She placed a hand through the larger one’s head and immediately received the image of a great city, walled with crenellated towers. This still did not tell her what she needed to know. ‘Where!’ she demanded impatiently. The whirling motion was more violent this time and lasted longer. When she stopped moving she was poised over the enormous bed of what must be a very important man. Great quantities of drapery swathed the bed all the way around, the coverlets were of the finest embroidered silk. The bright colors called to her, ‘Touch me’. She did and felt their pride at being the coverlets of the Holy Father. She pulled her hand back. The Holy Father. So. The French army is marching to Rome. This reminded her of Conti’s task.
Determined, she called to mind the book. She braced herself to be flung from the bedchamber, but instead the room spun around her slowly, rotating with her as the pivot point. The room stopped when she saw the sleeping pope. Behind him, she caught sight of a richly carved pedestal. A very familiar pedestal. She remembered seeing the book on her first trip, but had not known where it was. Now she knew. In the pope’s sleeping chambers.
Her mission completed, she thought of Montrose, thinking it would take her back to the tower. She brought to mind his face in better times, before the color had drained from it. She tried to remember him smiling.
Instead of the tower, she found herself outside on a summer’s day. Below her two young men were fighting with wooden swords. The fight was playful, for the faces were filled with joy and the animal pleasure of rough exercise. She watched as the taller slapped the smaller with the flat of the wooden sword and sent him sprawling to the grass. Both boys laughed heartily until a shutter snapped open in the wall behind them. A large man leaned out raising his fist and shouting. As before, Nadira could hear not a sound, but the look on the boys’ faces told her everything. The taller boy hung his head, the wood sword dropped limply into the grass. The defeated boy got up, brushed himself off and raised both hands over his head, as if to show the angry man in the window that he was not hurt.
Nadira moved closer to the window. The angry man’s face melted with tenderness. The scowl was replaced with pride and affection. He smiled and waved back to the smaller boy, then withdrew, closing the shutters. Below her, the small boy embraced the taller one, and then bent to pick up the fallen sword and tenderly curl the other boy’s fingers around the hilt. She could see the face of the smaller boy as he looked up admiringly at the taller one. Those icy blue eyes…this was Richard, the elder but smaller brother, his father’s precious heir.
Nadira did not have to see the face of the taller lad to know Montrose. The shoulders were still those of a boy but promised the breadth she knew now, the legs long and lanky, soon to be the striding pillars of a powerful man. She kept the image of those shoulders in her mind as she flew back to the tower this time, poised over Montrose’s neck. She saw her own body cradled in his arms. She saw her own sleeping face smile sweetly as she smiled in her floating body. She blinked, and opened her eyes. She was back.
“Nadira! Thank God!” William was the first to speak, “You’ve been gone forever!”
Montrose greeted her with a kiss. She hugged him. Conti pushed a glass of wine toward her across the table.
“Are you quite well?” he asked.
“I am. I would like some of that wine.”
“I think we all would,” Montrose said, reaching for a cup. William’s hand was shaking as he tried to get his cup to his mouth. The wine spilled all over his fingers, threatening the paper below.
“Have a care, Will.” Conti slid the paper out of danger.
Nadira drank her wine and thought about her adventure. This time there was no residual dreaminess. She felt alert and clear. She finished her wine. “First things, first,” she said, looking at Montrose, “Alisdair and Garreth are healthy and well fed. They are warm and secure. I cannot say they are exactly safe, for they are traveling as soldiers in the French army.” She was prepared to discuss the particulars, but all three men were looking at her with such amazement she faltered. “What?”
Montrose shook his head as if to clear it. “You saw them?”
“Yes. Garreth dreams of roasting mutton and casks of ale. Alisdair dreams of his Brigit. I saw them. The French army is marching on Rome. They have a huge army, many fires. They are camped by a large river. I cannot tell you which one.” William began to cross himself, but Conti’s hand stopped him before he completed the last sweep across his chest.
“She is no witch, William. You know this yourself. Don’t you?” he added with emphasis when William’s face drained of blood. He released William’s hand. “And the book? Did you find it?”
“Ah, yes, monsieur. It rests in an honored place in the pope’s bedchamber.”
Conti looked grave. “I hope he has trouble finding a Turk to translate these recipes.”
“What do you mean?” Nadira asked.
“The book has many items of interest in it. Most can be found in other sources. However, the ingredients of that elixir are in Moorish. Most of it in code, as well.” He rubbed his chin through the thick beard. “The last pope was surrounded by fools. Perhaps this one is as well. It may be years before that text is deciphered.” He smiled hopefully. “Yes, it will be ages before this secret gets out.”
Montrose made a wry face, “Rome keeps a circulating library, monsieur. Surely you know that.”
Conti’s eyebrows went up. “Certainly I know that. I’m surprised that you do.”
Montrose shook his head; “I have been my brother’s bodyguard for ten years now, monsieur. I have seen every great library on the continent. Unless the Holy Father keeps this book away, there will be hundreds reading it very soon.”
“And then hundreds flying about at night watching us as we sleep and spying on our dreams.” William said with a shaky laugh.
“Among other things,” Nadira teased.
“No, no. There is little danger of that. At least the hundreds you worry about. He will keep this book near him. If it were that easy I would be out there spying on the prince’s wine cellar or finding the best truffles,” Conti joked. “But there is a reason I am not flying about at night, and that reason is why Brother Henry is a ruined man,” he finished seriously. “The danger is that there may be just one man, one dangerous enough to use this ability to harm others, not in the harmless hundreds who may just pick up this book, or brew a partial potion.”
“Nadira is special. She does not have the fears we all carry.” Conti turned to Nadira earnestly. “Is it not true that as your thoughts flow through your head, the very images of those thoughts appear before you?”
“Yes, that is how it is.”
“In another person,” Conti explained, “panic would bring forth visions of monsters and demons which would terrify the poor soul, seemingly for an eternity. Nadira told me this morning that to come back to us in the tower she only had to think of us or of her body to steer herself home. A man being savaged by the hideous monsters of his fears will not stop to think clearly or plan his next thought. He will be tortured until the elixir’s power over him ceases. By that time his mind would be gone, destroyed by the visions he saw and experienced. Even if he were not totally destroyed, he would not willingly taste the elixir again.”
“That is what Henry meant, then, about the book taking care of itself.” Montrose said thoughtfully. After a moment, he turned suspicious eyes on Conti. “Then what was your need for the book, monsieur? What was your purpose for intercepting it?”
“To be honest with you, Lord Montrose, and you have earned my honesty, I deeply desire the answers to all my questions. If I had Nadira here in the tower for a season, there is no end to the use I could have made of that book. It was filled with recipes for different elixirs, each producing a different effect. I did make copies of the recipes for my own use.” He turned to Nadira, “Did angels or spirits talk to you, my dear?” he asked.
Nadira made a face. “No,” she said, “I did not imagine there
were spirits or angels.”
“See?” Conti said, “She did not imagine them, they did not appear. The elixir I prepared was not for speaking to spirits. With training, I could get her to converse with anyone and anything I chose. I could ask God himself why he created mosquitoes,” he smiled.
“But at any time, she could imagine a great monster and be frightened to death,” Montrose challenged.
“Perhaps, but unlikely.”
“Hmm.” Montrose rubbed his eyes. They were all silent, then, thinking. Suddenly, he raised his head. “Why is King Charles marching on Rome?” he asked.
“I didn’t ask,” Nadira looked surprised. “I didn’t think about it.”
William was busy scratching at his paper, his tonsure bobbing behind a waving feather. In the abrupt silence of Montrose’s question, William’s scratchings dominated the room. Conti leaned over. “What are you writing, William?” He asked.
“All the questions I have to ask Nadira, one by one.” William did not look up except to dip his quill.
Conti smiled at Nadira. “He has filled half the page already,” he said. “But I am afraid I must disappoint you. I have no more of this elixir, and there will be no more until spring.”
William’s pen stopped. Sad brown eyes lifted slowly from the table. “No. Say it’s not true,” he whispered.
Conti shook his head. “The main ingredient has been exhausted, and there is not hope for it until the gentle rains and warm breezes of spring.” He reached across the table and lifted Nadira’s hand. “While we wait for nature to grow us more, there are other recipes in those manuscripts. We shall try them all and see how they differ. I want you to stay at least until the weather changes.”
“You’d be better served asking me.” Montrose pushed back the bench and lifted Nadira to her feet. “She is mine.”
Conti’s hand dropped to the table. “Must we have this conversation daily?”
“We shall have this conversation every time you take liberties with her.”
Conti’s gaze rested steadily on Montrose for a long moment before he turned meaningfully to Nadira. “Only you can stop this game of chess before Lord Montrose sacrifices his queen in an unwise gambit. I suggest you have a discussion with him concerning his play.”
Nadira nodded. She suspected Montrose wanted to join Alisdair and Garreth immediately. She glanced up at his glowering face as he held Conti’s eyes in a vise. “My lord, let us to bed.” She said softly. She watched him sag. He took her elbow and moved her toward the trap without a word. Again, Juan rose to greet them from the doorway. Maria gave them each a cup of warm spiced wine and removed their shoes.
Nadira lay back on the pillows and sipped her cup as Montrose made his lengthy sleep preparations. Maria yawned as she folded his clothing and laid them on the chair by the fire. The wine was sweet and smooth. Nadira wanted to drink it quickly as Montrose had, yet also linger over the pleasure. She gazed into the ruby depths as she inhaled the spicy fragrance. Deep in the center of the wine, where the candlelight did not penetrate, she saw a swirl, then the cup became like a window. She saw Montrose in a cage.
The bars were the slender poles of saplings braided together. He was sitting in a pile of straw. His body looked whole to her, but his face was twisted in agony. A flash of pain washed over her. The cup shook in her hand and tiny waves washed the image from the surface. She set the cup down, no longer wanting to taste the wine. It had become bitter.
Montrose slid into the bed with her, lifting the heavy blankets. He reached for her cup and drank deeply. Nadira sunk lower in the bed, watching him warily. Maria blew out the candle and arranged her pallet again by the fire. Montrose set the cup down and whispered, “We must find a way to escape, and quickly.”
His strong arm gathered her up and pulled her to him. She did not resist, but allowed him to tuck her up against his chest and rest his chin on her head. As he spoke, the rumble from his throat was loud in her ear. She whispered in turn, unwilling to include Maria in their plans. “Is that the best idea?”
“Don’t you want to go? Can you not see that you have fulfilled your promise to him?”
She could not tell him that she wanted more of the elixir, more flying. “Let us stay until spring. Perhaps we can convince Conti to permit us horses and provisions. Would that not be better than walking and starving? Think of how quickly we would be able to achieve your goals with horses. Perhaps I can journey again to see Garreth and Alisdair. We will waste no time searching for them. There are advantages to staying.”
“And the disadvantage? That monsieur is lying to us. That he does not intend to release us at all. That the Black Friars will return.” Montrose scowled in the darkness. “Nay, little one. The danger is too great.”
“How is your thumb?” She asked softly. This was her trump card, and she cursed herself for having to use it so soon. Montrose was silent, though she knew he was not asleep. His jaw was so close to her head, she heard the grinding of his teeth like wheels on gravel.
“I can scarce hold my knife at table.” He answered. His voice held no inflection. It was cruel to bring it up. She felt sick inside. “I am crippled.” His words were a puff of air in her ear.
“It will heal in time,” Nadira whispered with a confidence she did not feel. She turned around again, finding the damaged hand in the blankets and bringing it to her face. She kissed the fingers one by one, lingering over the thumb. Montrose groaned faintly into her hair. She had been gentle, touching him as lightly as a moth. His groan had not come from some pain in his thumb, but from somewhere else. Nadira lay there, still, and waited uncomfortably for sleep to take her.
Her trump had been well played. There was no more talk from Montrose about leaving the tower before spring. Nadira continued to read for William in the tower’s top room, while Montrose sat near, listening. She knew he was unhappy. There was little for him to do. Nadira tried to include him in the lively commentary she shared with William whenever they translated a particularly interesting passage. Montrose’s practical insights were a healthy balance to their overly philosophical viewpoints, but he remained uninterested in most of their discussions, preferring to look out the window, or pace endlessly around the small room. There were more fingers of silver growing at his temples. Nadira could not look at the gray streaks without remembering the Black Friars.
Once a week they convened in the tower to try another of Conti’s elixirs. Nadira was not asked to help prepare any of them. She knew Conti guarded that information jealously. In the solar, weirdly shaped glass bowls and globes bubbled all day long, dripping their distilled liquids into tiny flagons and vials. Each one was slightly different in flavor and effect, though all of them sent her between worlds. She grew more and more agile; sometimes the mere scent of the potion would send her out. Many questions had been answered, many more had been asked. She never tired of the experience and looked forward to each week’s excursion. Now wintry weather loomed ahead.
Nadira sighed, for rain had been falling steadily since first light. The dreary chill distracted her from her study, for the light was weak and the damp annoyed her. The roof overhead was excellent, for Conti wanted no chance of damage to his library. Even still, the repeated drip, drip, drip past the windows began to drive Nadira mad. William was no better, making so many copying errors he had to re-write an entire page. Montrose’s pacing had not ceased the whole morning, adding to Nadira’s irritation. The only bright spot of the day was her discovery that the vital ingredient to the elixir might be a gaudy mushroom.
Nadira did not blurt this out, preferring to keep this tidbit to herself. In fact, she read out the line from the text exactly as it was written, in code, without bothering to tell William that she thought the writer was referring to the mushroom and not to an elf. She knew “the little man in the red cap”. He was not one of the fair folk, or a gnome. She smiled to herself, fingering the text.
Conti knew and had not told them. This was a revelation just for her. Sh
e turned another leaf of text, and then looked up, startled. Montrose’s thumping boots had ceased their rhythmic drumbeat, the final step a sharp crack of heavy heels on the planked floor. He was leaning out of the window into the weather. Nadira joined him. His body was stiff and tense. A shaft of fear shot through her before she could focus on what he was seeing. Through the mist and damp, an army was approaching the tower. She made out the dark shapes of horses and wagons. There was no sun to glimmer off the helmets, but the unmistakable sound of metal clanking in cadence meant that this company was not traveling peddlers or pilgrims.
She wrapped her arms about her to steady the tremble that had begun through her body. Montrose’s face was grim, the muscles of his jaws and cheeks set in hard planes. He did not look at her, but his blue eyes danced over the approaching men and flickered about the yard and outbuildings.
Nadira turned about and moved back to William. “Up, Will. Quickly.” She capped his ink and took his quill, for she knew he would argue for ‘just one more word’. He began to protest, but froze when he saw Montrose’s posture at the window.
“What is it?” he asked tightly.
“Shh, some men are coming.” William pulled his cloak around his shoulders and joined Montrose at the window. Nadira came up behind Montrose and put her arms around his waist. He jerked at her touch, but then his mind seemed to come back to the tower room.
“I feared this, Nadira. I would that we were long gone and cowering wet in the woods right now.”
“They may be the prince’s men…”
“No.” Montrose’s answer was unequivocal. Nadira lowered her eyes. He was right. He swung his head and shoulders around the room, his eyes falling on the trap door. “We can bar the trap and will be safe from all but fire, but I fear it may come to that.” He began to wring his hands, massaging his right thumb. “I’ll need a sword.”
The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) Page 24