The Lord of Illusion - 3 (28 page)

Drystan glanced at Camille. “It has been a long, difficult journey. She must eat and rest first. And she will need a change of clothing.”

“Of course,” said Giles.

“I am fine,” interjected Camille. “Besides, we carry important news. I will not be able to rest until we deliver it.”

Drystan sighed, but understood exactly how she felt. Too many of their countrymen were dying outside of these walls.

“I will call a meeting,” offered Wilhelmina. “We shall gather in the blue salon.” And she strode away.

Her husband followed her with his eyes, turned and grinned at Drystan when he noticed him watching. “We’d best hurry. My wife and Lady Joscelyn will have them assembled soon enough.”

“Lady Joscelyn,” repeated Drystan, striving to keep the eagerness from his voice. He would not act like some awestruck schoolboy yet again.

“Indeed. Ever since Beaumont brought the lavender scepter from Wales, she has been enchanting gems for the soldiers to carry into battle. She despises using the thing almost as much as Lady Cecily despises using the blue scepter, so I imagine she will welcome a break.”

Drystan turned to Giles, who easily read his expression.

“Your foster mother has been trying to slow the advance of the rest of the elven lords. She sent a blizzard to Dreamhame, but Roden managed to shield his sovereignty from the brunt of it, and his army steadily marches. She has managed to slow La’laylia of Stonehame and Lan’dor of Bladehame, but not as much as she hoped. She fears to harm the humans in their armies.”

Drystan read the worry in the older man’s face. Using the blue scepter must be taking a toll on Lady Cecily, who feared the scepter’s ability to beguile her to use all of its devastating power.

They could do nothing about his foster mother’s struggle with temptation; she would have to fight that internal battle on her own. Drystan quickly tried to divert Giles’s thoughts elsewhere. “I suppose General Samson Cavendish is here, as well?”

“Of course,” replied Giles, his strong chin lifting slightly. He slapped Drystan on the back again, and led him forward into the palace. “Besides Verdanthame, this is the last bastion of the Rebellion. Soon you shall meet many of those you have read about, for they will wish to hear your news firsthand. And if you hadn’t noticed, we are running out of time.”

The mention of their current predicament sobered them all, and it was a quiet procession that filed into the palace hall. Drystan stared at their surroundings, having only read of Firehame Palace. It looked much like Dreamhame, but with less gold opulence, and more magical creations of fire. Fountains of yellow flame spilled into marble bowls; eyes within portraits followed their movements as they passed. The statue of a flaming griffin snapped at them, and fiery strands of tapestries rewove themselves into one dreadful scene after another.

Drystan did not release Camille’s hand. If he was feeling a bit overwhelmed by the company and their surroundings, he could only imagine what she might be going through. But she only clasped his fingers tighter, her face betraying none of her emotions.

“It is best not to wander the halls,” said Giles. “Dominic did not change Mor’ded’s decor for fear his charade would be discovered, and he did not have the time to concern himself with such matters when the elven lords suspected him and attacked.”

“Of course,” murmured Drystan as they followed his foster father into a withdrawing room with watered blue silk covering the walls. Blue carpets lay scattered about the floor like puddles of water, and blue fire swirled from silver urns and blue crystal vases. Even the ceiling had been painted blue, with white clouds to relieve the color, giving an eerie likeness to true sky.

Drystan froze, bringing both Camille and Giles to an abrupt halt. Alexander bowed deeply, then continued into the room and pulled up a chair, watching Drystan with that indulgent smile still on his face.

Alexander, the Duke of Chandos, must be near fifty years old, although he possessed enough elven blood to make him appear much younger… and carried himself with enough poise to make Drystan feel even younger than half of those years.

But Drystan could not help his astonished stare. For Lord North, the leader of the Rebellion and Prime Minister to the king, sat in a chair near the window, the yellow flames of the outside walls occasionally flickering over the thick glass. Next to him sat a handsome blond man of middle years. If the crown circling his brow had not already told Drystan he faced the king of England, the protruding eyes, straight nose, and small mouth of the Hanoverian line would have.

Giles bowed as deeply as Alexander had, jolting Drystan to do the same. Camille gave the king an elegant curtsy, and his heart soared with pride for the grace of his lady.

“Your Majesty,” said Giles. “May I present my foster son, Viscount Drystan Hawkes—”

“That is my brother’s title,” whispered Drystan.

“No longer,” answered Giles, “since you are returned home. Indeed, should we survive this war, I think you will find your brother happy to give over the inheritance to his long-lost brother.”

Camille gave Drystan a worried frown, but quickly turned back to the king when Giles introduced her as well. She curtsied once again, her cheeks pink when she rose. Giles had introduced her as Drystan’s lady. To his chagrin, Drystan couldn’t tell if she had been pleased or embarrassed by the introduction.

“So,” said King George, “we now have two more heroes to add to the Rebellion’s roster.”

Drystan tried to resist the urge to deny the king’s words. One did not disagree with a king. But he could not rank himself with the likes of Giles and Alexander. “I did nothing to deserve such an honorific, Your Majesty.”

The king waved his hand dismissively. “That is precisely what they all say. Did you or did you not, bring us the key?”

“I… yes, Camille—Miss Ashton—has the key, and a theory to decipher it.”

“And we are sure you braved perils—just like all the others—to bring it here. No, do not dispute it again. We heard about your efforts to land a dragon. You still have hay in your hair.”

Drystan reached up to the pale strands, which lay about his shoulders in wild disarray.

Alexander snorted with suppressed laughter.

“Take a seat, Lord Hawkes,” suggested Lord North, breaking his silence for the first time. Although he might be the undisputed leader of the Rebellion, he obviously deferred to the presence of the king. “His Majesty understands you have rushed to bring your news, and that your appearance shows no disrespect.”

But Drystan worried about more than his disheveled state. Did the king truly think that he and Camille were some kind of heroes? Would folk tell tales of their adventures with the same wonder in which he had listened to those of Alexander and Wilhelmina? It seemed so improbable. They had done only what had been needed…

Giles led Drystan and Camille to a blue silk settee, and then pulled up a carved wooden chair beside them for himself.

Lady Cecily entered the room, hastily dipped a curtsy to the king while her brilliant elven eyes stayed fixed on her foster son. All of the gentlemen save the king had risen on her entrance, and Drystan leaned down a bit to return her hug.

“You are safe,” she breathed.

“Aye. And I have brought a gift.”

She released him and turned to Camille. “I see. Welcome, Camille Ashton. I have so many questions to ask you that I do not know where to begin.”

“Your curiosity will have to wait,” interrupted Giles with a gentle smile. “For our son has brought us the key to England’s freedom.”

“We do not know that for certain, Father.”

“Aye, that is true. But we still have more important matters to discuss than your love life.”

Drystan grimaced and sat down, avoiding Camille’s gaze. And Alexander’s soft laughter. Heaven save him from loving parents.

Giles pulled up another chair for his wife, Cecily, and by the time she had settled her azure skirts about her, General Dominic Raikes and his wife entered the room. Alexander greeted his mother warmly, and extended the same to his father, although the impassivity on the older man’s face would have prevented Drystan from it. Lady Cassandra resembled her son, with her human brown hair and eyes, and the way she moved with the grace of a trained dancer, although she did not dance with swords as her son did. She smiled and laughed almost as much as her son, Alexander, making Dominic appear even sterner by comparison.

Dominic Raikes, the man who had killed his elven lord father and stolen his identity, walked a bit stiffly with age, but looked no more than five-and-thirty, his white-blond hair lacking any gray, the silver sparkles within it still gleaming with the vigor of youth. Drystan glanced at the ring on Dominic’s finger: a pale amethyst stone set in a thick band of gold. Cecily’s father had been sent on a mission to find that ring, although Cecily and Giles had been the ones to return with it. Crafted by the powers of three scepters, it had the ability to hide Dominic’s true age, for his human blood threatened to reveal his disguise as one of the near-ageless elven lords.

Dominic suddenly turned and stared at Drystan, those black-faceted eyes fixing upon his. At first, the other man’s gaze seemed remote. Emotionless. And Drystan struggled with hero worship. This man, this half-breed, was the epitome of a legend. Dominic and his Lady Cassandra had become the true force behind the Rebellion. Dominic Raikes had fought like no other to gain his freedom. And would continue to fight with untold valor to gain the freedom of all of England’s people.

Then those midnight eyes changed. And Drystan caught a flicker… of pain. Of suffering. What Dominic had accomplished had come at great cost. And the strength in his face told Drystan he would be willing to pay even more to reach his final goal.

Perhaps it had been building ever since he left Wales and experienced his own adventures, but in that moment, Drystan understood. He did not gaze at a legend, but at a man with a strength of will matched only by the brown-haired lady at his side. His awe of the company slowly began to fade as they filled the room.

General Samson Cavendish entered, his suffering more visible in the scars on his face and hands—scars which could be given only by repeatedly cutting the same area, for those of elven blood held extraordinary powers of healing. He escorted his wife, Lady Joscelyn, to sit next to him. Her lavender eyes matched the scepter she held in her hands—the scepter she and Samson had stolen from La’laylia of Stonehame. Wilhelmina followed, taking her place by her husband’s side. And Drystan no longer gazed at a warrior-woman of legend. But at a middle-aged lady who had spent most of her life fighting for what she believed in.

Alexander still continued to watch Drystan, but the smile on his face had died. He nodded, and Drystan returned it, a silent communion of understanding.

Drystan had become one of them. He understood his own worth to the company. He was no longer the child of Giles and Cecily, but a man who had fought his own battles, who had struggled for the love of the woman at his side, and would continue to do so. They were not heroes in a storybook. But people who shared a common purpose, and would fight and die to see it accomplished.

Twelve

“We are all gathered, then?” said King George.

Dominic nodded. “Except for Dorian of Verdanthame and his lady, Aurelia. I shall speak to them after our discussion.”

“How?” whispered Camille.

She had been so quiet that Drystan felt grateful she had finally spoken. He hoped she had become to feel as he did. An equal in this company.

Camille’s voice had carried, and Drystan’s foster mother answered her. “La’laylia of Stonehame made a crystal for each of the elven lords.” She held up the blue scepter. “When their scepters are placed inside of it, they can communicate with one another. But five of them no longer possess their scepters.”

“We have accomplished that much with our thefts, at least,” said Giles.

“Not that it has made much difference,” interjected Dominic. “They did not communicate with each other much anyway.”

Lord North leaned forward. “We know we miscalculated the importance of the scepters.”

Drystan watched the king settle back into his throne-like chair. Ah, the power had shifted. The king’s advisor would primarily hold sway over this meeting, allowing his prime minister to do what he did best. Plot and scheme.

“Perhaps not,” offered Drystan.

Giles’s eyes widened at his son’s temerity to speak a contradiction among the leaders of the Rebellion. His foster mother just smiled.

Dominic cocked a pale brow and fingered the black lace at his throat. “Perhaps you should tell us about this key of yours, Lord Hawkes.”

A moment ago, Drystan might have flinched at that cold black stare. Now he only gave Dominic a grave nod, and began to speak. “As you know, the white witch of Ashton house witnessed the arrival of the elven lords. She placed a birthmark on her child as to what she saw, and it was passed down among her descendants. I searched the archives for years, trying to find some trace of the lineage. I did not know if it would aid us in our quest to free England, but all knowledge is power.”

“But you had help,” interrupted Lord North.

“Yes. Yes, I did.” If the man thought to rattle him, he would have to try much harder. Drystan was no longer the young man who had lived in Wales. His fits were a part of the same suffering that joined this company, and they would no longer demoralize him. “The scepters spoke to me of a key to open the doorway to Elfhame—and that the white witch’s descendant held said key.”

“And this is where I get concerned,” growled Giles. “Do we trust these devil-wands to aid us in any way?”

“It is interesting that they chose to speak to you, and no other,” added the king.

Drystan frowned. Did the king doubt his story in some way?

“I have seen him suffer through the fits caused by the scepters,” avowed Lady Cecily. “Trust me, no one would welcome such… communication.”

All eyes fixed on Camille. She flushed and leaned closer to Drystan. He shifted so she sat slightly behind his shoulder. “The scepters sent me dreams of her, as well.”

“And you fell in love with a dream,” sighed Lady Cecily.

“Indeed. She became my heart’s desire, and I knew I would do anything to free her from Dreamhame Palace.”

“And a life of slavery,” muttered Dominic.

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps that is why they chose you,” said Lady Cecily.

“I have heard whispers from my scepter,” said Dominic, “and can only imagine what their actual voices might do to a human’s mind. As for the scepters’ intentions… Ador has told me often enough that they want to go home.”

“Firehame’s dragon?” scoffed Lord North. “I hear he has gone missing.”

Dominic shrugged. “My understanding is that all the dragon-steeds have disappeared. At least they will not aid the elven lords in their war against us.”

“They would not survive it,” whispered Camille.

Drystan’s foster mother gave her a surprised look. “Indeed. To aid a human sickens them. The elven lords bound them with an enchantment to ensure their loyalty.”

Drystan rubbed at his forehead, which still ached from their tumble.

“You are ill, Lord Hawkes?” asked Dominic.

“No. I just do not know how to land a dragon properly.”

Dominic’s lip twitched. “So I heard. It takes a powerful illusion to construct a dragon that can fly passengers, and it can sap your energy for days. It appears that Lord North underestimated your magical abilities.”

“Nay, he did not.” Drystan glanced at Camille. “Unfortunately my magic is most… unpredictable.”

“Which may be a result of your absence from magical influences since childhood. I am more surprised that Miss Ashton possesses no magic, what with those unusual eyes of hers. But I sense none at all. It is astonishing you both managed to make it out of Dreamhame in one piece.” Dominic raised the black scepter. “I will take care of your injuries myself, then. It will help if you close your eyes.”

Drystan remembered the brilliant healing fire of the little old woman who had tended to his injuries in Dreamhame Palace, and complied. Blue light shone behind his lids, and he felt the same healing magic, only so much more powerful it made him gasp. He had not realized how badly his head and back hurt until the pain faded. Even the slight ache of his old injury disappeared.

It was as if Dominic’s healing fire cleansed him of all wounds, making his body as whole as it had been at birth.

Camille gave a deep sigh, and Drystan’s eyes flew open, watching the blue fire dwindle away from her as well.

“You told me you were unhurt,” accused Drystan.

“It was nothing.”

He lowered his voice and whispered in her ear. “Don’t you know my love for you means you must tell me such things? Your every breath is important to me.”

Camille colored yet again. Lady Cecily huffed, and Giles grunted in approval. Drystan did not care that they had overheard his words.

“Will you just tell us of this key?” blurted Lord North into the sudden silence. “Then we shall make our own decision on what to do about it.”

Drystan nodded. “Miss Ashton is the descendant of the white witch, and she carries the birthmark.”

Camille obligingly leaned her head and pushed the hair back from her ear. Everyone craned to get a look at it.

“The birthmark is partly beneath her hair,” said Drystan, “and difficult to make out. May I have quill and paper?”

Giles brought it to him, with a look that made Drystan wonder at the newfound respect he saw in those human green eyes. And then he understood. His foster father no longer saw him as a child he must protect, but as an equal. More than Drystan’s own perceptions had changed from this gathering.

“Thank you, Father.”

Giles chest swelled and he nodded, then returned to his seat.

Drystan drew the outline of the mark as he had done in Dreamhame, and held the paper up for the company to study. “As you can see, it is in the shape of a seven-pointed star. I could not fathom its meaning, not until Miss Ashton drew the individual shape of each point. Besides being an extraordinarily intelligent woman, I believe she held within her very blood the means to decipher the brand that her family has carried for generations.”

Drystan could hear the breaths of each person in the room, the scratch of quill across paper as he drew. For the first time, he became aware of their mingled scent: lavender, roses, and spice, with a hint of elfweed. He fancied he could feel the expectation of his fellow compatriots. He held up the drawing when he finished.

“As you can see, the shape is similar to—”

“A scepter!” blurted the king. “I am right, am I not? But how is this a key?”

Drystan looked at Camille, willing her to speak, to indeed stand as an equal in this company. He shifted his gaze to the enchanted sword that lay on her hip, trying to remind her of her bravery when she confronted the bandits, of how she had defended and protected herself. Of the new strength he hoped she had found.

Something sparked in her rainbow-colored eyes, and Camille glanced around the room and spoke, her voice getting stronger with every word. “I believe this is what my ancestor saw when the elven lords entered our world. She saw all seven scepters joined to create this star, a combining of all their magics, creating a spell powerful enough to open a doorway between Elfhame and England.”

“It makes sense,” offered Lord North, with a glance at the king to make sure he had permission to preside over them all once again. At the king’s nod, the heavy man continued. “But I am also afraid it raises more questions than answers.”

“For example,” said Dominic. “Why didn’t the scepters just send you dreams of this key? Why the journey to Dreamhame, and the involvement of Miss Ashton? It would have been much… simpler.”

“Would we have listened to the dreams of an untried youth?” asked Giles. “I am sad to admit that even though I witnessed Drystan’s… communications with the scepters, I doubted the existence of this white witch and key.”

Dominic’s fingers tightened around the black scepter. “Ador has often said humans must help themselves. That we must earn our freedom.”

Giles snorted. “A convenient excuse to do nothing.”

“I disagree,” said Camille. “Grimor’ee looked quite ill when he helped us. I do believe an enchantment discourages them from plotting against the elven lords.”

“Perhaps the scepters are under the same enchantment as the dragons,” offered Lady Cecily. “Perhaps that is why they can help us only indirectly.”

Dominic focused his midnight gaze on Drystan’s foster mother. “That makes sense. But I still think there is more to this than we know. Why, indeed, involve Miss Ashton? If she carried the white witch’s power—any power, it would make more sense to engage her in the fight to free England.”

“I would not have pursued the key if not for her,” stated Drystan. “And no one would else would have believed in my dreams.”

“We have argued in a circle,” said Lord North. “Let us assume for the nonce—”

“Forgive me,” interrupted Cecily, “but, Camille, you have referred to Dreamhame’s dragon offering you aid. I think we all assumed he helped you to escape. May I ask specifically what Grimor’ee did to defy the enchantment binding him?”

Camille licked her lips, glanced at Drystan. He slowly withdrew the bundle from his pocket and carefully unwrapped it, making sure he kept the cloth between his naked skin and the golden scepter. “He gave Camille this.”

Everyone gasped.

“He said we would have need of it,” said Camille, as if apologizing for having it in their possession.

“But you cannot wield it,” pressed Dominic.

“No.”

“And as evidenced by his careful handling, Lord Hawkes fears to even touch it.”

“Then it cannot offer us much help in our war against the elven,” said Lord North.

Drystan studied the golden scepter. “It
has
been very quiet.”

“What do you mean, Lord Hawkes?” asked Dominic.

“Even after I left Wales, I sometimes heard the voices of the lavender, blue, and silver scepters in my head. Not just in my dreams. When I was in Dreamhame, I heard the golden one as well, but only a murmur. It has been quiet since then.” He did not mention the odd burning sensation when he worked magic, for he could not be sure if he had only imagined it.

“I have never heard my scepter’s voice, just a humming sort of whisper,” mused Dominic. “Lady Joscelyn, Lady Cecily. Do you experience the same?”

“Yes,” admitted Drystan’s foster mother, glancing down at her blue scepter. “It coaxes me to use the greater power of the sky.”

Lady Joscelyn nodded. “The lavender scepter whispers to me at times.”

“I hear them quite clearly,” said Drystan. “Or at least, I used to. It changed when I entered the barrier of magic.”

“More puzzles we cannot solve,” sighed Dominic. “Since you cannot wield a scepter, it is most unusual that you have such a connection to them.”

“Perhaps it has something to do with the natural magic that exists beyond the barrier,” said Lady Cecily.

Lord North scratched at the white wig upon his head in frustration. “We stray from the most important subject. The key. If we join the seven scepters, they will open the gateway to Elfhame. If not, we shall lose the battle against the elven lords anyway. Perhaps Grimor’ee gave Roden’s golden scepter to Miss Ashton for that very purpose. Let us put our minds to how we might accomplish the task.”

A sudden deluge of blue sparkles drifted down from the ceiling. They imbued Drystan with a calm, refreshed feeling. And judging by the expressions on the other’s faces, it produced the same sort of effect on them. Apparently, the blue withdrawing room had been chosen on purpose for its enchantment.

“First,” said Dominic, “we must form this star. I can wield the black scepter, and Dorian’s overthrow of Verdanthame proves he possesses enough elven blood to wield the green. Lady Cecily commands the blue scepter of Dewhame, and Lady Joscelyn the lavender of Stonehame. Although we possess the silver scepter of Bladehame, and now the golden of Dreamhame, we have no one who carries enough power to actually wield them. And Annanor of Terrahame still holds the brown.”