Keepers of the Flame (28 page)

He
smiled down at her, covered her hand tucked into his arm with his own. “The
hedges of the maze are verdant, and the brithenwood tree in the garden flowers
early and stays long. The scent is wonderful.”

“Won’t
it be wet?”

“The
paths are large enough to accommodate two.” Especially since she was smaller
than most Lladranan women. He glanced at the sky and the heavy clouds shrouding
half the moon. “Though there will be more rain, so we’ll walk instead of
dally.” He kissed the top of her head, smelled the scent of soap and
persperation and Elizabeth. Swallowed his yearning. He hoped their meal would
be good.

Then
he led her into the maze.

“Ohhh,”
she sighed.

“Diamonds
of rain silver in the moonlight, giving life to the new leaves.”

She
sniffed. “The fragrance
is
lovely.”

Yes,
her scent still lingered in his nostrils. He hoped he managed to eat and
converse before he made love to her again.

Her
body relaxed beside him and he realized how tense she’d been. She obviously
didn’t want to talk about sex or any stronger Song spinning between them. He
should slow his wooing down, but his body clambored for more sex, more often.
He’d wait and watch and judge the moments with her, and win her.

She
was enchanting.

B
ri jumped
backward to the tower door, yanked. It wouldn’t open. Stuck or locked shut. She
whirled. More rustling came and black shadows whispered and shifted and
s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d.

She
pulled her dagger.

It
laughed in her mind and a creaky wheeze came to her ears.

Something
dry and scaly fastened around her wrist, flexed closed and she dropped the
knife.

She
looked down to see the smallest claw of a bird’s foot holding her, trapping
her.

“What
are you?” she breathed out, and breathing in, caught its scent and magic and
lingering evil.

Another
chuckle in her mind, then a faint burp.

I
am a roc, and I eat the evil.
There was the clicking of a beak, the
cluck of tongue.
Just finished snacking on bits of monster left behind.
Sangvile.

Bri
stiffened. She’d been warned of the sangvile, heard the stories of its rampage.

This
was its lair. Now the tower of this place will be my nest.
The huge bird
angled its head and tapped the ceiling and a large center portion slid open.
Cold wind and rain blew in causing the bird to shriek a cry that made Bri’s
ears ring.

A
place of Power that drew me.
It tilted its head and Bri saw a
gleaming sapphire eye the size of a dinnerplate. The saffron claw dropped from
her wrist.
As the place drew you, healer-from-the-land-beyond-the-winds.

Rain
slicked down Bri’s face like lost tears.

Or
pehaps we drew each other, too. You will nest here, too.

Her
lips were nearly too cold to answer. “Maybe.”

Another,
quieter bird-caw of laughter.
Surely.

It
moved to the middle of the room and stepped to the floor above, hopped to the
top of the stair tower to the right. Lightning struck behind it and the
jeweltoned colors of its plumage dazzled Bri: ruby, emerald, sapphire, gold
wing feathers, midnight-blue-black legs, golden head, a body the same color as
its wings.

Fantastic.

Lightning
and a surreal scene—a bird perched atop a tower crennelation, wings raised.

You
should sleep in the room below, where I ate all the sangvile remnants and Sang
the place clean,
it said, fluffed a huge bush or two that looked torn from their roots, and with
a melodious hum, closed the ceiling.

Bri
just stood, shivering and cold and damp. Wondered if she was dreaming or if
another aspect of this weird place had just hit her over the head. Again. She’d
always had a good and flexible imagination, but lately it had been stretched so
far out of shape that she didn’t know if she’d ever see things right.

“Bri,
Bri!” Zeres’s irascable voice boomed over the thunder. His heavy, rapid
footsteps sounded on the staircase.

“Here,”
she called weakly, cleared her throat and yelled louder. “Here!”

The
door shivered under his strength, jumped open. “Damn stuck door,” he grumbled.
He looked at her but stood at the threshold, didn’t come into the room. “This
place stinks of sangvile.” His gaze darted around, then his expression eased.
“There was one here in Castleton a year back.”

“Yes.”
Bri’s voice sounded odd to her ears. “I think it laired here.”

He
sniffed, sneezed, took a rag from his pants pocket and blew his nose. “Smells
like something else, too.” He frowned.

“Roc,”
Bri said faintly.

“Roc!”

The
ceiling slid aside and a head thrust down, saffron beak clicked.
You Sing
for me?

Zeres’s
mouth fell open. He stepped back. Thumps and swears as he missed a couple of
steps. He didn’t return.

She
hurried down.

The
ceiling clunked into place. The roc laughed in her mind.

Zeres
stood panting, Bri listened to his groans, but knew he wasn’t hurt. “Roc.” He
swore, clumped a few steps down. Cursed again, entered the second level, gave a
liquid snort. Limping into the middle of the room, he surveyed it. “Roc.” He
shook his head. “Not a smidgeon of sangvile in this chamber. Some in the room
below, and up there,” he jerked his chin up, “but nothing here.”

“The
roc said it ate the sangvile, then cleaned the room.”

Zeres
grunted. He shook his head again. “Roc.” Lifting his brows, he said, “Something
about you Exotiques draws magical creatures. Fey-coo-cus. Volarans.
Rocs
,
by the Song.” He went up to a window and squinted at it, waited until after the
next boom of thunder to speak. “Don’t fancy goin’ back out into the rain to
your pretty little house.”

Standing
there in the dark, with squares of windows light against the night beyond, cold
drips of rain dribbling down her body, one of the windows whining in the wind,
Bri agreed.

Muttering
under his breath, Zeres stripped off his cloak, spread it on the floor, which
the next bolt of lightning showed to be an attractive wooden parquet pattern.

“Girl,
get over here and I’ll teach you a Song to boost your body heat like a blanket
all night.”

“The
roc said this
is
a place of Power. I feel it, too.”

Silence
from the corner.

“You
were going to teach me. To be honest with me.”

“The
spell is called Sinedre, a simple refrain.”

“This
is a place of Power?”

“Okay.”
He said the English word most Lladranans knew irritably. “Mebbe if I let
myself, I’d feel some Power.”

“Healing
Power,”
Bri insisted.

“Specifically?”

“Yes.
What might cause that?”

“I
dunno. Mebbe I’ll sleep on it. You want a parta this cloak or not?”

“Wood
isn’t as cold as stone.” Bracing one hand against the wall, Bri pulled off her
shoes. Her toes curled. Her socks were damp, too.

“Stone’s
under the wood.”

“The
roc’s nesting on top of the stair tower. Does that make it a she?”

Zeres
grunted, rolled to put his back toward her. “Don’t wanna thinka the roc
t’night, either.”

Bri
padded over to him, sat on the cloak and shivered as she felt the warmth of it.
Magical cloak. Of course. It was dry, too. “So how does this spell go?”

He
Sang and his rich voice so amazed her that she missed the first few words.
“Again?”

“You
Exotiques are so slow. Child’s play for medicas.” He Sang again, and Bri could
almost see motes of Power gathering around him, encircling him, encasing him,
keeping him warm. Her feet felt like blocks of ice. She licked her lips and
Sang.

Magic
sifted down on her, warmed her like an electric blanket. “Are rocs nocturnal
birds?”

Zeres
gave a fake snore.

No
, whispered in
her mind.
We will talk in the morning
.

22

R
aine Lindley,
once of Best Haven, Connecticut, and now of the Open Mouthed Fish tavern
somewhere
else,
scrubbed the iron pot hard. She tried to ignore her
distorted image in the dented silver pitcher that was the owner’s pride and
joy.

She
hated seeing even a little of herself, particularly her face. She didn’t look
younger than her twenty-seven years anymore. Lines had sprouted around her eyes
and mouth.

That
happened when a person was yanked from one world to another, and didn’t know
the language, or look like the natives.

She
kept dirty. If she washed her hair it showed dark brown instead of black and
her skin was whiter than these people had—Lladranans, she’d figured out in the
six odd months she’d been here. Nothing she could do to disguise her dark green
eyes except keep a hank of hair in front of her face. The locals thought she
was from “that filthy city full of foreigners some leagues down south” and
didn’t have all her wits.

She
thought of last night’s dream and shuddered. It wasn’t one about ships. No, the
nightmare held overtones of the greatest mistake of her life.

She
was in her Granny Fran’s attic staring at The Mirror. The Mirror had fascinated
her from childhood, mostly because of the carved gilded frame. That frame
didn’t look like any she’d ever seen, not stiff flowers and garlands, but
graceful curves that reminded her of rolling waves out on the ocean.

Perhaps
that’s why her great-grandfather had brought it back from his two-week-long
trip to France. He’d moved from Boston to Best Haven, Connecticut, and founded
the shipbuilding business. Then the Lindleys had prospered.

In
the dream, Raine hunched down as if she might step through the frame.

Don’t
do it. DON’T DO IT!
Raine shrieked in her head.

At
home The Mirror had haunted her so much that she’d decided to give it to her
newly engaged brother. She was transporting it on the new boat she’d designed.
The wind had come up with the half-heard singing that had reverberated through
her night and day for a week.

When
the storm had arisen, it had whirled her small boat, her, and The Mirror all
together, then her
through
The Mirror. She’d watched the boat splinter,
The Mirror shatter into tiny shards, then had landed in a cold, seething ocean
of green. Here.

Not
on Earth anywhere.

She
tried not to think of home, of her brothers and her father who would be
grieving for her. Of her old, incredibly wonderful life she’d been so bored
with.

The
kitchen door opened. “Well, what do we have here?”

It
was Travys. He grinned with broken-toothed hatred. An atavistic fear crawled up
her spine. She always dreaded that he might bite her and if he did, her heart
would give out.

She’d
done nothing to deserve his hatred, but he’d taken an instant dislike to her.
Since she was a pot-scrub girl and he was a valued client, she could do nothing
but avoid him. She knew instinctively that if she fought with him it would be
to the death. He was a big man for a Lladranan, and they were bigger than Earth
people.

Always
bad luck when he saw her. This was the first time he’d actually come into the
kitchen.

He
loomed over her, massive and sneering. “Lookin’ as ugly and feebleminded as
usual.” He sniffed. “Stink, too.”

He
should talk. He reeked of fish guts and some horrible seaweed he chewed.
Grabbing her hair, he stared at her.

She
quivered and he smiled.

The
door swung open again and the dour woman who owned the tavern entered. “Please,
Travys. She has work to do, a sink full of pots.”

Eyes
narrowed, Travys looked at the woman, then back at Raine. He hacked up a gob of
phlegm and spit into the sink water, then strolled out.

What
was she going to do?

When
she’d first awakened on the beach one winter night she’d thought she’d somehow
crossed the Atlantic and landed in a backward costal town of France. The
language was sort of French.

But
that hadn’t happened. She spoke a little French and no one could understand
her.

It
had taken her a full month to understand and believe she was no longer on
Earth.

This
was the third, and best, place she’d found. The owner of the Open Mouthed Fish
gave her food, shelter, clothing, a job. No money—but not many people had hard
coin. Travys did. He was the caretaker for the grounds called Seamasters’
Market, where fairs were held twice a year. A wealthy man in the one-street
village off the pier.