The Herald of Day

by Nancy Northcott

  Miranda drew a painful breath. “They died eight years ago, in the Great Fire.” The blaze had destroyed vast parts of London. While the tally of the dead was small, that didn’t matter if people you loved were among them.

  The loss still hurt, but she was used to it. “As I was saying, the dreams were briefer, but they ... felt the same, for lack of a better word. They felt true. Magical.”

  His face remained gravely attentive, not mocking or doubtful, and she found the courage to add, “My mother said I had the seer gift, but ... mayhap I imagined these things. Because I was distressed by the hanging.”

  “That seems doubtful, all things considered,” he said, frowning.

  “Mistress Agnes Smith was innocent,” Miranda stated. “I know she was.” As Mother had been.

  “Of course she was. Our kind can charm our way out of such fixes. Usually.”

  Our kind. She hadn’t been among her own kind since her mother’s death.

  “My mother was hanged as a witch,” Miranda blurted. The pain she’d been trying to ignore surged into her throat. “She couldn’t charm her way out of it, but she wasn’t evil. She wasn’t.” The words nearly choked her, and she turned to the water, seeking composure. “She was a healer.”

  Saying so triggered another memory, and with it, the pain of loss. Miranda had hoped to be a healer, too. Someday. But that hope was gone.

  Quietly, Hawkstowe said, “I’m sorry. Have you other family?”

  “Only distant cousins who were glad to see the back of me.” She managed a shrug to downplay the pain in that and turned to face him again.

  After Mother’s death, Miranda and her father and brother had gone to live in London, where Mother had said there were many Gifted. But Father didn’t even know they existed, so Miranda hadn’t been able to seek aid from them. Then he and Johnny had died in the fire, and she’d been alone.

  “Did your father train you?” Hawkstowe asked.

  “Oh, no. No, he was unGifted. Mother trained me until she died. Then no one did.”

  His gaze sharpened. “Mistress Willoughby, many strongly Gifted wizards couldn’t form a creature of illusion such as the dragon you sent for me.”

  “Wizards?” She frowned. “I don’t know that word. Is it like witches?”

  “It’s more or less the same, but we tend to use wizard more. As I was saying, someone must’ve trained you, at least in summoning. Who?”

  Not more suspicion. Miranda squared her shoulders. “I’ve had a knack for glamours and summoning since I was very young. I know that’s unusually early, but that’s what happened. My mother trained me in those skills. But she died when I was nine, before I began to show any other Gifts.”

  “And now you have visions,” he murmured, frowning out at the Channel.

  “Yes. And I would rather not.”

  Yet magic could be useful. He knew how to charm ill-tempered folk like Flora, the cook. “My lord, could you have saved Mistress Smith?”

  “No.” The word fell from his lips like an oak chip from an ax, and his expression hardened. “If the unGifted choose to kill one another, it’s not our affair.”

  “But an innocent person—surely—”

  “What would you have had me do? Blast the gaol apart and sweep her away? Then what, having shown my power to a woman it surely would terrify, who would see me as evil, who would tell every soul she knew?” Frustration rang in his words.

  “But can’t you make people forget or something?”

  “I’m a Gifted mortal, Mistress Willoughby, not God Almighty.” He scowled at her. “If there’s nothing else—”

  “No, but those other things—blasting the gaol apart and such—you could truly do all that?” Were such things really possible?

  His chest rose and fell in a long, deep breath as the anger faded from his face. “I could,” he said quietly. “For that matter, so might you if you had enough training and skill, however inadvisable the doing.”

  Having such power, though—if she could learn to use it in subtle, undetectable ways—would be a great boon. She could help people.

  “Perhaps you know more than you think,” he said. “Your visions might help the Gifted’s Conclave Council, in London, understand these unsettling omens. You should come to London with me.”

  “Go to London?” With him? Surely she hadn’t heard him aright.

  “I’ll house you in safety, give you a sum of money to start a new life, and see that you have proper magical training, which is long overdue.”

  “In London.” She remembered little about the city. Going would take her from everything she knew and the only home she had.

  But he knew so much more about magic than she did. Staying would cost her what might be her last chance to learn about her Gifts.

  He offered what she’d long yearned for. If she could trust him. He hadn’t shown any improper interest, but ... “What would you expect me to do for this money?”

  “You think I have lustful designs on you, mistress?” he asked gently. The warmth in his eyes offered understanding rather than mockery.

  She couldn’t help liking that he understood, but that changed nothing. “I dare not simply assume you have only good intentions.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “If you’re fearing I want to spirit you away to prey on you, be aware I don’t need to lure you to London for that.”

  Although he didn’t move, power swirled out from him like a crisp breeze. The skin of her face tingled, and magic crackled in the air around her. Miranda’s knees trembled.

  Gazing at the sky, he said, “Take a step.”

  She couldn’t. Her heart hammered in sudden fear, and she strained against the invisible grip that held her immobile.

  “Let me go,” she gasped. Desperate, she flung up a glamour that made her appear to vanish.

  “Clever,” he said, frowning, and the sense of his power died away. As though to reassure her, he gave her a wry smile. She wanted to run, but he could stop her easily if he chose. She’d never met someone so adroit. So dangerous.

  “I beg pardon if I frightened you,” he said. “I meant only to prove my point.”

  “Of course.” He had done both, but he hadn’t pressed his advantage. Could she trust him or not?

  “Don’t do that again,” she said.

  “I won’t.” His level gaze seemed sincere. “I’ve a problem your visions might help solve in addition to aiding the Gifted Conclave Council, whose duty it is to investigate strange magical occurrences. My grandmother, who lives with me, will lend you countenance.”

  “What is the Gifted Conclave Council?”

  “The leaders of our kind.”

  He’d frightened her, but nothing about him felt threatening. She took a deep, slow breath and opened herself to instincts she barely understood, the ones that had kept her out of danger so often before.

  Nothing changed. No warning tingle slid along her arms. Regardless of his earlier pretense, he was dealing honestly with her now. “I’ve no other home. If I leave, especially with a man, Master Warren will never take me back.”

  “I’ll find you a better situation, likely an easier one. With training, which I’ll help you obtain, you could make a place for yourself among the Gifted.”

  He paused, studying her. “Power untrained is dangerous. So is isolation. There are many Gifted in London. You wouldn’t be alone, as you seem to be here, nor would you need to hide your appearance or your talent. You should come with me.”

  Their eyes met, his dark with understanding. Going with him would bring her into company where she could openly learn the skills she’d dreamed of possessing. Could lead to a better, safer life.

  If she dared leave this familiar, comparatively safe place.

  “During Cromwell’s Protectorate, when I was but fourteen years old,” he said quietly, “I sneaked back to England alone from our refuge in France. I had magical skills, wealth and connections, but none of that kept fear at bay.”

  He did unders
tand, and he offered a kind of paradise—being with people who knew the dangers she faced. Living among her own kind.

  But she would be utterly dependent upon him. Away from anyone who knew her or expected to see her or cared even a little about her.

  “The risk feels overwhelming,” she confessed.

  He nodded. “It’s a difficult choice, and I wouldn’t presume to dictate to you. I can only suggest that you look beyond this day and make the choice that will be right a year hence.”

  Torn, she bit her lip.

  “Think on it overnight,” he said. “I return to London in the morning.”

  All her instincts screamed for her to go with him, to take this chance. But if she did, she would be alone and friendless in the city. At his mercy.

  Was the chance to learn worth that risk?

  Yes.

  Miranda raised her chin. “I’ve decided. I’ll come to London and do what I can to help you.”

  Chapter 5

  Hawkstowe had not returned to London. The information gnawed at Henry de Vere’s brain, muting the sounds of street vendors, horses, and cart wheels as his carriage clattered over the cobblestones. Cabot Winfield had returned, but alone. That meant something important had detained Hawkstowe.

  The change Henry had created in the timeline already rippled forward, shifting the world’s fabric. The shift would gradually become a wrinkle, then a tear, and then, in no more than a month if he’d calculated correctly, a new and stronger weave in which the Gifted ruled England.

  Oliver Cromwell had been succeeded as Lord Protector by his inept son, whose bungling had opened the way for Charles II’s return from exile and the restoration of the monarchy. But that wouldn’t happen now. Henry had gone back in time and slain the inept Richard Cromwell before his father’s death. Henry’s younger self was busily ingratiating himself with those in power. He, not that hapless fool, would succeed Cromwell as Lord Protector, and he would rule with a fist of magic-forged steel.

  If nothing went wrong.

  Once the changes began to manifest, his old nemesis, Hawkstowe, would be quick to suspect him. As a member of the Gifted Conclave’s Council, the young earl could make trouble if he had the least ammunition.

  By scrying, Henry had seen him with Cabot Winfield on the road, but Winfield had returned alone. Hawkstowe’s delay could mean nothing to Henry’s ultimate plans, but it could also signal trouble. Alas, but scrying did not convey sound, so Henry hadn’t been able to determine what they discussed.

  Best to investigate further without delay.

  The carriage turned in between the gateposts of his new house in Holborn. As soon as the coach passed through, the gatekeepers would shut the wrought-iron gates and lock them against the unwelcome. What use was the wealth of an earldom if one couldn’t secure privacy?

  What use was magic if it didn’t secure power?

  Henry scowled. Hawkstowe and his ilk, with all their puling about honor and decency and the obligations of power, missed a critical point. The powerful should not have to hide from their inferiors.

  Soon, if Henry’s plans succeeded, the days of concealment would end. His family’s honor would be vindicated, their longtime goal attained at last.

  He would choose his time with care, though.

  His time.

  He smiled. Indeed it would be. Meanwhile, he must use discretion.

  The carriage slowed, rattling to a stop before his steps. The coachman set the coach steps in place and opened the door.

  Henry stepped out and climbed the front stairway. Built of brick and stone after the Great Fire destroyed his house near the Strand, his new London home provided an elegant seat for the earldom of Wyndon. Sunlight sparkled off the new windows, which were fitted with sashes instead of the old leaded casements. The new Wyndon House was a fitting place from which to launch a dynasty.

  Unless Hawkstowe or some other Gifted meddler miraculously found a way to interfere.

  Scowling, Henry reached the front door. It opened to reveal his well-trained porter, who bowed obsequiously. Henry favored the man with a nod. Ordinary, or unGifted, mortals did have their uses.

  The footman, also unGifted, sprang forward to take his gloves, cloak, and plumed beaver hat. The exchange took only the few moments Henry deemed proper. He stalked across the elegant parquet flooring and upstairs to the first floor.

  He strode into his parlor. The fire kept burning on the hearth ensured a warm haven from the afternoon chill. The setting sun cast a golden glow into the room, gilding the carved wood of the armchairs and table and brightening the maroons and blues of the Turkey-work upholstery. Henry noted it all with a glance. Fine as the room was, it could be finer. Would be, if not for the Mainwarings of Hawkstowe and their infernal meddling.

  The old wrongs, however, served only to fuel his family’s resolve. Soon enough, he would have his revenge.

  Some two hundred years past, the Mainwarings had revealed his ancestor’s scheme to use the chaos of the Wars of the Roses to seize control and elevate the Gifted to rule. Roland de Vere had been put to death, thanks to the Gifted Conclave Council, and the family prohibited from ever sitting on the Council.

  Well, he would soon put an end to the Council and their idiotic blathering about protecting the unGifted.

  He’d hoped he was done with the shadowland, the cold, wraith-ridden realm between the worlds of the quick and the dead, but it offered the most effective way to prevent trouble. He could even travel back in time, if need be, to see what Hawkstowe had been doing.

  He chose a pebble from the basket of river rocks beside the hearth, an eccentricity his servants knew better than to notice. Returning to the living world required a sturdy, natural anchor, an object not shaped or altered by man.

  Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he drew power from within him and focused it on the door to his dressing room. The silvery current, barely visible to his Gifted eyes, flowed toward and around the doorway. It limned the frame, then filled the opening. Thanks to long practice, he no longer needed a framed opening to form a portal, but having one made the transition easier.

  He strode forward, mentally reaching for the sensation he’d had when communing with the wraith in the shadowy afterworld. He’d needed that link the first few times he’d breached the place. Since then, however, he’d developed the skill to dispense with it.

  The deluded creature had thought Henry offered it salvation, but the remnant of its soul hadn’t survived the drain of passing on its knowledge.

  It had been no great loss. The wraith had been damned anyway, trapped between the living world and eternity. Creating a better England would cost men and women with purer souls their lives, but the result would be worth a few deaths.

  He reached the glowing doorway. His power now bridged the worlds. The shadowland occupied the same space as the living world, like a ghost realm. Only by creating such a portal could the living reach it, and only he knew how to do so.

  He stepped into the glow. As he passed through, he drew the power around his body, forming a silvery aura as a shield against the perils ahead.

  An instant of icy chill, and the world winked out. In its place swirled purple-gray mist that reeked of rotten eggs and thrummed with invisible power. He drew more of the power into himself, strengthening the nimbus of his shield with a burst of crackling, purple magic.

  The dead rushed toward him, their doomed faces ghastly with gaping wounds or flesh-bare, skeletal mockeries of their living countenances. Soul-tearing shrieks pierced the fog.

  The creatures swooped around him, their hatred pouring over his shielded form in waves. He grinned, knowing it angered them, and savored their renewed howls of rage. So long as he maintained the cloak of magic, they couldn’t touch him.

  He could vanquish them easily, thanks to the sway the quick held over the dead here, but their frustration provided some amusement. That and their fury over their fates made them restless and easily bored anyway. They would leave soon enough.


  As he expected, the shrieking and howling slowly diminished. The trapped souls peeled away, one by one, in search of other prey. Legend said they often found it among the living, in those susceptible to visions and eerie imaginings. They might well. If visionaries couldn’t control their power, they didn’t deserve it.

  He wandered through the fog, his mind fixed on Hawkstowe. Movement always helped find a person or place.

  The fog thinned, settling around his ankles, and a scene came clear. An inn, somewhat south of Canterbury, drew him. He followed the impulse into the building, to a modest parlor. Hawkstowe leaned one hand on a simple, unpainted wooden mantel and stared into the flames below it. Judging by his brooding look, his journey hadn’t gone well.

  Good.

  A closed door in the far corner signaled a second room. Henry drifted toward, then through, the plain, unfinished oak panel and into a bedchamber. No candles burned, and the setting sun outside cast little light through the curtains. His eyes needed a few moments to adjust.

  As his vision sharpened, he realized the lump on the bed was a wench. The dim light made her features hard to discern, but she seemed comely enough. Thick, dark hair in a straggly braid trailed across the pillow. A worn cloak covered her.

  Had she caused Hawkstowe’s discomfiture? One might always hope.

  Who was she, though? If she were Hawkstowe’s mistress, surely she would be in the parlor, catering to his comfort. So who was she?

  Judging by the cloak and the crude, unfashionable braid of her hair, she was not only common but poor. Henry’s lip curled. Perhaps she was some sort of charity case Hawkstowe meant to help.

  Rubbing his jaw, Henry scowled. London held an abundance of poverty-stricken wenches if Hawkstowe or his tiresome grandmother wanted to indulge their charitable leanings. What made this one special?

  Focusing on the earl’s first meeting with the girl, Henry walked forward. When the mists cleared again, he was looking at an inn yard, the two of them standing by a well. He drifted closer to listen.

  So the wench had visions, eh? If they were prophetic—