Wraith(72)

I burst through the broken window pane, making sure to keep one edge of my shadow along the side of the castle so that I didn't lose momentum. Pausing only for a second to get my bearings, I slid down the wall until I reached an open window that led into the floor that I needed.

The last time I’d sneaked along these corridors as a wraith, they'd been almost deserted and I was praying that they still would be. But considering that Ghrashbreg had sent lethal poison to the government’s Envoy, I wasn't convinced that I could count on that sort of solitude. Ghrashbreg and the other Filits were probably dancing around the castle corridors, gleefully anticipating our deaths. Rather than holding me back, that thought spurred me on.

I flitted from wall to wall, bouncing between the shadows so that I spent as little time in the light as possible. Harsh voices drifted out from beyond the corridor but I didn't try to listen to what was being said; my focus was on the closed door at the end of the corridor. I bloody hoped this would work.

I reached the last of the flaming torches that were hooked high on the wall, came to a sliding stop and concentrated on my shadow. This was the most dangerous part. I squeezed my eyes shut and pictured my hand in front of me before flexing my fingers and testing my grip. When I thought I had it, I opened my eyes to look at the torch. With my heart in my mouth, I stretched until my shadowy hand covered its conical wooden base. With slow deliberate movements, I lifted it up and pulled it free from its wall bracket.

It was so heavy that I knew I couldn’t hold it for long. Shadows, even sentient wraith shadows, aren’t built for lifting physical objects. I had no idea whether it was down to physics or magic but a flaming torch was more than a match for me. As I felt it already begin to slip from my grasp, I turned towards the closed door and concentrated even harder. By myself, I could have slipped underneath the gap at the bottom but I had to bring the torch with me, and that meant forcing open the door.

If shadows could sweat, I would have been dripping wet. Gripping the torch tightly, I used my free hand to turn the doorknob whilst slamming the rest of my shadowy body against the edge of the door. Thankfully it gave way and I stumbled forward but the momentum made me lose my precarious hold on the torch. It dropped to the floor, the flames flickering and dying against the cold stone flags. Panicked, I threw myself after it and scooped it up again. The last thing I wanted was for the fire to go out.

The room was exactly the same as it was the last time I’d ventured inside it. It didn’t appear as if anyone else had been here. The same cardboard boxes lay stacked all around, with the same faint stench of old clothing lingering in the air. I opened the nearest box, double-checked the contents, then shoved it so that the old clothes, rags and bits of paper were strewn across the floor. I did the same to a second box and then a third. By the time I'd done that, the torch was sliding from my fingers again. This time I let it fall.

There was enough rubbish on the floor for my plan to work. The flames started to lick at a mothballed tartan blanket. I'd been nervous that damp might have set in and the material would not ignite. Fortunately, this entire room didn't look as if it had been used for years and its contents were drier than Sally Slate’s wit. The edges of the blanket caught light almost immediately, the fire running along the fringed edges before leaping to some pieces of paper and an old ball gown. As the romantic hopes of a wealthy socialite went up in flames, I backed away. It was imperative that I kept an eye on the fire until I was sure it was properly ablaze. I couldn't afford for it to fizzle out. I needn't have worried; there was so much junk in this room that it transformed into a mini-inferno.

Thick, dark smoke seeped out into the corridor and the orange glow from the flames leached away behind me, as if pointing towards my shadow’s only escape route. The smell of burning was strong and pervasive and I'd barely gone three metres from the room when a goblin guard came to investigate.

Her attention was caught by the flames rather than by my dark shape. Her expression quickly turned to one of horror and, while I skittered above, she threw back her head and yelled. Moments later, more goblins appeared. As they took in the situation, panic quickly escalated. Stirling Castle was made of stone but there were plenty of wooden rafters and flammable structural additions that could throw the stability of the King’s old building into doubt, not to mention the valuable items dotted around all over the place. As several of the goblins began screaming for water, I nodded grimly. The more of this the better; Gabriel needed the diversion.

With the goblins focusing on the fire rather than on the dancing shadows, I sneaked past them without difficulty. I was on the look-out for a certain grape-carrying nymph. While Ghrashbreg came storming down the corridor and the goblins finally organised themselves into getting hold of some much-needed water, I located the statue snug in its alcove where, half a lifetime ago, I had hidden my backpack.

Using the same technique I’d employed with the torch, I transformed my hand into a three-dimensional form and snagged the bag from its hiding place. The one good thing was that the bag’s shape made it easier to carry than the torch had been. I was also fortunate that the fire was growing in intensity and all eyes were focused on it. If anyone saw a shadow transporting a backpack along one of Stirling Castle’s corridors, I dreaded to think what might happen.

My energy was draining with every step but I heaved the bag up the staircase until I was outside Gabriel's door. I dropped it with a loud thump and sagged in relief. A moment later my shadow altered its shape and I slipped under the tiny gap at the foot of the door so I could return to my physical body, move the chair, open up and retrieve the bag.