The Doll's House Chapter 9.

Chapter 9 .

 

New Cruxton.

 

Early the next morning, Sophrayni found Smike in the stable yard, brushing down Shade with slow, methodical strokes. He looked up as she approached, and his face lit with quiet affection.

“I’m going to New Cruxton,” she said.

The brush froze mid‑stroke. “You’re what?”

She repeated it, calmly.

Smike dropped the brush and stepped forward. “You can’t. Sophrayni, they’re not like the folk here. They don’t just mutter behind your back, they throw stones. They burned a charmer’s hut last winter. With someone still in it.”

“I know,” she said. “But the trail leads there. The doll’s house, the spell, Magalan’s silence, it all points to New Cruxton. I can look after myself, thank you very much.”

“So you say, but will your magic stop a crossbow bolt fired from behind a tree when you cannot see the archer?” Smike asked.

“Perhaps not. But I still have to go,” Sophrayni said.

Smike shook his head, face pale. “Then I’m going with you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is,” he said firmly. “You may be a witch, but I’m still your friend. And I’d rather be hated beside you than safe behind you.”

He gave a wry chuckle. “And at least I could avenge your death.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded.

As they rode along, Sophrayni questioned Smike about New Cruxton.

“I’ll try to explain,” he said. “Cruxton was a soldier’s town. Most of the men had served in the army. Plenty of retired Foresters too. So, when Magalan came with her army of bandits and wraiths and ordered everyone to leave, they fought.”

“Thallian told me that,” Sophrayni said.

Smike sniffed. “Thallian knows only what he reads in reports.” He gave a derisive laugh. “Did he tell you that when the clerks go to New Cruxton for the annual inspection, they have to be guarded by a regiment of soldiers? And that they do the inspection in one day, when it usually takes a week?”

Sophrayni shook her head. “Please, go on.”

“As you know, Magalan ruined the land so the survivors couldn’t return. King Rolan built them a new town and ordered them to move there. So not only had they been kicked out by a witch, they’d now been treated the same way by the king.”

“But he gave them a whole new town to live in,” Sophrayni protested.

“You see it that way, and I see it that way too. But they didn’t,” said Smike. “They hated the witch, and they hated the king.”

“I suppose they hated the wraiths and the bandits too,” Sophrayni mused.

“Actually, no. Soldiers rarely hate other soldiers. They know they’re just following orders. They reserve their anger for the people who give the orders.”

“Ah,” said Sophrayni.

“Anyway,” Smike continued, “they turned New Cruxton into a perfect copy of old Cruxton and tried to live exactly as they had before. But what really made them angry, an anger that’s lasted all these years, was that their Kingsman and his family disappeared. He was an old soldier, and he knew exactly how to deal with them. He was held in equal parts respect and fear, just like any good officer is.”

“You know a lot more about this than Thallian,” Sophrayni said. “How come?”

“I’m a soldier,” he said. “I know how to talk to them, where a clerk doesn’t. They tell me things. Mind you, that doesn’t mean I’m welcome in New Cruxton. I work for the king, and that’s enough. But I’m tolerated.”

He lifted his helmet and scratched his head. “I don’t suppose you could use magic to make it so that no weapon could harm you, is there? Just in case.”

Sophrayni thought for a moment. “Yes, I could if you really feel it’s necessary. I would have to make my skin hard like metal, and that would be very uncomfortable. It would be like wearing a very close‑fitting suit of armour.”

“Shame,” replied Smike. “And I know what you mean. I’ve worn armour myself, and it’s not pleasant. Just be ready to do it if I warn you, please.”

Sophrayni nodded. It had been a long time since anyone had been as concerned for her safety as Captain Smike was being, and it felt rather nice.

At mid‑morning the road was blocked by a gate. On either side of it, walls snaked across the countryside.

“This is New Cruxton,” said Smike. “As I said, they really do not like visitors.”

Next to the gate was a small stone‑built building. A uniformed soldier stepped out, his boots crunching on the gravel. He was broad‑shouldered, middle‑aged, and wore the insignia of New Cruxton’s militia rather than the uniform of King Syldan’s soldiers.

He looked them over without speaking, eyes lingering on Sophrayni’s face.

“Name and purpose,” he said flatly.

Smike nudged his horse forward. “Captain Smike, Royal Guard. Escorting Lady Sophrayni on official business.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “She’s a witch.”

Smike didn’t flinch. “She’s a royal investigator.”

The soldier spat into the dust. “Same difference here.”

Sophrayni met his gaze without blinking. “I’m here to ask questions, not cast spells. Unless I’m forced to.”

There was a long pause. Then the soldier turned and walked back into the building.

Smike leaned over. “That wasn’t a no.”

The gate creaked open just wide enough to let them through. The soldier didn’t speak again, merely gestured toward a patch of bare ground beside the stone building.

“You’ll wait here,” he said. “A message has been sent to the Kingsman. No one enters without his say‑so. There is water and grazing for your horses.”

Smike nodded curtly and led his horse to the waiting spot. Sophrayni dismounted, her eyes scanning the walls that snaked across the countryside, high, clean, and watchful. No children played nearby. No traders passed through. Even the birds seemed to avoid the place.

They waited.

The sun climbed higher. A second soldier emerged briefly to glance at them, then disappeared again. No one offered water. No one spoke.

Smike sat on a low stone and muttered, “They’re making a point.”

Sophrayni nodded. “They want us to feel it. What are they afraid of?”

Smike blew down his nose. “Nothing and everything.”

An hour passed. Then another.

Finally, the first soldier returned, his expression unchanged. “The Kingsman will see you,” he said. “Acting Lord Sachel.”

Sophrayni raised an eyebrow. “Acting?”

The man didn’t answer directly. “He speaks for the town. That’s all you need to know.”

She stepped forward. “And the old Kingsman?”

The soldier’s jaw tightened. “He was never replaced. Not properly. Sachel holds the post, but folk still say the real Kingsman will return one day.”

Smike muttered, “They’re not loyal to the crown. They’re loyal to a ghost.”

The soldier turned away. “Follow me.”

The town square was no market square. It was a parade ground: flat, gravelled, and marked with faded drill lines. No stalls, no children, no chatter. Just rows of shuttered buildings with narrow windows and sharp roofs, all built to last and built to watch.

The Kingsman’s residence loomed at the far end, a squat stone structure with a flagpole but no flag, flanked by two sentry towers and a row of iron‑barred windows. It looked less like a home and more like a command post.

People stood in clusters around the square, not speaking. Men in uniform, women with folded arms, older folk with narrowed eyes. They stared as Sophrayni passed, not with curiosity, but with suspicion. Their gazes were tight, expectant, as if waiting for her fingers to twitch or her eyes to glow. As if at any moment she might raise a storm or turn the air to fire.

Smike leaned toward her. “They’re afraid,” he murmured. “Afraid that you’ll show them what you can do.”

Sophrayni kept her hands still and her face calm. But inside, the magic stirred.

A soldier stepped forward from the residence and gestured silently. She dismounted, handed Shade’s reins to Smike, and followed the man inside.

The soldier led Sophrayni through a narrow corridor lined with faded regimental banners and into a room that smelled of old leather and metal polish.

On the walls hung portraits of former Kingsmen, each labelled in neat, military script: Acting Lord Halven, Acting Commander Brask, Acting Colonel Fenrick. Stern faces, square jaws, eyes that seemed to follow her across the room. None smiled. None welcomed.

The last frame was empty.

Acting Lord Sachel stood beneath it, hands clasped behind his back. He wore a dark uniform with polished boots and a silver badge on his chest. His face was stern, weathered by command rather than kindness.

“You’re the witch,” he said. No greeting. No title.

Sophrayni inclined her head. “I’m here on royal business.”

Sachel’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “That does not make you welcome.”

He walked closer to Sophrayni, who did not back away.

“We have a short way of dealing with magic users,” he said. “You’ll understand that your kind is not welcome here. The people remember what was done to them. They remember who gave the orders.”

“I’m not Magalan,” said Sophrayni.

“No,” he said. “But you are the Witch of the Dark Forest, as she was.”

Sophrayni shook her head. “Magalan was not the Witch when she came to Cruxton. She was out of her own time and bent on revenge on the royal family. Sadly, Cruxton became part of that campaign.”

He walked slowly around the desk, boots clicking on the stone floor. “You have ten minutes. After that, I decide whether you leave by the gate or the infirmary.”

Captain Smike put his hand on his sword hilt. “Be warned, Lord Sachel, that if any harm comes to this lady, what happened to Cruxton a hundred years ago will seem like a Sunday picnic compared to what would happen this time.”

Lord Sachel stepped back. “Threats do not frighten me,” he said.

“It is not a threat,” said Smike. “It is a promise. And remember, there is always a Witch of the Dark Forest. If you get rid of this one, she will be replaced, and the new witch would take revenge on the town for that.”

Before anything else could be said, a door opened and a woman stepped in.

She wore a dark green gown, simple but well‑cut, with a silver clasp at her throat. Her hair was pinned neatly, and her eyes, sharp, intelligent, took in the room at a glance.

“Lord Sachel,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “You will remember your manners.”

Sachel stiffened. “This is official business, Maeve.”

“And that does not excuse discourtesy,” she replied. “The lady is a guest, and the captain is an officer of the crown. You may dislike their presence, but you will not dishonour this house.”

She turned to Sophrayni and offered a nod, not quite warm, but civil. “Welcome to New Cruxton, Lady Sophrayni. I am Maeve Sachel. If you require rest or refreshment, I will see it arranged.”

Sophrayni inclined her head. “Thank you. I require only information.”

“Then I will help where I can,” said Maeve. She looked back to her husband. “And you will not threaten her again.”

Sachel said nothing, but his jaw tightened.

“I’m looking for a doll’s house,” Sophrayni said evenly. “One that may have belonged to the Kingsman of old Cruxton. It may have been enchanted.”

Sachel’s eyes flicked to the empty frame above him, then back to her. “Why? And before you go any further, that model is one of our most treasured possessions.”

“So I believe,” said Sophrayni. “Can you tell me why it’s so precious? After all, it’s just a model. A keepsake. Nothing more.”

Sachel gave a curt shake of the head. “I’ll try to explain. When Magalan came to old Cruxton, as you no doubt know, we fought her army. But what happened next is known only to us. It is not for retelling outside the town.”

Sophrayni nodded. “Your secret is safe with me, and Captain Smike.”

Smike nodded.

Lady Maeve tapped her foot. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Sachel, get on with it.”

“Lord Fenrick was not killed in the defence. He managed to retreat to the Kingsman’s house. He went there to protect his wife and children. When he arrived, the children were still playing with the model of the house, while their mother sat with her sewing, watching over them.

“Before he could even issue a warning, Magalan…” Sachel paused, wiping his lips as if he’d tasted something bitter. “Magalan burst in. She was alone. She said something, sadly, the only witness couldn’t hear what it was, waved her hand, and Lord Fenrick, his wife, and their two children disappeared. Magalan went over to the doll’s house, placed her hand on the roof, and again said something. No one knows what.”

“There was a witness?” Sophrayni asked gently.

Sachel nodded. “Lord Fenrick’s clerk, Walmer. He was hiding under a desk and saw it all. He wasn’t a brave man, he didn’t challenge Magalan like a soldier would have.”

“Oh, Sachel,” Maeve interrupted, “you always criticise the poor man. He was a clerk. Clerks aren’t employed for their courage, only their bookkeeping skills. And if he had attacked Magalan, he wouldn’t have lived to tell what happened.”

Sophrayni kept her voice steady. “And Walmer definitely did not hear what Magalan said when she touched the roof?”

Sachel shook his head. “The poor man was almost out of his mind with fright and could barely tell what happened, never mind recall words.”

“Pity,” said Sophrayni. “I am not sure how much you know about magic.”

Lord Sachel snorted. “Nothing, and that is too much.”

“The words Magalan spoke were important. Every major spell like the one she used must have a way of being broken, and the caster has to say what it is.”

Maeve glanced at the empty frame, then back to her husband. “So, you think there is a spell on the doll’s house?”

Sophrayni nodded. “In Magalan’s diary I found an entry which said:

‘One placed a doll in every room.
Another took them out, one by one, saying: “You’re free.”
They laughed. I did not. They can stay there until then.’

“I don’t know exactly what it means, but it seems she placed a spell on the doll’s house.”

“I do wish you would stop calling it a doll’s house. It is a model of the Kingsman’s home,” Lord Sachel said angrily.

“Call it what you like, Lord Sachel. But if Magalan used it as the anchor for her spell, then it is no longer just a model. It’s a vessel.”

Sachel opened his mouth, but Maeve raised a hand.

“She’s right,” Maeve said quietly. “You’ve always said the house felt… wrong. That no one liked to be near it for long.”

“That’s superstition,” Sachel muttered.

“Is it?” Maeve turned to Sophrayni. “And if this spell is still active, what then?”

“Then Lord Fenrick and his family may still be inside it,” Sophrayni said. “Not dead. Not gone. Just… waiting.”

The room fell silent.

Captain Smike shifted his weight. “Then I suggest we stop arguing about what to call it and let the lady see the thing.”

Sachel looked from Maeve to Sophrayni, then to the empty frame above him. His voice, when it came, was low and tight.

“It is displayed, in the Hall of Remembrance. Where the names of the fallen are carved and the banners of old Cruxton hang. It stands beneath the portrait of Lord Fenrick, on a plinth of blackwood. No one touches it. Not even me.”

Sophrayni nodded slowly. “Then it is sacred.”

“It is more than sacred,” said Maeve. “It is the last thing they saw. The last thing they touched. The children were playing with it when they vanished. People come to look, to remember, to mourn. Some say they feel watched. Others say they hear laughter.”

Sachel gave her a sharp look, but said nothing.

Sophrayni’s voice was quiet. “Then I must see it. Not to disturb it, but to understand it.”

Sachel hesitated. Then, with visible reluctance, he said, “You may go. But you do not touch it. You do not speak to it. You do not cast anything near it.”

“I understand,” said Sophrayni. “But if Magalan’s spell is still active, then it may be listening.”

Sachel gave her a look that might have been irritation or reluctant amusement. “The guards are not trained to ignore protocol just because my wife says ‘poo.’”

Maeve raised an eyebrow. “Then perhaps they need retraining.”

He turned to Sophrayni. “Come, then. Let’s get this over with.”