The Lord of Illusion - 3 (16 page)

But he had difficulty ignoring the floor beneath his boots.
Things
moved under the transparent solid surface. Things with fins and jagged teeth and razor-sharp scales. Orbs that glowed, swimming forward with long tendrils. And once, the face of a woman smiled up at him, green hair the color of seaweed swirling about her face.

Drystan could hear Talbot breathing heavily behind him, and wondered if his captain still retained the smile upon his face. He kept his own gaze fixed upon the elven lord, the walk toward the dais seemingly longer than the room should allow.

Imperial Lord Roden wore enough golden thread in his clothing that he should not have been able to move. But when he shifted on his chair, the magical qualities of the fabric became apparent. The cloth flowed like water down his shoulders and arms, the glitter and gleam of it near making him glow. Despite the overcast morning Drystan had glimpsed through his window, a skylight above the dais shot down rays of golden light that surrounded the elven lord, and if possible, made him glow all the more.

All illusion, to be sure. But quite impressive.

Drystan finally neared the throne and swept Roden a low bow. He looked to be in his midthirties, although in truth, Drystan knew the elven lord to be hundreds of years old, although no human could actually say his true age. Half-breeds did not inherit that longevity, although they kept their youth and vigor longer than the average man who lived to the same age.

“Ah,” said Roden, his voice low and more musical than a song. “Viscount Hawkes has finally chosen to grace me with his presence.”

“Forgive me for my tardiness, Your Most High. My injury prevented me from visiting you earlier.”

“Hmm, yes, I heard about that. Such a fuss for a mere slave girl. But rumor has it that you’ve taken her as your mistress, so perhaps I can allow you the passions of youth as an excuse, although I’ll be damned what you see in the girl. Those eyes of hers are repulsive, and she hasn’t a whit of magic to improve her appearance.”

Drystan flushed, then quickly buried his anger. He must appear as a fop to the elven lord, a simple young man with only pleasure to occupy his mind. And he did not want Roden’s attention fixed upon Camille for any reason. “I have not been to court since a lad, Your Most High, and have forgotten the protocols.”

Roden snorted. Elegantly. His handsome features froze into a mask of indifference, so at odds with his words. “You had little regard for them then, if I recall.” He leaned forward in his chair, and for the first time, Drystan glimpsed the golden scepter.

He ignored the alien voice that suddenly whispered unintelligible words in his mind.

“You grew into a more handsome man than your boyish features once suggested. Have your powers altered as well?”

Drystan lifted his chin. Ah, now, the elven lord did not waste any time getting to the point of the visit. And he could only marvel at the elven lord’s keen memory, for Roden had met his younger brother years ago. He felt grateful the lapse of time allowed him his charade. “I have advanced little since my testing.”

“Indeed? I have heard a story of demons in my kitchens.”

“A childish illusion.”

“Perhaps. But one with enough reality that the soldiers complained of the smell of brimstone for days.” Roden continued to wear his mildly placating expression as he lifted the scepter and pointed it at Drystan.

The crowd gasped. Heels clacked as feet shifted, skirts swished, and a wave of perfume wafted over him. He had nearly forgotten the court. Indeed, he barely managed to acknowledge them now, for the scepter’s whisper grew louder in his head. Although different in tone from the three that had invaded his dreams for so long, he recognized the sheer alien sound of it.

He had glimpsed the scepters at Carreg Cennen castle only once, before they had been buried beneath the stone. The golden scepter resembled them all except for the color. A round cylinder with a triangular pointed head, elven runes carved along the length of it. Nothing to suggest the deadly power it could wield.

But Drystan had never touched one.

Roden stood, and with that eerie elven grace, stepped down from his dais.

A deathly silence swept the room, allowing the whisper in Drystan’s head to grow in volume by comparison, until it took all of his willpower not to cover his ears. Captain Talbot made a strangled sound and stepped closer to Drystan, but he held up his hand to stop his man from advancing any farther. Camille would need him to escape.

Roden raised a pale brow at the both of them, appearing not in the least perturbed by what he would consider their antics. “Perhaps it would be… easier for you,” he said, “if you just showed me your talent.”

Drystan tried not to shout his reply, knowing that only he could hear the humming in his head. “I shall try, Your Most High. What little magic I possess is erratic at best.”

The elven lord negligently waved his scepter. “Get on with it, man.”

Drystan remembered how his anger had called the illusion of the demons. How his love had called an orchard for Camille. How his excitement had formed a stadium. He ignored the noise of the scepter that tried to form words in his head and concentrated on how it felt when his magic had come to him, as if it lay within his very blood, scattered but taking a thought of will to bring it to his fingers.

But his memories did not help him.

And he must show the elven lord something, anything, for he knew what the other man intended to do.

Drystan could barely manage the sound in his head. He shuddered to think what actually touching a scepter might feel like. Cecily had once told him it felt like holding lightning within her hand. But Cecily had enough elven blood to possess it. The scepters would kill any other human foolish enough to touch it without the power to wield it.

Drystan knew he did not possess such power.

And damn if he could access any of his magic despite the threat before him.

“I am sorry, Your Most High. It appears I cannot even conjure an illusion of a flower.”

“A flower?”

“Indeed. I tried to present one to my lover…”

The elven lord’s impassive face suddenly shifted. Suspicion warred with contempt, and Drystan prayed the latter would win.

It did not.

“You need an incentive,” sighed Roden, “but I regret that I do not have time to play this morning. There is a war I must prepare for, you see.”

He reached out to touch Drystan with the scepter.

Drystan did not blame Talbot for taking a step backward, in spite of his earlier show of bravado. Nor did he think less of the other man for doing so. Indeed, he might have shrunk back himself, if not for the fact that he could not move.

He watched the angled tip of the scepter draw near the front of his black velvet coat, just beneath the dangling tip of his gold cravat.

Several women in the audience screamed, and Drystan thought a few might have fainted, based upon the cushioned thumps he heard. It seemed the entire court knew full well what happened to a man when touched by the elven lord’s scepter.

The growling of the golden scepter grew louder in his head. Beneath it he could hear the other three scepters, clearer than they had been since he’d arrived in England. And once again, he found he could not stop the visions that sprang in his mind. Visions of too many deaths, too much suffering. He could not bear the pain he felt, as if each death destroyed a part of his own being.

The golden scepter brushed against his cravat.

Drystan could no longer resist the impulse to cover his ears with his palms, although he knew it would do little to stop the sounds. His sight grew blurry. He could not breathe. Tremors of pain wracked him. Drystan thought he had left his fits behind him in Wales. He struggled against the blackness that threatened to overcome him.

“You are killing him, Your Most High.”

Talbot? Yes, the voice sounded near enough.

“Can you not see he lacks the power to touch the scepter, much less to use it?”

Talbot again. Brave man, to speak up so. He may be the scepter’s next target.

Drystan felt the tremors overtake him, and he fell sideways. Such a long way down to the floor. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so tall…

Blackness. The realization of it coming upon him only as his brain started functioning once again.

Talbot’s face coming into focus. And Lady Hensby. And several other ladies whose names he could not remember at the moment. Drystan flashed to his memories of his life in Wales. The times he had succumbed to the fits in public. But the faces looking down upon him now reflected entirely different expressions.

Of course. They did not think him mad or possessed. They thought only that the nearness of the scepter had overcome him.

Drystan felt grateful it had just swept against his cravat. Had it touched him in truth, he did not think he would be wakening now.

Damn. The scepters had saved his life. Their voices managed his collapse before the golden one could touch him. He could only wonder if it had been by accident or design.

“Thank God,” breathed Lady Hensby, “he did not have enough magic to threaten the elven lord.”

Drystan did not dispute her words. Indeed, he swallowed several times, wondering if he could yet speak.

“My lord,” said Edward, the specks of silver in his eyes as flat as hammered metal. “Can you rise?”

“Roden?” Ah, his voice did work.

“Gone. Along with most of the court.”

“G.” All he managed for the word “good.” Perhaps it would take a bit longer for him to recover after all.

Captain Talbot held out his hand and hauled Drystan to his feet, shouldering most of his lord’s weight in the process.

Legs appeared to work fine. Although a bit wobbly.

“Allow my friends to assist you,” said Lady Hensby, waving her gloved hand at several lords surrounding them.

“Nay,” replied Talbot. “I will take him to his rooms.”

She stepped forward, a frown on her beautiful face as she looked up at his captain. Drystan idly wondered what she truly looked like without the enhancements of her magical skills.

“Then you will allow us to accompany you. To show our sympathy and support.” She turned toward Drystan and placed her hand on his coat, just above his heart. “I have never witnessed such bravery, my lord viscount. Never has a man stood his ground when faced with the threat of a scepter. Only the nearness of such sinister magic forced you to weaken.”

“As you wish,” muttered Edward in answer to Lady Henby’s request, leading Drystan forward, their entourage surrounding them all the way back to their rooms.

Lady Hensby insisted on seeing his lordship to bed. Drystan felt too tired to argue. He allowed the woman to make a fuss over him as he collapsed on the bed, aware that Camille sat in the shadowed corner of his room.

He could feel her eyes upon him.

“We must all leave him to rest,” said Lady Hensby, imperiously ordering Captain Talbot and the others from the room. She then tucked a blanket about him and softly said, “Sleep, my lord. You are lucky to have survived such a close brush with death… no,
we
are lucky you survived. I look forward to seeing you amongst the court tomorrow. You shall be hailed as quite the hero.”

Drystan did not care what the court thought of him. Only one person’s opinion mattered, and she sat watching him with nary a word. He stared at the shadowed corner, wondering what Camille might be thinking of all of this.

Lady Hensby frowned, turned toward the corner he studied so intently. “Faith, I suppose you shall care for him? Should he need anything?”

“Of course,” answered Camille.

Lady Hensby sighed in resignation and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

The fire crackled in the hearth; the wind cried eerily beyond the frosted windows. Exhaustion overcame Drystan, as it always did after one of his fits. He fell into a heavy slumber and did not wake until Augusta knocked at the door with his dinner tray.

Camille rose from her corner and took the server from Augusta—who left without a word—and placed it carefully on the golden table. Then his lady stood by his bedside, just as quietly as she had sat during the entire time he slept.

“What happened?” she finally whispered, her impatience at having to wait for hours to ask the question clearly apparent.

“Brandy,” replied Drystan. Ah, his voice seemed to be working correctly again.

He heard the rustle of her skirts, heard liquid pour from pitcher to glass. He rose up on one elbow and drank her offering. Looked up into those luminous, multicolored eyes. Something had altered her appearance. Not the new clothing; she looked as lovely to him in coarse wool as she now did in silk. Her expression just seemed somehow softer, her eyes gentle upon him, her face glowing with some inner light.

“Lady Hensby said you almost died.”

She still spoke in a whisper. Drystan lowered his voice to match hers. “I could not create an illusion. The elven lord thought I hid my powers from him. So he tried to touch me with the golden scepter.”

“Tried?”