Arcana (37 page)

“Of course, madam.”

Another cause for relief. I have a few coins in my reticule but not enough to cover my stay.

“Supper will be served shortly if you’d like to sit and rest while I have your room prepared,” he says.

“That would be lovely. Thank you.”

He guides me to one of the tables in the far back corner of the room and holds out a chair. “Anything else I can do for you?”

I shake my head. “No, you’ve been perfectly accommodating. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, madam.”

When he walks away, I finally allow myself to relax and take note of my surroundings.

An older couple sits at the next table over, enjoying wine and a roast. My stomach doesn’t even respond to the presence of the meat, though it smells delicious. Another gentleman dressed in plain but expensive clothing drinks a flagon of beer by the fire, while one of the barmaids refills his cup.

I look down at the whorls in the wood of the table. Flashes of the way it felt to have my power sucked out of me threaten to come to the forefront of my mind, but I won’t let them. I would rather not relive the moment when I used my arcana to do harm instead of good, but I cannot deny that I am reveling in the fact that I managed to hurt him as he hurt me. As soon as I can walk farther than a few feet, I must search for the gateway.

When a red-cheeked barmaid arrives with a glass of wine and the same roast the older couple to my right are enjoying, I try to force myself to at least eat a little. I know I will need my strength.

I chew and drink mechanically, the adrenaline that got me this far abandoning me all at once. My eyelids grow heavy, and when the barmaid returns to clear my plate, I practically slur out my request to take me to my room.

She leads me up the stairs and to a warm, quaint room with sparse furnishings. The bed beckons to me, but in a flash of cognizance, I turn to her. “I wonder if I might have pen and paper for a letter?”

“Of course, m’lady. Anything else I can get you?”

“No, I think I shall be quite comfortable. Thank you.”

With a bob of her head, she closes the door behind her. My eyes continually droop closed, but I force myself to remain standing until she returns with my writing supplies.

“If I write this letter quickly, will you be able to post it in the morning?” I ask when she places a few sheets of writing paper and a pen on the small desk in my room.

“Yes, mum. Just call for me when you are finished. My name is Sarah, and I’ll busy myself in the hall until you’re ready.”

The paper is rougher than I’m used to, and the ink smears in several places, but it serves its purpose. Now that my grandmother can no longer intercept them, I am free to write letters to my father and brother.

Sarah is waiting for me in the hall, just as she promised, and I hand over the letters.

“I’ll be sure to post it first thing, mum,” she says, her wide eyes earnest.

I thank her and shortly after collapse in bed fully dressed. Before I give in to the sleep I desperately need, I open my mother’s journal and pray she will advise me in what I must do next.

When the words appear, finally, after so many weeks without them, a muffled sob escapes me.

Tears well in my eyes, but I’m too exhausted to release them. If ever there’s a time when I felt lost and despairing, this is it. I press the tips of my fingers to my forehead until I’m sure I make indentations in my skin. I know my mother is trying to convey an important truth in this entry. But what does my logic tell me is the best course? I thought escaping to her realm was the only answer, but perhaps this is the wrong choice? I cry out in frustration and shove the journal to the side. How can I be expected to puzzle through this when I can hardly keep my eyes open? I can only hope the light of day will bring answers I can never hope to find in this dark night.

I awake to a stabbing pain. Rolling to my side, I cradle my stomach, tears springing to my eyes. It takes me a moment to remember the horrible events of the day before. But when I do, I force myself out of bed.

The first time Lord Blackburn took my power from me by force, he was interrupted. Yesterday, he nearly succeeded, and my body has still not recovered. Only the sun on my skin can help me now.

I stumble to the window, but the view outside only causes a dejected moan to escape from my mouth. It is before dawn, the sky a dismal gray-black.

But before I can truly give in to the cloud of dark self-pity hovering just above me, the brush of something soft against my leg startles me, and I look down. A white fox, more silver in the dim light really, gazes up at me.

Katherine,
the fox says in my mind.

“Are you really here?” I ask. Perhaps I’m so weak now that I’m hallucinating.

In spirit,
it answers.
I served your mother once. A piece of me will always be bound to her will. In this case, my consciousness was stored in her runes.

Spirit. The visions of this creature finally make sense. “You were my mother’s spirit animal.” Waves of awe crash over me when I think of the true scope of my mother’s abilities.

It regards me with a deep loss reflected in its eyes.
Long ago, yes. I am no longer what I once was.

Tears burn my eyes as an intense longing just to hear my mother’s voice again grips me. “You’ve come to lead me to her realm then?”

I have come to show you Sylvania.

Its answer seems to be subtly different from what I asked, but the fox has already proven itself as mysterious as my mother. Interrogation will get me exactly nowhere.

It pads silently to a full-length mirror I had previously paid little attention to—an unusual enough object in such a Spartan room.
Your spirit must enter the mirror. Your body, in its current state, cannot make the journey.

I give a little jerk of my limbs. Separating one’s soul from one’s body seems to be a rather intensely dangerous sort of arcana. “Will I ever be able to return?”

Once you have seen what I have been sent to show you.

The fox’s words do nothing to reassure me, but its eyes, so reminiscent of my mother’s, do. Coupled with the fact that I have very little to lose, I take a shaky step forward. “You must tell me what to do,” I say, “for I confess I have not had the occasion to separate my soul from my body.”

Something close to a display of amusement—the barest hint of a chuckle, perhaps?—flashes through my mind.
This mirror will serve as our portal. You need only step through as I do. Your spirit will pass through.

“And my . . . body? What will happen when I cross?”

Your body will remain here, unconscious.

A prickle of fear chased with a glimmer of excitement rushes across my skin. I hesitate only a moment before going to the rough wooden door of my room and assure myself it is barred from the inside. I imagine it would be something of a shock for the poor maid to find me in a heap upon the floor.

I join the fox before the mirror, our reflections ghostly pale. The bruises on my throat are a garish purple, shaped like Lord Blackburn’s hands. I close my eyes against the anger that rises in response.
Dead
, I remind myself.
He is dead.

The fox glances up at me, nods once, and we both step through the cold glass.

TWENTY-SEVEN

R
ATHER
than the rush of air I expected, our journey through the mirror is more like a submersion in a still pool of water. The glass turns to liquid around me, sounds are muffled, and though my eyes are clenched tightly closed, I have the impression of being surrounded by darkness. All these strange sensations last only a moment before soft light and the musical sound of birds replace them.

I am only spirit, and therefore cannot draw my breath in exclamation of my awe, but I make the gesture anyway when I open my eyes. The brief glimpses of Sylvania I had seen before through my mother’s runes were nothing compared to the actual sight before me. The fox and I stand on a precipice that looks out upon a mountainous wood of such beauty, I suddenly wish for Lucy’s ability to recreate scenes on canvas.

The trunks of the trees are similar to birch in that they are of a snow white color, but the leaves are so ethereal there is no doubt they are from another world entirely. Most are of the same shimmery silver color I first saw in one of Mama’s visions, but many are the pinks and lavenders of a sunset. They remind me of wisteria, but the tree trunks are so wide, they must be ancient.

Massive waterfalls plummet from rocky outcroppings, and rising from the valley is a city of such majesty, it would put all of London to shame. The buildings themselves are as white as those found in a Mediterranean village, their architecture at once organic and ornate with intricate scroll-work and columns, which seem to be wrought from the rock itself. Even more awe-inspiring is the fact that many have been built directly on top of a waterfall, so that the water cascades from beneath the stony foundations.

This is the city of Cascadia
.
Your grandfather is king here.

Surprise shoots through me. “King?”

The fox gives me no time to process this before continuing down a stone pathway, winding toward the city proper. I follow in my ghostly form, somewhat bewildered by my own gliding movements. It is unsettling to say the least not to be able to feel the stones beneath my feet, though I know they must be smooth and cool to the touch, nor the breeze I can hear moving through the leaves. Of my senses, only vision and hearing remain.

The fox continues on at a rapid pace. Above me, the trees murmur in a language I feel I can almost understand—if I could only stop for a moment and listen. When I reach the bottom of the stone path, the landscape around me changes. If it weren’t for the conviction I hold that I truly left my body behind and followed my mother’s spirit fox to another realm, I would be tempted to believe this is merely a dream. For just as a dream deposits the dreamer from one surreal vision to another without warning, I suddenly find myself in the entrance of a great hall.

Ceilings of a polished white stone soar far above us, calling to mind the gothic architecture of Italian Cathedrals. A grand staircase with bannisters made of tree branches winds its way on either side of a massive, ornately-carved throne. The hall is quiet as a tomb, but brightly lit—the sun reflecting off the white stone with a nearly blinding quality of light.

The fox halts beside a column seemingly constructed of the ethereal white trees, runes like the ones found in Mama’s journal carved into the sides. I lean closer to inspect them, once again wishing for Lucy.

The soft echo of footsteps rings out over the polished stone floors, and I flatten against the column, my eyes searching for the source of the sound. Nine men in gray tunics and tall boots march past me. They are accompanied by wolves with silvery-white pelts, padding silently at their sides.

They cannot see you,
the fox thinks into my mind when I let out an unintentional sound of distress.
You are only spirit.

Satisfied I am not to be discovered, I return my attention to the men and the wolves beside them. The wolves behave neither as the feral creatures I am familiar with nor as trained beasts. As with the fox beside me, there is an innate intelligence in their countenance, a dignity in their carriage. It is clear, then, that these are the spirit animals of the nine Sylvani men.