The Lord of Illusion - 3 (19 page)

“The Rebellion has stolen the elven lords’ scepters? Which ones?”

Drystan did not think it truly mattered to her. She just tried to make sense of what he told her. “The blue scepter of elven lord Breden of Dewhame, taken forty years ago by my foster-mother, Cecily, and her husband, Giles. The lavender scepter of La’laylia of Stonehame, stolen by her once lover, Samson, and his true love, Lady Joscelyn, five years later. And Lan’dor’s silver scepter of Bladehame, stolen by his own champion, Wilhelmina, with the help of Alexander—son of Dominic Raikes… they took it over twenty years ago now.”

Camille held a hand to her temples, as if her head ached. “How has this been kept a secret?”

Drystan shrugged. “Breden went mad, and La’laylia and Lan’dor have been secretly searching for their scepters for years. Neither of the rulers wanted the populace to know their scepters had been stolen. It would make them vulnerable, and perhaps they feared to look foolish. Who knows? But it has aided the Rebellion—although the elven lords’ lack of scepters has not diminished their power as much as we hoped.”

“It has weakened the magical barrier,” interjected Grimor’ee. “But unless and until you humans produce half-breeds who can wield the scepters, it will make little difference in your battle for freedom.”

Drystan threw the dragon a glance of disgust. They knew that already, which is probably why Grimor’ee offered up the information. He trusted the dragon even less now than before he had met him.

“I am only a slave,” muttered Camille. “I am not privy to the Rebellion’s secrets, nor do I think I want to be. For it means…”

“Do not fear, Camille. I will not allow you to come to harm.”

She drew up a skeptical brow. “Forgive me, Lord Hawkes, but I trust less in your assurances with each passing moment.”

Drystan felt his heart drop. When she knew the entire truth, the ground he had gained in winning her trust might be entirely lost. He regretted not telling her the whole of it already, and yet, doubted it would have made a difference. He had needed more time to reveal the truth slowly, damn the interfering dragon.

Camille shivered in her fur cloak. “So the Rebellion took these scepters to your castle, and they somehow sent you dreams of me?”

“Yes.” Drystan clutched at a thread of hope. “And I fell in love with a vision, and vowed to find and rescue you.”

“But you had to have help in finding me.”

He held out his hands. “As you know, I am somewhat of a scholar. We house more items in the castle than just the scepters. I searched the records for years, seeking a hint of your identity and whereabouts.”

“But the Rebellion found me important for other reasons.”

Ah. At least she admitted that his reason for searching for her might be for his own purposes. He laid out the rest of it bluntly. “The scepters told me you hold the key to opening the door to Elfhame and sending the elven lords back where they belong. We cannot completely trust in the truth of this, but the Rebellion thought it worth the gamble, and agreed to finance the search for you.”

“Yes, this key. But I am a slave and have no possessions.”

“It is not a true key, but a clue, a birthmark… upon your skin.”

She held her hand up to her left ear, then her eyes slowly narrowed. “Did you find it tonight?”

Grimor’ee snorted, a white mist spouting from his round nostrils. “So, Lord Hawkes, you do not move as slowly as I suspected.”

Drystan spared him a glare before turning back to Camille, lowering his voice for her ears alone. “I was not looking for it, my love.”

She snorted, rather in the same manner as the dragon, but much more elegantly. “But you would have, eventually. And then what?”

“I would have taken the information back to the Rebellion. And would have sent
you
back to Wales to wait for me.”

“Ha. Despite Roden’s distraction with the coming war, I doubt he would let you take one of his slaves so easily.”

“I don’t see why not. The steward included you in my household inventory—but it does not matter. I already have plans in place to steal off with you once Roden marches to war.”

She stared into his eyes, and he tried to show her the truth of his words within their reflection. She did not trust him fully. She did not disbelieve him, either. He held onto that hope.

Camille looked up at Grimor’ee. “You are awfully silent. Does he speak the truth?”

“I do not know the hearts of men,” replied the dragon, twitching a wing in disdain. “I only know the scepters want to return to Elfhame, mad elven lords or no. And unless you two discover this key very soon, the chances of that happening dwindle.”

Camille’s eyes sparkled, the flecks of silver and gold within them twinkling in the firelight. Drystan suspected she considered more than the scepters’ wishes, more than his love for her. “If this key opens the door to Elfhame and the elven lords are sent home, then I might have the means to free all of the slaves within England.”

“Yes,” growled the dragon.

“Not just me,” she murmured.

“Yes,” agreed Drystan.

She looked up at the dragon. “Why did you not tell me this before? Did you laugh at my foolish plans to escape, knowing I might hold the freedom of all slaves within my grasp?”

Drystan fought down the urge to ask her about these escape plans, but could only watch in astonishment as the dragon lowered his head in what appeared to be shame. Perhaps… perhaps the beast might be a true friend to Camille after all. There had been rumors that a dragon had fallen in love with Lady Joscelyn before she stole the lavender scepter…

“It was not my secret to reveal,” said Grimor’ee.

“It never is,” snapped Camille.

The dragon tucked his head under a wing, curling his tail even more tightly around his body, a picture of sadness and resignation. Camille ignored him and turned back to Drystan.

“I have a birthmark behind my left ear, but it is nothing unusual.”

“It has more meaning than you might know. The scepters sent me a vision of the white witch of Ashton house, who witnessed the coming of the elven lords. She then branded a mark onto her child, which has been passed down for generations. I suspect it is a clue to the doorway to Elfhame, or her interpretation of it, leastways. May I see the mark, Camille?”

She hesitated, her mouth pinched in thought, then she finally nodded. “If it does not aid the Rebellion, will you still promise to help me escape from Dreamhame Palace?”

“I have told you…” Drystan took a deep breath. Damn Grimor’ee for pushing circumstances too soon. Camille had suffered a lifetime of abuse, and he could not expect to earn her trust so easily. Now Drystan would have to be even more patient and gentle than he had been before. “I vow on my honor, my lady, to see you freed from slavery, whether the mark proves useful to the Rebellion or no.”

She slowly brushed aside her pale hair and leaned toward him, bending back the top of her left ear. Despite her otherwise strong elven features, she lacked the pointed ears of a half-breed, the tops rounded and delicate. Drystan balanced on the edge of his chair and pressed his face close. Ah, she smelled heavenly, and he could not help inhaling her scent deep into his lungs.

“It is the shape of a star,” she said a bit breathlessly. “Molly described it so, for it is difficult for me to see it in a mirror. I have not thought much about it since she pointed it out long ago.”

Drystan saw the dragon’s eyes peek over his wing, those glowing orbs casting a gentle light on the snowy ground between them. Then Drystan focused on the spot behind Camille’s ear, gently spreading her pale hair so he could see the entire mark, for half of it lay buried under the hairline. The fire flared, as if the dragon knew Drystan would need the additional light to make out the shape of it.

“It is indeed a star,” he said, “but an odd-shaped one, in truth. Grimor’ee, may I have paper and quill, or is that helping us too much?”

A small golden table appeared at Drystan’s right, with the requested items and an ink pot. He quickly began to sketch the star, putting all of the detail in it he could. When he finished, he showed it to Camille, and they both lowered their heads over the paper to study it.

“I do not see how this can be a key,” she murmured.

“I do not know if it is. But it could be a clue to the key, if we could decipher it. Remember, this is only a representation of what your ancestor witnessed.”

“You are smarter than you look,” rumbled the dragon. Drystan glanced up into the cavern of a snout, and jerked backward. Despite his size, Grimor’ee moved with deadly stealth.

Camille did not appear the least disturbed by the dragon’s proximity. “I do not suppose
you
could tell us what it means?”

Grimor’ee backed away, once again appearing contrite, as if she had hurt his feelings. Drystan could not believe a dragon had any feelings, at least in the same way a human did.

“How would I know,” said Grimor’ee, “what a human might mean with a scribble? I know only the runes of the elven, and this picture does not resemble any of them.”

Drystan swore he heard a note of apology in that hissing voice. He glanced at Camille. At the sorrow permanently etched on the delicate beauty of her face. At the hard-won strength in the firmness of her mouth. At the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide. Did Grimor’ee see the same? Had Camille enchanted him the same way she had Drystan?

He shook his head. Such foolish thoughts. Many humans tried to sense some humanity within the elven lords, and they had all failed to their peril. It would be doubly unlikely their beasts would possess feelings. Would it not?

“Perhaps it is a star in the sky that appeared when the elven lords came to our world,” suggested Camille.

Drystan focused on his drawing. “Then it would be of little help to us, unless we consulted an astronomer. And even then, I do not see how it would open the door to Elfhame.”

“Then you already know where the doorway is?”

“Indeed. One of the most daring of our spies, Lord Thomas Althorp, gave up his life to discover the opening between the elven world and ours. He was father to my foster mother, Lady Cecily.”

Drystan could not keep the sorrow and admiration from his voice. Of all the stories he had read, the sacrifices that Lord Althorp made impressed him the most. And although he had no blood connection to the man, he had felt Lady Cecily’s loss every time she spoke of him.

He started when Camille touched the back of his hand. “I am sorry.”

“I did not even know him… but I wish I could have. Because of his bravery, the Rebellion discovered that the opening between the worlds has not fully closed. That magic leaks through from Elfhame within the juncture of the chaos of the seven sovereignties, in a mad forest called the Seven Corners of Hell.”

“An apt name.

“Indeed.”

“So this clue is not to a location.”

“No. I am sorry, Camille. I should have explained more. When I say key and doorway, I use human terms to describe the inexplicable. Even Thomas’s description of the door to Elfhame is phrased in words we can understand. He says the opening is a collection of stones, with magic pouring from it in small rivers of water.”

Drystan rubbed his forehead in frustration. How could they understand the meaning of a star? When a door is described as a waterfall, and magic as rivers? His head spun with all of the research he had done on the subject, much of it only conjectures by scholars. Even Cecily, who had been near the doorway with Thomas, could not describe it in clearer terms.

“These lines,” said Camille, tracing a finger along the inside of the star. “They appear to separate each point of the star.”

Drystan focused again on his drawing, a half smile curving his mouth. Camille apparently did not bother with obscure meanings. Her mind had a more practical bent. “They were not clear within the birthmark, but distinct enough that I drew them.”

“There are seven points,” she murmured thoughtfully.

She picked up the quill and dipped it into the ink pot, and drew out individually one of the seven shapes that formed together to make up the star.

Drystan blinked. Somehow that shape looked familiar. His mouth dropped open. Indeed, he had seen the like this very morning. “It is the shape of a scepter.”

“And there are seven points,” she repeated.

“And they are joined using the triangular heads of each scepter, here in the middle, to form this star shape. Camille”—Drystan’s voice deepened—“can it be that simple? That the doorway will be opened if we join all the scepters in such a way?”

“I do not see how this is simple at all. First, you must possess all seven scepters, and then a half-breed strong enough to use each one.”

Drystan frowned. “And it may be that the scepters have to be wielded by an elven lord, and two of them are dead.”

Drystan rose to his feet, paced the small area of illusion, now outlined with banks of piled snow. “But we know half-breeds can wield as much power with the scepters as the elven lords themselves. Dominic of Firehame, and now Dorian of Verdanthame, are both testament to that.” He passed by her chair, absentmindedly brushed his hand across her cheek. “My dear, the scepters told me you held the key. I believe that not only do you carry the birthmark, but that somewhere within you lies the buried memory which will allow you to decipher it.”