The Doll's House Chapter 8.

Chapter Eight .

 

Bletton.

              

 

A Traveller’s Cart.

 

Sophrayni had been following the old trade road for half a day, the path winding through bramble and ash. Shade moved steadily beneath her, ears flicking at every rustle. The trees were thinning now, the land flattening into scrub and stone.

Ahead, voices.

She slowed Shade and dismounted, leading him off the path and into the undergrowth. Beyond the next rise lay a clearing, bare earth, a brightly painted traveller’s cart, and four men circling a lone woman.

The woman stood tall, her cloak torn, one hand raised as if to ward off a blow. The men jeered, knives drawn, but hadn’t yet dared to close in.

Sophrayni whispered a soft binding spell, just enough to still the wind and silence her steps. She crept closer, eyes flicking to the wagon behind the woman.

“Bethan,” she breathed in astonishment.

She prepared to intervene, but before she could move, Bethan spoke.

“I wouldn’t,” Bethan said calmly. “You’re not alone.”

The ruffians laughed.

“Who’s going to stop us?” one sneered. “You?”

“No,” said a voice from inside the wagon. “Me.”

The rear door swung open. A tall man stepped out, armoured, sword drawn. Another followed, bow in hand, green‑cloaked and sharp‑eyed.

Sophrayni blinked. She knew that voice. That stance.

“Mardan?” she said aloud.

The man turned. His eyes widened. “Sophrayni?”

Bethan lowered her hand and smiled. “Well, that makes things simpler.”

The ruffians froze. The one who had spoken opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“By the gods,” another whispered. “That’s, ”

Sophrayni raised her hand.

The air thickened. A shimmer rippled across the clearing like a stone dropped into still water. The ruffians jerked upward, feet lifting from the ground, limbs stiff as boards. They hung there, a foot above the earth, eyes wide, mouths slack.

One dropped his knife. It hovered beside him, suspended mid‑fall.

Bethan raised an eyebrow. “Still dramatic, I see.”

Sophrayni lowered her hand. “They were about to be stupid. I thought I’d help them reconsider.”

Mardan chuckled. “Over ten years, and you haven’t changed.”

“Neither have you,” she said. “Still hiding in wagons. And what is Princess Bethan doing baiting bandits now?”

Bethan shrugged. “Someone has to. They’ve been attacking travellers for some time. We thought they might go for a lone woman.”

“And you hid in the wagon,” Sophrayni said to Mardan.

He grinned. “Old habits.”

“And King Syldan approves?” Sophrayni asked.

Bethan winced. “Not really. When he sent the Foresters to investigate, they found nothing. They scared off the thugs, so we tried this instead. We couldn’t ask any of the other traveller women to risk themselves, so it had to be me.”

A horn sounded from the trees. Riders emerged, swift and silent, surrounding the clearing. Captain Smike rode forward, nodding to Sophrayni.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Sophrayni grinned. “Nice to see you too.”

Smike strode to the dangling ruffians. “Do you know the penalty for assaulting a member of the royal family?” he asked, voice low and grim.

The ruffians stared, terrified.

“I’ll tell you anyway,” Smike said, lips curling. “The penalty is death.”

They tried to kneel in mid‑air, limbs twitching uselessly. One managed to gasp, “We didn’t know the lady was a princess!”

“Ignorance is no excuse,” Smike said solemnly.

He turned to Mardan. “What shall we do with these ignorant fellows?”

Mardan grinned. “Take them to the nearest town, Bletton, isn’t it? Hang them in the Market Square as a warning to others.”

The ruffians whimpered.

Sophrayni folded her arms. “Really, Mardan.”

He winked. “Oh, not by the neck. Just by their ankles. Upside down. For an hour or two. Let the townsfolk throw turnips.”

Smike chuckled. “We’ll even let them keep their boots. For dignity.”

Sophrayni rolled her eyes. “You two haven’t changed at all.”

Bethan smiled. “No. But it’s nice to see you again.”

The ruffians dangled in the clearing, still suspended by Sophrayni’s spell. One of them, pale and trembling, finally spoke.

“We were only following orders,” he said. “Lord Tizard told us to stop any travellers. Said they were trouble.”

Mardan’s eyes narrowed. “Lord Tizard? The Kingsman?”

The man nodded.

“Then we need to speak with him,” Mardan said grimly.

They rode into Bletton with the ruffians bound and trailing behind. Townsfolk watched from doorways and windows, whispering. The royal crest on Mardan’s cloak drew stares.

Sophrayni kept her hood up, but she felt the weight of old suspicion in every glance.

They stopped outside the Kingsman’s house, a tall, narrow building with shuttered windows and a crooked iron gate. Bethan dismounted and strode to the door.

She knocked once.

It opened slowly. Lord Tizard stepped out, robes rumpled, eyes sharp with disdain.

“What is the meaning of this?” he snapped. “How dare you disturb me? You filthy travellers are not allowed here. Be off before I have you put in the stocks.”

Bethan stood firm. “They attacked me on the road.”

Tizard sneered. “You should be grateful they didn’t rob you blind.”

Mardan stepped forward. “Watch your tongue.”

Tizard rounded on him. “And who do you think you are? This is my town. I make the rules here. Why have you attacked my guards? Release them at once.”

Captain Smike stepped up beside Mardan. “King Syldan passed a law. Mistreatment of travellers is a crime. You should know that.”

Tizard scoffed. “Travellers are thieves and liars. That law is nonsense.”

Bethan’s voice was quiet. “You knew the law. You broke it.”

Tizard opened his mouth to retort, but Mardan raised a hand.

“Lord Tizard, you are under arrest.”

The Kingsman froze.

Smike turned to the clerk who had appeared behind him, pale and silent. “You too. You signed the orders.”

The clerk tried to back away, but Sophrayni whispered a word, and his feet stuck fast to the stone.

Bethan looked at Tizard one last time. “You were meant to protect this town. Not poison it.”

Prince Mardan turned to Sophrayni. “Can you make it so everyone in the town can hear my voice?”

Sophrayni sighed, but did as she was asked.

Mardan stood in the centre of the Market Square. His voice rang out, clear and strong.

When he finished, a hush settled over the square.

Then came a single, deliberate clap.

Merrin Cobb stepped forward from the edge of the crowd, skirts brushing the cobbles, silver bangles chiming softly at her wrists. Her shawl was bright against the autumn air, and her smile had the kind of warmth that could melt frost off a windowpane.

“Well now,” she said, loud enough for all to hear. “That’s the best news this town’s had since the mill stream stopped flooding.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd.

Merrin turned to Bethan with a respectful nod. “Your Highness, you’ve done us a kindness. That Tizard was a nasty piece of goods, sour as spoiled cider and twice as sharp with his tongue. He fined the bellringer for ringing too cheerfully and once tried to arrest a goose for walking on his rug.”

Bethan raised an eyebrow. “The goose?”

“Got off with a warning,” Merrin said solemnly. “But the rug never recovered.”

Even Smike chuckled.

Merrin turned to Mardan. “If you’re leaving someone in charge, make sure it’s someone who listens before they shout. We’ve had enough of bad laws and rules.”

Mardan nodded. “You’ll have someone fair.”

Merrin glanced at Sophrayni, her gaze lingering just a moment longer than expected. “It is not often that we are visited by royalty and the Witch of the Dark Forest.”

There was a gasp from the listening townspeople.

Merrin swung round on her heel, skirts flaring, bangles chiming.

“Oh hush, the lot of you,” she said, voice sharp but not unkind. “You gasp like children at a thunderclap. There has been a witch guarding the forest almost since the world began.”

She pointed a finger, not accusing, but steady.

“You fear what you don’t understand. But fear is no excuse for rudeness. She’s come here in peace, and you’ll treat her with the same.”

The crowd fell silent.

Merrin turned back to Sophrayni and gave a small bow. “We’re not all fools, my dear.”

She peered short‑sightedly at Sophrayni’s face, squinting through the afternoon light.

“Ah, you ain’t the old one, Calizone, was it? No, you’re the new witch. I heard from Amy Drinker there was a change. Said you were young and pretty. Right, she was.”

She straightened, hands on hips, bangles chiming.

“I’m Merrin Cobb, charmer for Bletton. Been so for twenty‑three years, and I’ve seen all manner of folk pass through, some kind, some crooked, some just lost. My job’s to keep the town steady. Read the signs, soothe the tempers, and make sure no one forgets what matters.”

She gave Sophrayni a nod, not deferential, but respectful.

“And if you’re here chasing old magic, you’ll find no trouble from me. Long as you don’t stir up the dead or stop the bread rising, we’ll get along just fine.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” said Sophrayni. “And yes, you may be able to help me.”

“These old knees need rest,” Merrin grinned. “My home is just over there. I’m sure I can find you a comfortable chair and a glass of something drinkable.”

Sophrayni turned to Mardan. “I will leave these gentlemen to your tender care. Do you want them to be able to speak?”

Mardan looked at the prisoners and shook his head. “The last thing I want to do is listen to them moan as I shepherd them back to the royal palace. They’ll need to speak at their trial, though.”

Sophrayni nodded. “Just so.”

She followed Merrin to a small cottage on the edge of the Market Square. She politely refused the offer of a glass of home brew, but she did sit down at the table.

“Is that the original Kingsman’s house?” Sophrayni asked. “Only it looks quite new.”

“That toad Tizard had it tarted up,” Merrin said. “Looks new, don’t it? But it’s the same old place, just painted over to make him look respectable. Paint don’t change the rot underneath.”

She glanced out of the window toward the Kingsman’s house, then turned back.

“He thought a fresh coat and a brass knocker would fool folk, but it don’t fool me.”

“When those houses were built for the Kingsmen, a model was made to show them what the finished house would look like,” Sophrayni said. “Do you know if there was one for that place?”

Merrin tapped her fingers on the tabletop, thoughtful.

“A model, you say? Hm. That rings a bell. My auntie kept the town records back when the Kingsmen first came through. Said they brought drawings and a little wooden house to show the Lord what they’d be building.”

She leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing.

“Tizard didn’t like folk poking about in old things. Burned half the archives when he took office, said they were clutter. But not everything went up in smoke. Old Nan at the alms-house got a cupboard full of bits no one else wanted.”

She paused, then added, “She’s in the west wing of the old alms-house. Been there since the roof caved in on the other side. Still keeps the keys to the town’s memory, surrounded by dusty scrolls and forgotten maps. Sleeps in a chair, eats from a kettle, and guards the town’s paper soul. She kept the archive. Said if the town forgot its past, it’d lose its future.”

Merrin sniffed. “Tizard was supposed to keep the alms-house repaired, but he spent the money on himself instead.”

She gave Sophrayni a knowing look.

“If there’s a model of that house, or anything like it, she’ll know. But mind you, Nan don’t give up secrets for free. You’ll need to bring her something sweet. Or strange. Or both. And I don’t think she’d talk to a stranger anyway.”

“Thank you,” said Sophrayni. “We should visit her.”

She paused. “Another question, if I may.”

“Fire away, lass. I ain’t had any other witches to talk to since I got too old for the get‑togethers.”

Merrin leaned forward, picked up her glass, and drank deeply. She smacked her lips. “Sure you won’t try this? Though I says it meself, it’s good stuff. Put hairs on a turnip.”

Sophrayni smiled and politely refused.

“A hundred years ago, when Magalan was forcing people to leave their homes and go to the royal palace, did it happen to Bletton as well?”

Merrin grinned a toothy grin. “Long before even my time, but my granny said that when she was a young girl, everyone was made to move. Granny always said it was the greatest adventure of her life.”

“Did she say if anything strange happened to the Kingsman and his family then?” Sophrayni asked.

Merrin shook her head. “I don’t remember anything, but Granny was really only interested in what happened to her. Sorry.”

“In that case,” said Sophrayni, rising, “I think a visit to Old Nan is in order.”

Merrin reached behind her and took a strange‑shaped bottle from a shelf. “Old Nan’s asleep most of the time now,” she grinned. “This stuff’ll liven her up for a bit. Make a skeleton dance, this would.”

It was a short walk to the alms-house. Mardan and the prisoners had gone. Captain Smike and another Forester were sitting on the wall around a broken fountain. They both waved but did not speak.

The townsfolk still lingered in small, uneasy clusters. Conversations hushed as Merrin and Sophrayni walked past, eyes flicking sideways, mouths half‑open with words they didn’t dare finish.

Merrin didn’t break stride, but her voice dropped low, just for Sophrayni.

“Look at ’em. All whisper and no backbone. They’ll gossip till the cows come home, but not one of ’em lifted a finger when Tizard started throwing his weight about.”

She sniffed. “Now they stand there like butter wouldn’t melt. Hmph. If decency were measured in noise, this lot’d be saints.”

She glanced at Sophrayni with a wry smile. “Don’t let the silence fool you. They’re already rewriting the story to make themselves look brave.”

Sophrayni nodded. “That is what people do,” she said.

True to her boast, a sip from the oddly shaped bottle brought Old Nan awake. She sat up straight. “Good stuff, that,” she said, keeping hold of the bottle.

“I’m looking for a model of the Kingsman’s house,” said Sophrayni.

“That old thing?” said Nan. “The children ruined it, playing with their dolls and things. What’s left of it is somewhere here.” She waved a hand at the heaped‑up piles of her possessions. “Help yourself. Though it ain’t no use any more, battered and broken.”

Sophrayni concentrated. There was no hint of magic anywhere in the room. If the doll’s house was here, it was not the one with the spell on it.

“That was a powerful bit of magic,” said Merrin. “Made my ears rattle. What were you looking for?”

Sophrayni explained about the entry in Magalan’s diary.

Old Nan, who had sunk back into her chair, sat up again. Her eyes, milky with age, sharpened for a moment. She clutched the bottle tightly, as if fearing it would be snatched from her.

“Mum said the queer folks from Cruxton drove through with lots of carts,” she murmured. “She always said the carts were piled high with furniture, chairs and tables and things. Better than anything they had in this town. She often wondered why one of the carts had nothing on it but a doll’s house.”

She sank back into her chair. Her eyes closed, and her chin drooped to her chest.

Merrin gently took the bottle from her grasp. “Any more of this would stop her heart altogether. I don’t think she’s going to be able to say much more.”

Sophrayni stood and waved a hand over the sleeping lady’s head. “I cannot undo the ravages of time,” she said. “But for a while at least, she will rest peacefully, without pain.”

“Thank you,” said Merrin simply.

That night, Sophrayni wrote in her diary:

The doll’s house is not here.
New Cruxton looks promising.