The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) (33 page)

“To be honest with you, Lord Montrose, and you have earned my honesty, I deeply desire the answers to all my questions. If I had Nadira here in the tower for a season, there is no end to the use I could have made of that book. It was filled with recipes for different elixirs, each producing a different effect. I did make copies of the recipes for my own use.” He turned to Nadira, “Did angels or spirits talk to you, my dear?” he asked.

Nadira made a face. “No,” she said, “I did not imagine there were spirits or angels.”

“See?” Conti said, “She did not imagine them, they did not appear. The elixir I prepared was not for speaking to spirits. With training, I could get her to converse with anyone and anything I chose. I could ask God himself why he created mosquitoes,” he smiled.

“But at any time, she could imagine a great monster and be frightened to death,” Montrose challenged.

“Perhaps, but unlikely.”

“Hmm.” Montrose rubbed his eyes. They were all silent, then, thinking. Suddenly, he raised his head. “Why is King Charles marching on Rome?” he asked.

“I didn’t ask,” Nadira looked surprised. “I didn’t think about it.”

William was busy scratching at his paper, his tonsure bobbing behind a waving feather. In the abrupt silence of Montrose’s question, William’s scratchings dominated the room. Conti leaned over. “What are you writing, William?” He asked.

“All the questions I have to ask Nadira, one by one.” William did not look up except to dip his quill.

Conti smiled at Nadira. “He has filled half the page already,” he said. “But I am afraid I must disappoint you. I have no more of this elixir, and there will be no more until spring.”

William’s pen stopped. Sad brown eyes lifted slowly from the table. “No. Say it’s not true,” he whispered.

Conti shook his head. “The main ingredient has been exhausted, and there is not hope for it until the gentle rains and warm breezes of spring.” He reached across the table and lifted Nadira’s hand. “While we wait for nature to grow us more, there are other recipes in those manuscripts. We shall try them all and see how they differ. I want you to stay at least until the weather changes.”

“You’d be better served asking me.” Montrose pushed back the bench and lifted Nadira to her feet. “She is mine.”

Conti’s hand dropped to the table. “Must we have this conversation daily?”

“We shall have this conversation every time you take liberties with her.”

Conti’s gaze rested steadily on Montrose for a long moment before he turned meaningfully to Nadira. “Only you can stop this game of chess before Lord Montrose sacrifices his queen in an unwise gambit. I suggest you have a discussion with him concerning his play.”

Nadira nodded. She suspected Montrose wanted to join Alisdair and Garreth immediately. She glanced up at his glowering face as he held Conti’s eyes in a vise. “My lord, let us to bed.” She said softly. She watched him sag. He took her elbow and moved her toward the trap without a word. Again, Juan rose to greet them from the doorway. Maria gave them each a cup of warm spiced wine and removed their shoes.

Nadira lay back on the pillows and sipped her cup as Montrose made his lengthy sleep preparations. Maria yawned as she folded his clothing and laid them on the chair by the fire. The wine was sweet and smooth. Nadira wanted to drink it quickly as Montrose had, yet also linger over the pleasure. She gazed into the ruby depths as she inhaled the spicy fragrance. Deep in the center of the wine, where the candlelight did not penetrate, she saw a swirl, then the cup became like a window. She saw Montrose in a cage.

The bars were the slender poles of saplings braided together. He was sitting in a pile of straw. His body looked whole to her, but his face was twisted in agony. A flash of pain washed over her. The cup shook in her hand and tiny waves washed the image from the surface. She set the cup down, no longer wanting to taste the wine. It had become bitter.

Montrose slid into the bed with her, lifting the heavy blankets. He reached for her cup and drank deeply. Nadira sunk lower in the bed, watching him warily. Maria blew out the candle and arranged her pallet again by the fire. Montrose set the cup down and whispered, “We must find a way to escape, and quickly.”

His strong arm gathered her up and pulled her to him. She did not resist, but allowed him to tuck her up against his chest and rest his chin on her head. As he spoke, the rumble from his throat was loud in her ear. She whispered in turn, unwilling to include Maria in their plans. “Is that the best idea?”

“Don’t you want to go? Can you not see that you have fulfilled your promise to him?”

She could not tell him that she wanted more of the elixir, more flying. “Let us stay until spring. Perhaps we can convince Conti to permit us horses and provisions. Would that not be better than walking and starving? Think of how quickly we would be able to achieve your goals with horses. Perhaps I can journey again to see Garreth and Alisdair. We will waste no time searching for them. There are advantages to staying.”

“And the disadvantage? That monsieur is lying to us. That he does not intend to release us at all. That the Black Friars will return.” Montrose scowled in the darkness. “Nay, little one. The danger is too great.”

“How is your thumb?” She asked softly. This was her trump card, and she cursed herself for having to use it so soon. Montrose was silent, though she knew he was not asleep. His jaw was so close to her head, she heard the grinding of his teeth like wheels on gravel.

“I can scarce hold my knife at table.” He answered. His voice held no inflection. It was cruel to bring it up. She felt sick inside. “I am crippled.” His words were a puff of air in her ear.

“It will heal in time,” Nadira whispered with a confidence she did not feel. She turned around again, finding the damaged hand in the blankets and bringing it to her face. She kissed the fingers one by one, lingering over the thumb. Montrose groaned faintly into her hair. She had been gentle, touching him as lightly as a moth. His groan had not come from some pain in his thumb, but from somewhere else. Nadira lay there, still, and waited uncomfortably for sleep to take her.

Her trump had been well played. There was no more talk from Montrose about leaving the tower before spring. Nadira continued to read for William in the tower’s top room, while Montrose sat near, listening. She knew he was unhappy. There was little for him to do. Nadira tried to include him in the lively commentary she shared with William whenever they translated a particularly interesting passage. Montrose’s practical insights were a healthy balance to their overly philosophical viewpoints, but he remained uninterested in most of their discussions, preferring to look out the window, or pace endlessly around the small room. There were more fingers of silver growing at his temples. Nadira could not look at the gray streaks without remembering the Black Friars.

Once a week they convened in the tower to try another of Conti’s elixirs. Nadira was not asked to help prepare any of them. She knew Conti guarded that information jealously. In the solar, weirdly shaped glass bowls and globes bubbled all day long, dripping their distilled liquids into tiny flagons and vials. Each one was slightly different in flavor and effect, though all of them sent her between worlds. She grew more and more agile; sometimes the mere scent of the potion would send her out. Many questions had been answered, many more had been asked. She never tired of the experience and looked forward to each week’s excursion. Now wintry weather loomed ahead.

Nadira sighed, for rain had been falling steadily since first light. The dreary chill distracted her from her study, for the light was weak and the damp annoyed her. The roof overhead was excellent, for Conti wanted no chance of damage to his library. Even still, the repeated drip, drip, drip past the windows began to drive Nadira mad. William was no better, making so many copying errors he had to re-write an entire page. Montrose’s pacing had not ceased the whole morning, adding to Nadira’s irritation. The only bright spot of the day was her discovery that the vital ingredient to the elixir might be a gaudy mushroom.

Nadira did not blurt this out, preferring to keep this tidbit to herself. In fact, she read out the line from the text exactly as it was written, in code, without bothering to tell William that she thought the writer was referring to the mushroom and not to an elf. She knew “the little man in the red cap”. He was not one of the fair folk, or a gnome. She smiled to herself, fingering the text.

Conti knew and had not told them. This was a revelation just for her. She turned another leaf of text, and then looked up, startled. Montrose’s thumping boots had ceased their rhythmic drumbeat, the final step a sharp crack of heavy heels on the planked floor. He was leaning out of the window into the weather. Nadira joined him. His body was stiff and tense. A shaft of fear shot through her before she could focus on what he was seeing. Through the mist and damp, an army was approaching the tower. She made out the dark shapes of horses and wagons. There was no sun to glimmer off the helmets, but the unmistakable sound of metal clanking in cadence meant that this company was not traveling peddlers or pilgrims.

She wrapped her arms about her to steady the tremble that had begun through her body. Montrose’s face was grim, the muscles of his jaws and cheeks set in hard planes. He did not look at her, but his blue eyes danced over the approaching men and flickered about the yard and outbuildings.

Nadira turned about and moved back to William. “Up, Will. Quickly.” She capped his ink and took his quill, for she knew he would argue for ‘just one more word’. He began to protest, but froze when he saw Montrose’s posture at the window.

“What is it?” he asked tightly.

“Shh, some men are coming.” William pulled his cloak around his shoulders and joined Montrose at the window. Nadira came up behind Montrose and put her arms around his waist. He jerked at her touch, but then his mind seemed to come back to the tower room.

“I feared this, Nadira. I would that we were long gone and cowering wet in the woods right now.”

“They may be the prince’s men…”

“No.” Montrose’s answer was unequivocal. Nadira lowered her eyes. He was right. He swung his head and shoulders around the room, his eyes falling on the trap door. “We can bar the trap and will be safe from all but fire, but I fear it may come to that.” He began to wring his hands, massaging his right thumb. “I’ll need a sword.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I
CY
shafts shot through Nadira’s limbs. William paled to an unhealthy gray. The sounds of the tower guards assembling before the great gate drew them all to the other side of the room. Below they could see Conti on his charger before the portcullis flanked by Juan and his men, also mounted.

“Shall we flee?” William asked anxiously.

“Where? They have closed and bolted the tower.” Montrose swung his gaze about the room. “I have a dagger or two. A knife, a stiletto. None will aid us against men in armor carrying crossbows and broadswords and fire. I must have a sword. I’m going below to get one.”

William nodded, the lump in his throat bobbing.

“Should we come too?” Nadira did not want to stay in the tower room.

“No. It is easier to defend a high place than a low one. If you must, you can escape to the roof. William’s bucket is still outside. Use the rope.”

Voices below ended their conversation. The rain muffled the words. As Nadira strained to hear the exchange, Montrose disappeared through the trap. On the ground, the army surrounded the tower. Nadira watched as the mounted men circled the building in pairs. Each man glittered with weapons; a few were in full armor. Behind the mounted men was a company of archers on foot. Nadira guessed there were perhaps a hundred soldiers. The clanging of the metal, the sound of the horses and the rain on the roof kept Nadira from hearing any of the exchange. Instead, she strained her eyes to watch. She willed herself to read the faces of the men closest to her. William put a comforting arm around her waist. She hugged him back. His meager warmth did nothing to steady the trembling chill that had started in her heart and now spread throughout her body.

The leader of the armed men rode forward with his lieutenants. His helmet sported a tuft of feathers dyed a gaudy scarlet. She strained to make out the standard that wilted limply from the bearer’s tall staff. It was futile. The two men spoke, occasionally gesturing. Nadira could only see Conti’s back. He sat his horse stiffly in his best velvets. The feathers in his hat drooped against his cheeks. The leader of the armed men drew his sword. Nadira’s hand went to her throat, behind her she heard heavy boots coming up the stairs. Montrose leaped through the trap, slamming it shut behind him. He reached for one of the benches, brandished it over his head and brought it down with a crash against the flagstones of the wall. William and Nadira both jumped. Montrose pulled the splintered wood apart and selected a stout piece to slide between the rungs of the trap’s lock. His long hair swung from his eyes, his face wild.

“They are coming. There are no swords left in the armory.”

Nadira’s gaze flickered to his hands. He was unarmed. They were helpless. She leaned out the window. The drawn sword of the enemy’s leader was making wide arcs in the air. Juan and his men had leaped into the melee. The three of them stared out of the window as the drama unfolded far beneath them. In the mass of mud and men, Nadira picked out the bright colors of Conti. He lay face down in the mud before the portcullis, unmoving. Horses stepped over him, men moved around him, their arms waving flashes of metal in the drizzle. There were barely fifty men in Conti’s guard. They were his personal guards, not an army. It would not end well.