The Lord of Illusion - 3 (27 page)

Drystan wondered if the elven lords would eventually send their dragon-steeds into battle. If they did, all would be lost, unless some of the true dragons came to the Rebellion’s aid in turn. Surely Firehame’s black dragon, Ador, would join in the effort to protect his own palace? But perhaps he had chosen to avoid the sickness that afflicted Grimor’ee from breaking the enchantment laid upon him. Perhaps Ador had chosen to huddle in a tower somewhere, refusing to aid either side.

One of Annanor’s illusory dragons flew straight toward them, trying to avoid a blast of fire from one of the lizards pursuing it. Drystan hurriedly willed his dragon to dip, pulling Camille down as he ducked, the sharp talons of the beast barely missing their heads and the following crackle of heat forcing them even lower.

They flew straight for the red-flaming turrets of Firehame Palace.

A barrier of some sort shivered around them. It looked and felt like the waves of heat that form close to a flame. Dominic must have used another form of magic besides the fire lizards to protect his skies—a spell to serve as an alarm for any enemies approaching too closely from above. Drystan expected to hear an outcry from the soldiers below them, but his pocket burned once again, and they flew nearer to the courtyard without anyone the wiser.

Drystan frowned. He had noticed the burning once before. It came from the pocket where he kept the scepter. Yet for most of the journey, the golden rod had lain quiescent, like nothing more than a lump of coal. Indeed, it had not attempted to hum or communicate to him in any way since Grimor’ee stole it from Roden. But it had sparked to life twice now, as if it expended some magical energy. If Drystan did not know any better, he would think the scepter aided his own spells. Surely that could not be, for he did not carry enough elven blood within his veins to wield the thing. He had felt the promise of death when Roden threatened to touch him with it.

But Drystan did not have time to wonder about it, for the ground rushed at them too quickly, and he did not have any idea how to land a dragon.

They rocked back and forth on unsure wings, abruptly descending into the largest courtyard in the middle of the palace. Red bricks paved the square and the walls, and warm yellow flames danced along the towers and turrets. They flew too close to one wall, but the yellow flame did not burn, and although Drystan had heard of the degrees of Dominic’s magical fire, Camille let out a little bark of surprise.

One did not need to fear the yellow fire, but the red burned powerfully, and the black perhaps the worst, for it burned in the mind. Dominic had used it to kill his father, Mor’ded, and take over the elven lord’s sovereignty.

Drystan forced himself to concentrate, for he could not keep them on a steady landing course.

After colliding with another wall, he decided it might be wiser to allow the beast’s instincts to take over. Camille screamed as the dragon bobbed erratically across the cobblestones of the palace courtyard.

“Damn,” growled Drystan.

The dragon’s talons toppled over two carriages and a pile of boxes.

A knot of Firehame’s soldiers split apart and drew their weapons, shouting in confusion.

Drystan willed the dragon in the direction of a cart overburdened with stale hay. If they had to crash—

He had not once loosened his hold upon Camille during their chaotic flight, but the impact of their landing tore her from his arms. A wild jumble of images flashed before his eyes. Camille’s fur cloak as it fluttered about her gold uniform. The shimmer of fading magic as dragon turned back into horse. The face of a soldier with sparkling silver eyes, mouth open in astonishment. And then a yellow mass of twigs.

Drystan grunted from the impact, then rolled, brushing aside the hay that clouded his vision, looking for Camille.

She lay a few feet from him, atop the pile of hay now covering the completely smashed cart. The horse landed a few feet from her but stood upright soon enough, apparently unharmed, but snorting and stomping in fear.

Drystan crawled over to Camille, the hay puffing up dust that made his nose itch. His back ached with bruising, and his head felt like an anvil sat upon it, but he ignored his pains as he patted Camille’s cheek.

He could not have harmed her. So foolish—

“Don’t move,” shouted a voice ringing with command.

Drystan turned and looked up into the same silver eyes he had glimpsed earlier, but now realized they belonged to a female soldier. Her white elven hair sparkled with a matching silver color, testifying to the healthy dose of elven blood flowing in her veins. He envied that sheen.

“I am a member of the Rebellion,” he panted. “I have come to see Lord North.” Then Drystan turned back to Camille, completely dismissing the female warrior. “My love, please wake up.”

Apparently the silver-eyed woman was not used to being ignored. “Get up,” she snapped. “I do not care who you say you are. You have invaded the palace, and if you do not want to die in the next few seconds you will submit to your arrest.”

Camille’s lashes fluttered, and Drystan breathed a sigh of relief. He turned back to the woman. “My lady is hurt, and if you do not fetch someone to see to her this instant—”

Those silver eyes narrowed, and the woman drew her sword, effectively cutting off Drystan’s flow of words.

“You have five seconds,” she hissed, pointing the blade at Camille. “Your
lady
wears one of Roden’s uniforms.”

“Hold!” shouted another voice from within the doorway of the palace.

Drystan did not take his eyes off the soldier. He tried to fling a spell at her, something to push her away, but his magic had gone back to evading his will once again.

“Drystan? Is that you? Thank all of the saints!”

Drystan glanced over the woman’s shoulder. Giles. His white-blond hair blended with the half-breeds surrounding him, but Drystan would not mistake those human green eyes for any other than his foster father.

“General… Wilhelmina,” said Giles soothingly, “this is Drystan Hawkes. Stand down.”

She arched one silver brow, but lowered her weapon.

“I need a healer,” said Drystan.

Giles nodded, but before he could dispatch a soldier to fetch one, Camille sat up, brushing hay from her ivory hair.

“I am fine,” she wheezed. “Just a bit addled from that landing.”

“I am sorry,” replied Drystan. “Getting a dragon down is much harder than keeping it aloft. Are you sure you are well?”

At her emphatic nod, Drystan turned and looked back up at the female soldier. “
The
Wilhelmina?”

Her silver brow rose slightly higher, and she shrugged.

Damn. Drystan should have guessed. With those silver elven eyes that bespoke of Bladehame, and the magical sheen of her sword along with her imposing physical stature, it could be none other than Lan’dor’s former champion. Her height topped that of the man standing next to her, who caught Drystan’s attention as well. If not for his pointed ears and fine features, Drystan would not have guessed him to carry any elven blood, with those human brown eyes and hair.

“Alexander?” breathed Drystan.

The man dipped his brown head in acknowledgement, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

“What’s the matter?” murmured Camille.

Drystan stood up, bringing her with him. “Miss Camille Ashton,” he pronounced, “may I introduce you to Wilhelmina, the Duchess of Chandos, who was once Lan’dor’s champion, but gave it all up for the love of the man beside her: Alexander, the Duke of Chandos, a skilled sword-dancer, son of General Dominic Raikes and Lady Cassandra. The two of them together…
acquired
the silver scepter for the Rebellion.”

“I see.” Camille gave a hesitant smile. “I am pleased to meet you.”

The duchess managed to soften her stunning face with a little smile, but the duke now grinned broadly.

Drystan frowned. Camille did not sound as impressed as she should. Did she not understand the perils these two had undergone for the Rebellion’s cause? Or did shyness hold her back? They might be legends in their own time, but Camille was now a free woman, and should consider herself as an equal. His foster father rescued him from his conflicted feelings.

“Now I know how I rate,” said Giles, “when you introduce your lady to strangers before the man who raised you.”

“Forgive me.” Drystan flushed, guided Camille down from the pile of hay to his foster father. Then found himself blinking in surprise, unconsciously lifting his hand toward Giles’s cheek. Giles said he had been marked by wild magic, but until now, Drystan had never seen the proof of it, for the blemish faded in mundane Wales.

Giles’s hand rose as well, fingering the livid green mark on the left side of his face. “Aye, it came back the moment I passed the magical barrier into England.”

“You should wear it proudly, Father.”

He shrugged, and Drystan realized how foolish he had been to become enthralled over meeting Alexander and Wilhelmina. The perils Giles had endured surely equaled any others’… except, perhaps, General Dominic Raikes. “Camille, allow me to introduce you to Giles Beaumont, my foster father.”

Giles crossed his muscular arms over his chest, his four-and-sixty years not reducing his prowess in the least, thanks to his elven blood. He tapped one booted foot impatiently on the red cobblestones.

“Giles and my foster mother,” Drystan rushed on, “discovered the source of magic in the Seven Corners of Hell… which is where he acquired the green mark upon his face. It is from wild magic.” He glanced at Giles, who still tapped his foot. “Which dangers he fought with valiant bravery, helping Lady Cecily to escape. At great peril to his life.” Drystan waited. Had he apologized enough? The foot still tapped a steady rhythm. Apparently not. “Because of my foster father’s heroic deeds, Lady Cecily managed to wrest the blue scepter from Breden of Dewhame, and they both escaped to Wales, where they raised the orphan children saved from elven testing. As you already know, I was one of the lucky recipients of his training and guidance. He is a master swordsman. And a brilliant scholar of elven lore. And—damn it, Father, if I go on at length any longer, I shall—”

Giles laughed and stepped forward and hugged Drystan. “It’s good to see you, Son.”

Drystan hugged him back, measure for measure, until Giles set him aback and cocked a smile. “You have come into your full strength, I see. It’s difficult to believe you were once sickly.”

Drystan flushed again. The problem with one’s parents, he decided, was that they always viewed one as still a child. He quickly changed the subject. “What of your sword? When you entered the realm of magic again, did it go back to its bloodthirsty ways as well?”

“Aye. Damn thing keeps whining for me to take it into battle. I haven’t had a lick of rest since we got here.”

“Lady Cecily came with you, then?”

“Of course.”

“And what of… what of the three?”

Giles gave Wilhelmina a pointed look. She and her husband had been listening to their conversation intently, Dominic’s son still wearing that broad grin. With some dismay, Drystan suspected it had widened on his behalf.

Wilhelmina turned to her men, who milled about with curiosity. A few of them still held sword or pistol in hand. She frowned at them. “Did you honestly think I could not handle these two by myself?”

Heads immediately shook, and weapons were hastily sheathed.

“Back to your drills,” she commanded.

Alexander spun to follow the rest of the men.

“Not you,” she groaned with exasperation suffusing her voice.

Alexander turned around and winked at Drystan. For some reason, that small gesture made him feel more at ease.

Giles leaned forward and enfolded Camille in his arms. “Welcome, child. I hear you may bear a mark as well.”

She caught her breath, then nodded against his chest.

Drystan reached out and towed her back to his side. Giles frowned, and then suddenly his face cleared. “That’s the way of it, then? It seems Lady Cecily was right. She will be pleased to hear it.” He studied Camille thoughtfully. “She is beautiful, Drystan, this lady of your dreams. And what remarkable eyes! I think I see every color of the seven sovereignties within them. And unless these old human eyes of mine have deceived me, you rode in on the back of a dragon. You must have powerful magic, my dear.”

Camille shook her head. “I have no magic at all, Mister Beaumont, despite my elven blood. ’Twas Drystan who changed our horse to dragon, and who concealed us well enough until we landed.”

“Call me Giles. You shall make me feel old, otherwise.” He glanced back at Drystan. “It seems you have come into your magical powers as well, my son. I am glad for you. I just prayed you had brought some hope for us.”

“But we did.”

Wilhelmina gasped, and her husband threw an arm about her waist to steady her.

“Camille may not have any magic,” continued Drystan, “but she held the key,
and
was clever enough to decipher it.”

Giles’s handsome old face split into a radiant smile, one that made many a young woman swoon, despite his advanced years. “It existed then? I had prayed… come; we will talk inside, where it is safe. There are more spies among these walls than even we can guess.”