The Lord of Illusion - 3 (6 page)

The golems were generally harmless, unable to sustain animation for long with Ann’s weak magic, although they could be a nuisance if she let them, crawling into clothing and pinching sensitive places, poking tiny pointed sticks deep into skin.

The soldiers muttered, but did as Ann asked.

Camille wished again for some magic. Just a tiny bit. Anything that might keep the soldiers from her. She had only her wits and stealth, and for the moment it worked, for she managed to slip out the door into the courtyard without any of the men taking notice.

The frosty cobbles stung her feet and the snow swirled about her shoulders as she raced across the courtyard, gritting her teeth against the pain, determinedly heading for the stables. It would be too cold tonight to make her way to the dragon’s tower, especially without shoes or cloak. She had looked forward to telling Grimor’ee about the illusions made of him, and wondered what he would think about the elven lord killing a member of his own court right in front of everyone.

And she wondered if sadness would touch those golden eyes when he saw she had once again resumed the wardrobe of a slave…

Faith, what did it matter? She learned long ago that Grimor’ee would do nothing to help her. He had this philosophy that one must take care of oneself, earn his place. That humans must fight for their freedoms; for something that was easily gained could not be appreciated.

Camille reminded herself that she could not judge the dragon based on her own concepts and values. That he had a mind as alien and mysterious as the elven lords themselves.

A beefy hand reached out from the darkness and snatched her arm, spinning Camille about to slam up against a hard body. Ugh, he smelled worse than she did.

“Let me go.”

“Now, now, ye little hoyden. Where ye off to in such a rush—?”

Her back burned in agony and Camille reacted to the pain, raised her leg and kneed him in the groin. He let out an “oof” of surprise but kept a firm grip on her arm.

“What ye got there, Cuthbert?”

Cuthbert made a strangled noise.

At that moment, Camille decided she could bear this life no longer. She would not endure another rape. She did not have her usual elven physical strength to fight them. She drew the pistol tucked into Cuthbert’s sword belt and pulled back the hammer, pointing it at her captor’s belly. “Let me go.”

This time he did.

She backed away, pointing the weapon between one man and the other. Cuthbert glared at her, but the smaller man with the elven-shaped eyes smiled. “They kill slaves for touching a weapon.”

“But I will have the pleasure of killing you first.”

“Indeed. No, old boy.” He turned and caught at Cuthbert’s arm. “Do not draw your steel. We don’t want to hurt her—there’s not enough doxies to go around as it is.”

“I am not—”

“No offense, my dear. I detest labels myself. Now, are ye going to hand me the weapon, or must I take it from ye?”

Camille glanced wildly around. A group of soldiers approached from the left, and oddly enough for this time of night, a carriage rumbled down the service road at her right.

She had no hope of escape. But this time… if she fired a weapon they could have her put to death. Despite everything, she had always wanted to live, had always thought she could climb her way out of misery once more. Despite her pain and exhaustion her hand held steady, and her resolve to refuse to face another day as a slave only strengthened. She fired the pistol.

It lit with a brief flash and the sharp whiff of gunpowder, the recoil tearing it from her hands. Instinct urged Camille to run, but for some reason the snow eddying about her ankles suddenly felt thick as molasses.

The smaller man had magic.

Cuthbert howled, clutching at his leg and jumping up and down.

“Now look at what ye’ve done,” drawled the other man. “He will really want to hurt ye now, and it would be such a waste.”

“I’m gonna kill her, Joseph.”

“Pshaw, ye’ll do nothing of the sort.
I
shall punish her. Ye would like that better, wouldn’t ye?”

Cuthbert suddenly stilled, a gleam of maliciousness lighting his ruddy face. “Ye’ll use yer magic, Joseph?”

“Oh, aye. And by the looks of her, she has none of her own to counter it with.”

Several gray shapes began to take form around Camille. Shapes with sharp fangs and jagged claws. She told herself they weren’t real. They couldn’t hurt her if she didn’t believe in the illusion.

But that never worked, did it?

Camille screamed.

Three

Drystan sat inside his brother’s borrowed coach and scowled at the empty seat across from him. The past few days had stripped him of any romantic notions he harbored from his novels about England and the life of a spy. Chaos ruled his homeland, from brigands on the highway to soldiers at every crossroads.

He mentally thanked Giles for having the foresight to provide him with an armed escort, for viscount or no, they might never have made it to their destination. Indeed, you either joined the elven lord’s army or were shot on sight, and more often than not, the soldiers didn’t bother to check papers first.

And Drystan’s hope that his own magic would prove powerful enough to vanquish any foe shattered as soon as they entered England. Lord North had been the one to provide him with a tutor aboard ship, to help him master his power of illusion. Drystan quickly realized harnessing his magic would be no easy task, and his conjurations proved too weak and erratic to maintain the shape he tried to craft.

North had been pleased, for he vowed he would not have sent Drystan to an elven lord’s court if he’d held enough power to get him tested and killed.

Drystan still felt deprived of yet another of his expectations.

But if his magic had been a disappointment, at least his journey allowed him to recover from years of abuse. He could still feel the scepters’ connection to him, but it felt like little more like an annoying itch. And he could ignore it at will. He slept. He ate. His body filled out in places that astonished him. In a relatively short time he changed him from a skinny young man to a full-bodied half-breed in prime form—

A feminine scream pierced the dark night and Drystan jerked upright, pressing his face against the frosted window. He had heard many screams since entering England, but this one made his heart race, made him pound on the carriage wall. “Faster!”

He could hear disgruntled shouts from his men as they pressed the tired horses faster. His guards had shaken their heads when he ordered them to drive around to the back of the palace, instead of taking the front entrance. Only one of the men, Captain Edward Talbot, knew of Drystan’s true identity and purpose in coming to Dreamhame Palace.

Slaves were quartered near the kitchens, which lay at the back of the palace.

Had that scream truly sounded familiar? With all the disappointments he had faced in coming to England, could it be possible he had found the white witch’s descendant so easily?

Drystan wiped the window with his gloved hand but it did little to help him see out into the snowy night.

Another scream rent the air and he could bear it no longer. He flung open the carriage door and leaped from the still-rolling coach, landing lithely in a drift of snow. Thank the devil for his elven strength and speed, for it had not failed him in his homeland—indeed, the magic in the air appeared to enhance it. And thank Giles for his constant training in swordsmanship, for it had been his primary defense on his journey.

Drystan drew his sword and ran, leaving the coach behind him.

Snow crunched beneath his feet on the golden road, and the castle turrets wavered in the air before him. From a distance, the palace looked like some mythical creation from medieval times, albeit one made of solid gold. And it appeared to hover above the city, on a cloud of shifting shadow. But the road had been solid enough, and although the gargoyles and statues adorning the stone walls appeared alive, flapping golden wings and growling warnings with open mouths, they offered no true harm.

Drystan narrowed his eyes and tried to focus his sight, as his tutor had taught him. Tried to discern the difference between illusion and reality. He still hadn’t quite managed the full knack of it, and saw the courtyard ahead of him as a wonderland of golden arches and flowering trees. In winter.

A knot of soldiers stood within that grand open space, looking incongruous in their worn uniforms and unkempt hair. They formed a circle around dark struggling shapes, and hooted and called, occasionally shouting out wagers.

Another scream, this time much weaker than the ones before, as if it had been issued with no hope of an answer to the plea within it.

“My lord,” called out Edward. Of all his men, the captain held the most elven blood and had followed him. “Wait… this might not be wise…”

Drystan had no thought but to reach the woman who had made those screams. Even if it wasn’t the woman he sought, the soldiers had no right to treat anyone so poorly, much less a lady who did not have the strength of a man to fight back with.

Drystan used his full elven strength to leap over the circle of men, landing in the thick of…

Within seconds he took in the sight of a dark-haired woman clothed in the black rags of a slave, her face nearly the same color as her garments. Drystan had only a moment to register his disappointment that she wasn’t the ivory-haired girl from his dreams, for the creatures she fought against turned on him quickly enough.

They had been surely crafted from illusion, for God would not have created such twisted monstrosities. Dark wraiths with jagged claws and pointed teeth, their bare breasts and flowing hair grossly exaggerated their gender.

Drystan hesitated.

The girl struggled with two of them, crying out obscenities whenever they managed to rake their claws across her arms or her face, her blood bright against her exposed flesh. He admired not only the ingenuity of those obscenities, but the young woman’s fierce determination in fighting off her attackers. As if she held a wealth of experience at both.

Claws pierced Drystan’s shoulders from behind, a foul stench accompanying the weight of a body suddenly on his back. He flipped backward to the ground, a grunt of surprise behind him as a result, and when he twisted upright once again, the weight had left him.

The soldiers shouted out new wagers.

Drystan enviously admired the strength of the illusions. Not only sight, but feel and smell as well. He could not hope to cast an illusion strong enough to prevail against them.

With a growl of irritation, he lay in with his sword.

It did not take long. Soon, the creatures lay maimed and bloody at his feet.

Drystan wiped down his sword and sheathed it, shrugged his tight shoulders. He held enough magic, at least, for his body to know the wounds inflicted on him by the creatures were just an illusion. The slave girl had not been so lucky. She huddled in a ball beside him, her garments torn to shreds, blood flowing freely from multiple gashes on arms and legs.

Drystan lowered his head at the crowd, his golden-brown eyes narrowed to slits. “Who is responsible for this?”

Several men backed away, but a beefy soldier and a smaller man held their ground. The smaller man spoke with a negligent toss of elven white hair. “We was having just a spot of fun, guvner. She ain’t nuthin’ but a slave.”

His words appeared to have given the larger man some courage. “Ay, and who are ye to be spoiling our fun?”

Drystan ignored them and turned to the girl, bowing low over her bent head. “Viscount Hawkes at your service, my lady. May I help you rise?”

He held out his hand to her. She ignored it, looking up at him with what appeared to be genuine shock upon her face. Although Drystan could not be
quite
sure, for he could not make out her features for the dirt that had been smeared across them. Had she gotten it in the scuffle? No, too much of it. As if she had slept in the warm ashes of a fireplace and not washed in months. And she smelled worse than the wraiths.

He resolutely continued to hold his hand out to her.

She blinked. A spot of moonlight penetrated the drifting snow, and Drystan caught his breath. Those eyes. Despite the dark hair and unidentifiable features, he could not mistake those eyes.

They held within them all the colors of the seven sovereignties.

A flush of heat spread through his body, and it took all of his willpower not to snatch the girl up in his arms. Filthy or no. He realized in some distant part of his awareness that as soon as he had mentioned his title the soldiers scattered, that his carriage had finally entered the courtyard and his men now surrounded him. The maimed creatures at his feet had disappeared.

He could see nothing but those eyes that had haunted his visions for years.

She glanced at his outstretched hand as if it offended her and rose to her feet with elven grace.

Drystan took a step back, reality once again crashing about his head like a tide of water. Except for those multicolored elven eyes, she looked nothing like his dreams. Scraggly hair, dirty face, ragged clothing. Her head barely topped his shoulders and only the memory of her beauty allowed Drystan to glimpse it.

C. Ashton.
He had wondered what the
C
might stand for.

He bent down a bit to appear less threatening and tenderly whispered, “What is your name?”

With a speed that rivaled even his own, she drew his pistol from his belt and aimed the barrel at him. “Get back.”

Drystan obliged, although more from surprise than anything else. “Damn, woman. I just saved your life.”

The naturally sweet tone of her voice contrasted sharply with her surly growl. “Unfortunately, they would not have killed me. And I’ll be damned if I shall let you touch me any more than I would allow them to.”

“Touch you? Have you looked in a mirror lately? Have you smelled—do not flatter yourself, lady.”

“I am not a lady. I am a
slave
.” She spit out the last word. “And now that you have proven yourself a gallant, kindly allow me to leave.”

Damn, she was starting to annoy him. “And go where? Back to your quarters to shoot another soldier or two? I think not. Give me the gun.”

Her lips firmed and she planted her feet, hands steady on the pistol.

Drystan had reached his limit. He should have listened to Giles when he warned him about reading poetry. About gilding his visions of England. Nothing had been what he expected. Magic produced too many horrors and not enough beauty. Battle consisted of little more than hacking your opponent before he had a chance to hack you. And Drystan’s own magic had proven too weak for him to master.

Now he had rescued his beloved, and she not only refused to thank him and fall into his arms with gratitude, but stood there pointing his own gun at him with every intention of killing him on the spot.

Drystan ignored the pistol. The smell. The filth. He closed the distance between them, forcing the hand that held the gun to shift to the side, and clasped her shoulders, giving her a little shake. “What is your name? And do not make me ask you again.”

She trembled violently, as if his touch terrified her more than the creatures that had attacked her. He loosened his grip, worried his frustration might have made him clutch her too hard. He stared deeply into those faceted varicolored eyes, and recognized she had reached a breaking point. She no longer cared whether she lived or died. Exhaustion lined her face; hopelessness shadowed her gaze.

Perhaps only Drystan would have recognized the signs, for he had experienced a moment in his life where he had felt the same.

Before the scepters sent him the dreams of the white witch’s descendant, he had become infatuated with a local village girl and had done his best to compete for her attentions against the other lads, and to his surprise, she actually started to respond to him. But then the lavender scepter of Stonehame had been delivered to Carreg Cennen castle to join the blue of Dewhame’s within the vault in the dungeon, and his fits had worsened. The lack of sleep started to take its toll on his young body, for he still fought against nightmares.

He’d had a convulsion at a festival within the village square, and awoken to a ring of people staring down at him, signing the cross against the devil. He would never forget the look of disgust and fear on the girl’s face.

At the time, he had not realized the scepters were causing his fits. He had discarded the notion that God spoke to him, for
He
would not have sent such unholy visions. Drystan became convinced he was truly cursed by the devil. He returned to the castle that day knowing he would never live a normal life. And that he could bear the visions of blood and death and fire no longer. He refused to eat, determined to end his tortured existence.

Cecily and Giles fought to discover his malady, and had pieced together that his illness was connected to the scepters, which served only to make Drystan more determined to deprive the magical artifacts of their victim. He wanted nothing more than to end his misery.

And then the scepters sent him the vision of the lady with the rainbow eyes. And he knew he must live to save her. To claim her as his one true love.

She made his life worth living again.

But she couldn’t know he came to save her in turn.

She had reached her own breaking point. And he could not explain that a vision sent him. Indeed, she would think him mad.

But at least he had a chance. At least he had reached her in time.

Drystan continued to stare into her eyes until she finally answered his question.

“Camille. Camille Ashton. Will you kill me now?”