Cameo and the Highwayman (Trilogy of Shadows Book 2) (17 page)

“I’m sorry.” His voice was low, almost inaudible.

Cameo sat down beside him. “He’ll wake up again.”

Edel’s eyes searched the night sky for a moment, while a feeling of melancholy washed over him. “I saw what you saw—”

“I know.” She looked at him.

“I reminded you of Haffef. You have no idea what that does to me. He’s a monster ....”

“We’re all monsters: you, me, Jules.”

“I wasn’t always like this.” Edel paused and looked at the ruins before him, down the hillside, across the water, and met the pair of eyes he expected to see staring back at him. Haffef was watching him from the other side of the channel.

“What is it?”

Edel looked back at her, anxious. He turned his back on the water entirely. “Once I was just a man, a soldier .... I had five children. All boys.” He smiled, “It was such a long time ago now, centuries, but I can still remember them so clearly. It’s amazing how it still feels as if I’d just seen them a day ago, and that’s why I stay here.” He motioned toward the palace where the royal family had built over what had once been his home. “And here,” he touched the wall that he was sitting on, “where I once attended school.”

Cameo’s unease was melting away, turning to something closer to fascination.

“There are times when I forget how one of my sons looked or what his voice sounded like, but I’ve kept journals to remind me .... I’ve gathered up relics from when they were young. They are scarce, but when I find them I buy or steal them, because they really mean so much more to me than to anyone else who might somehow obtain them. They are my link to the past, almost the only one I have.”

“I’m sorry about the fire—”

He held up a hand to silence her. “I try to stay here because I want to fool myself into believing that one day one of my children will walk through an archway and greet me again. The way they did so many times before. Look into my eyes and smile a shy smile again.”

He sobered and refocused on Cameo. “One night, hundreds of years ago, when I was out in our barn, Haffef came. He used to create vampires back then, and he had one of his vampire thralls with him. A woman called Rachel. She looked like him: the same long, black hair, same pale white skin and dark eyes. I later learned they were from the same tribe of long extinct people. She was as heartless as he was.” He paused, “I’m rambling; forgive me.”

“You don’t have to go on.”

“Yes, I want to. “ Edel glanced down at the blowing snow, “I want to tell you my secrets.” He searched her eyes. “He murdered my sons and forced me to watch. They were so helpless, just boys… and I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t do anything about it.

“He told me I deserved to watch them die because I was a soldier and a killer myself, and what did I expect? And then it was my turn. He took my life and turned me into a vampire, and I was his thrall. I had to serve the thing that had killed my children.

“My oldest son, who was nearly a man, had come home late that night. We had left by then, and he had been spared. Haffef knew he was still alive. My eldest was the very last thing I had in all the world, and Haffef held it over me. Whenever I refused to do what Haffef asked, he would threaten my son’s life. He’s a monster… a monster.”

“I’m so sorry, Edel—”

“Don’t say that. I have murdered more sons and daughters in my pitiful undeath. I don’t deserve your compassion.”

“You are not like Haffef.” She met his eyes.

He turned away. “I saw your thoughts. I am.”

“You have human emotions; Haffef has none. You genuinely want to help me, even if I don’t exactly agree with your methods. And Chester, you really seem to love him....” Her expression seemed to open with a sudden realization. “Is he your… son?”

“No.” He smiled at her thoughtfully. “You’re very perceptive. He is the last descendent of my son. I could never keep away from my family. It was foolish,” he shook his head. “I kept them all in constant peril for hundreds of years. The last thing you want is to befriend a human, but I think you know that. Haffef enjoyed watching you suffer in the same way he enjoyed my pain.

“But, yes, Chester was the very last of my grandsons… albeit great, great, great …. I became his friend as soon as I got away from Haffef and came here. We spent many evenings together talking about his life, and he came to understand who I was. I swore never to make him an undead—zombie—for I can’t make a vampire, as I presume you must have guessed. I promised him.

“And then one day he died. It happened suddenly. He was an old man, but it came as a shock to me. They buried him, and I was unexpectedly alone again. The nights passed in silence. One evening I could bear it no longer, and I broke my promise. I journeyed to the cemetery, plucked him from his grave, and gave him back his life, of a sort.”

“That’s why he looks like ...” Edel lifted his eyes, studying her, “a corpse,” she ventured, uncertain of his mood.

“Yes,” he said. “I waited too long. If I were a better man, then perhaps, perhaps I would let him go. He can’t communicate with me now. He’s a simplified version of the man I knew. But I don’t want him to leave.”

She looked at him sadly. She had never heard anything quite so heartbreaking, or deranged.

The side of his mouth turned up in a miserable smile. “Deranged? Really?”

“So all the antiques,” she started, changing the subject abruptly, somewhat unnerved by the secret he felt determined that she should hear. “That’s why they meant so much to you? Why… you injured Jules so badly.”

“Yes.”

She that realized it would take very little of his strength to do the same to her. She was the same zombie that Jules was, and they possessed relatively the same strength, same speed, same dismal outlook.

“You don’t have to be like him.” He looked at her intently. “If you allow me to drink just a little of your blood. As I said before, I cannot create vampires, I would only pass on my gifts to you. So you have nothing to fear, and you wouldn’t be like Jules anymore.”

She stood up suddenly. “I’d rather not. Actually I came here hoping to ask you for permission to leave for one night. I promise I would return to you in twenty-four hours.”

He sighed. He had just told her his painful life story, and that entire time she was thinking of nothing but Black Opal. “I don’t suppose you’re planning on rescuing that revolutionary while you’re gone?”

She looked down at him. “I just want a few hours away from this place.”

“Or were you thinking of going back to Haffef?”

“Never. You know exactly what my plans are, Edel. You always know. Just read my mind,” she hissed.

“No,” he said at last. “I can’t let you go.”

“Why not?! Why not at least think about it?”

“Because you’ll never come back.”

Cameo met his eyes defiantly.

“You invited me to read your mind.”

Her eyes narrowed as she nodded. “Read my mind all you like. I’m dead inside, just like you.”

He watched as she walked away, swiftly, gracefully, into the darkness, then he looked out over the water of the Azez again. Haffef had gone. He was alone.

* * * * *

Kyrian sat down heavily on the settee. The room was dark, with only candles giving illumination to the pile of Opal’s things that he’d arranged on the floor in front of him. It was morning, but the clouds had rolled in during the night, and they were dark and looked heavy with snow.

It had been days since he had lost sight of the highwayman, who was apparently now a revolutionary. Of course he had heard of Francois Mond. Everyone had. Kyrian wasn’t quite certain of all the man’s exploits, but he was aware that he had been in a collaboration with a panel of ten others who had spoken out against the monarchy in Shandow and had spurred the people to revolt. It had been dubbed the Shandow Revolt, but it was in reality a failed revolution.

So now this realization that Black Opal was Francois Mond threw Opal in a glaringly new light. Kyrian looked down at the belongings. He had spent the last few days staring out at the palace, wondering what was happening in there, and going over the final things that Opal had said to him. He had wanted to protect him in the last moment before he was taken prisoner, and Kyrian was lost in the crowd. No one had ever come to find him. So his last act had not been in vain.

Kyrian haunted the streets of Villoise and finally gave in and bought a new set of inexpensive clothes with the money that Opal had handed him. He ordered a bath and lingered in it, bored, wondering if he were going to see Black Opal again. Finally, he just piled up the highwayman’s things and looked through them. There was a good deal of fine clothes, makeup paints, and other styling accessories that Kyrian planned to leave behind. The items that really sparked his interest were two separate books, one leather-bound and one loose, tied with string, and two wanted posters. The one for him as Black Opal that he had enjoyed pointing out looked nothing like him, and one worn thin for Francois Mond. The woodcut on the earlier one showed a young man, perhaps Kyrian’s age or a little younger. Opal had been at the heart of a revolution when he was younger than Kyrian. This astounded the lad more than anything else. He had done very little in his life in comparison. Perhaps this, more than anything else, was what had prompted him to pack up, taking some of Opal’s papers with him.

He descended the steps with a heavy heart.

The older woman behind the desk peered over her glasses at him. “You certainly look very smart today. Decided to take your friend’s advice and buy something new to wear, I see.”

Kyrian smiled at her. “Yes. I suppose he was right about that.”

She took the key he offered her. “You never know what pearls of knowledge some of us old people have to give sometimes.”

He paid the bill, still feeling a bit bewildered about his future.

“Best to keep yourself bundled up, young sir. An unusual chill is in the air. It set in last night and has iced up the harbor. There’s a ship stranded here, and the fishing boats are all frozen in the water.”

Kyrian pulled up the collar of his new coat and fished for a pair of heavy leather gloves lined with fur. “Good day to you.”

Outside, he breathed in the cold, and his head ached. He stepped out onto the Azez Road, which was the main road with the harbor in the distance, and also the road he and Opal had been on when he had been apprehended. As he neared the harbor, there was barely another person in sight; anyone he did run into was either hurrying into a warm doorway or outside with a purpose, chopping up firewood, or peeling frozen clothing off a clothesline. Most of them just watched him with a knowing look in their eyes.

“The boats aren’t going anywhere today, sir.”

When Kyrian finally did get down to the dock, he understood what they really meant. The sea surface had frozen solid, at least around the harbor. The dinghies were ice-coated. The pier itself was iced up. He didn’t take a step further for fear that he might slip over the side and into the Azez. Although he suspected it was solid enough to be skated on, he didn’t want to take any chances.

Kyrian turned around and looked north at Cammarth. A freak cold had left him stranded in Shandow. He had been contemplating his next move for the last few days, and two distinct ideas had come to light. It seemed the gods were moving him down the path that he was now certain he must take.

* * * * *

Opal pulled his cloak around him and looked up at the light streaming in from the barred window of the tower cell that he had been placed in. It had been days, and the only soul he had seen was one jailer. He was an overweight man with thinning red hair who brought in a pan of food, scraps from the kitchen. Opal had had quite a lot of time to think and suspected that was exactly what Avamore was hoping he was doing, locked away and awaiting the day of his execution.

He spent his time assessing his reflection in the face of the empty pan. He was growing steadily grungier in a slush of muck, without so much as a comb or wash basin as the days crept by.

“Francois.”

He startled.

A man pushed open the door.

Opal leapt to his feet.

This was the man that he had seen several times before, the one who came to bring him his food. This time he opened the door wider and allowed entry to Mister Lantillette and two more roughly dressed men, one dark-haired and one who apparently preferred to remain anonymous, wearing an executioner’s hood. They carried in a large case.

“Oh, disgusting.” Mister Lantillette pressed a handkerchief to his nose.

“Is it the day of my release?” Opal asked hopefully.

Lantillette smiled and motioned for the others to open up the case that they set up on a chair. Within the case was what appeared to be a set of workman’s tools, worn rough with use.

“Compliments of the King of Shandow.”

Opal looked at Lantillette, uncertain of what he meant.

“You do play the spinet so wonderfully, Francois.”

“Thank you ....”

“A pity that your last performance is indeed your last.”

The dandy looked down at the case before him. “What do you mean?”

“Take him now.”

The jailer and the two others who had followed Lantillette into Opal’s cell grabbed him and forced him onto the floor. Weakened from lack of adequate food and water over the past few days, he wasn’t much of a match for three men larger than he was. They ripped off his right glove and pushed one hand palm down onto the ground before him.

“Pliers or mallet?”

Opal struggled to pull his hand back to the safety of his body.

“Hey, hey, I don’t think so, my friend.” The dark-haired man holding Opal sat down on his back, pinning the dandy beneath him. “Let’s have the mallet.”

Mister Lantillette opened a folder and began to read aloud a list of Francois Mond’s crimes against the Belfour family and the country of Shandow as Opal watched the mallet pass from one fiend to the other.

“Is this a new one?”

“No, not really, it has a good balance, though. I was just roofing my mother’s house with it last week.”

Opal’s eyes widened as the jailer held it over his unprotected hand.