The Eyes of an Owl

Part I
As you push open the heavy door, darkness awaits you.  The cavernous room, lit by only a few flickering flames, holds many secrets.  The sweet aroma of incense bids you further in.  Across the room, wind from the open window terrorizes bound pieces of parchment, threatens the life of the flames, and scatters the forlorn petals of many roses.  The closer you draw near, the more you see in the pool of soft light.  Words scrawled across the pages, rivers of wax flowing  along the rough surface of the table, and drops of blood among the beautiful chaos.  Making your way around the table, you hear the crunch of broken glass beneath your feet and the soft splash of water; a vase spilt and broken on the floor.  Slowly, you take the seat at the table, closing your eyes as you open past the cover to read what has been written.
"These poems written in times before.  In times of sorrow and times of joy.  Be sure before you start.  Beware of what you read.  These are the words of my heart.  Feelings you may have never wanted to know."
As you turn the page, you look up, having heard the soft swishing of wings.  You find yourself staring into the wise and knowing eyes of an owl. 
Part II
The owl seems to know every thought you possess.  You blink and he is gone, the sound of his wings fading in the distance.  Moving to the window, you see only  a speck against the pale November moon.  As you lean against the window sill, you allow your eyes to take in the landscape.  Mountains completely surrounding the ancient structure, snow in undisturbed drifts, looming pine trees offering sanctuary to the many animal spirits.  The moon bathes it all in its celestial light, giving it the surreal look of a winter wonderland straight out of a fantasy.
Suddenly, something catches your eye; something odd and out of place.  Straight beneath the window, quite a way below, the extravagant hedges are smashed and maimed.  Torn cloth in places on the bared thorns of rose bushes and blood marring the purity and innocence of the snow.  Footprints leading away, toward the far unseen corners incased in deep shadows.
Biting your lower lip you turn and slowly make your way across the room after securing the window.  The door swings open much easier, as if it weren't as heavy as it had been before.  The hall is bright compared to the dimness of the room behind you.  Sconces, filled with flickering light line the walls as far as you can see.  You begin the journey down the hall, soon coming to a magnificent staircase.  Its burnished railing, twined with Christmas vines and ribbons, spirals smoothly around a handsome Noel tree that mirrors the elegance of the surrounding room.
Though the room is bright and seemingly full of Christmas cheer, the immensity of everything puts a prickling between your shoulder blades; a feeling that you are being watched, being followed, being hunted.  As you reach the marble floor at the foot of the stairs you look around yourself.  Outside, the snow that has begun to fall is caught in the great swirling winds that rattle the casements that had been set into the tall windows.  The creak of a nearby door sends you spinning in a flurry of deep green wool.
Part III
Clutching the edge of your cloak, you make your way toward the door standing half open across the room.  You recognize it as a door leading to the servants' quarters.  With a deep breath you push it open and make your way down the lit passageway.  Your soft slippers make no sound on the cold floors of the servant's corridors, making the only noise aside that of your skirts, that of the cooks in the kitchens below and the murmur of voices coming from the rooms that line the hallway.
Before long you begin to wonder if you are chasing after nothing.  That thought is quickly put to rest as you reach the top of a narrow staircase that leads to the kitchens and numerous storerooms.  Vanishing around the corner is the hem of a finely cut black cloak.  Lifting up your voluminous skirts a little bit further you follow silently, wary of what may be ahead.  Abruptly you reach the last curve and stop to listen to voices drifting from just ahead of you.  The words are muddled so that you cannot make them out but the accent is of the native people.
You begin to take another step thinking it's only the servants of the place but as you round the corner you catch a glimpse of a person all in black, not the livery of the servants.  Hurriedly you retreat back around the curve and attempt to catch your breath as you strain your ears in hopes to catch a few words.  Without warning of any sort the flapping of wings comes from behind you.  You duck just in time to keep the creature's talons from doing anything more than leaving moderate scratches on your cheek.
Breathing heavily once more, you use the back of your hand to wipe the blood from your face.  After a moment you lean forward to peek around the curve once more.  The owl is perched on the person in black's shoulder and a gloved hand is stroking the creature's tail feathers.  Suddenly the person turns to face you and you draw yourself up as their piercing gaze touches you.  You boldly stand, facing her with all the dignity you can summon from within.  As you take a step down further you feel the point of a knife blade pressed to the small of your back.
It takes every inch of self control not to turn around.  Calmly, you focus on the woman.  You soak in every detail you can about her.  She is wearing a coat as finely cut as her cloak, which you now see is embroidered with a small bit of thread of silver.  Her coat and breeches are a violet so dark they are almost black themselves and her blouse is a snowy white.  A pale moonstone set in silver clasps her cloak shut at her neck and one to match hangs in the center of her forehead from a fine silver chain.  Her skin nearly matches the paleness of the stone.  If she did not seem so hard and dangerous she would easily be considered beyond beautiful.
A hiss from the person behind you and an addition in the pressure of the blade urges you forward and snaps you out of your silent study.  Abruptly you notice her companions.  The place's head servant, marked by a large gold ring of keys at her waste; a stableman, in the crimson and gold livery with the House sigil on his left breast; and another young girl dressed in much the same way as the woman: black cloak with matching stones on her forehead and clasp.
Another push fro behind sends you stumbling into the grasp of the stableman.  Not a word has been spoken since the woman turned her eyes on you and not a word is spoken now as you are herded along the corridors deep into the labyrinth that is the castle.
Part IV
Hours later you are still confined in a lamp lit room with only the owl for company.  Merlot, as you've taken the animal's name to be, has taken a perch on the back of one of the few ladder backed chairs arranged against the walls of the small room.  Wearily, not quite daring to close your eyes, you sit in another of the chairs.  A tray sits on the table in the center of the room; it's covering cloth yet untouched.  It isn't that you fear poison, just that you are not hungry.  The steam rising from the plain cup in your hands  smells of spices and threatens to put you to sleep.
The door open and you stand up, smoothing your skirts.  It is the man, the one that snuck up behind you on the stairs.  He still seems darkly familiar to you, yet in a sense that you do not quite understand.  The woman follows him in and calmly takes a seat at the table crossing her knees and unhurriedly brushing snowflakes from her cloak.
You stand watchfully near the chair, never taking your eyes off of her, the prickling between your shoulder blades long since done and now replaced by the feel of blood pounding in your ears.  Why do they  not speak when you are present?  Why does she look at you with those flames in her eyes like she has a blood feud with you?  Why is she keeping you here under light lock and key?
"Sit," the man commands in a hard voice.  You obey before realizing that he spoke in the Ancient Words.  Smiling to herself, the woman lays a silver necklace on the table before her.  Nobles.  They must be.  Only nobles are schooled in the Ancient Words.  Suddenly you realize just where you know them from. You were raised together.  Your stepmother's children.  The woman's black hair and simple regal bearing; the man's sad green eyes.  Your siblings have come back.
Part V
"Deepen," the woman says with cold cordiality.
"Sarnia," you reply with equal warmth.
"See, Raveny, she does remember us."  The man simply nods.  Of course you remember them; all the competition they caused within what was once a peaceful household.
"Sister, I knew it would b you who would return home first after the news of our parents' demise.  I'm sorry to say that you must be kept here until Keffan arrives.  Taryn is held below, too.  She attempted to kill herself by jumping from her study  A sad sight is she."
"What do you expect to ?  Kill the three of us so that you can become the lady of this place?"
"Oh, no," she cries with mock offense.  You simply stare at her with eyes more icy than her own.  "You and yours shall rule here.  I though, am here to ensure that you rule in the interest of the Witches."
Silently you ponder this.  As second in this land you have much power, including a great influence over Keffan, your twin brother who will be lord.  Your eyes fall on the necklace.  Thirteen stone; one for each Class that makes up the Witches: agate, emerald, labradorite, quartz, turquoise, amazonite, garnet, moonstone, ruby angelite, jade, onyx, and sapphire.  The necklace that marks royalty allied with the most powerful women in the world.
"On what terms must I accept?" you find yourself asking.
Part VI
A knock on the door wakes you.  You've been a week now in this room.  A key turns in the lock and the door opens as your younger sister rushes into the room.
"Deepen!  They're here, finally.  Sarnia says to dress yourself and come up with us.  Keffan and all the surrounding nobility have finally arrived!" Her face is beaming.
UNFINISHED