Beyond the Dark

by Angela Knight

  “What could be so important that a King’s Mage’s life would be risked for it?” Emma gaped at him.

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. If Trevelyan attacked before the adepts arrived, he’d need her help—and she deserved to know why they fought, even though it stuck in his craw to risk her life again. At least the gryphon had approved of her loyalty by showing himself to her.

  “Bonaparte plans to declare war and invade England.” He gave her the unvarnished truth, as befitted the descendant of military men.

  “So? The Navy will hurl him back to France!” She sniffed haughtily. He could almost see her father glaring at him.

  “What navy? We have been at peace for almost two years and have only a fraction of the ships we once did. It’s only twenty-two miles from Calais to Dover, less than a day’s ride by Bonaparte’s reckoning. As matters stand today, we couldn’t mount a defense that could stop the French fishing fleet from crossing the Channel.”

  She opened her mouth and shut it, visibly fuming.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and waited for the admiral’s daughter to find Bonaparte’s true difficulty.

  “Even if he did make it over the water, he’d still have to land his troops. The French pilots know only the large ports, like Dover and Portsmouth, which are all heavily armed.”

  “But he can select a small port, which would give him the advantage of surprise. Someplace with difficult tides or a twisting channel but good roads, once he’s ashore,” Owen suggested mildly.

  She raised a haughty eyebrow. “He’d need an English pilot, which he’ll never have.”

  “Never?”

  She stared at him. He allowed the silence to lengthen between them.

  “After all these years of war, no English pilots have gone over to the French. At least not in sufficient numbers to guide an invasion fleet,” Emma whispered, color draining from her face.

  “Not willingly, no. But have you ever heard of the Lorelei?”

  She shook her head, curls tumbling over her shoulders.

  “They’re faerie maidens who live in and around the Rhine, and their song has the ability to enthrall sailors. A small group of French mages have been working in Strasbourg for years on a spell, which could do the same thing. They succeeded late last year.”

  “If they stole our pilots or sailors…” Emma shuddered. “Bonaparte could invade where and when he chose, and his fleet would always be victorious.”

  Owen nodded, refusing to show any of his own fears. “Thankfully for us, many in Strasbourg loathe him.”

  “Why? Most of Europe’s intellectuals welcomed the French revolutionaries, and he’s their heir.”

  “Strasbourg was neutral before it was seized by Louis XIV. Even after that, it remained a free city until a few years ago, when the French revolutionaries revoked its traditional religious and academic liberties. Now Bonaparte’s mages constantly hunt Strasbourg’s few remaining magick workers.”

  “Will its mages help us?”

  “Very cautiously. One of them locked the counterspell to the Lorelei’s song into my head, before he died.”

  “Do the French know that’s what you’re carrying?” she whispered.

  “Oh yes.” Owen looked back at her, allowing his knowledge of how that Strasbourg mage had been torn apart to show, along with his white-hot hunger for revenge burning behind it.

  She gasped, her face turning ashen. “What won’t they do to stop you?”

  “Nothing. But a chalice like you is just as great a prize, sweetheart.” He shrugged. “We must stand together or be destroyed.”

  “If they attack, we won’t be able to join ourselves as we, as we did last night.” She blushed hotly, but bravely kept her eyes on him. “Won’t that be necessary if you’re to draw magick from me?”

  “No. According to all the books, now that we’ve shared breath, we can simply look at each other and pass magick without physical contact.” He hoped, by all the patron saints of mages, that that was true.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.” He pushed his doubts aside. He’d have to drop all of his self-made walls to pull it off, too. God help them.

  “I’m glad.” She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek.

  He was silent much of the way back to the house thinking about how best to accomplish linking with her for battle—drawing up half-forgotten texts, remembering how Villers-en-Cauchies had begun, although that seemed so distant now. Would the binding be a spell primarily of intent or of word? Would Emma’s incredible depth as a chalice affect the creation of a spell in any way? Her strength might want to join the linkage—or it might be hesitant, after all. Would he need to set wards around her, or would the confluence protect her as one of its own?

  Emma spread her fingers over Owen’s wrist, from where her hand rested in the crook of his arm, wondering if he felt the same shiver of possession and pride at her nearness. His heat and strength were as palpable now as his magick had been last night. She should feel safe, yet his expression was abstracted and harsh. They’d shared magick—oh dear heavens, had they made magick!—but she wasn’t certain if he’d be able to drop his shields to let her help him.

  God willing her love would be strong enough to carry them both through it. It was strange that her second love should come this way, for a stranger washed up by the tides. Still, her heart had known him from the first, and she’d follow him wherever he went.

  Owen held the garden gate open for her, and she entered, instinctively listening for any watchers. She’d never come back to the house moments after dawn with a lover before.

  She paused at the rose garden’s edge, stung by the utter lack of familiar voices. Where was the under-gardener, picking the first berries of the day? Where were the grooms, crooning to the horses? Shouldn’t coal scuttles be clanging from inside the house?

  “Where is Grandfather?” She swung toward the terrace, looking for the most beloved face of all. “He’s always out here on sunny days to drink his tea.”

  Owen sniffed hard, his countenance turning harsh.

  “Trevelyan?” she whispered.

  Owen deftly drew a complicated sign in the air. It hung for a moment in colored smoke before flaring crimson with a disgusting stench of sulphur. The blackened remains whirled rapidly, leaning onto one side, and pointed toward the cove.

  “He came from the ocean. The French must be back, hiding in that early morning mist.”

  “Grandfather.” A tear ran down her cheek, but she bit her lip until the blood came, forcing herself to stand still. She wouldn’t risk Owen’s life and his precious message, if this was a trap.

  “He’s no longer here, and there’s no spell set on the house itself. He probably couldn’t do so, even if he wanted to.” Owen caught her hand, and they ran for the house.

  They burst into the kitchen, slamming the heavy door back against the wall, only to find a horrific sight. Keverne, Cook, and the youngest scullery maid all sat immobile on chairs and stools, staring straight ahead like giant wooden puppets. And Nurse—Nurse hung from the great iron cooking crane by her best apron, her skin and clothes blackened, and her eyes staring. Her chest was barely moving.

  Emma gagged, her legs turning to water under her.

  “Trevelyan couldn’t touch the land or the house but the bastard could savage the people.” Owen’s tone was a bitter indictment. “I should have guessed he’d do something like this.”

  He reached up to Nurse, chanting softly. As soon as he touched her, a crimson flare flashed over her and the kitchen. A piece of parchment drifted down, rapidly burning on every edge.

  Owen caught it, ignoring the fire, and Emma gasped. If she lost him, too…

  “You may exchange Sir George for Mrs. Sinclair at the Morthol in one hour. Otherwise, I will use him as blood magick against her.” Trevelyan’s voice dripped acid.

  A muscle ticked in Owen’s jaw but he said nothing.

  “Come alone, Bentham. It’s warded against all other mag
ick wielders. Trevelyan.”

  Owen’s fingers flickered, and the parchment evaporated into a single puff of smoke, taking Trevelyan’s last syllables with it.

  “What does he mean to do?” She shook his shoulder.

  “You’re a very powerful chalice, and your grandfather comes from the same blood. If he makes your grandfather into a blood sacrifice on the land that you draw your power from, it would be enough to bind you. And probably do unspeakable things with your power, as well.”

  Her skin crawled at the memories walking through his voice.

  “Aye, it’s enough to make me risk my message.” He smiled wryly at her. “Help me take her down, sweetheart.”

  “Can we?” She gulped and came forward cautiously. “Should we fetch the surgeon, or…”

  “Her injuries are purely magickal, like those of everyone else in this house.” He lifted her hand and kissed it, his warm lips lingering on her knuckles. “With your aid, I can heal them all.”

  She couldn’t stop staring at Nurse. All the happy years, all the laughter, the shared confidences, the tears when Edward had died—to have everything end like this.

  “Emma!”

  Her heart jolted against her ribs, and she stared at Owen.

  “You must focus on me—or Trevelyan has already won.” He rubbed his cheek against both her hands, watching her with those irresistible sapphire eyes. “You must give me the strength to heal them. I cannot do it alone.”

  He’d never lied to her. She nodded slowly.

  “Now draw the power from the confluence for me, dear heart.”

  “How?”

  “Simply ask for it.”

  She frowned at him. Everything else in magick happened with words and gestures and spectacle. How could she do so much so easily?

  “I don’t understand why it works, only that’s what the books say—and you’ve gained it before without effort. Quickly, Emma, we haven’t much time.”

  She pulled a face and closed her eyes, silently making her request to whoever was listening. Perhaps that big guardian spirit she’d always felt watching over her in the rose garden?

  Something surged into her, stuffing her every pore and spilling out. Her dress crackled, and its ribbons snapped against her arms.

  “Now give me your hand, Emma.” Owen’s blue eyes were confident enough to be a lifeline.

  She obeyed, trusting him completely.

  He chanted something complicated and harsh, finishing with a strong chopping motion of their hands.

  A brilliant white light flashed throughout the kitchen and farther, illuminating every inch—even beyond what was covered by cloth. For a moment, Emma could see the bones in her hand and the window’s iron frame behind the curtains. The house shuddered, surging upward and settling back down with a groan almost of relief.

  Nurse dropped into Owen’s arms, all signs of burns gone. The other servants gasped, almost a dry rattle, before they began to breathe smoothly.

  Emma buried her face against Owen’s back and prayed the confrontation with Trevelyan would take place as easily.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Owen led their way into the Morthol, every sense alive for the slightest sign of treachery. It had been a very beautiful castle once, with its finely fitted gray stonework, Gothic arches and pierced windows, and twisting bridges over the pounding surf.

  Even in its decline, after centuries of abandonment to storms and landslides, it still maintained its ancient sense of power and brooding majesty. It stared across the meadows and forests to Trethledan House, as if it still kept watch over the confluence. The Gwythias ran fast and hard along its eastern edge, as if guarding it from the saccharine opulence of Whitmore Hall.

  But a French frigate arrogantly prowled the waters to the south. Sails could be seen farther east—probably the promised fleet. The French, damn their eyes, had the weather gauge, meaning the wind came to their sails first. The British ships would have to tack back and forth to make any headway against that, adding hours—perhaps days!—to their time. Possession of such an advantage by the French was damned suspicious, but not Owen’s first concern.

  Emma was. Heaven forbid Trevelyan should take her, either directly or by sacrificing her grandfather. His fist clenched briefly, and he forced it to relax, finger by finger.

  She was nattily attired in a crisp dark-blue wool riding habit, looking every inch the aristocratic lady. Even her top hat’s ribbons and plumes jauntily announced her superiority and long ties to this neighborhood.

  He’d chosen to wear his uniform as a King’s Mage, all scarlet and gold silk, with lashings of gold braid across his chest and intricate lace on his forearms. An equally magnificent bearskin-lined jacket hung from his left shoulder, proclaiming his disdain for ordinary soldiers’ miniscule wardrobes. His bearskin cap was crowned with a gryphon’s feather, and gold tassels decorated his crimson sash and his knee boots. Her grandfather’s saber rode at his hip, thumping his leg arrogantly with every step.

  Bonaparte’s hussars wore a blurred copy of the same uniform, condemned as mere mortals to wear wool instead of spider silk magickally capable of keeping its wearer warm in the winter, cool in the summer, dry in all weathers, and clean despite any adversity.

  It was the first time he’d willingly donned full regimentals since Villers-en-Cauchies. It had seemed fitting to wear it when he was going into battle again.

  He was escorting her in the most formal style, with only her hand resting on his. Neither of them wore gloves, maintaining physical contact for as long as possible.

  They’d crossed over an arched bridge, along winding paths, under frowning battlements, to reach this final stone wall. They passed through an ancient room, only dimly lit from high-set, dusty windows.

  They emerged into daylight, heavy with the scent of age and dankness, of old stone and green grass. Salt air teased the nose, carried by a stiff breeze which blew out of the west toward Plymouth and the other naval bases.

  Before them lay the inner bailey, a large enclosed courtyard covered in grass and nothing else. Gray stone walls rose all around, pierced by narrow windows as formal as jurors. One side had been torn away to reveal the ocean, sparkling like a seductive jewel. Waves pounded at the rocks, roaring their desire to swallow the land.

  High tide would arrive within the hour.

  The French frigate hovered insolently less than a mile away, within easy reach by long boat or cannon fire. Farther away, small white triangles—little more than flecks—marked where British warships fought the wind.

  Trevelyan turned to face them from the greensward, one eyebrow superciliously elevated. He was very fashionably dressed from his black, superfine dress coat to his highly polished Hessian boots. A saber hung at his side, its hilt the matte-black of a mage’s weapon guided by magesight, not sunlight.

  The hair on the nape of Owen’s neck rose at its sight. Such weapons had a wicked taste for blood.

  But Owen’s borrowed saber was sworn to this land’s defense, giving it some advantage in this battle.

  Behind Trevelyan, the grass rose to a slight mound near the central wall before falling away.

  Emma’s grandfather was tied to a chair in the colonnade on the far side, his cane carelessly propped against it. Above his gag, the old gentleman’s eyes were narrowed and deadly, like a cobra considering his first move.

  “Bentham.”

  The ice-edged spell in Trevelyan’s voice touched Owen and melted into a puddle on the grass. It was a very old test of another mage’s shields.

  Trevelyan’s eyes narrowed. Yesterday—before Emma had healed him—that spell would have left Owen badly frostbitten.

  “Trevelyan.” Owen waited, not showing his triumph—and not bothering to waste his own magick to probe the other.

  “Mrs. Sinclair.” Trevelyan’s voice was considerably warmer. “What a great pleasure it is—”

  “Save your breath, and pay compliments to those who’d believe them,” she snapped and gave Owen
’s fingers a quick squeeze. “I’ll see to my grandfather now.”

  Trevelyan’s mouth tightened. “Of course. You’ll want to say good-bye to him before we leave for France.”

  “Harrumph.” She leaned up and kissed Owen’s cheek, an affectionate display which raised a hum of pleasure through his bones.

  He smiled, knowing his face softened for her.

  Something very ancient stirred behind the Morthol’s stones, too deep for even his magesight to clearly see. A welcome warmth brushed the soles of his boots.

  Trevelyan hissed angrily and opened his mouth.

  Emma gave Owen’s hand another squeeze, curtsied to him, and calmly walked toward her grandfather, for all the world as if they were in a formal drawing room and Trevelyan nowhere to be seen. Owen couldn’t have been prouder if she’d been a raw recruit saddling up to go into battle.

  “Have you prepared your statement for the mages at the White Tower?” he drawled, turning back to his enemy. “They’ll be very curious about how a British subject managed to learn magery and serve a French tyrant so well.”

  “You’re the one who needs to plan,” Trevelyan retorted. “Your few ships won’t save you, not while I control the wind.”

  Damn. He’d hoped Trevelyan wouldn’t have enough magick to control both the weather and fight a duel. The traitor had probably arranged a standing spell so that the breeze would continually keep the British Navy away from the Morthol. If so, the fastest counter would be to break his concentration. But how?

  He paced, coming out onto the green and making Trevelyan turn to face him. The closer he came to the mound, the faster the dew melted from the grass and the warmer his feet became, until he was as comfortable as on an early summer day. It must be where the old magick was centered, that Emma’s grandmother had spoken of.

  From the corner of his eye, he watched his lady.

  Emma sliced through her grandfather’s bonds with her pocketknife, which she’d hidden in her riding habit, and began to rub the circulation back into his hands.