
"But what about Warrell?" his mother asked. "We can't just send him away."
"We have no choice," Connor's father said, bringing the argument to almost a full circle. "Warrell must go to serve the king."
Forgetting his earlier resolve, Connor hurried out from his hiding space. He had no doubt that Warrell would hate the very idea of going away and, by making him miserable, Connor hoped to feel a little better himself. Grabbing a cloak from the closet, he slipped outside into the chilly autumn afternoon. Servants hurried about their tasks in the stables and barns, eager to be done before supper. Connor remembered a vague time when there had been more servants, but those days had vanished along with his father's books and the gold plates that had once been in the dining room. After several minutes of searching, Connor found both of his brothers sitting out in the pasture behind the barn, sticking burning sticks into anthills.
"I know a secret!" Connor announced.
"Go away, runt," Warrell said.
"We're busy," Padrick said.
Connor couldn't help but blurt it out. "Warrell's going away to serve the king! Mother and father said so!"
Warrell's gaze narrowed. "Stop lying!"
"I'm not lying!" Connor protested. "I heard them talking!"
Padrick stuck his burning stick into the dirt. Twelve years old, already tall and sturdy, he looked just like their father. Warrell, who didn't look like anyone Connor knew, stood up with dirt on his hands and knees. Warrell was ten years old and often meaner than a stray dog.
"You're lying," Warrell insisted, clenching his fists.
"I'm not," Connor said, taking an instinctive step backward. "I heard everything."
Warrell looked at Padrick. Padrick gazed off into the distance with a thoughtful expression. Connor guessed Warrell was angry about any number of things - losing his bed and toys, having to go away so far from home, having to follow the orders of some cruel old King,
"I'm going to serve the King!" Warrell said, and for some reason he sounded happy about it.
"You get to go live in Castle Glorious," Padrick added, referring to the most famous of all Daranell's castles.
"I'm going to be a knight!" Warrell shouted, and began laughing. He punched Padrick's arm in joy. "Me! I'm going to get a suit of armor and everything!"
For the second time that afternoon, the bottom dropped out of Connor's stomach. Warrell was happy about leaving everything and everyone he'd ever known? And he wouldn't have to clean the King's privy or be a lowly servant at all, but instead become a knight?
"Warrell!" Connor's mother shouted out the back door. "Warrell, come here!"
"This is the best thing that ever happened to me," Warrell said, shoving Connor to the ground as he went to receive the joyous news formally.
Connor sat in the dirt miserably. He should have never crawled under the stairs in the first place. Eavesdropping had brought him no happiness whatsoever. He wanted to cry, but certainly not in front of Padrick.
"Come on, squirt," Padrick said, pulling Connor up to his feet and tousling his hair. "I'll give you a ride."
With that, he swung Connor up onto his back and began the long trudge up to the house. Connor liked Padrick a hundred times better when Warrell wasn't around to bring out his mean side. He tightened his arms around Padrick's neck and asked, "Will Warrell really get to be a knight?"
"He might," Padrick allowed. "Quit choking me."
"Sorry." Connor loosened his grip. "Will he get to come home and visit?"
"Not very often, no."
"Will we go visit him?"
"Probably not."
"Good," Connor said.
Padrick laughed. "Don't let him hear you say that."
The news of Warrell's impending departure made Connor's sisters equally joyous, although they both took care not to show it in front of their parents. Catrine sewed a new shirt for Warrell to wear on his trip north. Emmala drew a careful picture of the entire family, all the better for Warrell to remember them by. She etched her cat Ismal in the corner, even though Warrell hated cats. Warrell boasted of his impending glory to all who would listen and even those who wouldn't.
"I'm going to have my own black stallion," Warrell said every night for two weeks. Long after the lanterns went out, he lay in bed with his hands folded behind his head, dreaming aloud. "A sword so sharp it could cut a tree in two pieces. And lots of girlfriends."
Scrunched into the small bed in the corner, Connor pulled his pillow over his head. He didn't know why Warrell wanted friends who were girls. Warrell couldn't even get along with their two sisters.
"Warrell, go to sleep," Padrick would finally say, and maybe punch him in the arm to emphasize his order. "Besides, who cares what you're going to have, anyway? I'm going to have this house and all this land, and be a lord, and you won't."
Which left Connor with the books, of course, leading the dull life of a cleric. But no matter how hard he tried, letters on paper always rearranged themselves and made no sense. Numbers jumped from one column to the next, refusing to stand still no matter how many times the teacher rapped his knuckles. Science he mostly understood, the stars and the sun orbiting the earth, the four elements that comprised all of nature, but Connor had yet to meet an adult who could explain why rain clouds, so full of water, didn't just crash to the ground.
"What do you think I'm going to be?" he asked his brothers one night.
"A runt," Warrell said.
Padrick answered, in a voice just like their father's, "Don't worry about it, Connor. You can't worry about something that hasn't happened yet."
He asked his sisters. Emmala thought he should buy a stable, so he could groom horses and take care of them all day. She drew him a picture of a yearling and its mother, her small fingers deftly etching out lines and circles. Catrine, not so fond of horses or any other animal, considering the question for a long time before answering.
"I think you should be whatever you want to be," she said, sitting in her rocking chair and looking out at the forest.
Connor climbed up into her lap. "What do you want to be?"
"That's a silly question," she said, smoothing his bangs from his eyes. She was fourteen, the oldest of them all. She had their mother's red hair but, regrettably, their father's nose. Because she was a girl, she couldn't inherit their father's estate. In a few years she would have to go marry someone with land and servants of his own.
"But if you could be anything you wanted?" Connor prompted.
"I would be an actress," she said, smiling. "I would live with a traveling troop, and visit fascinating places, and act in all the great plays of the world."
That night, when Connor was taking his bath, Irine came to check on his progress. Warrell and Padrick had bathed first, leaving him only a few tepid gallons. Those had gone cold while he sailed his boats on the surface, re-enacting a great naval battle his father had once told him about.
"Connor, this water is ice cold," Irine said.
"I like it this way," Connor said, crossing his thin arms over his chest. "It's like dunking in the river."
Irine sent a maid to go heat more, then gathered her skirts and sat on a small wooden stool. "Ears," she ordered, a washcloth in hand, and Connor turned his head so she could scrub behind his ears.
"You've been very quiet lately, Connor," Irine remarked. "Are you feeling well?"
"Yes, mother," he said obediently.
"Are you sad that Warrell's going away?"
Connor looked directly at her. "Yes, mother."
Irine nodded. "You should be. We might not see him again for a long, long time."
She scrubbed behind his other ear, then made him lift his arms. "I swear, Connor, you must take off all your clothes and roll back and forth on the ground to get this dirty. Is that what you do?"
He giggled. "No, mother."
The maid brought a large bucket of hot water and dumped it into the tub. "Much better," Irine said, although Connor felt exactly like a vegetable stewing in a pot.
"Mother," he said, having forgotten he was angry with her, "when I grow up, can I own a stable?"
"A stable? Why a stable?"
"Because I like horses," Connor said. "And I'm good at helping clean out the stalls. So can I? Own a stable?"
"You're a little young to be planning out your future," Irine said. "Let's discuss it again in a few years."
When he was wrinkled head to toe like a prune, she let him out of the water and wrapped a thick towel around him. Quite unexpectedly she pulled him into a firm hug. "Don't grow up too quickly, Connor Macleoden," she said softly. "You're my baby, and you're not going anywhere for a long, long time."
Three days before the King's representatives came to collect Warrell, Bartolom hosted a feast. Having a son go off to serve the King was no small honor, even if it was the result of owed taxes. The most important men from town came, along with the Lord Cleric of the nearby monastery, and all the Macleoden relatives from Glinfinae. Cousin Mary brought her young son Duncan, a two-year-old with a thatch of dark hair and an adorable, dimpled face. Everyone commented on how happy a baby he was, and more than one of the women said, "That one's going to break a few hearts when he grows up."
Duncan took to Connor almost immediately. "Con-na!" he would demand, smiling, holding out his chubby arms, and Connor would bounce him in his lap for hours.
"Only girls play with babies," Warrell told him with a sneer.
Connor tried to avoid the baby after that, even when Duncan toddled after him from room to room.
"Go away," Connor said firmly, but that just made Duncan cry. Connor couldn't help but pick him up and give him kisses.
"Who care what Warrell thinks, anyway?" Connor grumbled.
For Warrell's farewell dinner, Bartolom had the finest of the barnyard animals slaughtered and roasted. The guests and relations gorged themselves on spiced meat, wedges of cheese, slices of dark bread and any number of special desserts. Bartolom toasted Warrell's fine qualities, and Warrell pretended to look modest. Irine only occasionally dabbed at her eyes. Wine flowed freely from bottles to cups, and even Connor managed to sneak a taste of the fruity but sour liquid.
The more wine the adults drank, the more determined they seemed to be to tell embarrassing stories about each other. Grandfather Ellium told the funniest, a long tale about how Bartolom had first learned the proper way to milk a cow.
"I happened to have been grievously misinformed," Bartolom said, his chin up and cheeks red.
When the stories turned too raucous, the girls were sent to go play quietly in their rooms while the boys were let loose in the slowly waning afternoon. Connor tried join Padrick, Warrell and a small group of others, but they wouldn't let him.
"You're just a baby," Warrell said. "Go play with the other babies."
The boys snickered. Connor felt his cheeks burn despite the chill breeze that pushed red and gold leaves across the ground.
"Everyone can't wait until you go away," he said spitefully. "We're all going to be so happy!"
"I don't care if you're happy or not," Warrell said, giving him a shove. "I'm going to Castle Glorious and I'm going to forget all about little ants like you."
"But you're not going to Castle Glorious!" one of the cousins blurted out, before someone gave him a pinch and he quickly clamped his mouth shut.
Warrell's gaze darkened. He turned on the boy, who Connor now recognized as cousin Malcolm's son Ewern.
"What do you mean?" Warrell demanded, his fists clenching. "Where else would I go?'
Ewern straightened his back. "I heard your father tell my father you're going to Castle Immortal. That's why your mom is so sad."
Several of the boys, including Padrick, made small warding gestures. Connor felt immediately all cold and shivery. Castle Harvest stood overlooking the kingdom's fertile agricultural plains. Castle Glorious was the most beautiful place on earth, while storms and rain constantly plagued Castle Thunder. But Castle Immortal was the most notorious of all, an ancient fortress along the rocky northern coast known to be haunted by fairies and ghosts and terrible creatures. Headless men with fiery swords guarded the gates, and few who ever ventured within its walls of blood-soaked stone were ever seen again.
"That's not true!" Warrell said, spittle flying from his mouth. "My father would have told me!"
"Maybe he thinks you'd run away," another cousin said, which made Warrell hit him, which then caused a large fight among all the boys that resulted in three bloody noses, two black eyes and someone's sprained wrist. Connor escaped unscathed, and immediately followed his espionage instincts to the hiding place under the stairs.
Warrell, Irine and Bartolom stood in the library, all shouting at each other.
"Why didn't you tell me - "
"Don't take that tone with your father - "
"It's nothing more than superstitious nonsense!" That was Bartolom, who Connor knew didn't believe in anything he hadn't seen with his own eyes. "Just silly stories! Castle Immortal is just like any other of the King's fortresses, and you'll go where he tells you!"
All the relatives and guests departed late that night or early the next day, leaving the servants to clean the vast house to perfection before the arrival of the King's representative. Reprimanded more than once for getting in the way, Connor went to the playroom and set up two warring armies on the floor. Halfway through the battle he decided to take a nap instead, and curled up on the rug by the fireplace. He dreamt he heard Warrell and Catrine whispering nearby.
"You can't!" Catrine sounded angry. "You'll shame father, and make us all look bad!"
"I'm not going to Castle Immortal!" Warrell replied. "It's haunted and evil!"
Connor thought nothing of the dream until the next morning, when no one could find Warrell. He'd slipped out of the house sometime before dawn, and no one knew where he'd gone. A frantic Bartolom sent out teams of servants to find him while Irine, biting her nails and pacing nervously, made the rest of the children dress in their finest clothes.
"What will happen if the king's men come and Warrell's not here?" Padrick asked.
"Warrell will be here," Irine insisted, smoothing her oldest son's hair in place.
"I think he ran away," Emmala said, twirling around in her red dress. Connor looked immediately at Catrine, but she was concentrating on adjusting a bit of ribbon didn't meet his gaze.
"Don't even say such a thing!" Irine snapped. "And fix that last button, Emmala. Don't any of you know how to dress properly?"
Three finely dressed men on white horses appeared at the front gate just a few minutes later. Irine made the children line up in front of the house while Bartolom wrung his hands and practiced excuses. The clear blue sky and bright sunshine made up for the chilly air. Connor found it hard to keep from fidgeting. He craned his neck to look at the approaching strangers, and Catrine pulled him back in place.
"Behave," she whispered.
"Where's Warrell?" he asked.
Catrine's mouth tightened, but she said nothing.
"Lord and Lady Macleoden," said the first man as he dismounted. Connor recognized him as the town's tax collector, a thin man with a ridiculously long mustache.
"Mr. Ievery," Bartolom said, as Ievery bowed. "So nice to see you."
"These are the king's representatives, and they have much business to attend to today," Mr. Ievery said. "Would you please present the boy?"
Bartolom looked stricken. "The boy?" he repeated.
"The boy," Mr. Ievery said.
Irine looked around, but no servants appeared with Warrell in tow. "Our son," she said, and Connor thought she was stalling.
"Yes, your son," Mr. Ievery said, as if talking to a small child.
Silence for a moment. The white horses shifted in place, and one went about the business of shitting. Connor studied the two men who had accompanied Mr. Ievery - one a cruel-looking man in black, the other more jolly in gold, silver and almost every other color Connor had ever seen put on clothes. A bright ring dangled from one ear, making him look quite exotic.
"Warrell," Mr. Ievery said stiffly, as if that would make things more clear.
Catrine stepped forward. "Warrell ran off," she said, in a clear and firm voice. "He didn't think he was worthy enough to serve the King, and was afraid of bringing shame to the family. I volunteer to go in his place."
Bartolom covered his face with both hands.
"You can't go in his place, you're not a boy," Mr. Ievery said. "Lord Macleoden, what's going on?"
Two spots of red appeared on Catrine's cheeks. "But I can sew and cook and ride horses - "
"That's enough, Catrine," Irine said sternly. Catrine stepped back as if slapped, and then ran into the house with her long blond hair flying behind her.
Mr. Ievery and Bartolom began arguing - Mr. Ievery saying that the taxes were due immediately, that Warrell's indenture had already been arranged, and Bartolom pleading for just a few more minutes to find the boy. Emmala began to cry. Padrick fidgeted. Connor understood what had to be done, and walked forward to King's men on their high horses. His knees felt jittery, but he held his chin high.
"I'll go," he told them. "I'm not as old as Warrell, but I work harder, and I won't run away even if Castle Immortal is haunted."
Bartolom abruptly broke off his quarrel and said, "Connor, no - "
Irine rushed to his side and pulled Connor close to her. "You're too young," she said quickly. She looked up at the man in black. "He's only a baby!"
"I am not," Connor said defiantly, pulling away. "I'm almost seven. And I'm not weak or frail or delicate, no matter what you say!"
The man in the colorful clothes stifled a cough behind his gloved hand. The man in black glared at Connor, then at Irine, then back at Connor.
"What's your name, child?"
"Connor Macleoden, sir," Connor said.
"Are you really almost seven? You're very small."
Connor straightened. "I'm not that small," he said.
"You barely come to my knee!"
"Because you're on a horse!" Connor said, getting angry.
"You're too small for my purposes," the man declared, and spat on the ground.
"Perhaps not too small for mine, Captain Kurg," the other man said, with a twinkle in his eyes.
"Captain Ramirez, are you quite sure?" Mr. Ievery asked. "Maybe we should take the oldest son, instead."
Padrick looked immediately alarmed.
"Diplomacy starts young," Captain Ramirez said. Sunlight caught in his earring, dazzling Connor's eyes for a moment. "I think he'll do fine. If not, we can always throw him to the ghosts."
Irine gasped. Captain Ramirez looked immediately sorry, and held up a hand. "My apologies, madam. I assure you, your child will be safe for many years in my care."
And so it was decided that Connor would, in fact, go in Warrell's place. They had almost no time whatsoever to say their goodbyes. Servants raced to fetch a pack of clothes, and Emmala gave him the picture she'd drawn for Warrell. Padrick patted his back and told him to be good. Tears streaming down her face, Irine gave him a bone-crushing hug and told him to write as often as he could.
"Okay," Connor promised. The thought of not seeing her for a long time made him want to cry, too, but he held the tears back. His knees had gone back to being jittery, and his heart thumped too quickly in his chest. "Just remember, my spelling still isn't very good."
Irine laughed behind her sobs, and kissed his forehead a dozen times before turning him over to Bartolom.
Connor's father crouched to his eye level. He looked almost on the verge of tears himself, but also very proud.
"You are braver and stronger than I ever could have hoped," he said, his hands on Connor's shoulders. "When you get lonely or afraid, think of us and how much we love you."
"Yes, father," Connor said, and hugged him as hard as he could.
"It's time to go," Mr. Ievery said. "I'm sorry."
One of the stable boys brought round a small pony, and Connor climbed up into the saddle. He looked down at his parents, Padrick, Emmala. He glanced up at the house and there was Catrine, standing against a window, one hand pressed against the glass in farewell. He waved at her, and she stepped away.
"I'll come back one day," he promised his parents. "And don't be too mad at Warrell, he was just scared."
Mr. Ievery bowed and bid his farewell. Captain Kurg nudged his horse onto the road, and the others followed. Connor tried not to look over his shoulder, because if he did he might lose all courage and run back to his mother's skirts. He kept his shoulders as square as he could, and tried not to lose grip of the reins despite his sweaty palms. He concentrated on his pony's neck, on the sunlight in the trees, on Captain Ramirez' gold jacket and purple scarf.
At the main gate, Captain Ramirez turned to look at him.
"Connor, is it?" he asked. "That's your name?"
"Yes, sir," Connor answered.
"Welcome to the world, Connor Macleoden," Captain Ramirez said cheerfully. "I think you'll like it."
"I can't believe you took a runt like that one," Captain Kurg grumbled, as if Connor couldn't hear. Or maybe he just didn't care. "Next we'll be rescuing small puppies from streams, or helping old ladies across ditches."
"I always help old ladies across ditches," Captain Ramirez said.
Connor did look back then, and saw his family still standing in front of the house - his mother's red hair, the bright white of his father's shirt. They looked so very far away. Would he ever see them again? Would they remember him? He waved one last time before the curve in the road blocked them from sight, and the ache in his chest got much, much worse.
He would not cry.
He would not.
When he could see no more of the house he turned forward, to Captain Ramirez' world, and to the road that would bring him to the dreaded Castle Immortal.
The End Author's Notes: Thanks to Cindy Hudson for her beta comments and encouragement! Any remaining typos or mistakes are, of course, my own silly fault. Your feedback: Would be very much appreciated! I can amuse myself for hours, but I'd like to know if anyone else is enjoying this, too. Constructive criticism is the only way I can improve.
Next in series: The Witch in the Woods - Ramirez and Connor encounter a witch.