The Lord of Illusion - 3 (21 page)

The snow also helped to hide most of the ghastly illusions Roden had created around the palace, for which Camille could only feel grateful. An arbor with climbing black roses sheltered an ogre molesting a nude slave; a frozen waterfall shivered above a beast with horns and claws sucking the marrow from a child’s bones; jagged crystals surrounded a miniature battle of humans tearing each other to pieces in homage to the elven lords.

She breathed a sigh of relief when they reached the southern forest, for Roden had not bothered to touch it with his magic, other than twisting the trees into abnormal shapes.

Drystan slowed the horses to a walk and allowed his stallion to choose his own path between the drifts of snow that collected beneath the trees through the spiky canopy.

Camille’s heart started to pound again. Somehow it felt
wrong
within this forest, the deformed shapes of the trees throwing odd shadows upon the ground. And a strange sort of throbbing noise had started as soon as they entered.

“Well,” said Lord Hawkes, the sound of his voice nearly smothered in the suddenly thick atmosphere, “I doubt anyone will follow us in here.”

Camille shivered. “I imagine not. Perhaps we should turn back. Who knows what sort of a garden would grow within these oppressive woods?”

He turned his golden gaze on her, and she felt her blood heat in response. “How badly do you want to learn to defend yourself?”

Camille stiffened. “Lead on, Lord Hawkes.”

He gave her a wink, which she ignored, and urged the stallion deeper into the woods where conifers overtook the oak and elm, blocking the snowfall and creating an easier path. The throbbing sound grew louder, until Camille imagined she could feel it within her very bones.

They came upon an enormous wall surrounded by bare bushes, looking like some skeletal hands protected the stone. They rode around the perimeter of the wall until they came to a gate, which stood half-open, as if someone had fled the garden in such a hurry they neglected to close the door behind them.

The top of the gate had been capped with wrought iron, shaped into odd figures that Camille could not identify as man or beast.

Drystan dismounted and quickly helped Camille do the same, and she followed him to the gate, the untouched snow proof that no one had gone before them.

He did not hesitate, but boldly walked through the gate, Camille a step behind him. The throbbing turned into a pounding the moment they stepped inside the garden.

“Damn,” he shouted, “what is making that noise?”

Camille shook her head, gazing around at the enclosed space. Swells and valleys of snow stretched before her, broken by clumps of trees that looked similar to the conifers of the forest, until she realized the leaves ranged in color from crimson to indigo, with shades of yellow between. The smooth bark of the trunks appeared to undulate with the same colors, as if alive and flowing, like blood through a body.

Drystan’s amber eyes brightened with interest, just as they had when Molly had mentioned the garden. Just as they did whenever he opened the pages of a new book.

The pounding changed to a clattering of sound, and he seemed engrossed in kicking at the snow to reveal the ground beneath it.

“Ha,” he shouted.

Camille glanced down at what he had revealed. A path of gravel, the stone unlike any she had ever seen before, rounded pebbles that glowed with some inner light. Drystan continued through the valley of snow, stopping occasionally to clear the humps edging the walkway, revealing odd plants curled in upon themselves, as if hiding from the winter instead of going dormant like any decent growth would.

The clatter abruptly stopped, and they both froze, their breath frosting the air in little pants.

“It is asleep,” said Lord Hawkes. “I would give much to see this garden in spring.”

“Do you suppose these plants are indeed a copy of those in Elfhame?”

He turned and grinned at her, pleased by her question. “I imagine the elven lord drew them from memory, wanting a touch of his homeland. But I would not doubt that he might have altered them with his own perverted magic. We must tread carefully.”

“It would be wiser to just leave.”

“Perhaps. But each discovery about the elven lords serves only to give us the knowledge to better oppose them. I have dreamed of making discoveries instead of reading other’s accounts of them—”

The ground rumbled yet again. Drystan turned and looked for the source, and Camille gave up trying to discourage him. She knew he would let nothing come between him and his dreams.

They reached another clump of trees, turned a corner, and stepped beneath the roof of a round building open on all sides, the roof supported by tall columns carved from rose-colored crystal, clear icicles hanging from the eaves. Camille would have studied the stone closer, for it undulated with color the same way as the odd trees, but the structure topped a small rise, and Drystan pointed down into a shallow valley.

She looked in that direction and felt her mouth drop open. An entire clump of snow suddenly rose to a great height, revealing green and yellow tubers, which sprouted enormous crimson petals that fought against the weight of the snow smothering them. They stretched to reveal hairy maws glistening with sap, and then suddenly collapsed upon themselves once again with a clatter of sound and a quake that shook loose several icicles.

The plants struggled for freedom several more times before collapsing once again.

“I am tempted to free them of their burden of snow,” Drystan said. “For I imagine it would lessen the racket. I shudder to think what they hope to catch in those sticky mouths.”

“They are big enough to swallow a horse.”

“Ah, well. Good thing we left our mounts outside then. And this is as good a place as any…”

Camille caught the barest whisper of steel being drawn and suddenly found her sword in hand, her cloak thrown half off her shoulders, the blade waving defensively in front of her.

If her jaw had not already dropped at the sight of the odd plants, it surely would have done so as she stared at the weapon.

Drystan laughed. “Talbot did well! Just hold on, Camille, and let the sword defend you.” And then he lunged at her.

Steel met steel with a ring that rivaled the racket of the crimson petals. Camille held on to the hilt and tried to keep her legs from getting tangled as the sword pulled her about the enclosure, swiftly blocking each of Drystan’s thrusts, allowing his larger and heavier blade to slide off instead of absorbing a direct blow.

Camille’s arm began to ache and her brow to sweat before Lord Hawkes pulled back.

“You need to watch my eyes, not the tip of my sword.”

“Nay, I need to watch my feet,” she replied. “I almost fell over myself more than once.”

“But you did well.” His pale hair curled damply on his forehead, his face glowed from exertion, and he curved his mouth in a sensual smile. “If you watch my eyes, however, they will tell you in which direction your feet should go next.”

Camille nodded, leaned against a pillar, and held the sword before her gaze, allowing herself a clear look at it for the first time. The blade had the silvery sheen of a weapon forged in Bladehame. Plain of hilt and pommel, with faint runes etched within the metal. “Where did you find an enchanted sword? Especially one made for a woman’s hand?”

“Let’s just say I had to do all three: beg, borrow, and commit a bit of thievery. I doubt if the owner even knows it’s missing, for it has been tucked away in a vault for longer than I could guess. But keep it hidden within your cloak, just in case the owner may remember it.”

The plants set up a racket again, and Camille sheathed the sword as she shook her head. Stolen or not, she would be put to death if anyone saw her carrying it. “You keep forgetting I am a slave.” She said the words without rancor. Indeed, the fact that he kept doing so pleased her in an odd sort of way.

He cocked his head, apparently unable to hear her words over the clamor of the garden. She just shrugged and drew the pistol, studying it closely. Finer than a soldier’s, but just as plain as the sword. She then raised her eyes and gave him a questioning look. The plants would help cover the sound of gunfire, just in case it carried beyond the walls and forest. Drystan apparently realized the same, for he nodded and stepped to her side, positioning her hands on the handle and trigger, his body so close she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. Could smell the spicy scent of him.

He kept his hands on hers while she pulled the trigger. It did not frighten her this time, nor did she reflexively loosen her grip. She felt him grunt with approval, then he handed her a tin box of powder, patch, and bullets, and proceeded to teach her how to load the weapon.

She fired, loaded, and repeated the process several times, until her arms began to ache again. Drystan seemed to sense her exhaustion just as he had before, and stepped away from her to stare out over the garden. Camille holstered the pistol, put the tin in the inside pocket of her cloak, and joined him.

The plants collapsed with a resounding clatter, shoring up their strength for another try at shedding the snow from their tops.

“You did not teach me how to aim it,” she whispered into the silence.

“You’re not likely to hit a man who stands more than ten paces from you. Point, shoot, and pray is the best you can do with a pistol, and it takes too long to load, so your sword is your best defense.”

“I see.”

He turned to her, gripping her shoulders and staring into her eyes. “No, you do not. If I had more magic… if I could control it… Damn, Camille, how shall I protect you against the magic of the elven lords? I wish you would allow me to send you to Wales, away from danger. I wish—” He swept his mouth over hers in a suddenness that took her breath away. The contrast of his warm mouth against the chill cold made her want to melt against him. Indeed, she found herself leaning into him, her arms wrapping about his broad shoulders, smoothing the silky hair tied back from his face, tangling her fingers in the loose fall of it beyond the leather string that held it.

His lips traced a path to her ear as he folded his arms about her, and then gathered her close to his chest, until she could hear the beat of his heart.

“Teach me more.”

She felt his sigh shudder through his lungs.

“Drystan. For some bewildering reason, you think that because you love me, then you must protect me. Have you ever considered a different purpose to your dreams?”

He loosened his grasp to hold her by the shoulders so he could look down into her face. “What do you mean?”

“Just that… perhaps you were not sent just to save me. Perhaps I was meant to save you. No, do not doubt me so quickly. You might need me on your journey. Perhaps the two of us are stronger than you alone could ever be.” She reached up and touched his sculpted jaw. “Could you not at least consider the possibility?”

He frowned. “I cannot risk losing you when I have waited so long to be with you. I love you more than life itself, or have I not made that very clear?”

Camille could not help returning his frown. Perhaps Molly was right, and men bandied about words of love until they tired of a woman and moved on. Perhaps he had come to find her for the key. Perhaps he had saved and protected her because he thought she held the means to decipher the clue of her birthmark. But now he had what the Rebellion needed, and still kept his word to her and given her the means to defend herself, when he clearly did not want to. He had proven she could trust him with her heart.

But did she have any heart left to give him?

“Drystan, I—what is it?”

He had looked away from her, his golden eyes wide, the facets glittering in the sudden burst of sunshine. A bird chirped, and a warm breeze caressed Camille’s cheek. She turned in his arms and stared out over the garden.

A riot of color had replaced the blanket of white snow. Rays of yellow sunlight streaked down from the bright sun of a lazy summer sky, making the color of those odd trees seem twice as brilliant as they had a moment ago. Without the layer of snow hampering their movements, the crimson petals of the yellow and green tubers opened and closed with a light clap of sound, catching slow dragonflies and an occasional unwary bird within their giant mouths. Tall fronds of lavender swayed in the gentle breeze, and the tall blue tubes, capped with small crystal-like blossoms growing within each one, chimed like bells with the flowing movement.

Grass that could not be so—with its pink color and crown of glossy berries—shook with movement as some furry creature with bright eyes and bushy tail reached up with extraordinarily long arms and fingers and plucked the fruit, stuffing it into already bulging cheeks. Flowers of red and gold fluttered their petals while trailing long stamens of orange, leaving behind stripes of fluffy pollen that stained the ground with patterns of color. Birds with crests of feathers like ladies’ veils sported tails of a brilliant hue as they floated on a pond of liquid silver within the distance.

“The elven lord is here,” warned Camille.

“No,” said Drystan, holding onto her more tightly. “I have brought springtime to the garden. It is my magic. I can feel it. I do not know how I am doing this, or how long it will last, but come, Camille.” And he loosed her enough to clasp her hand and pull her from the shelter of the gazebo.