The Lord of Illusion - 3 (30 page)

Wilhelmina rose in one fluid movement. “I need to prepare my men. A surprise attack in the morning might help distract anyone from our departure.”

“Same here,” agreed Samson. “I also have a few men who will be eager to show their prowess, and I have my own orders to give. There are always fools seeking glory.”

Dominic stood. “We must create our dragons at once, so I can send one to Verdanthame for Dorian and Aurelia.”

“And one to Malcolm in Terrahame,” added the king, rising to signal an end to the meeting.

Drystan frowned as he watched the company leave the room. Despite Dominic’s display of power, he had to agree with his foster father. Most of them were past their prime, and he wondered if this mission might truly be their last. It did not occur to him that he might not survive it as well, until Camille turned her rainbow-colored eyes upon him, and he read the concern in her gaze.

“You do not have the power to wield Roden’s golden scepter,” she said, keeping her voice low as most of the company left the room. “When it is joined with the power of the others, the magical backwash could kill you.”

“Wilhelmina is taking the same risk with the silver, Camille. I can do no less.”

“But surely they can find another to carry the gold. You do not have to prove yourself by holding it.”

“Is that what you think? That I am trying to prove myself?”

“I know you have spent your entire life reading about the adventures of others, and I worry that you are not thinking your decisions through.”

Drystan tore his gaze from hers, his jaw rigid, aware that, less than an hour ago, some truth might have lain in her words. It had been a risk to touch the scepter, and he had done nothing but read about adventures… until he dreamt of her. But he now knew his own worth. “On the contrary, Camille. My strength is in my intelligence—in my knowledge of the elven lords I have gleaned from years of pouring through the archives. My magic is erratic, and there are many who can beat me with a sword. But my decisions are something I will never doubt.”

“I just… I just wish you would not go.”

He lifted her hand, brought it to his lips. “I think you are afraid for me. Is it possible?”

Her forehead wrinkled as she nodded.

Drystan felt his heart soar. “Fear not, my love. My choices are sound. Did they not bring me to you?”

Thirteen

Camille envied Drystan’s confidence. Indeed, even when Lady Cecily took her to one of the guest chambers in the palace to rest before dinner, she could not stop thinking about the bold way in which he had pressed his naked skin to the scepter.

She meant to close her eyes only for a few moments, but she fell asleep, and dreamt of Drystan shattering into a thousand fragments. Of alighting in a blaze of fire. Of crumbling to blackened ash.

Camille awoke to a knock on the bedchamber door, and it took her a moment to control her panting and trembling. What would she do if she lost Drystan? He had somehow become the center of her world, and she did not know how to process this realization with her perceptions of her everyday life… and yet, her life had not been familiar to her since she met Viscount Hawkes.

Another knock, this one a bit more forceful than the last, and Camille dragged herself out of the enormous four-poster bed. Lady Cecily called it the burgundy chamber, and it had obviously come by that name for the dark red silk covering the walls and upholstery and bed coverings. It rivaled Drystan’s family chambers in opulence, with gilt decorating the edges of every surface, the soaring ceiling supported by flame-shaped columns, and a massive fireplace surrounded by intricately carved marble statues.

Camille ignored the staring eyes of cherubs and fauns as she crossed the room and skirted a fountain of white flowing fire to open the heavy door.

Lady Cecily stood outside, wearing a gown that matched her large blue faceted elven eyes. Her black hair had been swept up in elaborate braids, the ribbons threaded through it hiding the gray strands. Her slightly pointed elven ears peeked through the hairstyle.

“Where is Drystan?” asked Camille before Lady Cecily had a chance to speak.

The older woman started, and then smiled. “I made him rest, as well. He is not used to wielding magic, and does not realize how draining it can be. We will need his powers, erratic or no, and despite his youth, his body needs time to recharge.”

Camille frowned. “Then your husband was right?”

“About our age and endurance?” Lady Cecily shifted the bundle in her arms. “I admit it takes us longer to recover from using our powers, but we have had years to hone and perfect the craft. We expend our energy more wisely. Do not fear, my girl, we are up to the task, and have been waiting for years for some hope. My thanks for bringing it to us.”

“It was not I, but Drystan. Which room did you say he was in?”

“I did not. But he is just across the way. He did not want to be too far from you. Dearest, this is getting rather heavy. May I come in?”

Camille’s face heated. “I am so sorry, yes, please do come in.” And she opened the door and stepped back, mentally chastising herself for her rudeness.

“I brought you some clothing,” said Lady Cecily, dumping her burden on the bed. “The king insisted we all join each other for dinner this evening. To discuss any last-minute plans. We are
not
to consider it as a last supper or anything.” She made a face.

Camille stared at a white iridescent gown spread across the bed, avoiding Lady Cecily’s gaze. “You are all so… comfortable with each other.”

“We have adjusted to our circumstances as best we can, and I rather fear we must seem like an odd group to outsiders.”

Camille winced.

“Not that you and Drystan are outsiders,” Lady Cecily hurried to say. “It is just that we have become perhaps
too
comfortable with one another over the past few weeks. The threat of death has a tendency to do that. And I expect you and Drystan will soon become comfortable as well—” She threw up her hands and collapsed in a silk-upholstered chair. “I am making a complete muck of this, aren’t I? Drystan will never forgive me.”

“On the contrary.” Camille could not help smiling. “You have made me feel more at ease.”

“By my complete lack of finesse?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean—”

They stared at each other for a moment, and then burst into laughter.

“I like you very well,” said Cecily. “At first I feared for this dream woman of Drystan’s. I was afraid you would not be what he expected. That you would hurt him. But now I see my fears were groundless.”

Camille’s smile faded as a trickle of guilt rushed through her. Could she give Drystan the love he needed? How could she explain her lack of certainty to his foster mother? “I have been a slave, my lady, and I am not used to any sort of an equal standing among such peers.”

“The barriers of social status—fie, that is an old familiar tune, and I am sad to hear you sing it.” Lady Cecily sat up and folded her hands in her lap. “Sit down, my dear, and I shall tell you of my courtship with Giles Beaumont, a journey of magic and adventure, and of needless personal strife. For the darling man worried that my title did not make him good enough for me.”

Camille sat on the bed, fingering the fine fabric of the gown the older woman had brought her, and listened intently as Lady Cecily, wielder of the blue scepter of sea and sky, without a doubt the lady of the storm, told her of Drystan’s foster father, and the man’s stubbornness to do what he thought was right, instead of what his heart bade him.

“And so you see, my dear,” said Cecily when she finished her tale, “worrying about titles and other’s opinions is only a screen to hide behind because you are afraid. Never allow fear to keep you from your heart’s desire. It is a difficult lesson to learn, and one I am most qualified to give you advice on. Although I suppose Giles is the true expert.”

Camille nodded. “I do understand how he might have felt. But I also see how Drystan may feel. I shall try not to let my fears get in the way of my feelings for him.”

Fie, she had so many things she feared to tell him. Could she truly find the courage to make herself that vulnerable?

“Excellent, replied Lady Cecily. “I never truly expected Drystan to marry so young; he was always such a bookish lad—good heavens, what is it?”

“Marriage?” breathed Camille. “His lordship wants to marry me?”

“Well, naturally. Drystan loves you, my dear, and he is an honorable man. What else did you think we were talking about?”

“I-I just did not think…” Camille twisted her fingers together. “I am a
slave
.”

“Not any longer. Not ever again. We shall succeed in opening the doorway to Elfhame.”

“But if we are successful, and free England, and Drystan is reunited with his family and his title and lands… how will his family and retainers feel about me? I cannot hide what I was, nor the treatment I received. In many people’s eyes, I am a soiled woman. How can I ever be wife to a viscount? How can I ever make Drystan proud?”

Shadows created by the firelight danced across Lady Cecily’s sculpted cheekbones. “I can tell you what I have seen in Drystan’s eyes. He is already proud of you. Proud to call you his lady. He has never been concerned about what other people think, for the other orphans thought him touched by the devil, and how ridiculous is that? I cannot speak for Lady Hawkes, or Drystan’s brother, but I can tell you that Giles and I have been the only real family he has ever known. And we both highly approve of you. If that should bring you comfort when facing your new position, allow it to do so.”

Camille blinked against the burn beneath her lids. Lady Hawkes? Drystan’s mother? She now wondered how that lady might feel about having a slave for a daughter-in-law, much less a woman who… “But you see, that is not the only obstacle I would be facing.”

Cecily cocked her head, and waited.

Camille swallowed. She had never thought to discuss this with anyone. Indeed, she had never considered it… until now. “The elven lord put an enchantment on his slaves. One that prevented a nuisance.”

“Nuisance?”

“Yes.” Camille colored. Best to put it baldly. “The nuisance of little bastards running about the slaves’ quarters. You see, Lady Cecily, I… I cannot have children.”

That took the lady aback. “Have you told Drystan?”

“I told him I was not a whole woman, but there was no reason to elaborate on all of the ways I was not… suitable for him.”

“I see.” She frowned in thought. “It would probably take the power of another elven lord to remove the spell… or perhaps that of a very powerful half-breed.” Then her brow cleared and she rose in one elegant movement. “The entire purpose of opening this doorway is not only to rid our lands of the elven lords, but of their magic as well. Otherwise, we would just hope to kill the lords off one by one. It is entirely probable that all of their spells will fade along with their magic. And when the spells fade, you will be able to have children again.”

Camille felt dizzy with hope. “Do you think so?”

“I do. But if we should fail in our task, or if the spell cannot be removed, you should still not consider this as an obstacle to your love for Drystan. Giles and I never had children, and yet we have been most happy raising hundreds of orphans as our own. I may not have given birth to Drystan, but he is my son.” She shrugged. “And besides, Drystan has a brother who can provide an heir.”

Camille studied Cecily’s face, and saw a hint of doubt on those perfect features. The lady was not as confident as she tried to pretend. Drystan had the responsibility of a title. And it would not be the same as if his own son inherited it.

But Camille dared not love Drystan anyway, so Cecily was right. She need not worry about a future with him.

“Now then,” said the lady, crossing to the bed and picking up the iridescent gown, “let us see about getting you into this lovely dress. Did you notice it is rather like your eyes, with all of the colors of the rainbow shimmering within it? You shall look positively elegant, and an equal to every lady in the room.”

Camille breathed deeply, and allowed the other woman to transform her into a woman a viscount would be proud to call wife. During their preparations, Drystan knocked on the door, but Lady Cecily shooed him away, telling Camille she wanted them to make a grand entrance into the salon.

And when Camille finally looked into the mirror, she admitted that Lady Cecily had done a fine job of making her look presentable. The soldier’s uniform had been replaced with yards and yards of the silky fabric that shifted colors whenever she moved. The mantua wrapped in front, falling in graceful folds to the floor, with a short train behind. A stomacher of glittering stones peeped through the crossed front, each stone a different color representing each of the sovereignties. A silver girdle cinched her waist, and her white hair had been braided up in a circular crown, pinned with tiny sparkling stones.

Next to Lady Cecily’s vibrant color, Camille looked like some glittering ghostly dream.

“Perfect,” announced the older woman, guiding Camille through the door and down a hallway blazing with Dominic’s magic. Columns of yellow fire flanked them as they strode across a floor glowing with radiant stones. They traveled down the stairway and crossed the great hall into a dining room laden with silver and crystal. Lady Cecily pulled Camille up short just beyond the threshold of the massive double doors.

They both curtsied to the king, who nodded regally to them.

As one, the occupants of the room turned to follow the king’s gaze. To stare at Camille. But they did not gaze at her as if they thought her eyes peculiar, or as if they wondered what a slave might be doing dressed up as gentry. Indeed, the ladies smiled as if she did them proud, and the men gave her looks of admiration… except for Drystan.

He had risen with the gentlemen, one strong hand on the back of an empty chair beside him. His golden eyes widened, grew heated as he raked his gaze over her from head to toe. Drystan wore a coat and breeches of dark brown velvet, with a white shirt ruffled at neck and sleeves, giving the skin of his hands and face a golden tone. His wavy white hair had been pulled back from his face by battle braids woven at the sides and secured to the back of his head. The style made his cheekbones more prominent, exposed the pointed tips of his ears.

He stared at her with an intensity that made a shiver of anticipation rush through her body.

Camille felt drawn to him as if led by an invisible string. She had not thought it possible that Drystan would find her heart, and feared he had managed to do so.

No one spoke a word as she crossed the room, and then curtsied before him. “My lord.”

Her words seemed to jolt him aware, for he took her hand and lifted her upright, brought her satin-gloved fingertips to his lips. “You are too beautiful for words. There is not a line of poetry I can recall which would do you justice.”

“And that’s saying quite a bit,” said Giles Beaumont, striding forward to escort his wife into the dining room, breaking the quiet that had fallen. “I do not know of a man who knows poetry better than Drystan.”

“It would not harm you to learn a bit yourself,” replied Lady Cecily. “A line or two might do you in good stead.”

“Indeed?” mused Giles with a leer.

Soft laughter flew about the table, and Camille felt the piercing gazes fall away from her as Drystan settled her into the chair beside him. He moved his chair closer before he took his seat, his thigh touching her silk skirts.