The Lord of Illusion - 3 (2 page)

Drystan set aside the packet, recorded the contents, shrugging off the impotent rage that accompanied his thoughts. Despite all of the Rebellion’s efforts, they still had not come any closer to freeing England from its slavery to the elven lords.

Although they managed to save countless children. This was not the only castle in Wales that harbored orphaned fugitives. Lady Cassandra of Firehame discovered that the trials—the magical tests of power the elven lords put their half-breed children through—were a subterfuge for certain death. That the lords did not really send the children who showed exceptional magic to the fabled land of Elfhame. The tests were a ruse to weed out those who might possibly grow into enough power to threaten an elven lord’s rule.

Most of the children weren’t truly orphans, for most had families in England, but they all felt and referred to each other that way.

Drystan had parents in Herefordshire County, although he could no longer remember what they looked like. He occasionally received letters from them, and knew he had a brother who strongly resembled him, but apparently Duncan did not possess enough elven magic to be a threat to the elven lords.

Would he ever be united with his family?

Drystan rubbed at his eyes.

If this key truly existed… if this brand the white witch emblazoned on all of her offspring held a clue to opening the door to Elfhame… Would the Rebellion be able to send the elven lords back where they came from? Perhaps humans did not have the power, but by all accounts, the elven lords were considered mad by their very own people. If the door between the two worlds opened, would their kinsman come through and take the lords back home? Drystan did not know. He only knew the scepters wanted to return to Elfhame, and this key might accomplish that.

It might be England’s only hope.

Drystan squared his shoulders, feeling the weight of his task, wondering why he had been chosen for it. And then remembered the girl and knew.

He felt he was the only man who could save her. Because he was the only man who knew her torture as his own.

Drystan picked up another sheath of papers and began to read. And then another, and another. Like every night for the past decade, he read until he exhausted even the strength of his elven eyes, until they burned and drooped and he could barely see the words on the page.

It lay at the bottom of the crate, of course.

He opened the leather journal, sighed when he realized it was just a household inventory of Dreamhame Palace from years ago. But the quiver he felt from the direction of the cell made him squint to focus his eyes on the entries. Linens, silver, candles. Gold plate, crystal glasses, silk cloth. And then in the kitchens: caskets of gin, bottled wine, sacks of wheat, cooking pans.

And a scribbled note at the bottom of the entries: three scullery slaves: M. Shreves, A. Cobb, C. Ashton.

Ashton.

Drystan’s eyes watered and he closed them, felt them throb in time to his heartbeat. How many times had he come across this name in various records? Hundreds. And each time it failed to lead him to the line of the white witch. His dreams of blood and death would become more violent, as if the scepters punished him for that failure.

Such an impossible task, since Ashton House had fallen in an elven war game between Dreamhame and Terrahame centuries ago, its inhabitants scattered across the seven realms when their ransom was not met.

Had some of them become enslaved in Dreamhame Palace?

He opened his eyes, stared at the entry. Blinked.
Witch
had been messily scrawled near the edge of the paper.

Had he indeed found the white witch of Ashton House?

“Yes!”
screamed the scepters in his head, rocking Drystan backward in his chair, the journal falling with a thump upon his battered desk.

And then he gracefully slumped forward, blackness overwhelming him from that final blow to a mind exhausted by years of sleep deprivation.

***

A callused hand gently shook Drystan awake. “I’m sorry, lad. We have a very important visitor.”

Drystan blinked up into the light of a lantern, and then farther upward into the face of the master of Carreg Cennen castle. Drystan did not mind being called “lad” by Giles Beaumont, for the elven warrior was
old
, in his sixties at least, with a spattering of gray in his long blond hair and through his dark brows. But his elven blood gave him the carriage of a younger man, and Drystan knew from painful experience that Giles still wielded the battered blade at his side with the vigor of a human half his years.

“What time is it?” Drystan mumbled, sweeping his own white-blond hair away from his face. His hand came away with a smudge of ink on his fingertips, and the awareness that he had a crease across the skin of his cheek from where it had lain on the edge of the journal.

“’Tis early,” replied Giles. “If we hurry, no one will notice you—us.”

Drystan stood. He must look worse than he felt, if Giles sought to shield him from curious eyes. “That bad, eh?”

The other man smiled. “You look as if you’ve been up all night for the past ten years… which I suppose you have. It’s sorry I am to wake you, but Lord North has arrived.”

“The Prime Minister? Here?”

“Aye. I wouldn’t have woken you otherwise.” Giles studied him with the ordinary-shaped human eyes that defied his otherwise elven looks. Concerned, worried eyes. “Sorry, lad. You look particularly hellish today.”

Drystan straightened the sleeves of his coat, quickly buttoned the front of his shirt when he noticed it hanging open. He looked hellish because… Drystan glanced down at his desk, his heart giving a leap in his chest. Because he had finally found
her
. But the news that Lord North himself, the leader of the Rebellion, had traveled to Wales to see them personally gave him pause. “It’s not good, is it?”

Giles shrugged. “Is it ever?”

Drystan picked up the journal. “No. Perhaps I can change that.”

“What do you—you found her?”

Drystan nodded, feeling a tingle from the direction of the cell. He did not wonder that Giles did not feel the scepters’ eager reaction. Apparently, only Drystan possessed that connection to them.

“Are you sure, lad? ’Tis like finding a needle in a bottle of hay.”

“I am sure.” Drystan glanced at the cell. “They are… eager.”

Giles frowned. “For some reason that gives me little comfort. And yet, perhaps now they will leave you be. There are few men I know who would endure what you have without complaint. I wish we could reveal your work, but the safety of the Rebellion is in the secrecy of the whereabouts of the scepters, not to mention the rest of the contents of this room.”

Drystan laid a hand on Giles’s shoulder. “Do not apologize, Father. I’m well aware that you could not share my secrets with the others. I do not blame you for the shape of my life. The scepters chose me for this task, not you.”

Giles let out a sigh. “Well, lad, it’s over with, at least. We can give the information to Lord North and you can live a normal life from here on.”

Surprise held Drystan speechless. Did the other man truly believe this meant the end of his task? Did Giles think he would give over the information and let some other fellow find the descendant of the white witch? Perhaps Giles’s reaction was Drystan’s own fault. He had told Giles of the lady with the strange eyes, but had not confessed his feelings about her. He would have sounded like a fool. Yet now…

Now he would have to convince Giles, and Lord North, that he must be sent on this mission. A young man with little training, and no experience as a spy. Who had spent most of his life doing nothing more than reading about the exploits of the Rebellion.

Giles turned and made his way back up to the cellar, and Drystan followed, stuffing the journal in his coat pocket. Drystan felt surprised that Giles did not ask for further information about the witch. His foster father’s gaze was turned inward, apparently too worried about the visit of Lord North and what his news might portend. Giles locked the door behind them, and waited until the kitchen emptied before stepping within.

One of the maids entered from a door on the opposite side of the kitchen and let out a squeak, dropping a bowl of eggs at the sight of them. Another two maids appeared at the open kitchen door, a light dusting of snow drifting into the room. A bit broader, a bit taller, Giles should have commanded their attention. Instead all eyes went to Drystan, who quickly stiffened and tilted his chin slightly upward. Arrogance and indifference were his only weapons against their rudeness.

The lady who had dropped the eggs crossed herself, and the two in the doorway leaned their heads together and passed a whisper, which made them both titter. Drystan had grown up with the two young women, and knew them to be particularly silly. Each resident of the castle took on the chores of what suited their skills, and if they lacked any, usually were put to chopping wood or vegetables.

Drystan guessed them to be vegetable choppers.

But at their whispered exchange, Giles glanced over at him. “Perhaps you should wash a bit? We wouldn’t want to concern Lady Cecily.”

Drystan sighed, did as he’d been told while the girls continued to giggle. The older orphans filled in the younger about his odd fits, his screaming nightmares, and lurking about the castle corridors. He suspected the stories had grown with the telling, for the girl who had dropped the eggs actually appeared frightened of him. He gently apologized to her with enough enthusiasm to pink her cheeks before he left the room.

Perhaps if he had not been obsessed with finding the white witch’s descendant, he might have been able to charm them all out of their foolishness. He had not wanted to waste the time.

As he followed Giles up the stairs to the second floor, Drystan’s heart beat a bit faster. He had found her! The woman of his dreams. He would rush to her rescue and she would welcome him with open arms, and they would decipher the meaning of the brand on her skin and save the world…

Giles strode past what had once been a guardroom and now served as a dining hall, the voices of the residents within growing silent as they passed. Drystan followed his lead, giving the room nary a glance, his attention focused on the button just above the skirt of Giles’s coat.

He could not wait to leave Carreg Cennen castle.

They entered the formal withdrawing room, which had once been an armory and still displayed medieval weapons along the walls. The metal had been polished to a high sheen, reflecting the firelight in the large hearth, the myriad tables scattered about the room, the velvet-upholstered chairs and cushions. Giles’s wife, Lady Cecily, had decorated this room, as she had renovated most of the castle, calling the enormous pile of stone her “little cottage by the sea.” Drystan never understood what she meant, but her comment always made Giles smile with tenderness.

She sat near the fireplace now, a silver-laden tea service at her elbow, the gray in her hair made more obvious because of her black locks. Drystan always thought her one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen: with her large blue faceted elven eyes, her red lips, and heart-shaped brow. The fine lines about the corners of her eyes and mouth served only to enhance her loveliness with character.

Those lines deepened as she turned to smile at her husband and Drystan. Giles beat him to her hand by a hairsbreadth, falling to one knee.

“My love,” he murmured, kissing the top of her lace glove. She smiled even wider, not in the least embarrassed by her husband’s display of affection in front of her guest. Once Giles rose, Drystan bent and kissed her cheek. She smelled divinely of lavender and mint tea.

Then they both turned and faced the man who sat in the chair across from her.

Lord North studied them in turn. He had come to Wales once before, when Giles reported of the strange connection Drystan had to the scepters. A large man with a cherubic face and a sharp wit. Drystan had immediately liked him. But wondered how such an affable soul had become the leader of the Rebellion.

Giles reminded him to never judge a man by his looks.

“Giles Beaumont! You still look half your age, damn that elven blood of yours. And Drystan Hawkes, is it not? You have grown since I’ve last seen you.” The gaze within Lord North’s protruding eyes sharpened. “Although I must say, lad, you look as if you could use a fortnight’s sleep or more.”

Drystan bowed. “It has been to good purpose, my lord.” He would have blurted out his discovery right then and there, but Giles cleared his throat and when Drystan rose, Giles nodded at a leather chair next to Cecily. Drystan took his cue and sat, watching Giles take a seat next to the prime minister. So, he would have to wait and hear the other man’s news first.

“What brings you back to Wales, Lord North?”

“Ah, Beaumont. Never one to mince about, eh?” Then his smile faded, and he glanced at Cecily. “I’m afraid it’s dire news, my lady.”

She met his gaze with aplomb. “I had no doubt of it, my lord. Despite your pleasantries over tea.” She set down her cup with a rattle. “Please tell us the worst. My patience has been worn by the wait.”

Lord North nodded, setting his white wig slightly askew. A novelty to Drystan, who lived amongst those who possessed the natural color. Giles had explained that in England, humans imitated elven locks by wearing the wigs. The prime minister had added a dash of silver sparkle to his hair as well, which Giles said the elven lords themselves possessed… and even some half-breeds. Drystan idly wondered what cosmetic Lord North used to copy it.