The Lord of Illusion - 3 (3 page)

The prime minister settled back into his chair, calmly folded his hands in his lap, the lace of his sleeves falling across his knuckles as if artfully arranged on purpose. “A half-breed has killed the elven lord Mi’cal, and taken over the sovereignty of Verdanthame.”

Cecily gasped.

Giles sucked a breath through his teeth. “Is he one of ours?”

North shook his head. “No. We became aware of this half-breed—Dorian—only recently, following the rumor of a man the locals called ‘the forest lord.’ We sent Aurelia, one of our best assassins and a most skilled spy, to seek out the half-breed. She now stands at Dorian’s side.”

“Then we have an advantage,” said Cecily.

“Perhaps. But of what use? The Rebellion did not plan this takeover. We wouldn’t have. Too risky. And we were right. The elven lords have gathered together for the first time in our history. They suspected the theft of the scepters. They suspected that one of their own, Lord Mor’ded of Firehame, was in truth a half-breed. Now they know for certain.”

Lady Cecily and Giles looked horrified. Drystan only felt confused. “Should we not be celebrating? With half-breeds on the thrones of Firehame and Verdanthame, and the possession of the scepters of Dewhame, Stonehame, and Bladehame here in Wales, only two scepters remain within the elven lords’ hands. Surely the might of five will conquer the two?”

Lord North rose one heavy brow, and Giles quickly answered. “We wish it could be that simple, Drystan. But the Imperial Lords still retain their powers, even without the scepters. And we have only three half-breeds who can wield them.”

“Four,” murmured Cecily.

“I forbid it.”

“Giles. If I am needed to wield it, then I must.”

“You are too o—”

“Oh, you wouldn’t dare say it!”

Giles lapsed into disgruntled silence.

Lord North cleared his throat. “I am afraid it may be our only option, Beaumont. The elven lords are gathering an army to lay siege to Verdanthame. Lord Mor’ded—or should I say, our half-breed General Dominic Raikes, who has assumed the disguise of Lord Mor’ded—refused to join the war. His neighbor, elven lord Breden, who lost whatever wits he might have had, has longed for an excuse to invade Firehame. With the elven lords’ suspicions about Mor’ded confirmed, they have given their blessing. Since Firehame shares a border with Verdanthame, the eastern half of England is in chaos.”

Drystan glanced at Cecily. Her skin looked as white as parchment. Breden of Dewhame was her father, and he’d been rendered completely insane when Cecily had stolen his blue scepter. He knew she did not regret it, but it crushed a part of her soul when the madman she hoped to love as a true father had tried to kill her, and forced her hand to retaliate against him.

Her voice did not betray her inner feelings. “What would you have me do?”

Lord North leaned forward. “Return with me to England. With the scepter.”

Giles made a strangled noise.

“You can at least hold Breden of Dewhame at bay, for without the scepter his powers might not prevail with your use of it against him.”

“I forbid it,” said Giles once again, but this time without any hope in his deep voice.

“She should be safe,” continued North, “with the scepters returned to Firehame.”

“Until Verdanthame is overrun. Then there will be five elven lords who will march against the sovereignty.” Giles stood, unable to contain his agitation any longer. “Admit it, Lord North. Our tactics were wrong. Stealing the scepters was not the way to free England. They do not hold as much power as we hoped. We will lose this confrontation and set our efforts for freedom back a hundred years.”

Drystan tried to keep up with the numbers the men threw about, then decided not to bother. This war would not be won by numbers and armies. It would be won with a key. He spoke into the heavy silence following Giles’s prediction. “I must respectfully disagree, Father. The scepters hold more power than anyone could have guessed.”

Giles strode over to the window, staring at the scattering of falling snow, his breath frosting the glass. “I do not have as much faith in your visions as you do.”

Drystan frowned. So, that’s why Giles did not question him about his discovery. After all these years, he had only been humoring him? Did he even believe that the scepters spoke to Drystan?

But apparently the leader of the Rebellion did, because he turned to Drystan and pierced him with that intent gaze. “They still send you visions of this white witch?”

“Yes, my lord. And at last, they have helped me to find her.” He pulled out the journal, opened it to the proper page, and showed it to North. “I believe this is her descendant, who carries the birthmark upon her skin.”

Lord North took the book, staring intently at the entry. “A slave? Hmm. And this mark, you say it is some sort of key to Elfhame?”

“My vision shows the white witch witnessing the arrival of the elven lords through the gateway between our worlds. And then she brands something on her child. Some clue to what she had seen. If there is a way to open that gate, I believe it exists in that birthmark passed down in the Ashton line. And I intend to find this woman.”

Giles spun. “You? No. We need an experienced spy for such a task.”

North ignored him. “Ever since Lord Thomas Althorp found the source of magic and the doorway to Elfhame, we have tried to find a way to open it. The elven lords’ dragon-steeds have always referred to their masters as mad. They profess that the elven are generally a peaceful people. We hoped if we could open the door, we could send them back where they belong.”

“Or release a scourge of them into our world to conquer the whole of it.”

“Giles,” interjected Cecily. “Must you anticipate doom with every breath?”

“It has kept my loved ones alive.”

Drystan heard the scuffling of feet through the hall as background accompaniment to their words. He leaned forward, his attention focusing on the man who could grant his wish. “That is my same thought, Lord North. Based on my research—the thousands of records I’ve read long into the night, I believe the key to our freedom may lie within the opening of that doorway, and may rest upon the clue this girl can provide.”

The leader of the Rebellion absentmindedly rubbed his chin, the lace of his sleeves waving to and fro, staring at Drystan as if truly seeing him for the first time. “You are a bookish lad. And you look as if a stiff wind could knock you off your feet.”

“You aren’t actually considering sending him to England?” said Giles. “The lad has barely slept in the past ten years! At last he has found what the scepters wanted, and now that he has an opportunity to finally lead a normal life—”

“Do you truly believe that?” interrupted Drystan. He spoke calmly, quietly, for despite Giles’s protests, it appeared Lord North was seriously considering Drystan’s proposal. “They will not allow me to rest. I can feel them even now, pushing me… prodding me to find this girl. And I swear to you all, I am the only one who will be able to manage her.”

“What do you mean?” asked Cecily.

Drystan colored. “It is not just a matter of finding this brand and deciphering it. Indeed, the mark may mean nothing to us, and the girl may hold some clue to it. I can’t… I can’t explain any more than that. I do not understand it all myself, for the scepters have never made it clear. But I know I am the only one who will be able to reach her.”

Cecily’s faceted blue eyes probed Drystan until he had to resist the urge to squirm. “She is the girl of
your
dreams,” she whispered, her words laden with understanding.

Drystan nodded abruptly.

She picked up the rose-patterned teacup and took a sip. “You must send Drystan, Lord North.”

Giles looked ready to tear his hair out. “I cannot allow you to go to Firehame and Drystan to Dreamhame. I cannot be in two places at once. How will I protect you both?”

Lord North grunted. “You have an extraordinary sensibility about your loved ones, Giles Beaumont. Haven’t you taught the lad to protect himself?”

“He knows how to use a pistol and a sword, if that’s your meaning.”

“Good. It’s decided then. You will all sail back with me on the morrow. And we shall bring the scepters with us, Beaumont, for although they have not won us our freedom as we hoped, at least they might help us in this war. We are setting in motion plans to search the orphans for those who might possess enough power to wield them.” North turned and studied Drystan again. “Without the bruises beneath your eyes and that haggard face, you would look very much like your brother. Hopefully once you are on your way to England, the scepters will allow you to sleep.”

Drystan blinked. To have this man refer to his brother aloud somehow made Duncan seem more real. “My lord?”

“We must have a disguise for you at Dreamhame court. You will arrive under the banner of Viscount Hawkes. As the eldest brother, the title should have gone to you anyway.”

Cecily reached out and clasped Drystan’s hand. “I am so sorry, my dear.”

Drystan froze. The news should not affect him this strongly. He did not know that man… and now he never would. “My brother holds the title? My… birth father is dead?”

“My apologies,” said Lord North. “I forget how slowly news travels to you. Aye, your father died last year, passing on the inheritance. I do not think your brother will mind your borrowing the title for a time, since he knows it truly belongs to you.”

“My… mother?”

“She is alive and well, although I cannot allow you to return to your home, you understand. As it is, Duncan will have to go into hiding for a time. You would not want to endanger them, would you?”

Drystan scowled. “I am not a fool. Indeed, you will not find another man as learned. I have been
forced
to that occupation, my lord, with a daily ritual of mental torture.”

Giles strode over to Drystan and laid a hand upon his shoulder. “You have endured more than any man should. And you have always been a son to me. You know that.”

Drystan could only nod. What kind of man would he have become without the love of Giles and Cecily? Probably one as mad as an elven lord. His throat tightened and he stood. “If you will excuse me, I have much to prepare for the morrow.”

And before anyone could utter another word that threatened his mettle, he left the room, closing the door quickly behind him. Drystan leaned against it for a moment, closing his eyes as he swayed on his feet. He prayed North was right, and that the scepters would allow him to sleep once he was bound for England. Otherwise he did not know how he would manage the journey.

Then a face formed in his mind. A lovely woman with thick, flowing ivory hair and elven eyes that sparkled with the colors of a rainbow. Eyes that held more loneliness than his own.

He would find her. If he had to walk through fire to accomplish it, he would find her.

Two

Camille Ashton sat on a stool next to the dowager duchess of Pembridge, near the fireplace within the golden withdrawing room of Dreamhame Palace. Camille loved this particular room, with its gilt walls and gold-upholstered furniture and golden candle stands. Although the ceiling had a tendency to sparkle, and occasionally shower down flecks of gold dust, at least it did not actually move. And even though the walls flickered and shifted, they did not try to close in on one.

There were worse places in the palace to mingle with the court.

Camille quickly tapped Lady Pembridge on her silk-gloved hand, startling her from a snore. The duchess gave her a brief smile of gratitude and ordered her to fetch some more tea. Camille kept her eyes averted as she threaded her way through the groups of courtiers, who treated her as one of the invisible servants, so she did not worry about their notice. But when she went to the sideboard to fetch a new kettle, she could feel the malicious stares of the other servants.

Camille had usurped her place. Not once, but twice. A slave should not be allowed to dress as a servant, to learn to speak even better than one, and to attend the gentry. If they had their way, she would be clad in rags again and sent back to the kitchens where she came from.

Camille had worked too hard to gain her current position. She tried equally hard to forget when she first came to Dreamhame as a captive of war. At first she had been treated gently, but when no ransom appeared forthcoming, she had been sent to the scullery to toil for long hours in the damp and heat. She would not have minded the work. But when the soldiers discovered that she had been designated a slave—

Camille cut off the thought, brought the kettle back to Lady Pembridge, ignoring the servants, maintaining a blank expression that had taken her years to perfect. Damn them to Elfhame and back. She would never allow another man to use her. She was no longer a frightened young girl. She knew the ways of the world—that life was nothing more than a precarious existence between one danger and the next.

She cared only for the opinion of those who offered her protection.

“My lady, may I pour for you?” she whispered.

The duchess blinked owlishly at her. “Of course, my dear. Do you know where I put my spectacles? I seem to have misplaced them again.”

Camille poured a spot of tea and then gently removed the glasses from the lady’s high white wig and handed them to her. Lady Pembridge liked to dress in the height of fashion. Camille attended to all that her costume required. She shaved the lady’s head in preparation for her wigs, ground the stone that provided the silver sparkle in them—although Camille did not see how humans thought it imitated the elven lords’ own magical sheen.

Lady Pembridge had a whimsical streak, however, and her wig did not imitate the straight locks of the elven. The wig spiraled upward from her brow like a column of cloud, flowers and stuffed birds and glass fruit twisted among and between the locks. The lady loved her rouge and patch-box as well, often requiring Camille to place more than one black beauty mark upon that wrinkled face.

She often looked ridiculous. Camille loved her for it.

“Can you compress my hoops again, my dear? They seem to have sprung back up and keep poking my elbows. It is quite distracting my attention from my neighbors.”

The duchess enjoyed nothing more than watching her neighbors. And gossiping about them. Camille surmised that Lady Pembridge knew more about what went on in the palace than the elven lord himself.

As if she had conjured him with a thought, Imperial Lord Roden entered the room, frighteningly resplendent in cloth of gold, the skirt of his coat swirling about him as if caught in some invisible wind. Gold thread had also been woven in the lace at his throat and sleeves, even finer strands creating the design of a dragon in the clocks of his hose. His long white hair flowed down his back like a river of sparkling silver, his pointed ears peeking through the strands of it. Large golden faceted eyes surveyed the room, only the malignant expression on his face robbing it from glorious beauty.

Silence enveloped the room at his entrance. He appeared to enjoy it.

Camille quickly stuffed Lady Pembridge’s hoops into the sides of her chair and hunkered back down on her stool. Besides gracing his palace with illusions that terrified and trapped the unwary, Lord Roden liked to play with his courtiers. He held the golden scepter of glamour and illusion, and enjoyed using it to torment and humiliate random victims.

His games had become especially malicious since a half-breed had killed the elven lord of Verdanthame and stolen the green scepter.

“I am bored,” he announced to the room in general.

Men paled and women swooned.

The duchess muttered something that Camille couldn’t quite make out.

“Lord Berkhamstead.” Roden turned toward a bear of a man who wore his black hair in a natural queue down his back, defiantly wigless, although he dressed as lavishly as his companions. “I understand your wife has recently given birth.”

Up to this point the man had refused to show any sort of reaction toward the elven lord’s presence. Now his face quickly paled to the same shade of the others. “I… uh…”

“Come along, man. Surely you don’t believe the rumors that I kill off your young? If your daughter has the requisite power, she will be sent to Elfhame.” Roden smiled, a perfect display of even white teeth that made Camille shiver with dread. “Magical, beautiful Elfhame. Where rivers flow with honey and diamonds are as common as gravel.”

“She will be sent to you for testing, my lord.”

“See to it, Berkhamstead. And none of this sneaking off into the night with the infant. Or some malady overtaking it so a quick burial is necessary. The ingenuity of your race is impressively unimaginative.”

Roden’s golden gaze roamed the room. “Although I must say, our elven blood has infiltrated your species to an astonishing degree. Whence all our troubles come, methinks. We would not be marching to war if it hadn’t been for you half-breeds.”

His eyes fixed upon a young girl, barely past her teens and dressed well enough to meet even Lady Pembridge’s standards.

“Is that a wig upon your head, girl?”

“N-no, my lord.”

He strode over to her, taking a lock of hair between his fingers. “No sparkle though. But your eyes. They remind me of Lady La’laylia’s, glittering like amethyst jewels. I wonder how much of her blood you carry within your veins. You are new to my court?”

Camille held her breath. Although everyone at court had been tested for magical ability and proven harmless as a threat to the elven lord, a newcomer would be tested again. And Roden had a… taste for new blood.

“Yes, my lord,” replied the young girl. “I am visiting my cousins.”

“Odd time to visit, with the war and all. You humans wander like nomads. And who is this, one of your admirers?”

The girl blushed to the roots of her pale hair. “No, my lord. I mean, we have just met, my lord.”

The young man in question colored almost as red as the girl.

Roden raised his scepter, aiming the triangular-shaped head straight at the girl.

Lady Pembridge muttered something and Camille quickly patted her hand to shush her. The elven lord could swallow them all with a thought, which the old lady knew perfectly well. But her outbursts had grown more voluble lately, rising in proportion to her inability to remember the latest gossip, or when she had last eaten.

Only someone addlepated would seek the elven lord’s attention. One did not
mutter
every time he spoke.

A flash of gold light sparked the tip of the scepter and swelled to surround the girl. She still had a half smile on her pretty face, her hands demurely folded at her waist beneath an embroidered stomacher that boasted rows of ribbons to match the ones tied in her hair.

The ribbons disappeared first. Then the stomacher. Then her pale pink dress and bodice, until she stood in nothing but her stays, hoops, and chemise.

Camille let loose a sigh of relief. He would not truly harm her, then.

The court gasped and the girl turned startled eyes on them. Then the rest of her clothing disappeared, with the exception of her stockings and gold-buckled shoes. Her clothing still covered her of course. The elven lord had just turned it invisible, so the poor thing realized her position only when she glanced down.

Her stays pushed her small breasts up into a position that looked quite odd without the covering.

She gasped and covered herself with her hands, turned a horrified glance at the young man beside her, and began to cry.

The court grew deathly silent.

Roden laughed, a musical sound that belied the cruelty within it. His loyal followers echoed his laughter, although most just turned their heads away in sympathy.

The young man finally gathered his wits and threw his coat about the girl, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her from the room.

Camille knew the girl would survive the humiliation. There were so many other things the elven lord could have done to her, which she would not have survived. The girl had been lucky, but Camille imagined her own perspective might be twisted from experience.

A sparkle of gold dust fluttered down from the ceiling, covering the elven lord’s hair and shoulders, making him glitter in all his handsome elegance.

Living at Dreamhame Palace taught Camille to never trust in appearances.

Lady Pembridge muttered yet again, this time loudly enough to capture the elven lord’s notice. He turned toward her, one pale brow raised in interest. “You did not enjoy the entertainment, madam?”

Devil take it! Camille hunched her shoulders and tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. She should not have allowed her sympathy for the young girl to distract her from the duchess. Now it was too late. The old woman blinked in surprise at first, then realized she held the attention of everyone in the room.

She removed her spectacles, a stubborn look crossed her face, and Camille felt her heart drop.

“Certainly not,” replied the dowager duchess. “Humiliating such an innocent thing. It smacks of a bully, my lord.”

Those faceted golden eyes glittered and that handsome mouth twisted. “Ah, but don’t you see it is a harmless way to test her? If she held enough magical ability to counter my power, she surely would have used it to save herself from—as you call it—such humiliation.”

Lady Pembridge humphed.

“Tsk, tsk.” He stalked toward them, a cat playing with a mouse. Camille tried very hard not to shiver. “Such censure. I cannot bear it, old mother. And yet, we must have some amusement. Since you did not enjoy mine, perhaps you would be willing to provide some yourself.”

Camille’s hand still rested on the arm of the duchess’s chair from when she had last tried to stop the lady from muttering. Her fingers curled into a fist. The movement caught Roden’s attention and those golden eyes captured hers briefly; a flash of memory shone within them, and then he dismissed her.

With his uncanny elven memory, he must have recalled her as the slave girl who held not a whit of magical ability, despite her elven eyes and features. Most people found it difficult to forget her odd multicolored eyes. Roden had tested her more than once, certain she held some powerful magic with eyes that carried colors from all seven scepters.

But time and again she had proven to carry no magic whatsoever. She did not have the power to enchant gems, as Lady La’laylia of the lavender scepter did. Camille could not cast an illusion as Roden did with his gold scepter, or conjure fire as Mor’ded did with the black, or command the earth as Annanor did with the brown, or craft metal as Lan’dor did with the silver, or control sea and sky as Breden did with the blue. Or enthrall a forest, as the elven lord Mi’cal had once done with the green scepter, until the half-breed killed him.

“Come now, my lady,” purred Roden to the dowager duchess. “Do not demur. I recall you have some magical ability for illusion. I see some golden color in those hazel eyes.”

Lady Pembridge finally seemed to realize her predicament. She had become the elven lord’s new entertainment. She stubbornly refused to play along.

“You must know I carry little magic to speak of, my lord, or surely I would have cast an illusion to erase the wrinkles from this old face.”

Chuckles scattered about the room. Camille glanced at all the fine lords and ladies, in their silk skirts and velvet coats and golden jewelry. How much of it was real? Most of them carried enough elven blood and power to cast such harmless spells, and Camille had none of her own magic to counter it and see past the illusion. Roden, of course, could see through such weak enchantments with little effort, as could those with enough of the elven blood. So Camille guessed most of what they wore to be real. But human blood still dominated the room, and not a crooked tooth or blemish could she find. Illusion perfected their features, no doubt.

Except for the half-breed elven. Such beauty needed no magic to enhance it.

Roden turned, flipped up the back of his coat skirts and sat on a chair slightly across the room from them. “You are being too modest, Lady P—something-or-other.”