The Lord of Illusion - 3 (18 page)

She stiffened. “What do you mean?”

He hated himself for his insecurities. She could not possibly have another lover. And yet… “Tell me where you go at night.”

Eight

She did not answer him immediately. Instead she pulled away, and Drystan let his arms fall, studying her face intently, trying not to be distracted by the delicate beauty of it.

“You do not trust me enough to tell me?”

Confusion warred with fear on her delicate features. “I have never told anyone about him.”

He squelched the immediate jealousy her response provoked. “So, it is a man you visit, then. I did not think it possible… no. There must be some other explanation than what I am thinking.”

She arched a delicate brow, some inner humor lighting up her multicolored eyes until the facets appear to glow. “And what are you thinking?”

“Stop teasing me, Camille. This is no light matter you speak of. Do not make me regret revealing my heart to you.”

She immediately appeared contrite. She lowered her head, ivory hair cascading down to hide her face. “I have no experience in matters of the heart, Lord Haw—Drystan.”

Drystan put his hand beneath her chin, raising her face, revealing the tears in her eyes. Lud, what this angel did to his soul. “Who is this man?”

“He is not—it is not what you think. Besides Molly and Ann, he is the only one I can talk to.”

The two women she had named must be her fellow slaves. But they did not inspire the wrath in him that this blackguard did. He wanted to see what sort of man Camille would choose as a confidant.

“Indeed?” Drystan got out of bed, began to pull on his clothing, which lay neatly folded upon a velvet chair. What accommodating magic he had. “I should like to meet this friend of yours.”

“He is not really a… friend.”

“Still. I would see what his intentions toward you are.”

“I don’t think he has any
intentions
.”

He glanced at her, chagrined by the amused look on her face. Did she realize he spoke from jealousy? “We shall see. Do you need help dressing?”

“You cannot mean to meet him tonight?”

“I do. At this very moment.”

“But, Drystan—”

“I suppose you shall have to call me Lord Hawkes,” he muttered, picking up her delicate chemise while he searched for her stays. For some reason, his magic had not piled her clothes so neatly. Erratic, as always. He handed her the items. “But only when we are
not
in bed together.”

She flushed and took the clothing, pulling the chemise on over her head before rising from beneath the covers. She wrapped the stays about her and presented him her back. Drystan threaded the laces through the holes, a bit clumsily, for he had never done up ladies’ underclothes before. He kept feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin chemise and could not help wondering what madness had overcome him. He should have kept her in bed.

The gown turned out to be more difficult than the hoops, which she insisted she must wear to prevent her skirts dragging along the floor.

He regretted buying the new wardrobe for her. The clothing of a slave would be much less complicated to put on. But when he finished and she turned to him in all her finery, he chided himself for the selfish thought. She held her chin higher, moved more confidently in her new clothes. They represented far more to her than mere cloth. They represented a rise above the status of slave, a symbol that no man could molest her without penalty.

“I must get my cloak,” she said, walking out the door with that elven grace of hers. “It will be cold.”

He nodded, strapping on his sword belt. If he did not like this other man’s
relationship
with his Camille…

She returned in a moment with a hooded cloak of black velvet lined with white fur, the hair near the tips shaded to a dark black. He had been right to take Lady Hensby into his confidence for Camille’s new wardrobe. The lady had excellent taste.

“You look like a snow queen,” he said, taking her hand and leaning toward her. He waited a moment, and when she did not back away, he lightly brushed his lips across hers. “I could get used to kissing you all of the time.”

She gave him a smile and handed him a lantern, which he took without question as he followed her from the room. The Camille of his dreams had been wondrous, but the real breathing woman made his dreams pale by comparison.

She halted at the door to his apartments while he put on his greatcoat, uncertainty lining the smooth skin of her face. “I—I am not sure this is such a good idea.”

“Camille.” He kept his voice low. “I would know all of your secrets… as I would have you know all of mine. We must start somewhere.”

She sucked in a deep breath, and then nodded.

Arthur bowed his head to them as they left his apartments, the old man’s face wrinkled with curiosity by their departure at such a late hour, but he wisely kept his questions to himself.

Camille took Drystan up several flights of stairs. It must be later than he thought, for they encountered only a few servants, who glanced at them with interest, but like Arthur, asked no questions. When they reached the third floor where the permanent residents of the court kept their apartments, including Imperial Lord Roden himself, she continued on to another set of stairs, these old and worn and obviously rarely used.

An oak door that looked centuries old opened with a creak, and she crept into the dark recesses of the attic.

“I did not even know the castle had an attic,” whispered Drystan, finally understanding the need for a lantern. He held it up and peered through the gloom. The dust of ages covered odd humps of cloth-covered furniture, and boxes, and what appeared to be suits of armor.

Camille strode forward, certain of her path. She must have brought the lantern for him, for it looked as if she had come this way many times before and could find her route among the jumble of debris with her eyes closed.

Drystan shivered, his breath frosting the air, but found the chill journey through the attic nothing compared to the blast of icy wind that assaulted him when she opened a door at the far end of the chamber. A blizzard had sprung up during the night, the howling winds across the towers of the castle and through the eaves of the attic sounding like the screams of some panicked animal.

Drystan could see nothing except a white swirl of snow, and when Camille stepped forward off the roof, he shouted and sprang after her into nothingness.

His boots met a solid surface, which swayed with the wind and made him wonder who had built this bridge between the castle proper and what looked to be one of the towers. Made of rope and wood, it might have been a temporary scaffolding that had never been taken down, perhaps when the castle had been constructed long ago.

Drystan did not trust it. He would have grabbed Camille and dragged her back into the attic if it had not been for her elven speed. She moved faster than he did, disappearing into the whiteness, the bridge swaying with her movements as well as the battering of the wind.

He cursed under his breath and followed, wondering whom Camille intended to visit, for unless his sense of direction failed him, they now headed for the tower that housed the dragon. Grimor’ee. Perhaps she knew one of the slaves that tended to the dragon’s needs?

Drystan knew about the dragon-steeds of the elven lords from the castle records—which meant he knew nothing at all. For they were mysterious beasts, spellbound to serve the elven lords, and connected to the scepters in ways even the imposter Mor’ded could not understand. The elven lord Mor’ded’s half-breed son, Dominic Raikes, had killed his father and taken over the sovereignty of Firehame long ago, and the black dragon, Ador, had helped him accomplish the task, but in a way that could have been disastrous for the Rebellion. Dominic knew the dragons the best, and he did not trust in them at all.

By all the reports he had read of them, Drystan could only heartily agree.

The bridge finally ended at an opening between the merlons of the tower. He could see only the vague outline of the rounded structure through the flurry of snow, but glimpsed a hill of golden scales toward the far end of it. When his feet met the solid surface of the stone floor he leapt forward toward Camille, grasping her gently about the waist, pressing his mouth to her ear.

“Be quiet,” he said. “We do not wish to wake the beast.”

She gave him that amused look again. “But that is why we are here.”

The wind threw her words away from him and he felt sure he had heard wrong. “What do you mean? I thought your confidant was a slave who tended the—surely you do not mean that you visit the
dragon
?”

The wind had scoured her cheeks to a rosy flush, so he could not be sure of her reaction to his words. But she looked… annoyed.

“You may find it strange,” she replied, “but Grimor’ee would listen to me when no one else would.”

“He listened?” The thought still boggled his mind.

“Yes, Lord Hawkes. And he has kept my secrets. There is naught for you to fear.”

The swirl of snow cleared a moment, and Drystan caught an unobstructed glimpse of the golden scales at the far end of the tower, snow capping the top of them like some enormous golden mountain. But he did not fear the beast. He feared what the beast might know. “My concern is only for you, Camille. Do you not know how untrustworthy the creatures are? They serve the elven lords, and the scepters. A human’s life is insignificant to them in their grand schemes—of which we have no inkling whatsoever. I do not think a relationship with such a creature is wise.”

She scowled at him, tugging her arm from his grasp. “I am aware of his… limitations. And I have known him longer than I have known you.”

Drystan winced at the well-thrown barb. He had not been forthcoming with his information to Camille, although he had every intention of revealing all to her in time. He just wasn’t sure if this was the right time yet. And Drystan could not know what knowledge Grimor’ee might possess. With his connection to the scepters, the dragon could know more about Drystan and his task than he wanted to reveal yet. She had just begun to trust him…

The mound of golden scales shifted, sloughing snow off that massive back in thick clumps. The head rose, and golden eyes so very like Drystan’s own stared at him. But these eyes had lines separating the irises like a sliced pie, and they appeared to twirl in a hypnotic pattern.

“Camille,” said the beast, in a voice that sounded like a rumble mixed with the hiss of steam.

She turned and cast a glance at Drystan. “You are the one who insisted on meeting him.” And then strode confidently forward through the falling snow.

Drystan could do naught but follow. He had underestimated the size of the tower, for it took longer to reach the far end than he would have imagined, and the beast rose up before him to an astonishing height.

That massive jaw opened and breathed a white mist, which slowly coalesced into the illusion of a roaring fireplace with two chairs set before it, the snowfall now blocked by some sort of invisible shield above the area.

How cozy.

Drystan grimaced and strode forward, not surprised to feel true heat from the fire. The dragon possessed a skill with illusion matched only by elven lord Roden himself.

“It is about time you brought Viscount Hawkes to see me.”

Camille sat in one of the chairs, as easily as if she sat within Drystan’s room. For just a moment he saw through the illusion, to the mound of snow Camille truly sat upon. But the clarity from Drystan’s erratic magic quickly faded, and he took the other chair, feeling a cushioned surface behind his back, the soft velvet beneath his hands.

“He insisted upon meeting you,” she replied, giving Drystan an arch look.

“Indeed,” rumbled Grimor’ee. “You have dallied too long, Drystan of Carreg Cennen castle. The elven lord will march his army upon Verdanthame soon, and you have yet to discover the key.”

Drystan mentally groaned. Just as he had feared. Grimor’ee knew too much.

He felt Camille’s eyes upon him. “What key?”

Drystan could only glare at the dragon. Let the beast swallow him in one bite. That would be better than what he tried to do now.

If those golden eyes had been even partly human, Drystan would have sworn he saw amusement in their depths.

The wind abruptly died as the storm passed, and snowfall no longer obscured his vision of the dragon. The golden scales glowed with a light of their own, massive wings nestled at his side, eyes still steady upon Drystan’s face.

“If you do not tell her,” said Grimor’ee, “then I shall.”

“Tell me what, Lord Hawkes?” demanded Camille.

He swept his gaze to hers, seeing the distrust in those rainbow-colored eyes once again, and ignored the dragon for the nonce. The beast did not matter.

Drystan leaned forward, but did not dare touch her. “I wanted only to give us a chance to know each other first, before I involved you with the interests of the Rebellion.”

“The… Rebellion? What have I to do with the Rebellion?”

“You have… damn, let me start from the beginning. My dreams of you were sent to me by the scepters. The three scepters which were hidden within the stronghold of the castle in Wales. The Rebellion thought they would be powerless beyond the barrier of magic, but they did not account for the supernatural forces of our world that would keep them sentient.”