The Lord of Illusion - 3 (23 page)

He picked up her hand and kissed it, his lips warm against her skin. “But you will allow me to try?”

An odd feeling swelled in her heart. Hope. He offered her hope, and she could not deny him.

She nodded.

His golden eyes darkened to brown. “In the meantime, I shall just have to love you enough for the both of us.”

She reached over and smoothed his pale hair back from his temple, gently traced the tip of his pointed ear. Camille kissed him then, trying to pleasure him with her touch, since she could not hope to do so otherwise.

When she finally pulled away, he turned and stared off into the distance. “One day I shall write a poem of my love for you.”

And so they talked of what they would do after they finished their task for the Rebellion—never once mentioning they may not survive it—until night began to fall, and Drystan yawned, then folded her in his arms, laying them both back onto her fur cloak. Within moments she heard the sound of his deep heavy breathing, but she fought her own exhaustion, forcing her eyes open to gaze at the sky dusky with twilight. She had never expected to have a lover. Never expected to enjoy… friendship with a man. She did not want to lose this feeling inside of her.

She tried to identify it. Not contentment. Stronger than that.

Joy. Ah, this is what joy felt like. She would tuck this feeling—the memory of this entire day—safely within her heart. For Camille knew it could not last. Not as long as the elven lords ruled their world, for only in Drystan’s illusions could she no longer be a slave.

Ten

Despite her best attempts to stay awake, Camille must have drifted off to sleep, for when she opened her eyes again, the night had turned to deepest black. She tried to untangle herself from Drystan without waking him, but he sat up when she fetched her clothes.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “My magic still holds… we can stay here ’til morning.”

But at his words they both felt a chill breeze and saw a hint of falling snow.

Camille had actually been surprised when she had woken to a warm summer night instead of the dead of winter. Drystan had more powerful magic than he realized, to keep up an illusion for this long. Too bad he could not seem to control it.

She slipped her chemise over her head. “I made a promise to see Grimor’ee tonight.”

Drystan sat up and groaned, ran his fingers through his hair.

“I believe,” she continued, “your illusion coincides with the natural world. Magic usually takes the path of least resistance, and it feels like late evening or early morn—oh, Drystan, look.”

He stood and glanced around, his eyes widening. Camille felt his warm hand close over hers as they both stilled in wonder.

The waterfall glowed. No, the crystal glowed, lighting up the water as it spilled into the small pond, casting myriad sparkles of reflected light off the glassy surface. Tiny flowers had opened in the moss at their feet, each blossom containing a small spark of luminescence, the whole of them glittering like thousands of diamonds. Something similar had happened to the flowers and plants lining the gravel path, for they all sported their own phosphorescent colors of blues and reds and deep purples.

“This is not my doing,” said Drystan. “I could never have imagined anything like this. I changed the garden only from winter to summer.”

“Elfhame must be beautiful,” murmured Camille, “and the elven lords mad to have left it.”

“Indeed. Here, allow me to help you dress, my love. I am coming with you.”

His casual endearments—as if they had spent years together instead of days—made her feel warm inside. As if they had, indeed, known each other all of their lives. Camille flushed, wrapped her stays around her, and presented her back. “To see Grimor’ee? I am not sure that is wise, Lord Hawkes. After all, he threatened to turn you into a toad.”

His warm fingers tugged at her laces. “I believe it was a frog, but it does not signify. I do not trust that dragon, and I shan’t let you meet with him alone.”

Camille shrugged. She had been meeting with Grimor’ee alone for years. She had done everything alone for years. What an odd feeling to have someone who wanted to cleave to her side. It would require some getting used to.

When they finished dressing, Drystan headed off down the path, stopping to investigate an occasional glowing petal. Camille gave the waterfall one last sad glance before following him. She would never forget this place as long as she lived.

Hand in hand, they reached the building of pillars atop the rise and stopped for a moment, unable to resist gazing at the panorama below them. In the daylight the garden had been a moving, shifting riot of color and sound. Although some of the plants still continued to sway, most appeared asleep. Only their long stamens glowing with color danced above them, releasing tiny particles of sparkling pollen that littered the air like thousands of fireflies.

They left the garden wordlessly, Camille’s heart sinking with each step they took. She twisted her hand from Drystan’s as soon as they walked out the gate.

They had entered the real world again.

Camille took one last look behind her. The glowing colors slowly faded, snow once again covering the garden.

Night had indeed fallen outside, the horses half-asleep where they stood sheltered amongst the trees. Camille put on her gloves and cloak, wrapping the latter tightly around her against the cold, which seemed harsher now in comparison to the warmth of their summer garden. The ride back through the woods did not alarm her as much as it had before, and a full moon turned the snow into a blanket of glistening white.

When they reached the stables, a very sleepy lad took their horses, and they crossed the deserted courtyard and used the stairs that twisted outside the dragon’s tower to reach Grimor’ee’s perch. Camille felt the unfamiliar weight of the weapons on her hips and took comfort from it.

Drystan tried to take her hand as they climbed, but she shied away from him until he finally gave up.

A light snow began to fall when they reached the top of the tower. Grimor’ee waited for them in a patch cleared of snow, those golden eyes glowing and his tail swishing back and forth. Camille sensed something different about the dragon, but she could not tell what until she got closer to him.

The tips of his golden scales had darkened to an ugly brown, as fruit would do when left to rot.

“What is it?” she asked, bewildered by his suddenly altered appearance.

Grimor’ee shook his head like some enormous dog, opened his mouth, and dropped something gold near her feet.

Camille heard Drystan huff behind her, but spared no attention for him at the moment, her eyes fixed upon the dragon. “You look unwell.”

His tail slapped the stone, spraying snow several feet into the air. “This is what happens when a dragon dares to break an enchantment that binds him.” He lifted one sharp talon and pushed the gold thing he had dropped toward her. “Do not touch it. Wrap it in something before you pick it up.”

Camille glanced down at the golden object near her feet. Her stomach lurched, and her knees almost gave beneath her. She tried to deny what her vision told her. “That is not Roden’s golden scepter.”

“It is,” answered Drystan, stepping up beside her. “But at least the damn thing is quiet now.”

“What do you—never mind. Grimor’ee, what have you done?”

“I have broken a spell that has bound me for centuries. I have acted directly against my master to aid a human.”

“But how… why?”

He snorted, a white mist enveloping her. Within it she glimpsed several quick visions: her thin arms hugging his snout, his wing wrapping around her body, her hands stroking the fine scales along his great jaw.

“I am not the first to do so.” He glanced at Drystan. “Nor do I suspect this will be the last time we dragons struggle against the enchantments that bind us. But be assured that I felt I had no other choice.”

“I am sure you didn’t,” drawled Lord Hawkes.

The red lines separating the dragon’s irises flared. “I have done more to aid her in this one moment than you shall ever do in your lifetime.”

Drystan straightened his spine, his hand hovering closer to his sword. Camille glanced from one to the other in confusion and took a step half in front of Drystan to break the tension. She wished Drystan and the dragon had not taken such an immediate dislike to one another.

“Grimor’ee. Does the elven lord know you took it? Perhaps you can return it before he discovers the theft. I do not want you in danger because of me.”

His snout lowered as his gaze swept to hers. “I had a vision… I could not lose you. You will need the scepter to use the key. Take it, or my sacrifice will be for nothing.”

Drystan stepped forward, withdrew a large kerchief from his pocket, and wrapped up the scepter, then gave it to Camille. Her hands shook as she stared at the bundle. “What will happen to you?”

A grumble sounded in Grimor’ee’s scaled throat. “I will lead Roden on a merry chase, giving you a chance to escape. It might not be enough, however, and you must fear more for yourself than me.”

Camille could still not believe the dragon had betrayed the elven lord for her. The beast already looked ill from the effects of fighting the spell, and she wondered how long it would take before the rot crept over his entire scales, leaving them dead and lifeless. She stared into the dragon’s golden eyes and felt her own start to burn.

“What should we do?” asked Drystan.

Grimor’ee did not take his gaze from hers. “The elven lord will march his army to Firehame tomorrow, scepter or no, although he might delay a few hours to search for it. You must leave tonight, in secret, for he will not notice your absence when he discovers I have stolen his scepter. I made sure he knew who took it.”

“What will you do?” whispered Camille.

The dragon softened his voice from a rumble to a hiss. “I will go into hiding until I am… called. Do not worry for me, little one. The future of England lies within your small hands.”

Camille’s breath hitched.

“I must get word to Talbot,” said Drystan, his mind obviously intent on concerns that did not involve the dragon’s well-being.

“Tell no one,” rumbled Grimor’ee. “The man can take care of himself. Your only hope is to leave now, to travel to Firehame as quickly as you can. Get the key to the pretend Mor’ded—this half-breed Dominic Raikes, and take the scepter…”

The dragon choked, a shudder running through him from snout to tail. “I must go. Now, Camille. Come say good-bye, quickly.”

She handed the bundle to Drystan with nary a glance at him and ran forward, wrapping her arms around the dragon’s snout, resting her cheek against his cold scales.

“I do not understand,” she whispered.

“I know,” replied Grimor’ee, moving his maw carefully so as not to dislodge her when he spoke. Camille felt his wings wrap around her, cutting off her sight and protecting her from the snowfall. “But from this moment on, you are free to make your own way in the world. I have watched you suffer for so long… Do not be sad, Camille, for if all goes well, we shall meet again.”

“You have been my best friend.”

“No, I have not,” he replied. “For friends help one another.” He lowered his wings and took a step back, ripping his snout from her arms. “But I am now.”

He spread his wings, and Camille backed away, watched as he struggled to gain the sky. He lacked his usual grace as he launched from the tower, nor did he appear to dance so easily with the stars when he managed to lift upward. What had he done for her? She would never have thought—

“I would not have believed it if I had not witnessed it myself,” said Drystan. “I discounted the rumors… can it be that living among humans have truly given the dragons a heart?” Then he frowned. “But the elven lords lack any feelings, nor will they ever acquire them. Come, my love, and let us take Grimor’ee’s advice. For he has given much, I think, to see you freed.”

“Yes.” Camille staggered forward, her eyes blinded by tears, which she had not shed in so long she did not think she remembered how to cry. They just trailed silently down her cheeks, freezing on her skin near her jaw.

Lord Hawkes reached out a hand and steadied her, led her across the tower and down the stairs, through the courtyard and into the stables. Camille stood in the warmth and continued to stare blindly forward, aware that Drystan prepared the horses himself in quiet stealth, choosing fresh mounts.

He led the horses forward, tied their reins around a post, then touched her cheek. She looked up into his amber eyes and nodded. She would not let Grimor’ee’s sacrifice go to waste.

Drystan handed her a bundle and she blanched, until she realized it was larger than the scepter. “Do not worry,” he whispered. “I put
that
in my inside coat pocket—and it is jabbing me under the arm. This is the uniform you, err, acquired. Thankfully, the stableboy kept it with my saddle. It will be faster and easier for you to ride astride, and two men will gather less notice. I have already been thinking of some sort of story we can tell… here, follow me.” He led her into a small supply room, and quickly unbuttoned her bodice with practiced fingers, then turned her around and untied her stays. “I am going to the kitchens to pack up some provisions. I cannot rely on my magic to provide for us. Will you be alright?”

Camille nodded and began to untie her hoops.

He gave her a sharp look, nodded back, and left the stables.

She changed clothing quickly, the tight leather gloves she wore hindering her only slightly. The soldier’s uniform that Molly had stolen sagged on her, but she stuffed the breeches into her boots, and rolled up the sleeves of shirt, coat, and waistcoat as she had done earlier with Drystan’s shirt, buckling her new belt of weapons around the lot. She pushed away the sudden image of an enchanted waterfall and tried to ignore the pit of dread in her stomach.

She must hide her other garments. Questions would be raised if someone found them. At the far back of the room lay tackle covered in dust, and she carefully moved a saddle to avoid disturbing the fine layer, and stuffed her clothing beneath it. She pulled her fur cloak back on, for she had no greatcoat to replace it with, and the black velvet on the outside made for good cover over the dull gold of the uniform.

If one did not look closely, her cloak could be mistaken for a man’s. She had seen dandies wear even fancier.

She removed her mob cap and stuffed it in the pocket of the soldier’s coat, pulled the hood over her head, and went back to wait for Drystan by the horses. It felt odd to be free of stays once again, but she did not miss the skirts. Her legs moved more freely in breeches, although the fabric scratched her inner thighs. She had not thought to ask Molly for a man’s drawers, and shuddered to think of even wearing them. She could live with the discomfort.