He nodded. “Yeah. I think so, too.” He actually looked relieved, like he’d been carrying around something heavy and just set it down.
“Seph wants you to come back, too, Madison,” Fitch said.
Madison shook her head, feeling even lonelier than before Jason came. She was going to have to settle things once and for all with Brice Roper. And her mother. Somehow. “I can’t leave. If Brice finds out I’m gone, he might have another go at the house. But tell Seph . . . I really miss him.”
It was so lame. So inadequate. But it was all she had.
Chapter Twenty-two
Strange Bedfellows
Spring was usually a golden time at Raven’s Ghyll. The bitter winter winds that roared down out of Scotland departed in favor of soft, spring breezes laden with the scent of high country flowers. Clear streams fed by melting snow tumbled out of the heights. Best of all, the tourists who plagued the rest of the Lake District in fine weather came nowhere near.
But this was a barren season. The tall grass that rippled across the ghyll withered and turned brown, beaten down by cold and unrelenting rains. Buds shriveled on the trees, reneging on their promise of flowers. Birds and wildlife disappeared. Most nights, the furnace in the cellar rattled into life, and the servants kindled the fire on the hearth in a vain effort to warm the sitting room. D’Orsay was forced to spell his servants to keep them from running off to friendlier climes. It would be risky to bring in new, who might be assassins working for the Roses. Wizard lights glittered on the surrounding hills, evidence that the Roses hadn’t lifted their siege.
They’d heard nothing from Alicia Middleton and had consequently lost track of Warren Barber. Which might mean they were dead, the new Covenant taken or lost. As for the Dragonheart, D’Orsay had to assume it was still in the sanctuary. Unless the Roses held that also.
He and Dev rattled around Raven’s Ghyll Castle, snapping at each other—they who had always got on so famously.
Then, finally, they had a message from the Roses. Not a demand for surrender, as D’Orsay expected, but a request for a meeting.
It took days to negotiate the terms. Would it be safer to hold it in Raven’s Ghyll, or would that open the ghyll to invasion? Could the D’Orsays feel secure in a meeting outside of the ghyll? Would it be necessary to hold the meeting in the nude in order to prevent the smuggling in of sefas?
Finally, the terms were nailed down, mostly because both sides were eager to meet and resolve the impasse. They met in a high meadow that overlooked the ghyll, a site scoured clean by both sides prior to the event.
It was usually a lovely spot in spring, starred with bluebells and buttercups. But now it was sere and silent, like the site of some horrible industrial accident.
It was an intimate gathering—D’Orsay and Devereaux, Jessamine Longbranch of the White Rose, and Geoffrey Wylie of the Red Rose. The last time they’d all been together had been at Second Sister—when D’Orsay and Leicester’s coup against the Roses had nearly succeeded.
It was a spare meeting, without ceremony or hospitality, since neither side trusted the other enough to break bread together. They met in a tentlike pavilion with a planked wood floor covered in wool rugs.
“Jessamine. Pleasure.” D’Orsay gripped her gloved hands and kissed her cheek. He nodded curtly to Wylie. “Geoffrey. This is my son, Devereaux.”
Poor Dev hunched his shoulders and stuck his hands in his pockets. As usual, he was awkward and tongue-tied in company.
They settled into a circle of chairs. A grate at the center spilled welcome warmth into the chill.
“I don’t ever remember it being this nasty up here in April,” Jessamine said, shivering, despite her layers of leather and fur. “Can’t you do something about it?” As if the weather were a failure of his hospitality.
“The weather is unusually cold,” D’Orsay admitted. “But then, as the poet says,‘April is the cruelest month.’ I assume you didn’t come up here to discuss the weather. Except as it relates to other events.”
Jess jumped on that like a trout on a mayfly. “What do you mean by that?”
“You first, my dear,” D’Orsay said graciously.
“We know you have the Covenant,” Jessamine said bluntly. “But you’re unable to consecrate it.”
D’Orsay tilted his head. “What makes you think that?”
“Because you would have already done so, if you could.”
“All right,” D’Orsay said, with the air of a man who is humoring difficult guests. “So why are you here? Why not just let us dwindle away into obscurity?”
“Because you hold the ghyll. The ghyll houses the Weirstone. And something’s gone wrong.”
“Wrong?” D’Orsay felt ludicrous, like the captain of a sinking ship, still manipulating the wheel as the deck sloshed under the waves.
Wylie lifted both hands, indicating their surroundings.
“Please. You are presiding over a wasteland, Claude. When I think of what it used to be . . .”
“Don’t be overdramatic, Geoffrey,” D’Orsay said. “This is merely the consequence of unusually foul weather and incompetent gardeners.”
Longbranch pressed her fingers into her chest. “The Weirstone is dark. I can usually feel its presence, anywhere in Cumbria. And, now? Nothing.” She shivered. “It’s as if the source of our power has moved, as if it’s at a great distance.”
In point of fact, D’Orsay had already made his decision. Politics made strange bedfellows, and he was definitely running out of options. He needed to get out of the ghyll, or he and Dev might just slit each other’s throats.
“I’ve noticed it, too,” D’Orsay conceded. “It feels like true north has shifted, doesn’t it?”
“The question is, why?” Wylie settled back in his seat.
“Perhaps it’s the effect of the siege,” D’Orsay suggested. “What’s it been, six months?”
“You could surrender,” Longbranch suggested. “Just a thought.”
D’Orsay looked up at the surrounding hills, at the wizard fires blazing there. “You could withdraw your forces.”
“It’s not because of the siege,” Wylie said impatiently. “The shift in power was rather sudden. Back in midwinter, I believe.”
“Do you really want to know who’s responsible?” D’Orsay asked, emitting a bit of power to warm his feet.
“Who?” Longbranch leaned forward.
“Jason Haley.”
“Jason Haley?” Wylie frowned. “The one from Second Sister?”
“The same.”
“What about him?” Longbranch demanded.
“He stole the Dragonheart.”
Longbranch and Wylie looked at each other. “What’s that?” Wylie asked. “I never heard of it.”
“The magical heart of the ghyll. A weapon of infinite capability. The source of power for all the Weirguilds.”
“I never heard of it,” Wylie repeated. “Don’t tell me you believe those old stories about mythical beasts spitting flames. And even if you do, that was a long time ago.”
“Whether I believe in dragons or not is irrelevant. The point is, the Dragonheart is a powerful sefa that sat under the Weirstone on my ancestral lands for centuries. Somehow, it fueled the Weirstone. The Weirstone is still there, but it’s gone dark.”
“So you knew this stone was there, all along?” Longbranch asked.
It was easier just to lie. “Yes,” D’Orsay said. “But I’ve only recently become aware of its full power.”
“Why are you telling them this, Father?” Devereaux demanded.
“It’s all right, Dev,” D’Orsay said, patting Dev on the shoulder. Dev flinched away.
“Why are you telling us?” Wylie asked suspiciously.
“Because the time has come for us to work together,” D’Orsay said. “I’m trapped, as you know, in the ghyll. I need your cooperation in order to go after the stone.”
“Do you have any idea where it is?” Wylie asked.
&n
bsp; “In the sanctuary, I presume,” D’Orsay said. “Unless they’ve moved it. For a time, I had an operative in Trinity. I know Haley returned there after looting the ghyll, and I did receive reports that magical items were hidden there.”
“All right,” Longbranch said. “Now that you’ve told us, why do we need your involvement? We can go and get the piece ourselves.”
D’Orsay had anticipated this, also. “Two reasons,” he said. “I hold the journal kept by the person who hid the stone in the ghyll, which provides details about its use. Powerful as it is, one doesn’t want to make an error, does one?” Perhaps he was exaggerating the value of the journal a bit, but such was the nature of negotiation.
“And the second reason?”
“The Dragonheart is only one piece. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Raven’s Ghyll hoard?”
“Another legend?” Wylie stuffed his hands into his pockets, shrugging his shoulders against the cold.
“Not at all. The hoard includes a treasure trove of magical artifacts and sefas accumulated since the founding of the guilds.”
“And we would need these because . . . ?” Longbranch feigned indifference, but her eyes glittered greedily.
“The Dragonheart is said to be the most powerful sefa known, capable of destroying us all. We don’t know if the servant guilds realize how powerful it is, or how to use it. Still, it would seem prudent to go armed to any confrontation with them.”
“If Hastings is involved, we can assume he has it sorted out,” Wylie said, his mouth twisting in distaste.
“My operatives in Trinity tell me he’s not there,” Jessamine said. “Nor is Linda Downey.”
“One wonders who is in charge,” D’Orsay murmured.
“Snowbeard’s there,” Jessamine said. “Otherwise . . .” She hesitated, then ticked them off on her gloved fingers. “It’s the boy, McCauley, basically. And Iris Bolingame. Jason Haley seems to have disappeared. Perhaps there are other wizards. Jack Swift and Ellen Stephenson have organized an army of ghosts.” She rolled her eyes.
“Eliminate McCauley, and the whole thing falls apart,” Wylie said. “He would seem to be the strongest link.”
How hard could it be? D’Orsay thought. “Don’t you have anyone inside the sanctuary?” he asked delicately. “An all-out assault may not be the way to go.”
“We’ve sent in assassins,” Wylie said bluntly. “They never returned, never reported back. They must have been identified and eliminated immediately.”
“McCauley seems to be well-protected,” Longbranch mused. “He is just a boy, after all.”
“You sure it’s not Hastings?” D’Orsay asked, suppressing a shudder.
Wylie shook his head. “As far as we know, Hastings and Downey are somewhere in Europe.”
They all glanced over their shoulders, as if the pair might at that moment be sneaking up on them.
“Well,” Jessamine said, smiling, “perhaps we can just walk in and take it, then.”
Now there were smiles all around.
The wind howled over the Ravenshead and the pavilion shuddered under its force. Fat droplets of rain splattered against the canvas. D’Orsay gestured, and the flames in the grate burned hotter.
“Father.” Devereaux spoke up again. “Why should we give them anything? They’ve got nothing to trade.”
Clever boy, D’Orsay thought fondly.
“We offer you the freedom to come and go,” Jessamine said. “As your father no doubt realizes. If we secure the Dragonheart on our own, your Covenant is worthless. Join us, and we’ll negotiate an amended Covenant that distributes power among us. It seems the stone has been the source of power all along, while we’ve been slaves to old myths and legends about dragons. There’ll be no need to adhere to the old restrictions, to share power outside our circle.” She fingered the emerald that hung around her neck. “The possibilities are limitless.”
Claude D’Orsay smiled. It was a familiar playing field, at least. Another proposed wizard agreement involving terms to be negotiated later. With assassination and bloodshed, no doubt. And, given the fact that he held no cards at all, not even the Covenant, it was attractive.
“Surely we can work something out,” D’Orsay said, looking at each of the players in turn.
“Father,” Devereaux protested. “We can’t just let ...”
“Later, Dev,” D’Orsay said, raising his hand.
Dev subsided, his hands twitching with irritation.
D’Orsay turned to the others. “My son and I will inventory the hoard and arrange for an in-person survey.”
Following discussion of a few more logistics, the meeting broke up. The D’Orsays sent the Roses on their way, and set the servants to dismantling the pavilion. D’Orsay and Dev descended into the ghyll, eager to retire to the fireside in the castle.
“So,” D’Orsay said, when they’d reached the valley floor, “You don’t like the idea of sharing the hoard with the Roses.”
“Why should we? It belongs to us. Our family.”
“We have to get out of this bloody ghyll, Dev. Whatever the Dragonheart is, whatever it does, we have to get it back. Then, we’re players. We’ve not heard from Alicia in weeks. So it’s not likely we can succeed without the Roses.”
“What do you think happened to that girl? Alicia?”
“Hard to say. It’s risky out there, Dev. That’s why I’ve kept you close.”
“She goes wherever she likes. She does whatever she pleases,” Devereaux said enviously.
“And she may very well be dead,” D’Orsay replied testily. What had gotten into Dev lately?
Dev paused at the foot of the gardens leading up to the castle. “That’s weird,” he said. “The drawbridge is up and the gate is shut.”
D’Orsay blinked away rain and peered up at the castle. The drawbridge had been little more than a decorative piece since the signing of the Covenant centuries ago.
In fact, he’d last closed the drawbridge the night Jason Haley broke into the ghyll. After all, he had wards and sentries to warn him of danger.
The drawbridge was closed now.
“What the devil?” D’Orsay muttered. “Perhaps Stephen is being overzealous tonight, given our visitors.”
“Well, he should be looking out for us,” Dev said. “He should have noticed we were coming, and opened the gate.” Dev was intolerant of poor service from the staff. He began speed-walking up the road, probably meaning to give Stephen a piece of his mind.
“Devereaux! Wait!” D’Orsay hissed, but the boy was already way out ahead of him. D’Orsay was puffing by the time he reached the garden shed near the top of the garden. He leaned on the wall of the shed, glancing inside as he did so, and noticed, tucked beneath one of the benches, a body, stripped to its undergarments. And, further in, another.
D’Orsay peered into the dim interior, disbelieving his eyes. “Stephen?” he muttered. Then he turned and sprinted after his son, who was out of sight by now. When he topped the hill, he saw Dev standing on the near side of the moat, shouting up to the gatehouse.
“Stephen! Open up, you pathetic imbecile, or I’ll . . .”
“Devereaux!” D’Orsay bellowed. “Come away!” He slammed his son aside just as a blast of wizard fire erupted from the gatehouse and scorched the ground where Dev had been standing.
D’Orsay thew up a shield in time to turn three more attacks from his own hold. Had the Roses taken advantage of their absence from the hold to sneak unobserved into the ghyll? Had his guard turned on him?
Wards were crystallizing all about the fortifications, powerful barriers to any magic that might be used to bring down the walls. Not that D’Orsay intended to knock down his house if he could help it.
They retreated to a safe distance. Dev was shaken but unhurt. He quickly added his strength to D’Orsay’s shielding. “What’s happened, Father? Has that idiot Stephen gone berserk?”
“Stephen is dead, Dev. I found him in the garden.”
“Step
hen? Dead?” Dev’s eyes widened. “That’s horrid. I can’t believe it.”
Just then a dozen guardsmen in D’Orsay livery trotted up. “What’s going on, sir?” the officer gasped. “We saw flames from down below.”
“I would expect that you could have told me, if you’d been at your posts where you belonged,” D’Orsay said dryly. “Where have you been?”
“We ...um ...” They looked at each other and shuffled their feet. Obviously no one wanted to be the one to confess. Finally the captain spoke up.
“My lord, we heard a woman singing, and went to check it out.”
“You heard a woman singing.” D’Orsay paused, just in case he’d misunderstood, and the captain nodded. “And you—all of you—went to investigate.”
“Well.” The captain fussed with his sleeve. “Yes. It was . . . well, you’d have to hear it for yourself.”
“Bewitched, were you? And did you find this woman?”
He shook his head. “We found this.” He held out his hand, and a small crystal bird sparkled in the center of his calloused palm.
D’Orsay struck it out of his hand. “An enchanter’s trick. And you fell for it. And now someone has locked me out of my own home.”
And then it came to him, a suspicion of who that someone might be.
D’Orsay turned back toward the castle, cupped his hands, and shouted, “Hastings!” He waited, and then repeated, “Hastings! I know it’s you, so you may as well show yourself!”
A moment later, he heard a woman’s amused voice from the parapet. “Leander, why is it you always get the credit for everything?”
They stepped out onto the wall walk, side-by-side, iced in magic—the tall wizard and the small enchanter, looking like a Romeo and Juliet in climbing gear.
Or the new lord and lady of the manor.
Linda Downey. And Leander Hastings. And Claude D’Orsay had them trapped in the ghyll.
That was one way to look at it.
D’Orsay turned to his guard. “Surround the hold,” he snapped. “They mustn’t be allowed to escape.”
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