“It’s time we discussed what you must do to apprehend Centerius,” Grandmother says. By Alexander’s reaction, I can see that she has already told him the truth about Lord Tyrell. “This realm has less of an effect on you, Alexander, but Lucy does not have many more days before she’ll be forced to go back.”
“I will aid you in any way I can,” he says resolutely.
“Can you truly turn against the man you said was like a father to you?” Disbelief peppers my tone.
“Even if draining people to the point of death wasn’t enough,” Alexander says quietly but firmly, “discovering the truth behind his sickeningly cannibalistic and selfish actions is enough to sway the hardest of hearts. And mine had never really been in it.”
I glance at Grandmother, who gives me the smallest of nods. She has combed through his mind, no doubt. He speaks the truth. “Well said.” I try not to sound resentful. “What must we do, Grandmother?”
“Lucy, you will open a portal directly into Centerius’s estate through your drawing—into his library where he keeps rings containing the arcana of fallen Sylvani. Alexander will be the one to step through and apprehend him.”
“But how am I to paint his library in such detail I can transport anyone there?”
“That is a valid concern,” Grandmother says, “but rest assured, there is a way for you to see it before you paint.”
I’ve come to know her well enough to know her cryptic answer will be revealed in time. “Still, it cannot be so simple,” I say, glancing between the two of them.
“No, I should think not,” Grandmother says. “You will need to provide Alexander with anything he should need to protect himself, for he cannot bring anything from this realm. As it is, we are skirting a serious law on a technicality.” She glances at Serafino for a moment, as though lost in thought. “No Sylvani may open a new portal to the mortal realm; furthermore, nothing but the clothes on our backs may travel to the mortal realm. Since neither of you are pureblooded Sylvani, we are following the letter of the law—if not the spirit. But there are those who would see this as a breach either way, and thus, I must bind you both to silence.”
“Of course,” I say instantly.
Grandmother nods and turns to Alexander, where her gaze lingers for a moment.
“You have my word,” he says.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Grandmother says with a sharpness in her eyes. “Now if you’re both willing, let’s move to some physical training. You are both familiar with swordplay, yes? Lucy, if you are to anticipate what Alexander may need in any given situation, you need to familiarize yourself with how he fights.”
My mind immediately jumps to fencing with James and to our short-lived self-defense lessons. I miss the familiarity of sparring with him, the comfort of doing something we both enjoyed. I glance at Alexander, and the image of him as he looked at Monsieur’s—dressed so handsomely in his bright white fencing gear—sticks in my mind. And in that instant, I realize I’m still attracted to him in spite of everything. What sort of person am I then? To be attracted to a man I haven’t decided to trust?
He catches my eye, and my heart beats a little faster.
I’m a terrible person.
“Lucy,” Grandmother calls. She has moved to stand in front of a wall of weapons of every sort—swords and lances and spears and daggers. Some which I have no name for. “Which weapon are you most familiar with?”
“Foil swords, mostly,” I say, a little intimidated as I stare at the vast array. “And James was trying to teach me to defend myself with a dagger.”
She nods approvingly. “I’m surprised, actually. I was afraid you’d say nothing at all, though I suspected your sister would want you to have some skill after her close call.” She pulls down a sword with a slim blade and hands it to me. The hilt is silver with a subtle knotwork pattern, and though the weapon is light, I can feel that it is well balanced. “This should do nicely,” she says, and I nod my approval.
Alexander remains quiet throughout this exchange, his eyes on the wall behind us.
“Which weapon are you most drawn to?” I ask, and we both look at each other in surprise—I suppose because I’ve hardly said anything to him at all.
“I’m comfortable with anything,” he says. “If you would like to start with swordplay, then I will be happy to do the same.”
He strides forward and removes one of the swords from the wall, one that is longer and heavier than mine—a rapier. He holds it balanced on the flat of his palms for a moment, as though testing its make. Then in one smooth motion he transfers it to his right hand. Immediately it looks like an extension of his arm—his body makes subtle shifts until I can see the strength in his back and arms, the solidness of his legs, the power rolling off him in waves. I’m simultaneously impressed and intimidated. This won’t be like fencing with James at all.
Grandmother watches, too. “I may have come at this the wrong way.” When I glance at her curiously, she waves me away. “Never mind. You should have the chance to practice with each other at least once, and then we will talk.”
I almost ask for a fencing uniform, but then I realize my current dress, with its split skirt and form-fitting leggings, will be more than adequate.
After a brief salute, I get into position. The weight of the sword and the tension in my muscles is all blessedly familiar, but with both Alexander and Grandmother watching, I feel distinctly uncomfortable.
Please let me not make a fool of myself.
Alexander returns the salute, but he remains upright, sword held loosely out before him. Thinking it is perhaps a difference in styles, I advance first.
He parries fluidly, almost lazily, as though batting aside my sword.
Surprise nearly causes me to lose my footing, but I manage to remember my steps and advance again. The result is the same: a lazy batting aside of my sword.
Again and again we repeat the pattern, until I begin to have the distinct feeling I am nothing but a mouse being toyed with by a very large cat.
And then, suddenly, everything changes.
I advance, and he parries so fast I can barely track the movement. Next I know, he is behind me, the tip of his sword a hairsbreadth away from my back. A crawling sensation raises the hair on the back of my neck just knowing how close I am to the point of a blade. Before I can decide whether to truly be afraid, Alexander moves gracefully away until he’s standing before me again.
“How did you learn to fight like that?” I ask, my breaths coming faster both from my nervousness and from the quick footwork.
His gaze drops to his sword, and a hint of a smile comes to his mouth. “I spent two years training at a kalari—a fighting school in India. I continue to practice it daily.” His gaze returns to mine. “You move well. Monsieur Giroux did not lie when he said you were one of his best students.”
“I may be accomplished at fencing, but you’re as graceful as a dancer,” I say. “I rather had the impression you were toying with me.”
He bows. “Forgive me. I wanted you to be able to know that I have some skill so that you might put your trust in me.”
Trust—if only I could trust him. And though I am eager to bring an end to the Order, thinking of Alexander coming up against a full-blooded Sylvani makes me think of a zebra trying to attack a lion. Centerius will be much more powerful, and the only real advantage Alexander will have is that of surprise.
“I think it may help if you see what Alexander is truly capable of,” Grandmother says, stepping away from the wall. “Centerius may be strong, but I think the two of you working together may be stronger.”
She gestures toward Alexander to come closer. He puts the sword back on the wall and then does as she asks. Grandmother draws a rune in the air before immediately placing her hand on Alexander’s temple. Images spring to life in front of us, just as they did when Grandmother showed me the long-ago battle.
The visions are of Alexander, clad rather scandalously in only a pair of white f
lowing pants, his body balanced on one foot. The real Alexander holds very still as he watches these images—the shock at seeing memories of himself playing out before us more than evident.
They show Alexander going through a series of motions—the muscles of his body rippling and contorting—but always there is the utmost control. He makes it look fluid, easy, as though he is not a man of flesh and bone at all, but rather of air and water.
The images of the controlled movements fades away, replaced in its stead by a clear memory of a rocky beach, the waves crashing against the shore under a gray sky. Again Alexander is dressed in nothing but loosely flowing white pants, but this time he holds a scimitar in his hand.
He faces off against a man dressed exactly the same and wielding the same wickedly curved blade. Through some unseen signal, they begin to spar, and I suck in my breath—how will either of them keep from getting slashed to pieces? It seems insanely risky to spar with no armor and with blades that are clearly sharp.
Alexander takes a running leap at the other man, his entire body bowed back, lending power to the blow of the sword. The other man somehow manages to parry the move, and then the two of them continue their fight in increasingly impossible leaps and contortions. Not once do they harm the other—not once do they even impart so much as a scratch. Their moves are fast but efficient, and I can sense the power and control behind them.
I glance at Alexander, still standing with Grandmother’s hand upon his temple, but a look of fascination has replaced his earlier shock.
The sparring match between the two men repeats itself with several different weapons—daggers, swords and shields, a dagger worn over the knuckles—and all end the same way, with no blood shed.
And then, the memory shifts, changing to a moonlit nursery. A riotous jungle can be glimpsed just outside the window—vibrantly green plants with thick leaves, brightly colored flowers, enormous trees.
Grandmother glances at Alexander in obvious surprise, but his expression looks determined.
The memory shifts from the window to a small bed, surrounded by mosquito netting. A woman stands over a boy, singing softly as she tucks him in. She is beautiful, her hair spilling down her back in thick waves, her sari the color of persimmons. The love in her softly rounded face for the tiny boy makes my heart ache.
When I glance at Alexander again, tears fall down his face unchecked, even as a soft smile touches his lips.
All too soon, the image fades.
“I never thought I’d see my mother again,” Alexander says, and though I already suspected, I still feel a jolt of surprise.
I think of the small boy, transposing his image on the man before me. He once had a mother who loved him—a half-Sylvan mother—who was later killed. Though my mother didn’t die in such a violent way, I still can’t help but see the parallel.
“She was beautiful,” I say, “and I could see she loved you very much.”
“Both are true,” Alexander says, a shadow crossing his face, “but I fear that I haven’t been worthy of her love for some time now.”
“Stopping the man who manipulated you into hunting your own kind will go a long way toward redemption,” I say, and this time, I mean it. “I’ve never seen anyone fight the way you do—some of it doesn’t even seem possible! And you fought without armor, without any means of protection.”
“Your good opinion means a lot to me.” His smile cautiously grows wider, as though afraid I will suddenly take back my praise. “It’s called kalaripayattu. We fight with no protective clothing because we have total control over our bodies—we know our limits, and we know our range. We can safely spar without injury.”
Grandmother has allowed us to speak to each other uninterrupted thus far, but now she steps forward. “I am glad you could see Alexander’s abilities for yourself, Lucy. It’s important to have trust in your partner, and you will have to rely on him greatly in the days to come.” She turns to Alexander. “But I must confess I am surprised you had the ability to control what was revealed just now—you shifted the memories to one of your own choosing.”
He nods. “And forgive me if I overstepped my bounds, but once I realized what you were doing, I had an overpowering desire to see my mother again.”
“There is no need to apologize, but what I am interested in is the fact that you managed to change the memories. It takes great strength of mind to resist me, and even greater to wrest back control of your own mind once I have infiltrated it.”
I feel some of the color drain from my face to have it discussed in such terms. What power! It’s frightening to imagine someone with such a gift; the mind is such an intimate thing—memories, even more so.
“It was always obvious to me that you had Spiritual arcana,” Grandmother continues, “but I hadn’t expected it to be this strong.” She falls silent for a moment, her eyes sweeping over him as if appraising him. “You will make a better partner for Lucy than I had imagined.”
Though she must mean our shared objective to stop Lord Tyrell, an almost indefinable feeling comes over me—like the primal awareness of an oncoming storm. Her words have a greater meaning, and the hair on the back of my neck rises even as my chest lightens at the thought.
But then, I’m struck by a realization so stirring I cry out, “Grandmother! Does this mean I may see images of my mother—perhaps even your memories of her?”
Grandmother turns to me with a slowly widening smile. “You can, dearest one. And we have Alexander to thank for the idea.”
TWENTY-TWO
GRANDMOTHER and I spent hours watching memories of Mama. I had so few of my own that the vast majority came from Grandmother, and tears spilled unchecked as I saw aspects of my mother’s life I never even knew about: her brief stint as a dragon rider after healing a hatchling dragon princess, her time spent in the ancient woods riding the oryx with Rowen by her side, and when she and Rowen were both young and small and would spend almost all their time swimming in the crystal blue lake.
But my favorite memory of all, the one I replay nearly all night long, is the moment when my mother returned from meeting my father for the first time.
“We danced all night,” Mama said to Grandmother, her voice so joyful it brings a smile to my face.
She is much younger than I have ever seen her, and yet she doesn’t look very different. Her eyes are a little less worldly, perhaps, and her mannerisms more enthusiastic and girlish. She’s still dressed in a gown from my own world, one I remember from her trousseau because it’s breathtakingly lovely. With a plunging neckline, wide skirts, and miles of satin and lace, the sapphire blue dress makes her eyes seem almost violet.
The skirts hang over the edge of Grandmother’s bed, where Mama rests at the foot. Grandmother smiles at Mama encouragingly.
“From the moment I touched him, I knew.” Rowen looks up at her from his spot between Mama and Grandmother, and the two of them share a wide grin.
“You had a vision,” Grandmother says knowingly. She leans forward, and it takes me a moment to realize that my unflappable grandmother is excited.
Mama nods. “I saw children—blonde-haired, blue-eyed children.” Her eyes fill with tears. “Not just one, either. A son and two daughters. They looked like me.” She whispers the last almost reverently.
Grandmother leans forward and takes hold of Mama’s hand. “My darling. There is no greater news you could have brought me.”
Now Mama cries in earnest. “Truly, Mama? Do you mean it? I thought you would be …”
Grandmother shakes her head. “You know the plight of our people. The struggles we have had to bear children. How could I wish that for you? No, my wish is for you to bear me many grandchildren, to live your life with someone you love, and with children you adore.”
Mama grips Grandmother’s hand. “Even if it means I must leave Sylvania? Leave you and …” She looks down at Rowen and loses the ability to speak.
“Your visions should not be ignored, especially if the fate of f
uture children hangs in the balance. They will only be half-Sylvani, but it has been done before. Our bloodline will continue, and it’s your happiness that’s most important.”
“But Father …”
“Your father will be furious,” Grandmother says, her eyes intensely focused on Mama, “but even his anger will fade in time.”
“Then I will return to Robert as soon as I can and give him my answer,” Mama says.
“It will be unbearable without you, and yet I will endure it for the chance of one day meeting grandchildren,” Grandmother says.
Mama throws herself into her mother’s arms, and I think I can feel a little bit of what she must have felt: joyful hope, anxious fear, desperate love. But there is no greater gift than seeing how truly, madly, hopelessly Mama loved us all.
I fall asleep finally, thankful beyond words that my mother chose to put aside everything she’d ever known just for the chance to bring us to life. And for her mother, our grandmother, who stood by her side and encouraged it.
Lucy.
Lucy.
“Lucy!”
I wake up with a jolt, my heart doing that horrible thing it sometimes does when I’m awoken suddenly where it threatens to burst from my chest. I look around my dark room in utter confusion. Moonlight spills in from the open windows, and then I see the ghostly image of my sister.
“Wren! What—?”
“Forgive me, I didn’t realize it would be in the middle of the night here.”
“Yes, but … Wren … how are you here?” I ask, still in that sleepy-bewildered state.
“Ah, yes. Well, we’ve had some surprising news that apparently lets me travel between realms.”
I sit up in bed at that. “Are you here only in spirit then? I should hope so anyway, otherwise you should know you look positively ghoulish.”
The Order of the Eternal Sun Page 23