Soul of Fire (36 page)

This half life before the final oblivion scared Peter more than that inevitable nothingness to come—if there was nothing on the other side. And if there wasn’t, then he intended to have a word with whatever divinity ran the show. But those minutes—feeling life ebb away, knowing there would be no going back, nothing he could do—those moments terrified him.

It was easy to imagine all this. Peter had imagined it so often before, sometimes he got the impression these scenes played themselves over and over again when he closed his eye. There was only one doubt relating to the whole pageant, and that was what he would do. How would he react? What would happen to him, to his mind, in that position?

For years, imagining himself dragged to that most unholy of gallows for his end, he had wanted to believe that, like Monmouth, he’d rebel and shift and charge the crowd, having to be brought down again by the Gold Coats and rather dramatically beheaded on the fly. Or perhaps he would do what Anne Boleyn had done and rail aloud against his ancestors, the sovereign, the skies above and the indifferent faraway divinity—all of which had wished this curse upon him.

In his current mood, though, he imagined himself going quietly—almost indifferently—laying down his head and his life with relief. But his last thoughts would be of her. Not in sappy romance, but he would wonder where she was, and if she was safe, and what her life would be. The only way to avoid that, he thought, as he reflexively brought the dragon lower, was to make sure that Sofie Warington was well and truly disposed of. That there would be no need for his services in protecting her. That she was, as it were, out of his hands.

He’d hoped to do that with Blacklock, but—though he couldn’t quite understand why—it was clear that Blacklock would consider the lovely Sofie no more than a burden upon his life. It was clear Blacklock operated on more rational principles, principles that didn’t allow for the impetuosity of love, nor the sudden attraction to a mass of silky black hair, a pair of midnight-in-summer eyes. And though lying with him would save Sofie, Peter didn’t wish that. Even if her life was safe, if she was chaffing in her marriage bonds, feeling a slave to fate much as he now did, it would not be any better. He would still feel responsible for her, and still seek to rescue her.

So he must first see Sofie properly established, with a man she could love and respect. Then, and only then, he could allow himself to be caught by the Gold Coats and taken to that awful last pageant that he’d been avoiding for a decade.

But he must first locate the ruby, he thought, as he brought the dragon down to where his luggage lay hidden, in a clearing in the middle of the parched jungle. And there was only one way to find the ruby. If he understood the babble of the tiger, the jewel had been hidden before by blood magics invoked by Miss Warington’s father. That would not be true now, and so the one instrument that Peter had to obtain the position of the jewel should work.

He landed and let the clothes he carried in his fore-claw drop to the ground, before forcing himself to change. He ended up sitting on the ground—naked, disheveled and sweaty—and not caring particularly. There didn’t seem to be anyone about, at least no one he had seen from the air. And for what he had to do, his attire made no difference whatsoever.

He made his luggage appear, and slid over to it, sitting on his heels while he rummaged inside for the object he was searching for.

It was round—about the size of his fist—and felt very cold to the touch through the silk scarf he’d enveloped it in. Bringing it out, he thought how strange it was that this had once been his eye. Having heard that a dragon eye was the favored instrument of scrying, and finding himself—and those who depended upon him—lost in Africa, Peter had extracted it, at knife-point.

And then he’d received proof of his mystical nature, which was not usually so obvious to him. For as soon as it was severed from his body, the eye had grown and acquired a crystalline solidity and appearance. Though it was still green—touched here and there by darker and lighter colors, like undercurrents—that was the only resemblance between its state now and when it had been attached to his nerves. Now anyone would take it for a blown-glass bubble.

He sat on the scrubby grass and pulled the eye-globe onto his lap. As he unwrapped it, it glowed softly, and he wondered if it would do that for anyone who owned it, or only for him, since it had been his. But it didn’t matter.

Peter thought intently of everything he knew of the ruby Soul of Fire, and its surface seemed to swirl and move. Then, like the waters of the Red Sea under the staff of Moses, it parted. And in the blank of color, there appeared a scene.

He saw a clearing in a forest, and in it two men and two women. They weren’t difficult to recognize. The men were the natives, and one of the women was the girl Lalita, whom they’d accompanied. But the other woman made his heart clench. Sofie. Miss Warington. She looked so sad and scared. Why, he wondered. What did it all mean to her? Had she cared that he’d left? Did she care he’d proven himself unworthy of her?

What was it that the Romans said about a man who is late in falling in love for the first time? I’m sure they said something, and that it wasn’t pleasant. The classics master mentioned it once. . . .

But the words were only a screen to hide from him the sight of Sofie Warington, as it only seemed to be something to distract him from his thoughts. He closed his eye, then opened it again.
I know where my heart is,
he told the green, glowing globe in his lap.
But I need to find out where Soul of Fire is. The jewel that Charlemagne stole and desecrated, the jewel that holds the key to power in this world for the queen of England and the king of tigers, and who knows how many others.

The globe swirled a little, like stormy waters blown about by the wind. And then it cleared. And it showed him the same scene.

So the stone is with them. They have it,
he thought, morosely.
Which means that Miss Warington has it. Of course she does.
He could imagine her running into whatever strong room the ruby was kept and stealing it, simply because they’d meant to give it as her dowry to the repulsive king of tigers.

But if she had it, she was in double danger. If the tigers captured her, they would have the ruby as well. And then it would be no time at all to her death by sacrifice. And that was not something that Peter could contemplate—or allow to happen. No, he must stop it.

He’d go back to Miss Warington and her escorts. Oh, he would not speak to her. He very much doubted she’d listen to anything he had to say, not after she’d seen him act the way he had with their prisoner. But he would speak to Lalita and appraise her of the danger to her mistress.

And then, he thought, he would try to find from Sofie’s very intelligent maid what could be done to protect her mistress. Of course, every glimpse of Sofie would hurt. But it didn’t matter. Once your heart is broken, you cannot be tormented by hope.

FALLEN FROM THE GARDEN; AN UNLIKELY MEETING; THE KINGDOM OF THE TIGERS

This was how Adam and Eve might have felt when
they fell from the garden, William thought. Except—though he’d never told his father as much—he didn’t believe in Adam and Eve. Or at least, not in a real, embodied Adam and Eve. His father might not either, now that William thought of it. Reverend Blacklock was a scholar in Latin and Greek, and all too knowledgeable about all the archeology that took place around biblical sites.

For some reason, William could picture himself before his father’s desk, asking him about Adam and Eve and the garden. And he could see his father removing his glasses and polishing them, and deliberately putting them back on before launching into a discussion on metaphors, and what it all meant.

But William knew what the story meant past metaphors, past literal retelling.
I have fallen from the garden,
he thought, as he stared at the gauzy curtains billowing in the very slight breeze. Somewhere, there were shouts and the clank of pots and pans. He didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore. He wasn’t angry or sad. Instead, he felt a dry-eyed horror, as though . . . As though he’d woken up to find the entire world populated by spiders who acted like and carried on the functions of the humans they’d replaced.

And yet, that might be easier,
he thought. That strange, unlikely state of affairs might be easier to understand and accept than this. Because the dry-eyed, blank horror was not at anything external, but at himself. There had been, in his Eton days, close friendships and young friends for whom he would have, gladly, laid down his life. There had been touched hands and bodies meeting in the hurly-burly of school games. But he’d thought, back then, that it was just how everyone felt—that mature feelings would come later, when he found the woman who was perfect for him.

He had listened many times to the story of his parents’ first meeting. His mother had been in her garden, tending to a climbing yellow rose, and his father had passed along the road. Their eyes had met, and they’d known in that moment—in that first searing instant. His mother said she could feel all their life ahead of them, and the children they would have, and the years they were supposed to share. And his father would nod happily and assure William he’d felt the same.

It had seemed very odd to William to think of his plump and comfortable mother, with her faded blond hair, falling in love at first sight with his father, that calm man with his salt-and-pepper hair and extensive knowledge of ancient languages. But if it had happened to them, he’d assumed it would happen to him. And that if his passions seemed cold and his interest in women scant, it was because he was his parents’ son and, as such, not given to great transports or much romantic thought until the moment . . . the moment when it would be right, when it would all come together.

Only it hadn’t. And he’d gone on waiting. And now . . . it wasn’t the dragon. He didn’t think he was in love with St. Maur—and thank the heavens for that, because he suspected there were depths there he would rather not plumb. He didn’t think he was in love with anyone, or had ever been. But he realized what the quickened heartbeat meant, the shallow breath and the pounding pulse, and the irresistible desire to touch. Even just thinking of it made images rush through his head that he would fain not confront. But there was nothing for it. He was what he was.

He thought of the men he had heard of who’d evinced the same disposition. No one spoke of it openly, and it was treated either as an object of fun or something that would occur only to the utterly abandoned or depraved.

William didn’t feel like either. It wasn’t something he’d come to, open-eyed, nor a thought he’d spent any time entertaining. The reality of it had burst upon his unwilling mind and forced itself upon his notice only because of one of the properties of dragon-weres—that unearthly attraction that had, through the ages, caused normal humans to sacrifice human virgins to them.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, staring at the door. He became aware only after a while that his carrier was crossing the room, armed with the kerosene cans of warm water, and realized, faintly startled, that this was not the man’s first such voyage.

The man saw him staring and smiled. “Sahib bathe now? Bath all ready.”

But though Sahib was sweaty and felt bruised and tired—as though he’d run a long distance in a very short time—he did not want to have a bath. He wanted, he realized—suddenly and with a physical need—to leave his quarters and walk. To walk in the real world of real people, to reassure himself that everything looked as it had yesterday when he went to bed. That the internal explosion and leveling of all accepted reality was just that—internal only—and that no one need know about it. No one need see it, or even guess at it.