The candlemaker did not like spiral staircases in general - especially not this one - he thought as he climbed. He kept to the left side, running his palm along the cool stone wall to keep himself steady. He had to watch his feet carefully to keep from landing on the skinny side of the wedge-shaped stairs, or he would surely slip. After a couple of turns he had caught up with Octavius, but just his tail; the rest of him was always disappearing around the next bend. Round and around he went, following that tail, plodding up step after step after hundreds of steps in an ever-clockwise circle.

Occasionally small windows let in light and a view of the outside - rooftops, peaks of minarets, the vast blue sky. How much higher did this tower rise? Wickling wondered. He stopped looking out the windows because it made him nervous to think about how high he had climbed. Yet still there was no end to the steps. All the time the dragon spoke not a word, but Wickling was glad of it, because he could scarcely have answered anyway. He was breathing pretty hard now, and sweat ran down his brow. His legs burned, his feet ached, and his head was spinning inside.

Finally the tower ran out of steps, giving the candlemaker a brief chance to steady himself and catch his breath on the landing. There Octavius took another small key out of his vest pocket and clicked open the lock on another door. Pulling himself to his feet, Wickling followed him. He entered a room completely dark, except for the reddish glow of a single candle that Octavius had just lit with a puff from his nostrils. The candle illuminated Octavius's ghostly hand as it awakened a cluster of small white votives and a dozen more pillars of wax. On either side two shoulder-high candlesticks blazed up, followed by several hanging lanterns, and lastly torches in a ring along the tower room wall. Octavius worked quickly, and soon the whole place was ablaze with light. Wickling gasped and stepped back in fear. A thousand dragons flickering with fiery brightness and black shadows laughed at him from every angle.

"A bit overwhelming, isn't it?" they said in unison.

Then Wickling saw that he was not really surrounded by a thousand dragons, but dazzled by the reflection of a thousand mirrors, of various sizes and shapes, on a large black marble altar. The altar stood well over Octavius's head, spreading as wide as the room. It was as if Wickling was standing at the entrance of a crystal cavern; each tiny mirror was a facet that encased a tiny dragon, the black of the marble, and the blood-red of the carpet on the floor.

Four sinister winged gargoyles perched above the altar. They were made of stone, and unlike their cousins banished to lonely heights atop great cathedrals, these grotesque creatures looked smug and satisfied to have been invited inside.

"This is where I come to find myself," said the thousand smaller dragons, and then they turned their backs to Wickling as the real one spun around to face him. "I find it most rewarding to reflect here. 'The Altar of Self' it has been called, although it has had many other names throughout the centuries."

He picked at the wax and re-lit one of the candles in the chandelier that had gone out. "It's ancient, but actually a reproduction. The original, I am told, was crafted by a race of men at the dawn of time. Their whole civilization was destroyed by a tragic flood - most unfortunate."

Wickling was still speechless.

"It is a very rare treasure indeed, and I was most blessed to have recently, ah…inherited it. I find it a wonderful setting to meditate in - to find my focus and draw my strength," Octavius continued. "But you know," he added dropping his voice a little, "I'd never let my steward in here, because I'd never get him out."

Wickling nodded, still mute in his astonishment.

"But I think you could benefit from it greatly. In fact, I think you should stay awhile." Without waiting for a response, Octavius pushed Wickling toward the altar. "Go ahead, up the step, there you go, now kneel down. That's better, soft on the knees, isn't it? Oh, stop staring at all the candles; haven't you seen enough of them in your day? Look up at the altar - go on - look!"

Up to this point, Wickling had resisted looking at himself in the altar; he had dropped his eyes to his shoes the moment Octavius had stepped out of the way. Now he felt compelled to obey and so, hesitantly, he raised his eyes, as Octavius slipped out of the room and closed the door.

There he was, a thousand times, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, staring back at himself over and over and over again. It was not a sight he particularly cared for. He was the kind of man who would have been uncomfortable enough with a simple mirror in his own chamber, and this was much, much worse. In each facet of the altar he saw a man older than his years, prematurely balding, with a sorry face and tired eyes trapped behind metal frames - an unhappy man, a childless man, a small, useless, cowardly little man. The gargoyles seemed to mock him from their perches. Wickling sighed dejectedly.

"If this is the treasure I am searching for, I think it is only fit for princes and dragons. A poor foolish man like me would never have a use for it. And mercy! It's the size of the whole room! Even if I've found it, I'm still a failure if I can't rescue it." Once more, he was completely without hope.

As he sighed again, his eyes rested on an ornate silver box in the center of the altar. The front of the box was adorned with an amber gemstone the size of his fist, held in place by six tiny silver dragons and surrounded by carvings of creatures even more bizarre than the gargoyles. A key stuck out of the keyhole, inviting someone to open it. Wickling looked over his shoulder to make sure the door to the room was still shut. It was, and for once Wickling was sure the lionish steward Caesar was not lurking behind him, spying on his every move. He reached out and turned the key.

With a click the door swung open, and Wickling peered inside. The silver box was lined with black satin, and in the middle of it was a golden statue of a serpent. The bottom of its tail was looped in coils, but the rest of it rose straight up, like those snakes that are charmed by little brown men with white turbans and long pipes in far-away places. Rubies were set for its eyes and glittering diamonds for fangs. In its jaws it held a round mirror the size of a large coin, surrounded by a ring of emeralds.

"What have we here?" thought Wickling to himself, as he picked up the serpent and gingerly turned it over once. "What's so special about one more mirror that it should be so splendidly housed?"

Turning it over again, he chanced to catch a glimpse of himself in the serpent's mirror.

"Broomsticks! What's this?!" he exclaimed - for although the face he saw was still his own, it was one that belonged to the distant past. In the serpent's mirror now was the younger man with a headful of hair and a heart full of joy who used to greet him when he sought his reflection many years ago.

He looked back up at the altar to compare the two faces, but now the younger man looked back at him a thousand times.

"Well I'll be…" chucked the thousand candlemakers delightedly, "did you ever see such a thing?" He turned his head from side to side, admiring it from each angle. "Much has changed since I saw you last, old friend. And I suppose this is the cause of it."

He looked at the serpent mirror he still held in his hand - but now it was in the smooth unblemished hand of the young man. He had thought the image before him was only a trick of the mirror. Eyes wide with astonishment, Wickling brought up his other hand and gingerly patted the top of his head. Sure enough, his fingers touched thick soft locks. "Can it really be?" he wondered in amazement. "Am I really young again? If I really am, then I must have finally found the treasure for the Lady and her prince!"

It was at that moment that Wickling heard Octavius's footsteps outside the door. He panicked and tried to slip the golden serpent into his pocket, but it bit his hand hard and jumped back into the silver box. The little door slammed shut, and the key fell out onto the floor. Wickling instinctively put his hand in his mouth. Where the serpent had bitten him he tasted drops of blood. Octavius entered the room, and Wickling's heart filled with dread as the dragon's eyes fell on the key, half-buried in the plush red carpet.

"I'll see that Caesar properly dresses your wound," he said grimly to Wickling. "Next time, perhaps you would do better to empty your pockets rather than fill them."

Wickling sheepishly left the room. A parting glance at the altar showed him that his youth had once more escaped him, and his appearance had returned to normal. After extinguishing all of the candles with one enormous puff, Octavius followed him.

Wickling spent the rest of the day in awkwardness and misery. He might as well have betrayed his oldest and dearest friend, such was the shame that made him unable to look Octavius in the eye. Octavius, on his part, did nothing to set him at ease, neither forgiving Wickling for trying to steal from him nor making merry as if nothing had happened. He hardly spoke a word to the chandler, and the few he chose to drop were as hard and cold as slivers of ice. Wickling had no appetite that evening, and scarcely ate a fraction of his usual meal. Only the steward Caesar was unusually talkative, gleefully making comments like, "I seem to have dropped my spoon; do you happen to have extras stashed in your pocket, Chandler?" or "Wickling, are you aware that ingesting large quantities of garlic can prevent snake bites?"

Octavius excused himself from the table early and the candlemaker was glad of it, as he was freed to escape the lion's taunts. He ran out of the room and down the long corridors before Caesar could follow him. He returned to his room and latched the door behind him.

"Oh dear," he said to himself, and then "Oh dear," again.

The open windows let in enough of the fading day to render the room in grays, barely light enough to navigate around the furniture. Without changing his clothes or turning down the sheets Wickling fell face first onto the giant bed, wishing it could swallow him up. His lanky body sank into the soft comforter like a spoon dropped in batter. His feet dangled over the edge and he kicked his shoes off one at a time; they hit the ground with two thunks. His glasses dug painfully into the bridge of his nose, but he did not care. Only when it became unbearable to breathe his own hot breath did he turn his head to one side.

Twilight was giving way to night, and through the windows he saw the first of the stars appear.

"To be so far away," he said aloud. "How I envy you. " The stars twinkled and winked at him from their heavenly shelves, but did not offer to trade places with him.

"Nor do I blame you," he said with a sigh. "For I am the unhappiest man ever to have lived."

Wickling was dreaming. He was dreaming that he had fallen into a well. He splashed and flailed in the water, but found nothing to grab hold of. He sank down, down, through the murky depths, and at the bottom the soft sand swallowed his body up to his chin. A fish swam by and looked at him curiously out of one eye, from the side of its flat head. Then it swam away, returned with a hammer, and started striking the walls of the well. As the fish hammered a crack appeared in the stones, and the water leaked out of the well. Still it hammered, harder and more rapidly, until the crack grew and the water gushed out, allowing Wickling to finally breathe air again. With the last of the water the fish was also swept away, but the pounding continued.

"What?! Are you killed already in there?! Open up or I'll break it down!" Wickling jolted awake and the pounding was the steward Caesar, banging on the door. He sounded angrier than usual. Wickling sprang off the bed and ran to the window. In the moonlight he could see it was a long way down - too far to jump without getting hurt. "If only I had a rope!"

Now Caesar was slamming into the door with his body. Bolts from the hinges popped out and the wood began to splinter. Wickling frantically searched in the shadows for a place to hide. He dove under the bed just as the door crashed to the ground. Caesar pounced, and caught Wickling's ankle before he could pull it under. "Not so fast, you rat," he snarled, dragging Wickling out. "You're coming with me."

"Let me go," shouted the candlemaker, kicking and struggling. "Octavius will have your head when he finds out about this!"

"Ha! You can tattle on me when you see him," was the lion's reply. "Now move it!" Caesar shoved Wickling in front of him. "To the throne room - go!"

Wickling could have found his way to the throne room even without the blazing torches marking the way, if only he had not been afraid of the dark. He had been there numerous times in the day, when the brilliant sun streamed through the glass ceiling and filled the room with blue sky and sunshine and the dragon sat on his crystal throne sparkling with rainbows. Octavius had even let Wickling take his place occasionally on the burgundy cushions, though the candlemaker's legs were too short and dangled like a child's.

Caesar poked him in the back. "Pick it up. You don't want to keep him waiting."

"But why are we - "

"Shut up and march!" Caesar roared. So Wickling did, and in his stocking feet he made even less noise than the lion, jingling his keys as they marched to the heart of the castle at midnight.

At last they approached the entrance of the throne room. Caesar shoved Wickling roughly up against a wall. "Wait here. Don't move."

The lion slipped through the great doors, taking the only nearby torch with him, leaving Wickling shivering in a shaft of cold blue moonlight. Wickling dared not move - not because of the lion's order, but because the shadows pressing in on him were dark and deep. The shaft of moonlight only illuminated a small patch of floor, and it held him as tightly as any prison could have. Beyond it he saw nothing but blackness. And he felt eyes watching him - not just one pair, but many, and from all sides, surrounding him with quiet, unblinking stares. He felt them moving closer to him, slowly dragging themselves toward his tiny circle of moonlight. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up and a chill ran up his spine.

All at once, the throne room doors opened and the unseen watchers scattered. Wickling was actually relieved to see the lion's scowling face.

"He's ready for you. Come on," Caesar growled, pushing the door open wider. An eerie red light flickered behind him. Wickling smelled fire. He was yanked into the throne room and shoved again, so roughly that he stumbled and tripped.

"Chandler!" Octavius's voice echoed from the other end of the room. "Come closer."

It seemed to take a great many more steps to cross the throne room that night than it had at any other time, and from the dark recesses of the corners Wickling thought he sensed more unknown watchers following him with their eyes. He was too afraid to look anywhere but straight ahead, and even then the sight he beheld made him shudder with fright. Somewhere inside the crystal throne a fire had been lit, and as it lapped behind the prisms it made a chair of flames, from which the dragon called to Wickling. The dragon's oranges scales glowed bright as if they also burned, so that at first his eyes were dazzled and he could see nothing but the twisting flames.

As Wickling drew closer, he saw that the dragon had set the serpent mirror on a stool next to his throne. The sight of it made him sick to his stomach.

"Why, you look practically green," said Octavius, and the fire inside the throne crackled and flared. "And very well you should, for you have done a terrible thing. I trusted you, chandler, and you betrayed my trust. You tried to steal from me. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes I never would have believed it, but it is true, is it not?"

Caesar took the opportunity to kick Wickling in the pants.

"Yes…yes...it's true...but I can explain," Wickling said softly, wringing his hands. He was almost in tears. It was very hot so close to the throne. Wickling's cheeks were flushed and beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead.

Octavius looked sternly at him and smoke billowed from his flared nostrils, yet he still spoke in measured tones. "I don't care to hear it. From the very beginning there has never been an explanation good enough to justify a crime. It is now only a matter of justice. Surely you know the wage of sin?"

The fire beneath the dragon flared again, so brightly that Wickling was sure that Octavius was also ablaze. It was a terrible vision, and he would have fled had Caesar not kicked him down again. In the next instant the vision was gone. Octavius rose from his throne. He was still calm, and the calmness was unnerving to Wickling.

"But you need not worry. I may be just, but I am also merciful." Octavius plucked the serpent mirror from the stool and stepped down to where Wickling was sprawled on the ground.

"Get up," he ordered the man. "I am prepared to make you an offer you will not refuse. What you deserve is no less than death, but instead of death, I offer you this." He held the mirror out to the candlemaker and proclaimed, "It is the gift of eternal life."

Wickling gasped, and Caesar growled his disapproval.

"Why are you so afraid?" asked the dragon when Wickling did not move to accept the gift. "I know how much you savored what you sampled. Take it - it's yours." Wickling slowly unclenched his fists, but that was all.

Octavius gestured again for him to take it. "It's not a trick, if that's what you're thinking," the dragon said soothingly. "I'm giving it to you freely."

Wickling wiped his sweaty palms. He was perspiring profusely now, drenching his clothes.

"I fear I am not as patient as I am compassionate," the dragon went on, frowning. "And I never force gifts on those who are unwilling to accept them. Am I to take it that you are not interested in the most precious treasure in the entire universe? I assure you, it will not be offered again. Your alternative is not pleasant either," he added.

The thread finally convinced Wickling that he could delay no longer. He stretched out his hand - but at the same time Octavius took a step back, so that the mirror was just beyond his reach.

"On second thought," said the dragon thoughtfully, "perhaps it would be fair if you did give me something in exchange. A token of appreciation for my great mercy. Something small even, a mere mite; I am not greedy as some are."

Wickling was befuddled. "A token? But everything I have belongs to you. I have nothing of my own…"

"Is that really true?" pressed Octavius, raising a quizzical brow. He concealed the mirror with the cup of his hand. "Think hard."

Wickling's mind raced and he answered, "Well…my spectacles. Without them I am near blind, but if that is what you want…" He moved to unhook his glasses, but Octavius growled.

"What need have I of chipped glass and twisted metal? You have something much more valuable that I desire."

Wickling's heart skipped a beat. "But the only other thing I have is…."

"The Lady's star," Octavius finished. Wickling was shocked. He had thought the star was his secret alone.

"Nothing enters my castle without my knowledge. Really, did you think you could hide anything from me? I know you are attached to the thing, but what is a shiny pebble compared to the promise of everlasting life in the paradise of my home? Hand it over, and happiness is yours for eternity."

Seeing that Wickling continued to hesitate, he added, "I would think that life in this castle forever would be slightly more appealing than death, wouldn't you?"

It would have been wrong to say that Wickling was not tempted to give Octavius the star. Men have sacrificed possessions, families, and entire lifetimes in search of fountains of youth - what was losing the little stone in his pocket, if one such spring of eternal life was within his reach? A whole string of the rarest diamonds would be well worth the trade, and Wickling knew it.

It seemed a simple request, such a small sacrifice to make. But even as Wickling put his hand to his breast pocket, he realized it would be impossible. The star, as much as he had resented its presence, had grown to become a part of him, intertwined with his soul. He realized that he could no sooner could tear out his own heart and hand it to the dragon.

Standing there, small and helpless in the dragon's presence, the terrible throne of flames now erupting fire and black smoke behind him, it was not his courage but his fear that made him refuse.

"I'm sorry," he said to Octavius, although he shook in fright and couldn't believe he was hearing himself correctly. "I can't give it to you."

"What?!" snapped the dragon. "You mean you won't."

"No, I mean I can't…I can't explain it, but I just can't!"

As soon as he said it, Wickling squeezed shut his eyes and braced himself for the dragon's wrath. But it did not come.

"You waited too long," Wickling heard Caesar whine behind him. He had almost forgotten the lion was in the room.

"Silence!" the dragon thundered, allowing his temper to boil over. Wickling opened one eye and saw the dragon struggling to compose himself. He held a clawed hand to his forehead and waved away the candlemaker.

"Fine," snapped the dragon, "Fine. That's fine. You can keep it. Fine. But you might soon feel differently. Perhaps in the morning things will be clearer. Take him away, Caesar, and show him his new quarters."

"With pleasure, my lord," the lion said, with a bow and a grin that told Wickling he was in for more trouble.

"Bow, dog," snarled Caesar, knocking Wickling to the ground once more. He seemed to take great delight in doing that.

"Wait! I changed my mind!" cried the candlemaker in desperation.

"No, you haven't," the dragon said, with almost a touch of disappointment in his voice as the flames in his throne died down to the glow of embers.

"But there is always hope. Perhaps in the morning. Get up. Go."

Wickling's arm was roughly pinned behind his back as Caesar began to march him out of the throne room.

"Lion!" barked Octavius.

Caesar stopped and looked up.

"Be nice!"

Caesar growled and let go of Wickling's arm. He dropped a fake curtsey to the man and smirked. "My apologies, sir; will you please follow me." Then picking up his lantern again he led his prisoner off to the side of the throne room and down a passageway Wickling had never been in before. The lantern cast strange shadows on the walls as it swung back and forth, catching the cobwebs in the ceiling and the crumbling plaster on the walls. It seemed to Wickling that the shadows grew wilder the further down they went. He began to almost see faces in the patterns, ugly faces that jeered and mocked him, laughing right along with the lion on that forced march.

Abruptly Caesar stopped. They had come to the end of the hallway where there was a single door, low and arched at the top.

Caesar swung the heavy door open wide, though it squealed in protest. With a smile altogether too genuine, he beckoned for the candlemaker to go in.

Wickling wavered at the entrance, for it was pitch black inside. He pulled back to ask for the lantern to light the way, but the lion smacked him with his heavy paw and knocked him headfirst into the room. Wickling heard the door slam shut. The key turned in the lock, but the Lady's star glinted brightly at him Caesar's padding footsteps disappeared down the hallway.

(c) 2002
By Justine Schmiesing
All Rights Reserved

Justine Schmiesing lives happily in Steubenville, Ohio with her husband and four children. (And we here at TOI are thankful to Dr. Holmes who pointed Justine towards our humble publication!) "The Chandler's Castle" is an exerpt from her novel of the same name.