She couldn’t go out as she was, though. Normal women did not appear in public with their hair streaming down their backs. Ardhuin trudged up to her room, wondering how long it would take this time. Her hair, in addition to its fiery color, was fine and slippery and always coming loose. She finally managed to get the whole mass up and anchored with every hairpin she owned after a prolonged struggle. Hopefully that would be good enough.
Glowering, she left the house. This was all his fault. Didn’t he realize she had other, more important things to do? Then her sense of justice reminded her that she had been at pains to have him not realize anything. Besides, yelling and scowling at him would not further her plans. She would have to be nice.
The closer she got to the door of the gardener’s cottage the more her stomach tied itself into knots. Her courage nearly failed her when she finally stood before it, and it took her a moment to force herself to raise her hand and give a soft tap.
Maybe he wasn’t in. With a rush of relief she stepped back and turned to go, but then heard the door open behind her.
“Mademoiselle Andrews?” She had to turn back, since he had already seen her. Dominic Kermarec was in his shirtsleeves and looked quite surprised. There was a smudge of soot on his cheek that made the angles of his face seem even more pronounced. She froze, suddenly unable to speak, and his expression changed to one of worry. “Oh. Have you hired a gardener?”
“No!” she blurted, astonished, then winced when she realized she’d missed a perfect opportunity to solve the whole problem. She needed to practice lying. It was becoming painfully obvious her lack of skill was a handicap. “I wanted to...to ask a favor. I mean, I need....” Behind him, she saw a table scattered with books, papers, and the remains of a meal. She felt herself going bright red with embarrassment. “I have interrupted your dinner. I am very sorry.”
“It would be hard for you not to interrupt it, since this is in fact an extremely prolonged luncheon,” he said, with a wry expression. “I had no idea it was so difficult to cook a chicken. I bought it to celebrate, but I seem to have done something not quite right—I don’t see how it can still be raw inside when the outside is all but burned. My hunger got the better of me and I have been eating a bite here and there as it finishes. Next time I will ask your advice.”
Ardhuin stared at him, nonplussed. She’d never cooked a chicken either, or anything else. As a child, the cook had refused to even let her in the kitchen after the first few accidents caused by her clumsiness, and no objection had been raised when she refused to take lessons in school. He was acting as if she were an ordinary young lady again.
Some of her confusion must have shown on her face. He cleared his throat and stood back from the doorway. “But you wished to ask me something, Mademoiselle Andrews. Please, come in.”
He looked about the interior of the tiny cottage, then went and quickly took his jacket off the back of the only chair, picked up a book lying on the seat, and offered the chair to her. Ardhuin didn’t want to sit down or even come inside, but she did so. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but he kept glancing at her with what seemed like apprehension. Now that she thought about it, perhaps she had been rather abrupt in their previous conversations.
“What are you celebrating, Monsieur Kermarec?”
He picked up a printed magazine from the table, opened up the front page, and handed it to her. “This,” he said, indicating a line in the listed contents.
It said, Under the Earth: A dramatic tale of exploration and adventure by D. Kermarec. “You are an author,” Ardhuin said softly. “I congratulate you.”
“It’s my very first publication,” he said with obvious pride. “The editor of this magazine has even asked me to send more.”
Ardhuin turned back the cover, studying the engraved illustrations, then looked at the contents again. “What is your tale about?” she asked, intrigued.
“A team of explorers that endeavor to find an entrance to the Earth’s center in the deepest caverns known. You may borrow it if you like,” he offered, and grinned. “I already know how it ends.”
“You are very kind,” Ardhuin said, feeling an unexpected spurt of happiness. She looked up. Dominic Kermarec was staring at her with an air of startled puzzlement. After a moment, he shook his head.
“I beg your pardon. You reminded me of something I had forgotten. What is it you wished to ask me?”
Ardhuin clutched the magazine, feeling nervous again. “Those two statues in the garden. Can you...move them? By yourself?” It seemed ridiculous now. While he appeared more athletic than a typical scholar, it would take a great deal of strength to shift two heavy stone statues.
He blinked. “Where do you wish them moved?”
“Anywhere I won’t have to look at them,” she snapped, and felt her face go red when he stared at her in astonishment.
“But—you object to them?”
She kept her gaze on the floor. “Yes. I object to them,” she mumbled. “Can you do it?” She glanced up again.
He rubbed his chin, looking out the window thoughtfully. “I have an idea that might work. I will need some timbers and some rope, though.”
Ardhuin stood up. She suddenly wanted desperately to get out of the cottage, out into the open air. “Look in the carriage house, on the other side of the entrance. If you don’t find anything of use I will give you money to purchase what you need in town. Thank you,” she said, remembering to smile.
She felt her smile start to slip when he accompanied her out the door. “It is my pleasure to assist you. If I had not been able to stay here I doubt I would have finished my story. Now I need to write another.” He held up one hand to shield his eyes from the rays of the setting sun. “Do you know if there is a library in Baranton? I need to find a set of Gridel’s Lectures.”
“In Baranton? No.” Ardhuin looked down at the magazine in her hands. She felt ashamed of her earlier suspicions. Dominic Kermarec was just an aspiring writer with too much curiosity. He had always been courteous, even when her behavior was brusque or actually rude. He was no danger to her. There was no reason she shouldn’t help him—and considering what she had done to him, it might be a way of making reparations.
“I believe I might have a set,” she stammered quickly. “You may borrow the volumes you need.” There, she’d done it. Her heart was beating so fast she felt a little faint.
He brightened. “Thank you! Would you mind if I got them now? I can read while I wait for the chicken to be done.”
Panic froze her, and she forced herself to breathe again. She hadn’t intended for him to come to the house. But then, did it really matter? Nothing obvious needed hiding in the house itself. Perhaps it would be better to get it over with as quickly as possible. Then she could take a prescriptive powder and recover from the shocks of the day.
“Of-of course.” She started walking down the path back to the house.
Kermarec walked beside her, relaxed and looking about as they went. “This is a beautiful place. How long have you lived here?”
“A few years,” Ardhuin said carefully. He might be safe, but she didn’t want to give him any potentially dangerous information.
He raised his eyebrows. “And before that?”
She could give him potentially misleading information, though. “I’m from Atlantea.”
He stopped in his tracks, staring at her, then continued on, shaking his head. “You don’t sound Atlantean. I mean, your name is foreign, but you have no accent at all.”
Ardhuin opened the garden gate. “Oh, I went to school in Bretagne for several years,” she said, and increased her pace. She had to open the wards fast enough that he would not feel anything when they went through. Of course, he waited to allow her to enter first, and she had no difficulty opening and closing them without detection.
He followed her through the house, looking with admiration at the interior. When she opened the doors to the library, she heard him gasp behind her.
�
�Gridel’s Lectures are here,” Ardhuin said, gesturing to the section of wall under the balcony.
“I begin to understand why you never leave the house,” Kermarec commented, going to one knee to get a better look at the titles on the bindings. “And why you spend so much time here.”
Ardhuin frowned. “How...why do you say that?”
He smiled faintly and indicated the large window that faced the garden. It was almost completely dark outside.
“I can see the light from my cottage.” He started selecting volumes from the shelf. “Hmm. I don’t see the volume of lectures on astronomy.”
She made a noise of exasperation. “I think I know where it is. I will return in just a moment.” She closed the library doors behind her and threw a delicate web of power over them, keeping the main thread with her as she hurried up the stairs. If he tried to leave the library before she returned, she’d know. Not that he would get anywhere if he did. The wards would prevent him from leaving the house until she opened them.
Up more flights of stairs, to the servant’s rooms, and then the steep, narrow staircase to the cupola at the top of the house. The missing volume was still there, opened to the page of illustrations of the interaction between solar flux and terrestrial ley lines. Two pieces of smoked glass lay beside it, the ones she and her great-uncle had used to view an eclipse.
She picked up the book, which smelled slightly musty, and carefully went back down the steep stairs. How long ago had that been? How she had loved to escape from school on her vacations, and how she’d hated to go back when they ended.
The library doors were still closed, according to her spell. She paused on the landing, paging through the book of lectures and remembering how much her great-uncle had loved learning new things.
The sudden scream nearly made her drop the book. She flew down the stairs, heart pounding. Was it an attack? She’d felt nothing on the wards. The screams continued, coming from the library. Was Kermarec hurt? Ardhuin gestured the library doors to open, too impatient to care if her use of power was detected.
She didn’t see him anywhere on the lower level. The screaming had stopped. She listened more carefully, walking slowly around the edge of the library. A sort of harsh, sobbing breath came from the upper level. She picked up her skirts in one hand and ran up the spiral stair.
There he was. Collapsed in a heap, unconscious, in front of the cabinets where the magic books were stored. She’d left one unlocked, evidently. It was open, and he was clutching the most dangerous book in the collection, one that had powerful defenses.
She felt cold and sick. Dominic Kermarec was a spy after all.
Chapter 3
Dominic scanned the shelves in growing wonder, barely noticing the sound of the library doors closing. It was a large room; books lined two walls completely. Glass-fronted cabinets framed a large window on another wall, and the remaining one featured a massive stone fireplace, deeply carved. He looked up and saw that the library had a gallery along two sides as well. He sighed in sheer bliss.
The library was like a temple to books. He’d been surprised at the richness of the interior of the house, and the signs of disuse. Most of the furniture was swathed in white covers. But here, everything was alive. The rich wood glowed in the light of the sconce lamps, and in the center space, before a large carved desk, were deep, padded leather chairs around a thick carpet of foreign design.
How many books did she have? Whoever had chosen them had eclectic taste. He started to walk slowly along the wall, fighting the urge to take a volume out and start reading. Each title was more interesting than the last—the ones he could read, at least. Many were in languages or scripts he did not recognize.
The cabinets were full of intriguing things, too. Dominic went over to examine them more closely, but saw the spiral staircase to the library gallery and hesitated, glancing at the door. The mysterious Mademoiselle Andrews still had not returned.
He put his hand on the rail and started up. What was it about her that seemed so familiar? There had been a strange sense of something he could not identify from the first time he had encountered her, but tonight the feeling of recognition was like a blow. Was it what she had said? He couldn’t possibly have met her before—even he would remember a woman like her. And it wasn't just her amazing hair, either. The long lines of her face, the determined jaw and angled brows, all gave the impression of something wild. When he had opened the door to her knock, his immediate impression had been of a half-tame creature, poised to attack or flee.
The stair rail had an impressed scale pattern on its surface, and the central pole featured a seadragon winding around it, highlighted in blue-green mother-of-pearl. A very rich house indeed. Then why was it essentially abandoned?
The gallery level had an even more far-ranging selection of books. Poetry, again in any number of languages, and fairy tales. At least he thought they were fairy tales. The drab, matter-of-fact bindings did not match the titles. He could no longer resist his curiosity, and opened one to find a series of meticulous sketches of an ancient stone building.
Here the priests would meet when the lunar phase most troubled the natural etheric flow, and would mingle their blood in a single golden cup that all would drink therefrom, that none would be able to set power over the others.
Dominic put the book away, feeling disturbed. No, not a fairy tale, at least not one for children. He glanced down at the lower level, wondering if he had been forgotten. She was unpredictable, but that would be beyond anything he’d yet seen from her.
Everything about her was a mystery. As far as he could tell, she never visited anyone or received callers, and he had seen no servants in the house. Was she truly alone? That might explain her reluctance to talk to him.
Perhaps she could no longer afford servants, and kept the house out of stubborn pride. Perhaps she feared losing it. Dominic frowned, suddenly realizing she was certainly worried about something. The first time he’d actually seen her smile was when he’d given her the magazine to read.
He continued along the shelves. Idly, he noticed the carpeting had an unusual glittery, silvery design. The gallery took an unexpected turn into an alcove. The books here were in glass-fronted cabinets. Their shelves had only a few titles in languages he was accustomed to, but he didn't stop to read them. Another book had caught his eye. I wonder what the binding is, to give it that effect, he thought, fascinated. Fur? Black suede? It seemed to swallow up the light, like it was wrapped in shadow. The cabinet door was slightly ajar, and he opened it further and reached for the book.
Pain lanced up his arm, doubling him up, dropping him to the floor. Spasms contorted his body, and he cried out. He tried to let go of the book, but his hand would not respond—and the pain got worse and worse. With the last of his strength, he desperately tried to strike the book out of his hand by hitting it against the edge of the shelf. He succeeded in shifting it but could not muster the energy to try again before the world went dark.
His awareness returned in slow-moving waves. At first, all he knew was a bone-deep fatigue and profound relief that the pain had stopped. Sharp twinges announced themselves when he tried to move. There was a dull ache at the back of his head—had he hit it when he fell? He couldn’t remember.
Dominic opened his eyes and drew a sharp breath. He wasn’t on the upper level anymore. He was sitting in one of the leather chairs on the main floor of the library, and it appeared he would remain there for some time, since he was tied to it. Not that he would have been able to stand if he were free. How his head ached!
It hurt to move, but he twisted stiffly and looked about as much as he could. The library was still empty, but now a white opaline glass lamp glowed on the big desk.
He felt strangely calm. Yes, he appeared to be in trouble, but the odds were he would soon find answers for some of the questions that had been bothering him. That was worth a headache.
Dominic heard the library doors open behind him and the sound of quick fo
otsteps. Mademoiselle Andrews appeared. She breathed deeply, as if she had been running, and held a glorious red-gold rose in full bloom stiffly away from her in one hand. It looked like the same kind of rose he had nearly picked in the garden.
She started when she saw him looking at her. He couldn’t tell if she was surprised to see him there, or if she had not expected him to be conscious.
Mademoiselle Andrews swallowed and continued forward slowly. “You aren’t a very good spy,” she said, her voice shaking a little. “Or didn’t they warn you?”
Dominic struggled to speak. His head ached even more, and his jaw was stiff, too.
She had the same expression he remembered from the first time he had seen her—both fierce and frightened, her troubled eyes the grey-green of a stormy sea—but now there was a trace of hurt there. She thrust the rose at him as if it were the iron poker.
Soft petals brushed his bruised face, bringing with them a cloud of tangy scent. He took a deep breath reflexively, too confused to draw back. The same rose, and now she was forcing it on him instead of driving him away. She had looked so otherworldly that day, like a goddess of the Old Beliefs come back to life. A goddess of fire. He could see it even now. Tendrils of fiery hair had escaped her coiffure and hung about her face and down her back, as if the thin veneer of modern times she hid behind was beginning to crack.
“I’m not a spy,” he said. His throat was raw. He remembered screaming, now.
She blinked with surprise and stepped back. Then she frowned, but not at him. At the rose. “How can I be sure it works?” she murmured, and held it to his face again. Dominic stifled a sneeze. “Say something that isn’t true,” she demanded.
She seemed absolutely sane. She just didn’t make any sense. “Very well. I’m a pastry che-AUGGGHH!” His arms strained against the ropes, trying to get his hands free. His throat had suddenly constricted as if he were being strangled. The invisible hand released, and he fell back, gasping for air, feeling his heartbeat pound in his ears.
The Last Mage Guardian Page 5