The Crafters Book Two (18 page)

Three hours passed, and Lord Delbert began to frown. In fear, Anthea sacrificed two pawns and a knight, though she had to call his attention to the latter. “This game tires me,” he growled ominously, and Anthea’s heart thudded, for she knew she dared not lose. She began to win, and Delbert to grow darker and darker of mood. Then, when he had only a rook and a knight left to his king, while she had two rooks and won her queen back, he snarled and threw over the board. “Witch! You could not have brought that to pass! Come here, and I will show you the glories of the path to your master!” And he surged toward her, hands outstretched.

Anthea screamed and threw herself at the coach door, knowing it was futile, that she could never wrench the latch open in time—but Sir Roderick had been at work, and the panel gave way. Delbert’s rush carried them both tumbling out of the carriage. Anthea fell clear and bruised her head, but Sir Roderick’s voice beat through her brain, and she found her body lifting from the ground.
Run, child! As far and as fast as you can!

She had a brief glimpse of Lord Delbert, half in and half out of the coach, cursing and thrashing. Then she found her feet and was off, tripping and stumbling over the uneven ground of a springtime field. There were woods to her right, and the road, but she knew she dared not run on it, for he would surely be faster than she. Ahead rose low hills, and she dashed for their cover. If she could only last till dawn! Surely he would give over the chase when there was fear of discovery!

But she heard the pounding of his feet behind her, his snarling rage, then his sudden howl of fright. Glancing back, she saw the glowing suit of armor with sword uplifted, and heard Delbert yelling in horror. Roderick had made himself visible to Delbert. She saw no more, for she turned away and ran for her life. He might give over, daunted by the specter, but she doubted it; his passion and anger were such that he might very well overcome his fear, and seek her out still, defying the ghost.

Her breath was coming in ragged gasps, and she was more hobbling than running, when she finally came among the low hills. She stopped, swaying, seeking a hiding place, tempted to merely sink down against the nearest slope—but she heard Lord Delbert’s howls of anger, then his maniacal laugh of triumph. “Spirit of battle or spirit from bottle, what matter? You cannot harm me in either case!”

Then she heard the pounding of hoofbeats and a cry in the night—Delbert’s voice, in rage. She risked a look back and saw a horse and rider swooping out of the darkness, blocking her pursuer, the man leaning down to cuff Delbert aside.

“Crafter!” Delbert shouted furiously. “What in hell do you think you’re doing!”

“Punishing a rogue and a scoundrel,” Roman Crafter snapped.

Anthea was amazed at the cold hardness of his voice. “Get back to your coach and wait for your horses, Delbert, or you may not live to regret it!”

“Remember your station, you oaf!” Delbert roared. “Do you dare touch a man of the blood?”

“Station? You forget, Delbert—I’m American. We don’t believe in such things. Show me your quality with your deeds, not your birth.”

“That I will, in a trice!” Delbert bellowed. “Just get down off that damned horse, Crafter, and I’ll show you your place!”

Roman gave a low laugh that raised chills along Anthea’s spine—and leaped down from the horse.

With a roar of triumph, Delbert pulled a pistol from his belt and leveled it at Crafter’s head.

Then Anthea could not believe her eyes, for suddenly the pistol began to glow, a glow that brightened into a streak of white light that surged down Delbert’s arm toward his heart. He screamed and threw the pistol away, but the white light still clung to his arm, and a voice from nowhere rang out:
Shall I kill him, young Roman?

Run, girl!
Sir Roderick’s voice rang through her head.
He has bought you time, but may yet pay with his blood! Flee!

Anthea did, turning and running, suddenly as frightened of Roman Crafter and whatever spirit accompanied him, as she was of Lord Delbert.

She knew that one or the other of them would be after her, no matter who won. In a panic, she looked about and saw a patch of deeper darkness against one of the hillsides. She hobbled to it with ragged, sobbing breaths, reached out—and felt the hillside give way into a low cave. Weeping with relief, she dropped to hands and knees and crawled in. There was still a chance Delbert might find her, but it was less than before.

Something glowed in the dark, something that stretched upward into a tall and glittering form.

Anthea cried out, and shrank back against the wall of the cave.

He stood in silhouette against an eldritch glow that seemed to come from the walls of the cavern itself, a tall, unnaturally thin man with silvered hair.

Anthea crouched rigid, staring up at him.

He lifted an arm in a bell-sleeve with a gold-embroidered cuff, beckoning.

Anthea wasn’t ready to rise. “What do you want?” she whispered.

The figure stood still a moment longer, then came to kneel beside her. He was unbelievably handsome, with large, slightly slanting eyes, a high forehead and long, straight nose, high cheekbones above gauntness, and a full, sensuous mouth. The lips curved in a courtly smile. “We have need of you.” His voice was rich and melodious, and his eyes drew her, compelling.

A thrill coursed through her; it was just like every folk tale she’d ever heard or read, and she didn’t doubt for a moment what he was. She rose slowly, as unable to resist as to think, while the Faerie lord’s gaze was on her.

He was taller than Anthea by a head or more. He gazed down into her eyes, smiling, and she felt herself being drawn into the huge, dark pools of his pupils ... .

Then he turned away, moving silently into the depths of the cave, depths that she had not realized were there, and it came to her that this was not a hill, but a barrow, a hollow hill that her people had long thought to be Neolithic burial sites, but older people had known for the dwelling places of the Faerie Folk. She followed the elfin lord, her heart hammering in her breast.

The door was set into the sides of the tunnel, and seemed as old as the rock around it, made of dark, rich oak, waxed to a gloss that seemed to let one look deeply into the grain. The Faerie lord turned the lock with a huge key and stepped aside to bow her in. Anthea followed, heart hammering in her breast; how could anyone come through that door, if the Faerie locked it behind him? Once she was through, she could never depart without his leave—but curiosity impelled her forward as much as his compulsion, and she could not even think of turning back.

Lock it he did, then stepped on past her, murmuring, “Come.”

She followed, marveling at the richness of the paneled walls through which she moved. An archway opened to her left, affording a brief glimpse of a
drawing room
elegantly appointed in an antique style, but the Faerie lord strode past it without a glance, and Anthea had to follow.

They came to the end of the hall, and another rich old door, partly open. The Faerie pushed on through it, and Anthea, following, stepped into a chamber so wide that the huge canopied bed in its center seemed small. The walls were hung with tapestries; between them, walnut panelling glowed. The floor was covered with an Oriental carpet, and the bed-hangings were satin and velvet.

The Faerie lord knelt beside the bed, taking the hand of a lady who seemed so exquisitely fragile that she seemed to float between the sheets. Her hair was long, and so light a blond that it seemed almost silver. Her face was delicate, fine-boned and high-cheeked, and her eyes were huge, her lips red and full. But those high cheeks were hollow, and her skin was very pale. One look at her made Anthea feel heavy and
lumpen
—but also made her feel healthy.

Magnificently healthy, when she saw the emaciated infant lying on its mother’s breast, eyes still closed, little mouth working at its fist. Its crying was so thin as to sound like the mewing of a tiny kitten. Anthea stepped forward, a wordless cry drawn from her, reaching out toward the baby—but she halted a few feet away, not daring to touch something so fragile.

The Faerie lady looked up at her, and once again Anthea felt herself drawn into huge, dark eyes. “I am height Lolorin,” the lady murmured in a low, husky voice, weak with strain, “and this is my lord, Qualin. Wilt thou nurse our child?”

Anthea looked up, eyes wide—and realized that the man, though he still knelt, was strung as tightly as a violin, seeming ready to leap, just barely held in check by Lolorin’s hand on his, his eyes burning as he gazed at his child. “I ... I cannot,”

Anthea protested feebly. “I ... I am not a mother, and have no milk to give.”

“That, we can amend,” the Faerie lord said, his voice deep and cavernous, and Anthea felt a thrill of alarm mixed with a dreadful yearning. “A small spell, and thy breasts will swell with milk.”

“But ... but I am a virgin ...”

“Thy breasts will take no heed,” Lolorin assured her, “and the milk will be good.”

But Anthea was in a quandary. The sight of the infant pulled at her, so deeply that pity and her longing to help it became an almost physical pain—but ... “I am young, and have tasted so little of life! I have suitors, I have barely begun to live ...”

The Faerie lord stirred. “ ‘Tis true. Name thy nurse’s fee, and thou shalt have it.”

“Oh, don’t speak of fees!” Anthea cried. “If the baby grows strong, that will be enough!”

Qualin’s eyes glowed, but Lolorin said, as though the words were dragged out of her, “She doth speak without thought. Consider well, mortal, for if thou dost consent, thou wilt be bound to us for a year and a day—’ twill be that long at least ere my babe can subsist on fare other than thine. And human milk is vital, for the aura of thy own kind hath enervated the folk of Faerie. We have weakened with age, and the decline of mortal folks’ belief in us. So tenuous hath our existence become that Faerie mothers’ milk hath grown too thin to sustain an infant long.”

“We would not ask this of thee,” said Qualin, “save that our child must have a human to nurse, and thou art the only woman who hath chanced to come within our purview; I lack the vitality to go abroad to sue. Yet thou hast come near our hollow hill, alone and at night—and thou art one of those born with the power of magic about thee.”

“I?” Anthea gasped.

“Indeed. Hast thou never felt it?”

“No, never!” But then Anthea remembered her contact with Sir Roderick, and his mention that she could only see him because of an inborn Talent, which might fade as she matured. Apparently it had not—or she had not grown up as much as she had thought.

“ ’Tis that quality of magic,” Qualin said, “that touch of the fey, no matter how minor, that doth enable thee to see and speak with us of the Faery world.”

“ ’Twill be long ere another so gifted haps to come within the aura of our powers,” Lolorin murmured. “It will, I doubt not, be too late for my babe. Wilt thou not give aid? For if thou dost not, surely he may die!”

“Oh, do not lay such a charge upon my soul!” Anthea buried her face in her hands, torn “I would not see your baby die—truly, I wish to save him—but I wish to save my own life, too! I wish to dance, and to speak with other girls. I wish to be have young men fall in love with me, and woo me, and court me; I wish to dance at balls and drive in the Park!”

“ ’Tis only a year,” Qualin protested. “Your life will still be there when thou dost return.”

“Nay,” said a deep voice from the doorway. “It will be vastly changed.”

Anthea spun about, and Qualin surged to his feet with an oath.

There, in glowing silver armor, stood a knight with a drawn sword in his right hand—and, tucked in the elbow of his left, a head!

But it was a living head, if a ghostly head can be said to live—and its lips moved as it spoke. “The lady is in my care, and I will not permit her to be harmed.” The head wore no helmet, and the rugged face was young and handsome, though it too glowed silver beneath a wavy mass of hair.

“Sir Roderick!” Anthea cried. “You have found your head!”

“Yes, Anthea—and I must thank you for bringing me to the battlefield on which I lost it.” Sir Roderick held his sword out before him, where it floated, point fixed on Qualin. Then he took the head in both hands and set it on his shoulders, giving a half turn as though to lock it in place. Qualin took the opportunity to lunge, but the sword parried easily and riposted, sending Qualin back on guard.

“How didst thou come here!” he spat.

“I followed my kinswoman,” the ghost answered. “Blood calls to blood, and I had but to answer that call. Your locks mean naught to me, for I am a ghost.” He smiled grimly, his eyes never leaving Qualin’s. “And know, Anthea, that you will pass far more than a single year here—for though it may seem only twelve months to you, in the world outside, seven years will pass. Your friends will be matrons and young mothers; the gentlemen so smitten with you will be husbands burdened with the management of their estates. Your aunt will be seven years older, if she does not pine away for grief at your disappearance.”

“Aunt Trudy! Oh, I could never do that!” Anthea turned to Qualin. “Is this true?”

“It is,” he said reluctantly, eyes still on the ghost. “And who art thou, stranger, who comes thus to imperil mine heir?”

“Her ancestral ghost, who has known and cherished her since childhood. I do not wish your child any harm, but I will not see my own deprived of youth and the few carefree years of romance God grants to her. A vaunt, eldritch lord, and stand aside! This lady is not for you!”

“I shall not let her be torn from me!” Qualin ground out, and lunged forward.

“No,” Anthea screamed—but swords not of steel met with a fearful clash ...

And held. They stuck together as though they were magnets of opposite poles, and an eerie silver light played over both blades, melding them together. Qualin spat an oath and wrenched at his, but it would not budge. “What magic have you wrought, fell specter?”

“No enchantment of mine.” Sir Roderick, too, was wrenching at his blade. “Some other force comes. O glow upon our swords! You are a spirit of your own form!”