The Scholar, the Sphinx and the Shades of Nyx Read online

  The Scholar, the Sphinx

  and the Shades of Nyx

  Book One

  The Scholar and the Sphinx Series

  By

  A.R. Cook

  KNOX ROBINSON

  PUBLISHING

  London • New York

  KNOX ROBINSON

  PUBLISHING

  3rd Floor, 36 Langham Street

  Westminster, London W1W 7AP

  &

  244 5th Avenue, Suite 1861

  New York, New York 10001

  Knox Robinson Publishing is a specialist, international publisher of historical fiction, historical romance and medieval fantasy.

  Copyright © A.R. Cook 2013

  The right of A.R. Cook to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Knox Robinson Publishing, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning the reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Knox Robinson Publishing, at the London address above.

  You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover and you must impose the same condition on any acquirer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-908483-54-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  and the United Kingdom.

  First published by KRP in Great Britain in 2013.

  First published by KRP in the United States in 2013.

  Cover design by Grzegorz Rekas

  Typeset in Minion by Susan Veach

  [email protected]

  Download the KRP App in iTunes and Google Play to receive free historical fiction, historical romance and fantasy eBooks delivered directly to your mobile or tablet.

  Watch our historical documentaries and book trailers on our channel on YouTube and download our podcasts in iTunes.

  www.knoxrobinsonpublishing.com

  David gasped as he felt the painfully cold water envelope his legs, icing over. It continued up his body, cocooning him, drenching him in the stark numbness of night. It permeated through his clothes, through his skin, into the trails of his veins, soaking up the warmth of his blood and chilling it, causing everything inside to ache and scream. He struggled to keep his head up, but the water was crawling up around his chest, around his neck … he could just make out muffled words of anguish calling for him through the water clogging his ears … and then it washed over his face …

  Chapter One

  It takes only one reckless decision to change a life—to better it, worsen it, or end it. It takes only one decision to make someone a hero, or a fool. It was that kind of decision that led a young man to journey into the Curtain, outwit a predator, befriend a shape shifter, face the test of an ancient spirit, confront a goddess, and be loved by one of the most infamous monsters in the world. This is how it happened.

  Surrounded by his citadel stacks of books, David Sandoval devoured words on a printed page as one consumes the most treasured of treats. Much like the biblical king for which he was named, he ruled over his designed realm of knowledge, a kingdom constructed from everything he found engrossing, from swordplay, to history, to languages, and most devotedly, to the tales of the supernatural and magical. No one could understand why such fairy tales fascinated David so—his family considered it “impractical,” and concluded it was only a phase—but his stories of mythical beasts and enchanting spirits had given him quite a reputation in the city of Cervera. He always tried to sneak something unusual into any conversation, or give advice to others based on what a legendary hero would do. He wrote all of his ideas and stories down in journals, away from disapproving glances or patronizing gossip. Unfortunately, David experienced none of the excitement that he wove into his stories, for nothing frightening or wonderful happened in his hometown.

  He came from a long line of tradesmen, less whimsical, more practical people. His father was a hard worker who was adequate enough at his job for his family to live comfortably. It had been hard times in Cervera, since its famous university had been relocated to Barcelona when David was only six years old, and this had triggered a great economic strain on the city. The Sandoval family was not in dire straits, however, and could not rightfully complain—even if it made David’s parents crestfallen that their children would not as easily get the advanced education they had hoped for before losing the university. David’s father, being a pious man, was the one responsible for naming David after the Biblical king that had overcome the giant Goliath, setting the expectation that his son should always conquer any insurmountable obstacle that life would present. David held his pride in being named after a king, as he knew from the old tales that one’s status in life, and his prosperous future, was tied to having a meaningful name.

  The opportunity for a prosperous future arrived in the form of a letter shortly after David’s sixteenth birthday, one of the many milestones he anticipated for the year 1852. He tore ecstatically into the letter, knowing it was a reply to his request for apprenticeship in Paris. He was to study under the renowned architect Antoine Roland, a long-time friend of the Sandoval family.

  This is an exciting time for Paris, as it is undergoing a grand modernization, Monsieur Roland wrote in his eloquent and loquacious letter to the Sandovals. Napoleon Bonaparte III has great plans to rejuvenate the city, and under the direction of Baron Haussmann, I am one of an exclusive selection of engineers commissioned to help with new layouts for Paris’s streets and public parks. Such a large scale endeavor is a great opportunity for any aspiring architect, and I know that David would be the perfect apprentice to assist me in this project.

  David was inflated with a burst of delight at these words. This was his ticket to an admirable career and wealth of which his father and brothers could only dream.

  His delight was abruptly deflated once his mother told him that they had sent for the eldest son of their neighbors, the Guerreros, to be David’s traveling companion.

  “No! Not Pablo!” David begged. “Mother, he hates me!”

  “Of course he doesn’t hate you. Pablo has nothing but respect for you,” his mother insisted. “It is dangerous for a boy as young as you to travel on his own. There are thieves on the roads, and swindlers in the towns. Pablo is older and stronger.”

  Pablo was a bulky braggart of a fellow, strong in arms but not so much in brain, which was a severe contrast to David’s lean, limber stature and erudite mind. While Pablo wasn’t smart, he could be charismatic when he desired to be, and he often deceived Señora Sandoval into thinking he was an upstanding man. David knew better, as all the childhood years of Pablo flicking him behind the ears, giving him hard punches in the shoulder, and tripping him into mud puddles were not forgotten nor forgiven.

  “Mother, have I not proven that I am mature and smart beyond my years?” David said. “I know how to protect myself. I will always keep my belongings in my sight. I will send letters home every day if you want me to, and I will not take any detours. Please, mother, I’m not a child! Give me a chance. If I am to prove myself to Monsieur Roland, I need to show him I can take care of myself and be responsible. How can I do that if I need to be chaperoned to Paris?”

  It took several days of insistence and the consent of his father—“I was traveling on my own when I was his age,” Senor Sandoval noted—and David’s mother finally
relented. She made him promise to send letters home at every stop along the way, and she made no promises not to send Pablo after him if her mother’s intuition should alert her to trouble.

  David was so thrilled that even his mother’s threat could not ruin his mood. He would be traveling to Paris, without parents or chaperones to tell him what to do. This was going to be the best time of his life.

  David arrived in the city of Orléans, about 81 miles southwest of Paris, by carriage after a long, tiring week of travel. The carriage driver dropped him off at an inexpensive inn to spend the night, the Villa Valere, and David unloaded his baggage with words of thanks to the driver. He entered the inn, where he was greeted by the innkeeper and his multitude of freely roaming dogs. A playful hound bounded up to David, almost knocking him over. David placed his baggage down to pat the dog on the head. While a young bellboy took his packs to his room, David settled down at a small table in the dining area, and ordered an inexpensive supper of bread and cheese, topping it off with a glass of wine. He did not normally drink wine, but how could he resist, now that Mother and Father were not there to dictate his decisions?

  The whispers of music wafted into the inn from outside. It sounded strange to David, and he couldn’t place the melody or the style. “Innkeeper, where is that music coming from?” he asked in French. He had done his best to brush up on his French before his trip, but his Spanish accent made it obvious that it was not his first language.

  The innkeeper glanced up at him, and turned his head towards the inn’s entrance. “A caravan of performers set up their act at the end of the street. They pass through every now and then. Quite amusing. You should take a look.”

  “Just keep your coin purse close. Got to be watchful of sticky fingers,” murmured a patron at a table in the corner of the room. He was a wiry old man, grizzled and gaunt, his head hovering just inches above the tabletop while his hand clutched desperately onto his wine bottle. Another man sat with him, buried inside a coat that was too large for him and a hat that swallowed his scalp, and observed the room in silence.

  “Come now, Gustav. They’re harmless folk,” the innkeeper replied.

  “Ha! Harmless, he says,” Gustav choked up a laugh, and took a drink. “Gypsies are never harmless. Rob you blind, at the least. Give you the evil eye, curse you with their black magic.”

  The coat-cocooned man gave Gustav a light shove. “Hush, old man.” He turned to David. “Don’t mind him. He’s scatterbrained even when he’s not drunk.”

  David shrugged. “I’m not afraid of gypsies. They’re only people, like us.”

  Gustav lifted his head, and a crooked grin sliced across his face. “Oh, you think so? I hear they like to steal children, straight out of their beds in the night. Turn them into animals, or sell them to the witches and nasty spirits.” He raised his hands, waving his fingers at David in a spell-casting motion, and puckered his lips to let out a slurred, “Ooooooooh.”

  Gustav’s friend gave him a hard smack in the shoulder. “No more stupid ghost stories.”

  David shook his head. “Even if that were true, I have nothing to worry about. I’m not a child, after all.”

  Gustav looked David up and down. “Not so much a man yet, either,” he snickered.

  David glowered, and turned away from the two men. He did his best to not appear bothered by the old man’s opinion of him. Eventually, his undeniable curiosity nipped his ankles to rouse him to his feet, coaxing him out of the inn and down the street. A wondrous display was set up: three massive painted wagons of brilliant colors and designs formed a triangle, with draperies and banners and paper decorations entwined together. Round flower-patterned lanterns illuminated the square, and music poured from the instruments of the minstrels wearing fine costumes. Gypsy dancers twirling scarves entertained passersby, and the women and children went about selling jewelry, bottles, ornaments, and charms from baskets. Two of the carts had been opened into stage platforms; upon one, a well-toned man juggled flaming torches, and on the other a young boy performed simple magic tricks. The caravan had drawn quite a crowd, and the townspeople threw coins and applauded the performing artists. Children came around to pet the six burly white horses that drew the caravan.

  Even before having heard the drunken man’s warning at the inn, David was not entirely trusting when it came to gypsies. They were considered swindlers, con artists, and tricksters, and some people thought even worse of them. Many towns had already banned nomadism, but since the emancipation of the gypsies from slave bondage, many bands of them were migrating across Europe. Being the reader of paranormal tales as he was, David knew plenty of stories about gypsies who were, underneath their pretty visages, witches or even were-animals. There was only one book that he had read that painted them in a kinder light, one by a French writer named Victor Hugo—it was a story about a hunchback who fell in love with a kindhearted gypsy girl—but it wasn’t as captivating as the shape-shifter folklore that David loved. Yet, he had to admit, the gypsies were fine artists. Their music was mesmerizing, and the dancers were—aside from inappropriately flirtatious—nice.

  A dark-eyed gypsy spotted David, and she walked over to him with a coy smile. Her outfit was adorned with colorful beads and jangling gold coins, and her long black hair blossomed with ribbons and silk flowers. She carried a basket full of random knick knacks. “Bonjour,” she cooed in hesitant French. “Voulez-vous acheter?”

  David could tell by the way she had asked, “Would you like to buy?” that she had been trained what to say, and most likely she didn’t understand French. “Hablas español, señorita?” he offered, wondering if Spanish would be an easier language for her.

  Judging by the confused look on her face, apparently it was not.

  “English, perhaps?” David asked her.

  A smile bloomed on her face, and she nodded. “Yes, English is better. Perhaps you would like to buy something? I have many exotic charms from faraway lands. They are unlike anything else in the world.”

  David instinctively placed his hands over his trousers’ pockets, before she had a chance to pluck something from him without his knowing. While logic dictated that he should walk away, his incorrigible curiosity kept him locked in place. “Sorry, but I don’t need anything. You had better move on.”

  “I may have something that would be perfect for you.” The girl dug deep into her basket, producing a stylish old-fashioned dagger in a black and silver sheath. It curved like a basilisk’s tongue. “This was custom made by a highly praised blacksmith in Arabia. Here, you may look at it if you like.”

  David took the dagger, removing the blade a few inches from its sheath before sliding it back in. “This is a fine piece of work,” he admitted. “But I’m sure that it is out of my price range.”

  “But look at the way it sits in your hand. It is a perfect match. I will sell it at a special price, just for you. Fifteen francs. Such a rare piece would cost thrice that much.”

  David paused, calculating if he had the money to spare. For the girl to sell the dagger that cheaply, it must be of low quality, but it was always useful to have a blade. With a sigh, he held the dagger out to the girl. “I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t.”

  “Then how about a game instead?” A voice, thick with a Scottish brogue, ambushed David from behind. David snapped his head around to see a burly man, with copper red hair thick on his head and face, and a brazen smile that would make wolves cower at the sight of his teeth. The man wore a dark green vest with no shirt, and the muscular masses of his arms and shoulders made David’s slim physique comparable to a blade of grass. David realized that this was the juggler who had been performing onstage earlier.

  “A game?” David squeaked.

  “You seem to be a bright fellow. You win, the dagger’s yours.”

  David gulped. “And if I lose?”

  The Scotsman chuckled. “Then you walk away as you are now, no better or worse. Nothing to lose. How’s about it, lad? Even a wee bairn could win
this game.”

  By now, the conversation had attracted the attention of the crowd around them. People pressed in, murmuring in excitement. David cast his glance around, looking for a way to escape. When he didn’t respond to the juggler’s invitation, the crowd spoke up, urging David to accept the challenge. They began to chant and clap, and the gypsy performers encouraged it. David blushed so red, he was sure his clothes would burst into flame from the heat in his face. Finally he nodded in assent. The people cheered as the juggler clasped one of his great arms around David’s shoulders and dragged him up onto one of the stages.

  The Scotsman went over to a barrel on the side of the stage and took out three large juggling clubs.

  “I don’t know how to juggle,” David said meekly.

  The juggler laughed. “You don’t have to juggle. You only have to sit.”

  David felt a weight lifted from his body. “Is that all? Sitting?”

  “For as long as you can. I’m wagering … twenty seconds. You manage longer than that, you win.”

  “Why would I only be able to sit for twenty—”

  The juggler came over to David, turned around so that his back was towards him, and knelt down. “Hop up,” the Scotsman said.

  “Hop up? On your back?”

  “On my shoulders, boyo. I said you’d be sitting, not clinging to my backside like a monkey.”

  David took a deep breath, which he instantly regretted because the musk of the Scotsman was enough to make a skunk pass out. He awkwardly lifted one leg up and placed it over the juggler’s right shoulder, and it took him three or four hops before he could successfully swing his other leg up. He was barely in place before the juggler stood up abruptly, and David struggled not to fall off. The people in the audience laughed at David’s shaky shifting, but once he found his balance, he relaxed his muscles. This wasn’t so bad. How was this game a challenge?