The Lord of Illusion - 3 (24 page)

Lord Hawkes returned quickly enough, carrying several sacks, which he tied to the horses’ saddles. Then helped her mount, Camille flushing at the position of her legs when astride. She would get used to that as well.

They rode from the stables and through the still-empty courtyard, beneath the arches and past the blooming trees. The gargoyles that decorated the palace walls bared their teeth and hissed at them, but Drystan ignored them, so Camille did not fear. Only when they reached the end of the golden road did she pull up on the reins in alarm. She had not left the boundaries of the palace since she had been captured and sent there as a child.

She turned her head and looked behind her. The road twisted and curved, shining a muted yellow by the light of the moon. The palace gleamed just as brightly, turrets and spires and towers capping the evening sky like graceful fingers reaching for the stars. The palace appeared to float above the land on a cloud of white, like some beautiful creation from a fairy tale.

“But it is not a beautiful place,” muttered Camille.

“Looks can be deceiving,” replied Drystan, who stopped his horse alongside hers. “You shall never go back there, Camille. Not as long as there is a breath in my body. Come.”

She urged her horse forward, comforted by his words, for they rang with truth.

Despite her fear of the unknown, she could not help gazing at the city that surrounded Dreamhame Palace with anything but wonder. She had heard tales of it, of course, but had never ridden through the streets. Drystan took a path among mansions that must house the great aristocrats, for the oddly shaped marble walls and golden bricks had surely been created with illusion.

Grand facades sported golden statues with moving eyes and limbs. Mostly dragons, of course, but also wolves and lions and creatures created only from imagination. A panther with golden eyes flapped its wings at her. A creature with the head of a horse and the body of a snake hissed a warning as they passed.

And then there were those that showed a less imposing face to the world. A garden with trees laden with golden apples fronted a house made of delicate filigree work. A tower of stacked layers like golden coins leaned drunkenly to one side. Tall spires reached for the heavens in impossible shapes that appeared to teeter precariously.

But all of the structures had been colored in shades of gold, and although globes of mystical lamps also lit the streets, the glow of the homes from the reflected light of the moon made it appear almost as bright as day.

“Open your cloak and show your weapons,” Drystan leaned over and murmured. “If we are stopped by the night watch, you are my escort home from a night of revelry at the palace celebrating Roden’s march to war on the morrow.” And with those words, he slumped drunkenly over his horse’s neck, and began to slur a bawdy tune.

Camille could not help a little smile as she tossed back her cloak and displayed the weapons at her hips. To even be in disguise as someone else’s protector made her feel more courageous. “What do we pretend when we reach the outskirts of the city?”

The drunken song halted. “Then you are an advance scout for Roden’s army. I am one of his loyal courtiers intent on adventure and unwilling to wait for the slow crawl of the army that follows.” He picked up his tune then halted again. “That’s if anyone we meet on the road questions us before they start shooting.”

He slumped back over his saddle, and the smile on Camille’s face quickly faded. In order to discourage her from accompanying him to Firehame, Drystan had mentioned his journey to Dreamhame and the chaos that dogged England’s roads. Now she would find out if he had exaggerated about bandits and wild magic let loose to devour those not wary or powerful enough to avoid it.

Even if Drystan could not seem to call his magic at will, at least he had some to protect them. Other than her enchanted sword, Camille could not offer much to their defense… except for determination. She had chosen the direction her future would take, and she would not let anything stop her from fighting for the freedom of her fellow slaves.

The yellow glow of the buildings slowly faded behind them, and snow began to fall. Well and good, for it would hide their trail. But without the protection of the city walls, the wind tore at her cloak, making her shiver as they descended into a world of white.

At first, she could see the road Drystan followed, for other horse’s hooves and carriage wheels and even footprints had turned the snow brown. But the snowfall soon obscured the tracks in the road, until they became little more than depressions.

“How long will it take us to reach Firehame?” she asked.

Drystan glanced at her a moment, then turned his attention back to staying on the road. “It depends on the weather. At least a week, perhaps less if we push ourselves.”

Camille frowned. As far as that? Anxiety skittered through her, and she huffed a breath to release it. “Then we shall push ourselves.”

He smiled, moonlight dancing across his pale hair and strong cheekbones. “The sooner I get you someplace safe, the better.” And he nudged his horse into a trot, Camille’s mount picking up the pace to follow.

Her teeth clacked together, and she found it difficult to keep her seat, until Drystan urged his steed to a gallop. Then she found the rhythm much easier, narrowing her eyes against the chill sting of the wind, her nose and ears soon becoming numb from cold.

Drystan had been right. This wild flight in the moonlight was not romantic. After a few hours, her entire face went numb and her inner thighs began to burn. Camille fell into a sort of dream state, the world narrowing down to nothing but white and the determination to hold on.

It seemed an eternity before the sky began to lighten with a new day. Snow still fell gently around them. Drystan had slowed the horses to a walk to rest them yet again and glanced at her with a worried frown. “Do you need to stop and rest?”

She shook her head.

“We will continue on until our midday meal, then.”

They rode for several more hours, when the snow abruptly ceased, and the sky darkened slightly.

Drystan pulled up the reins, frowning at the trees that lined the side of the road.

“What is it?” whispered Camille, afraid to disturb the sudden silence that now surrounded them.

“It is
too
quiet,” he replied, still studying their surroundings with a suspicious gaze. Then he slowly looked up at the sky, and his handsome mouth fell open.

Camille followed his gaze. A sheet of ice glowed far above them, the sun that now lay behind it reflecting off the bluish-crystal surface. “What is that?”

“Roden,” growled Drystan. “He has set a barrier over the sky.”

No wonder it had stopped snowing so abruptly. “He has discovered the loss of his scepter.”

“Indeed,” Drystan said, “and he must know his dragon stole it. Why keep a barrier over the skies, then?”

“Surely Grimor’ee has already left Dreamhame. Do you think Roden surrounded all of his sovereignty with a layer of ice?”

Drystan shrugged his broad shoulders. “We will find out when we reach the border. It would take a lot of power to cut off his entire realm for so long, and he needs his magic for the war against the half-breeds of Firehame and Verdanthame.”

“He will have to drop the barrier to let his army through.”

“Perhaps. But I do not want to have to wait to meet up with them to get through. Let us hope he realizes Grimor’ee is no longer within his land before that.” Drystan tapped his heels against his horse’s flanks. “Come. The sooner we get this key—and this thing in my pocket—to the leader of the Rebellion, the better.”

Camille glanced at the lump from the scepter in his coat pocket and winced. Yes, she wanted to rid herself of both those burdens as well.

They encountered a few other travelers, but Drystan’s pointed elven ears heard them long before he saw them, and he drew their mounts behind bush or tree to hide until they passed. They stopped for a hasty meal and continued to ride until the sky darkened with true night.

“There’s an inn a few more miles down the road,” said Drystan. “Can you make it?”

She nodded, gritting her teeth. Food. Warmth. Sleep. She had often gone without, so the lack of it did not affect her as much as Drystan seemed to think it would. But when they finally stopped at the inn, he had to help her from the saddle.

“I am not used to riding.”

He patted her shoulder. “I will see if the innkeeper has a salve we can use.” And he set off and made their arrangements, acting every part the nobleman on an important mission for the elven lord.

Camille did not protest when he made accommodations for only one room. She did not protest when he stripped her down to her shirt and applied a foul-smelling concoction to her inner legs. Nor did she mind when he joined her in bed. For the delicious warmth of his body soon had her fast asleep.

Drystan woke her early the next morning, helping her to dress even though she told him she could manage quite well on her own. He still treated her as if she were some delicate lady of the court, and Camille could not find the heart to be too annoyed at him. She had never felt so cherished before. He had made the innkeeper’s wife get up early to prepare them a hot breakfast of toast, tea, and poached eggs, and Camille found herself back in the now-dreaded saddle faster than she would have thought.

They rode all day, eating in the saddle, stopping only to relieve themselves. The ice covering the sky seemed to glitter a deadly warning, reminding them of the power of the elven lord, of the danger of their mission. And the importance of what they carried.

Drystan decided it would be safer to avoid all public accommodations, and when night fell he paid a few shillings for the use of a barn from an old couple on an isolated homestead. They slept in musty hay, huddled together for warmth, too exhausted to even speak.

He pulled Camille closer to him, her back to his belly, and buried his face in her hair. The stable suddenly became warmer, their bed of hay much softer. She realized his arms felt protective around her—they did not trap or confine—and marveled at how easily she had become accustomed to sleeping with him. To touching him.

On the third day, their luck ran out.

Drystan had urged Camille to eat, and their morning repast lay heavily in her stomach as they resumed their journey once again.

“We will reach the border today,” he said, his golden eyes scanning the road ahead of them. They had just descended into a small valley, trees again lining the sides, hemming them in. “We will leave the main road to avoid the border patrol, but Roden has not dropped his barrier yet, and I am not sure my magic will be strong enough to break through it—”

Camille’s horse suddenly reared, nearly dropping her onto the snowy ground, and she scrambled to keep her seat. Drystan’s mount did the same, although he was better at getting his horse back under control. Shots rang out, shattering the stillness of the air, and men erupted from the trees, waving swords and pistols.

Drystan’s horse spun in a circle as he fought the reins while pulling his sword from its scabbard. “Run!”

“No,” shouted Camille, reaching for her pistol. She could not steady the weapon to aim, with her own horse panicked and stomping beneath her, and realized that’s why Drystan had reached for his sword. So she just pointed it in the general direction of the group of men and fired.

A figure fell.

Drystan gave her a look of amazement, then smacked the rump of her mount.

The horse bolted down the road, completely ignoring Camille’s curses and her yanking on the reins. Somehow she managed to hold onto her pistol, and shoved it back in her holster. Damn Drystan and his attempts to protect her. He faced half-a-dozen men, with no one to guard his back—

Her horse leaped. Or tried to. For a log lay across the road. The beast had not expected it and jumped too late, its hooves scraping the bark, accompanied by the dreadful sound of tearing flesh. Camille flew through the air to land in a bank of snow.

Her vision went black, but a pitiful neighing reached her ears, and she struggled to stand, to see. Her horse lay a few yards from her, its legs twisted beneath its body, unable to rise, writhing in the snow. Heaven help her, she would have to put the poor thing out of its misery—

Two men leaped out of hiding from behind the log to face her, their dirty faces wreathed in smiles. They wore equally dirty, ragged clothing, and held dented swords that still looked quite sharp despite their battered condition.

Bandits. They had set a neat trap with the log.

Camille drew her sword.

Their smiles grew wider as they separated, coming at her from both sides.

“There’s no need fer this, luv,” crooned one of the men, his face pockmarked with scars. “Jest hand over yer coin, and lie still fer us a while, and we’ll let ye live.”

Camille’s eyes widened. So much for her disguise.

“Ye curse like a girl,” said the other man.

Her knuckles whitened on the hilt of her sword. The pockmarked man swung his blade with a laugh, and her sword automatically countered.

His bushy brows rose. “Careful, Tom, she’s got a—”

Camille spun. Or rather, her sword spun her around, and met the blade of the man behind her. Tom had tried to overpower her with one forceful lunge, but not only did she possess some elven strength, but her sword knew better, and parried the strike away with a twist, then swung up faster than her gaze could follow, and sliced him across the chest. He dropped his sword and clutched his hands to his wound, then fell to his knees, his mouth agape.