Wizard's Daughter

by Catherine Coulter

  No answer.

  "Captain Jared, we need you," Rosalind said. No answer.

  She turned to Nicholas. "Why did you invite them to re­main?"

  "This vision of Richard's and his identification of the knife made me want to keep them close. I have this in­escapable feeling they're all a part of this, whatever this is. I've learned over the years that having your enemy within your reach gives you a better chance to survive than having one lurking unseen in the shadows."

  She stepped up to him, went onto her tiptoes, and whis­pered against his ear, "Nicholas, I know how to get us to the Pale."

  He stared at her, nonplussed. "Why are you whispering?"

  "I don't know, it simply seemed the thing to do. My own vision of Sarimund last night before the whiteness awoke me—remember I told you he was chanting something? I didn't hear the distinct words, but they somehow remained in my mind. The words he was chanting, they're crystal clear now."

  Nicholas wasn't surprised, not after she'd read the Rules of the Pale when no one else could. "Why now, I wonder?"

  "Because time grows short," Rosalind said. "Everything is happening very quickly now. Listen."

  Look in my book The pages are free Follow my directions And come to me.

  "Free pages?"

  "Yes. Don't you see? I couldn't read the final pages of Sarimund's book that Grayson found in Hyde Park and then I was unable to read the final pages of the shortened book here in your grandfather's library because the pages simply wouldn't separate. Sarimund is telling me I can now open them, so that makes them free."

  She laid her hand on his forearm. "Nicholas, you and I are evidently the two main performers in a strange play. I do not want to cut out your heart. I really don't. I am very fond of you."

  He kissed her. "We are performers, you're right about that."

  "To work. Let's begin with freeing the pages in your grandfather's book," Rosalind said.

  Rosalind's fingers hovered over the pages, then, easily, she turned the page. Both of them froze for an instant, aware of an unknown that was close—or was it somehow Sarimund whose spirit floated above them? Perhaps Sarimund was slapping her in the face, but she couldn't feel it because those slaps were behind veils of time, too thick for anything to come through. She was afraid to read the page, afraid of what it would do. She looked over at her husband. "What if—"

  "Read the pages aloud, Rosalind ."

  "Yes, you're right. I cannot lose my nerve now." She read:

  I wanted desperately to know if Epona had birthed my son, but Taranis would not tell me. He began singing a love song to his mate, which I found quite sweet actually, but I nonetheless wanted to kick him. Now was not the time to praise eternal commitment.

  Taranis said to me before he left me at my cave entrance, "Go home, Sarimund. Your time here is at an end, but do not forget what happened here because what you saw must be told to the girl. You must see that she knows this specifically"—and Taranis said, "Repeat the words in your mind. Now," and so I did:

  Turn the last page And think of my might Read the words slowly And wait for the night.

  Did the words come from me or from the Dragon of the Sallas Pond? I do not know. I am home again—so many hu­mans, jostling each other, all of them talking at once—how did I get here? I do not know that any more than I know how I arrived in the Pale. I seem to remember being in the Bulgar, but then it is gone and nothing is there in my memory. I wrote down the rules for you, just as my purpose for being in the Pale was you.

  You are the crown in my kingdom, the bringer of peace and destruction, the one who must right the grievous sin. It is a very strange thing, but as I write this, I know I am one with Taranis.

  Turn the page now and think of my might. Aye, it is my might Taranis recognised, and mighty I am, the mightiest wizard who has ever lived in the here and now, and in the fu­ture and past, and all other places not seen by mortals.

  You are a woman now, not the little girl who sang so beautifully. Good-bye. My heart is with you.

  Sarimund.

  Rosalind very slowly turned to the last page and stared down at a perfectly blank page. But she knew to her bones that beneath it was the stark white that had struck them last night, and within that stark whiteness was—what? She wanted to scream, but knew it wouldn't help. She had to find out. She closed her eyes and thought of Sarimund's might. What might? That he was strong? That he could mold and form events to suit himself? That perhaps he was an exten­sion of Taranis? What did he mean that she was the bringer of peace and destruction? Now that sounded important in­deed, terrifying too, since it sounded like she was vital, but to what—

  "Rosalind ! Come, wake up. Do you hear me, you twit, wake up!" A hand slapped her face, not hard. That same hand slapped her face again, and this time it hurt because she was back to herself enough to feel it.

  "No, don't hit me again, that's quite enough. I'm back now, all right?"

  "Excellent, that's more like it. Open your eyes." He gave her another light tap on her cheek. "Open your eyes."

  She did and looked up into her husband's face. She blinked. "What happened?"

  "You stared down at that damned blank page and just— went away, as if you'd fallen asleep. You must tell me what happened."

  "Nothing," she said. "Nothing at all," but she knew that wasn't true. But what had happened was beyond her reach. "How long was I—away?"

  'Twenty minutes. How do you feel?"

  "Quite marvelous, really." She gave him a very big smile. "Now, Nicholas, we have to wait for the night. Look at the last page—it's perfectly blank, yet Sarimund's chant tells me to think of his might and wait for the night."

  "Not very humble, is he?" Both of them studied the blank last page. No magic occurred, no words appeared, but Rosalind wasn't worried, odd, but she simply wasn't. "We'll wait, just as Sarimund said to."

  Nicholas wished he'd sent his relatives on their way. Surely there was no need to have them here now. But Richard's vision—why the devil had his half brother had a vi­sion that was appallingly violent and clearly showed Rosalind with that knife, cutting out his heart? He wasn't frightened simply because he knew that she would never do such a thing, even to an enemy. But what if she were under some spell? No, that was absurd. Who had sent such a vision to Richard? And why? What did it mean?

  He said to Rosalind, "I wonder if I will be allowed to come with you tonight, if that is indeed what is to happen "

  44

  "Oh, yes, I know you will be with me. While I was away, Nicholas, that is, I was right here, but my mind was elsewhere—I saw you, and you looked fierce and cunning, and because I suppose I was elsewhere, looking at you through different eyes, I saw the rich red aura of magic surrounding you, and I knew, Nicholas, I knew. You are powerful."

  "How do you know red is the aura of magic?"

  She cocked her head to the side. "I don't believe I knew, but it is. Yours is a very potent magic, I know that it is."

  "We spoke of this before, Rosalind. Why do you think me some sort of wizard?"

  "Do you doubt for a moment that Captain Jared was a wizard?"

  He plowed his fingers through his hair, and cursed. You are in his direct line. Your grandfather was magic,

  probably other past Vails as well, perhaps all the way back to the beginning when wizards first sprang from the earth. But simply know there is more magic in you than in any of your predecessors. I know it."

  "So you believe the being who plucked Captain Jared off his sinking ship did it for a specific reason—because Cap­tain Jared was a wizard and that's what the being had to have. You believe that is why all the first sons of each gener­ation dreamed of you?"

  She laid her hand on his forearm. "Haven't things hap­pened in your life you can't explain? You may begin with your dreams of me."

  He didn't like this and she saw that he didn't, but she re­mained quiet, watching him. He was fighting this with all his will, and his will was formidable.


  'The dream of you," he said finally, his black eyes hooded. "I was only a hay. One night you were simply there, and as you continued to come every night and sing that song to me, you—the dream—simply became a part of me, seeped into my bones, settled in my brain.

  "The little girl that you were was a part of me for so long I ceased to question it. I was used to you, you comforted me when I believed I wouldn't survive.

  "But understand, the dream was nothing special, not really, even after I told my grandfather about it and he told me about the legend."

  "It is not a legend, Nicholas. I'm quite real. I was out of time for Captain Jared, but not for you."

  He looked into her face. "Out of time—how very odd that sounds, yet—you are here now with me and you are my debt, mine alone. I would gladly pay that debt if only I knew what it was."

  "You can't think of any more strange things that have happened to you? Do you so easily forget that you knew I would be at that ball the first time you saw me, Nicholas, and that is why you came, to find me, to meet me, to assure your­self that I was real? Remember, you told me you knew me when you saw me?"

  "Yes, I knew you. Yes, I knew you would be there. I don't know how I knew, the knowledge was simply there, dormant I suppose you could say, until I journeyed back to England after I heard about my father's death. And then, the moment I stepped foot here at Wyverly Chase, everything changed. But magic? As in I'm a bloody wizard, if there is such a thing?" He cursed again. "All right, all right. Here's the rest of it. One of the last dreams I had of you, you were no longer the little girl. You were a woman as you are now. I remember leaping out of bed, sweating, hating that the little girl was gone because she was mine, both she and her song, her skinny braids, her freckles, the strength that even I could see in her, and I saw her vibrant red hair and knew it was you grown up.

  "I remember I lay back down on my bed and fell asleep again, immediately, and there you were, you the woman, and you sang that song to me. Dammit, that's how I knew you when I saw you. I didn't tell you before—it simply seemed too unbelievable."

  You didn't think that was magic? She said, "It seems it was time for you to come back to England. I'm thinking you were meant to come to me when I was eighteen, you were meant to marry me, and the two of us were meant to end it— whatever it is—and that's why you dreamed of me as I am now.

  "When I was away from you in those moments after I read from the Rules of the Pale, Sarimund said I was the crown of his kingdom, the bringer of peace and destruction, the one who had to right the grievous sin."

  She jerked away from him and pulled her hair, actually jerked it with her hands. "What is this wretched grievous sin?" She jerked at her hair again. "To understand magic, I suppose you must simply accept all the twists and turns, the questions that can drive a mortal mad."

  Nicholas said, "Almost three hundred years is a very long time for this being who saved Captain Jared to wait. Wait for what? Like you said, Sarimund called it a grievous sin and those are the same words in your song. I know of his death and her grievous sin. Perhaps it is a sin committed long ago by a god or a wizard or a witch, something strong enough, something bad enough, to continue existing all these years— until the two of us came together."

  "Yes," she said, "yes, we are one." Her heart was tripping. "You believe that our coming together brings us more knowledge, more power?"

  He strode away from her, walking the length of the li­brary, staring out the windows for a long moment before saying over his shoulder, "I am a simple man, dammit, a man of business. I own ships, I own property in Macau and in Portugal and here in England. Despite my wealth, I am still simple. Dammit, I want to be simple, I don't wish to be cut adrift from what is normal, what is expected, what I am used to." He turned around and smacked one fist against the wall. A portrait of a racing horse shuddered, the frame tilted to the left. "Here I am carrying on, and you don't even know who you are. I am a fool—but a simple fool. Forgive me, Rosalind ."

  "What happened to me when I was a child was not your fault."

  He walked back to her, grabbed her hands, and held them against his chest. "If it means being magic to resolve all this, then I will give up my simpleness. We will wait for the night and see what happens."

  "Open the door this minute, do you hear me? I want to speak to that wretched ghost! He is not in the drawing room so he must be hiding from me here in the library. Open the door now."

  He kissed her quickly, set her away from him. "Shall we let my dear stepmother come in and try to find Captain Jared?"

  "Will you tell her it's the very first Vail and not her father-in-law?"

  "No, let Captain Jared amuse himself at her expense if he wishes to."

  Nicholas opened the door, gave Miranda a slight bow. "My wife and I have to visit a sick tenant. Have yourself a fine time with our ghost."

  Miranda gave both of them a malevolent look, turned her back on them, and said loudly, "Well, you dead old monster, are you in here? I don't see you. Are you hiding from me?"

  There was only the sound of the ormolu clock on the mantel, its steady ticking like falling rain in the silence.

  "So you're afraid of facing me, are you? Well, you always were a coward when you were alive and—"

  A creaky old voice sang out,

  A crooked root is what I see.

  Not the rose you pretend to be.

  A black-hearted witch with an ugly nose

  Set big and lumpy on a rotten rose.

  "I am not a crooked root or a rotten rose, you cursed dead moron! I am a rose! Lumpy? I have a beautiful nose! What do you know, you're only a bloody ghost with a big mouth. You're not even here, just your voice, and let me tell you, your thymes aren't at all clever. Ugly nose indeed! Show yourself, I'll show you a lumpy nose!"

  Captain Jared, smart ghost that he was, kept quiet.

  "You never liked me, never accepted me. It wasn't my fault that mewling bitch died. She was a weakling, a drain on your son, an encumbrance. I didn't kill her, your son didn't kill her. She simply died from all the meanness inside of her.

  "Your son loved me, he married me, and I gave him an heir—I gave him three heirs—yet my heirs still wait in the wings for that miserable Nicholas to drop dead. You always turned your nose up when I came here and for no reason. I hate you, do you hear?"

  A soft rhythmic sound came from the corner, like a boot lightly tapping its toe against the floor.

  Nicholas took Rosalind's hand and they left the library to a silent ghost and his furious stepmother.

  They heard her shout through the closed door, "I am not crooked! It is you who were crooked your entire blighted life, pretending to be a wizard. Tell me what is going on here, you old sinner, tell me now, else I'll never leave! Why did my precious Richard have that wretched vision?"

  Silence, then a deep pitiful sigh, and a depressed singsong voice:

  She'll leave if I talk

  She'll stay if I don't

  She'll haunt me forever

  Unless I'm more clever.

  Prithee, just look at me now

  Shrieked at endlessly by a lumpy-nosed cow.

  "More clever than I? You're a dolt, to have you as a father-in-law fair to burned me to the core, but I survived. A cow? I'm a cow? You should thank me, for I was the one who sent you that little brat who cursed me with those black eyes of his as he slunk behind furniture so I couldn't see him, but I heard him chanting curses, death curses. I told his father how he spewed hatred at me and at him, that I feared for my newly born son's life, how he bragged that he would kill you, kill all of us. Nicholas was always a spawn of the Devil, I told his father, had thick bad blood in his veins, and he be­lieved me. A man should believe his wife, curse you.

  "At least now you're dead, save for something malignant that has managed to stick its snout out of the ether. And just what is this prithee business? Another of your affectations, no doubt. No one has spoken that word for hundreds of years. Ah, but you must always be
the poseur, even dead. I believe I'll have you dug up out of your grave and burn your wretched skeleton. That'll see you gone, now won't it?"

  Nicholas and Rosalind had to lean close to the library door when Captain Jared sang softly, that ancient voice echoing eerily,

  The knife rises high And brings the end near. The knife starts to fall

  And you choke on the fear. The prince must win Evil must die

  Pay attention, madam, for the end draws nigh.

  The prince will win? What prince? The end was nigh? Captain Jared sounded very serious about that. Rosalind supposed nigh meant tonight. They heard Miranda shriek and throw a hassock toward the fireplace.

  Nicholas whispered against her temple, "Do you think he's hiding up the chimney?"

  Rosalind shuddered. "If she was thinking aright, she would realize it isn't the old earl, that it is someone else. And all those things she told your father... It's evil what she did, Nicholas—claiming a little boy chanted curses, making threats."

  Nicholas shrugged. "Whatever she said or did, when I think about the past, I am vastly relieved I was forced to leave England, forced to face what I was at my core, forced to make my own way. Had I remained, raised as a pampered earl's son, would I have become like Richard perhaps? Or like Lancelot?"

  "You would have become exactly what you are only you would not speak Chinese and have Lee Po about to correct Marigold's English. I begin to believe she makes mistakes on purpose to gain his attention."

  He couldn't help himself, he laughed, kissed her, said against her temple, "Captain Jared certainly has the old girl going, doesn't he?"

  The day seemed interminable, so many hours to be got through until the sun set and it could be considered night. Nicholas and Rosalind did indeed visit tenants, happy to welcome the new countess, happy to see Nicholas now their roofs didn't leak, there was hay in the sheds for their ani­mals, and grain grew in the fields.

  They spoke to three more women who were willing to sing with a ghost and work at Wyverly Chase, and they man­aged to get through a tense dinner with Nicholas's three half brothers and his battle axe stepmother.