The Lord of Illusion - 3 (7 page)

“Camille,” he breathed. At least her name did not disappoint. It sounded enchanting on his lips. And then her words penetrated and his confidence that he would be able to save her wavered. Shook him. “Hell no. Why would I rescue you only to kill you?”

“But you must. Slaves are not allowed to touch weapons, much less fire them.”

Drystan dropped his hands from her shoulders, quickly reclaimed his pistol.

“They will whip me until I die. It… will take a long time.”

He felt sure that was an understatement. Her words—the furious acceptance in her voice—touched off too many emotions within Drystan for him to acknowledge them at the moment. He straightened, putting all of the confidence and reassurance he could summon behind his avowal. “No one will touch you, or they will have to answer to me. Do you understand?”

Drystan did not wait for her to reply, making sure that she understood he did not need her acceptance. That he had stated a fact. He spun and leveled a gaze at his captain. “She is under my protection. Make that clear to the rest of the men.”

Edward nodded, understanding flashing within those silver eyes. Drystan knew the man did not understand at all. Yes, they had been sent to Dreamhame to find the descendant of the white witch, to discover the birthmark and unravel the mystery of a key to a doorway into Elfhame. But the captain did not realize Drystan had come to save the lady herself. Any other man could have forced her cooperation, found the birthmark, and then left her to continue her existence as a slave in the elven lord’s household. Drystan had other plans.

He would have to gain this abused woman’s trust before he could gain her heart. Before she would allow him to save her. He would not leave Dreamhame without her, damn the key and the Rebellion spy… and whatever reasons the scepters had for sending him to England.

He did not want his captain to read any intentions in his expression and quickly grumbled, “She could have shot me, you know.”

Edward’s mouth curved. “You did not appear to need my help, my lord. With her, or the wraith creatures. You may not be an expert with your magical skills, but your sword work is not lacking.”

Drystan tried not to let the compliment affect him too strongly. It had been a pleasure to be surrounded by people who did not consider him mad, or cursed by the devil—who treated him as a normal person. As soon as he had started on his journey the dreams ceased, and he no longer feared a fit would overtake him.

He turned back to Camille and saw the fire leave her eyes as she shuddered and swayed on her feet. He cursed himself for not seeing past her belligerence. The night had turned frigid and even if the frock she wore had not been sliced open in several places, it still would have done nothing to protect her from the cold. Drystan quickly removed his fur-trimmed cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. She did not protest until he enfolded her in his arms as well, flinching at his touch.

What had they done to her, to make her detest the touch of a man, when he intended only to warm her?

“Let me g-go,” she whispered.

“I fear that if I do, you will fall.”

“I do not f-faint, my lord. But my back—” Her eyes closed and she proceeded to do the very thing she had just denied. Drystan swept her up in his arms. She weighed next to nothing. And he realized she wore no shoes, that her toes looked blue with cold—and what had she meant about her back? The injuries from the wraiths looked superficial, scratches that tore cloth and drew blood but should not cause her such pain, illusion or no.

His instincts told him something might be seriously wrong with her. “Edward, get me another cloak. And a fur to wrap about her feet.”

His captain followed orders, and as soon as they had Camille wrapped to Drystan’s satisfaction, they entered the palace by the back way, passing a group of drunken soldiers, and surprising a grumpy kitchen boy into summoning the palace steward.

Drystan found the woman’s small hand within the folds of her wrappings and clasped it gently. He spoke as soon as the old man came down the stairs. “I need a physician.”

The steward looked down his nose at the bundle in Drystan’s arms and sniffed. “Slaves are treated by the soldiers’ physician, who is rather deep in his cups at the moment.”

“I don’t want a damn surgeon! I want the palace healer.”

The steward took a step backward. “My most humble apologies, my lord. But even if I summon him, he will not treat a slave. His magic is limited, you see, and he saves it for the gentlemen and ladies of the palace who can—”

Drystan cut him off with a growl. “Take me to Viscount Hawkes’s—
my
rooms, and then find someone who can heal her or I swear I will have your head, man.”

The steward appeared quite used to receiving threats and odd requests from the aristocracy he served, for his face took on the patronizing look of a man well trained in patience. “But, my lord, the girl. She belongs in the slave quarters.”

Drystan’s temper flared. The most important person in the world to him lay still as death within his arms, and this insufferable little man had the audacity to stand here and argue with him. He suddenly felt his magic, his unpredictable uncontrollable magic, well up from deep within him. When he had practiced his illusions aboard ship, his magic always felt weak… and scattered. As if it lay fractured inside of him, not knowing how to coalesce to his commands.

But at the moment it gathered like a storm cloud, building within him until it burst with a flash like that of lightning. A queer smell permeated the air, similar to the stifling aroma of sulfur.

Brimstone?

Drystan felt his body change. He had filled out quite nicely, yes, but the shoulders in his arms suddenly appeared twice as large; his height grew beyond his six foot to over seven.

Drystan did not know what illusion came over his features, but he glanced at Edward, and realized his spell had overtaken Captain Talbot as well, and had a feeling his face reflected the same changes. Edward’s skin had turned a bright crimson; horns sprouted from his forehead, and pointed fangs hung from the corners of his mouth.

Ah. When Drystan spoke, he felt those elongated teeth rub his bottom lip. His words took on a volume that shook the stone walls of the room. “She stays with me.”

The raucous soldiers froze in sudden silence, turned to stare at Edward and him. Captain Talbot gifted them with a smile and a swish of his sharply pointed tail, causing several of the men to tremble in their boots.

The steward fell to his knees. “Of course, my lord. I meant no disrespect.”

Edward could not stop grinning. He spread his fingers, and claws the length of his dagger sprang from the tips. He raked them against a stout wooden chopping block and sliced it into four neat chunks.

The steward hastily pulled a leather journal from his pocket and offered it to Drystan in supplication. “I-I will add the slave to your list of inventory, Viscount Hawkes. Will that be satisfactory?”

The man spoke as if Camille had no identity as a person and could be appropriated along with the furniture and candlesticks. Drystan tamped down his anger, for Talbot kept glancing around the room, looking for something else to try out his claws on. Several soldiers crawled under the table.

“Quite.” His voice did not boom as loudly this time. “Get up and lead on, man.”

The steward rose on unsteady legs and led the two demons up the stairs. Drystan’s men would be directed to the barracks, but as captain of his personal bodyguard, Edward stayed with him. By the time they reached the ground room of the palace, the captain’s fangs and horns disappeared, and Drystan felt his own body return to normal. He still could not believe he had managed such a compelling illusion, and wondered if he might be able to do it again.

Exhaustion made him almost stumble, and those of elven blood did not stumble.

“How did you do that?” murmured Edward.

“I have no idea. You saw me try to use my magic before… it was so weak I could not call up a decent wraith. Perhaps it is the magic that permeates the air of England, and it will make my own grow stronger.”

Edward shrugged. “Pray that it happens slowly, so the elven lord does not catch wind of it.”

Drystan felt so drained of energy from that brief show of illusion that he did not fear growing in power as quickly as all that.

“The tail was a bit much,” mused Edward. “But couldn’t you have left me the claws?”

Drystan ignored him, intent only on Camille. Her lashes fluttered. She sighed once, and it lifted his heart. She would recover. She must. Drystan still could not believe he had found her. That she was real. And despite the glory of the palace they strode through, it paled next to the dirty, smelly bundle of womanhood in his arms.

Above the basements, Dreamhame Palace had as much gold within as it did without. The walls had been gilded with it, the floors paved with smooth blocks, the doors patterned with golden swirls. The rooms beyond those doors held illusions that surpassed Drystan’s imagination. He caught only glimpses of what lay inside: a yellow plain of grass with a glaring sun upon it, a snowcapped mountain peak with humped animals nosing through the drifts, a jungle of twisted trees and diaphanous vines strung from limb to limb. Some of the rooms appeared quite normal, with chairs and fireplaces and tea tables… but he noticed the walls occasionally moved; the chairs morphed into flower petals; the fireplaces belched curious golden sparks.

They ascended two more flights of stairs carpeted with designs of dragons in the weave, to the second floor, which consisted of a maze of hallways and numerous doors presumably opening onto guest chambers. The ceiling soared above them into infinity, sprinkles of illusory stars glittering like diamonds, shooting across the darkness in glowing arcs. Along the walls, amber statues of nymphs danced upon short fluted columns; a Pegasus reared and fanned the air with yellow-feathered wings; a centaur played a mournful tune on a pipe.

Large tapestries had been woven with equally fanciful creatures, and they had been spelled to move just as lifelike as the statues… but they acted out hideous roles. A mermaid sang a sailor to his death, embracing him while he struggled to regain the surface of the sea. A griffin pounced upon a maiden and proceeded to tear her apart with his jagged beak. Several harpies teased and tortured a man in turn, until they finally feasted on his remains, fighting each other for the choicest morsels.

Other creatures Drystan could not name performed even worse acts of torture and degradation, presumably repeating the scenes again and again.

Drystan averted his eyes and focused on the shiny bald spot on the back of the steward’s head. The elven lord of Dreamhame had an effective method of warning his guests that his magic could be fearsome as well as beautiful.

The steward stopped before double doors gilt in an odd sort of reddish-gold, and swept them open with a flourish.

Drystan stepped into the room, quickly took stock of his surroundings, trying to discern illusion from reality. Again, his magic responded to an astonishing degree. The golden tables had actually been crafted of oak, the marble floors of plain flagstone, the velvet settees of sturdy wool. The walls held moving tapestries, but unlike the ones in the hallway, they depicted soothing landscapes of waving heather and rippling waters, and with a bit of concentration, Drystan saw the real embroidery beneath.

“Your chambermaid,” said the steward, indicating a woman standing across the room. “Augusta. If you should require another…”

“No. Just fetch me the healer.”

Moving nimbly for such an old man, he quit the apartments, while the maid stepped forward, smiling coyly at Drystan. When his eyes passed over her, she quickly turned her attention to Talbot, and a saucy smile lit her mouth. She obviously had no elven blood gracing her features, but a lovely girl nonetheless.

Drystan brushed past her to the open door across the room, skirting tea tables and potted palms and overstuffed chairs. He laid Camille on the enormous bed and began to unwrap her from the furs.

Edward appeared at his elbow.

“Tell the maid to build up the fire,” said Drystan. “And fetch a bucket of water—make that two. And soap. And cloths. As many as she can gather.”

Captain Talbot repeated the orders to Augusta, omitting the part about the fire, for he proceeded to take care of it himself. In a short time the maid returned, panting and weighted down with buckets and cloth.

Drystan wrinkled his nose as the full force of Camille’s smell hit him. “What the hell did she do, bathe in rancid pig suet?”

“Sheep, I think,” answered Edward.

“But why?” He did not receive an answer, and did not expect one. He had his own guesses… which would have to wait until Camille recovered.

Drystan soaped a cloth and began to gently clean away the crusted blood from the cuts of the wraiths. As he suspected, the wounds were superficial. He took a deep breath, and gently, gently, rolled Camille to her side and unbuttoned the ugly black gown. Bandages covered her back, and she groaned as he peeled them away; fury welled within him at the sight of the bloody mess.

“Lash,” hissed Edward through his teeth.

“I shall kill the man who did this to her.” Drystan spun and glared at the maid, anger making his voice sharper than he intended. He did not want anyone else touching Camille, but he would not subject a lady to the embarrassment that may come from tending her personally. He knew Camille. She knew nothing of him. “Cut the gown off of her to avoid her any further pain. Clean her from head to toe. Gently. I will stand just outside the door, and if I hear a breath of pain from her…”