Richard tried. As he and Edmund walked through the sulphurous mists, his confidence slowly grew. He’d formed armor in the vision he and Miranda had shared. Formed it with a mere thought. If he thought of a dagger, envisioned it in his hand ...
With a crackle of purple power, the mists formed into a slender, narrow-hilted dagger. “Useful,” he commented.
“Not against wraiths,” Edmund said dryly.
“Why can I do that, form something from nothing?”
“I’ve puzzled on that. Those who die pass through here, shedding the last of life’s power as they move to the portal. The power stays here. As power from faith suffuses the Green Bull because of the old temple to Mithras.”
Richard nodded. “Churches, I think, have some of the same. Power from centuries of magical working has also soaked into the earth and the air at Pendragon.”
“Precisely. As with any power, we can tap it, but this source has accumulated for eons. We can therefore do astounding things with it.” Edmund stopped, pointing ahead. “Richard, look. What do you see?”
“Only mist. I—wait. A chamber.” He rushed toward it.
Edmund caught his arm. “You cannot reach it.”
The scene had a foggy quality, as though he viewed it through gauze. Stifling his impatience, he said, “I see Miranda and Jeremy.” So close, but impossible to touch. Yet his hand rose toward her anyway. “They look terrible.”
“They’ve been in hiding since your wedding day. My congratulations on that, by the way.”
A low hatch under the eaves appeared to be the room’s entrance. Seated on pallets on the floor of a cramped chamber, Miranda and Jeremy shared a meal of bread and cheese. In a garret, to judge by the rafters that barely left them room to sit. They could likely stand only at the far side of the space, where the roof sloped upward. Both wore cloaks, so the room must be cold.
A narrow window overlooked the street. The pallets, an unlit brazier in the corner, and a chamber pot provided the only furnishings.
Gathering power, Richard flung it at the hatch. Nothing happened.
“I warned you,” Edmund said. “Without an anchor, you’ve no link to that world.”
But he did. He had Miranda and their strange bond. Miranda, my own. I’m here.
But he couldn’t feel her presence, only see her, and no response came. His fists balled, and frustration tangled with fear in his gut. He had to reach her, or more than their love was doomed.
“We must do something,” Miranda said, her eyes hard. “We cannot lurk here forever.”
“We must know how matters stand, whom we can trust, before we can plan.” Jeremy rubbed his hand over his face. “In any case, Richard would want you out of danger. You should stay here.”
“Richard isn’t here to have an opinion,” she snapped.
Her pain tore at Richard’s heart. I’m here. Damnation!
Willing her to feel his presence, he walked through the gauzy scene and knelt beside her. She didn’t so much as glance his way, not even when he put an arm around her. It passed through her, and he bit back a curse. Foolish, this stinging feeling that she’d rebuffed him. Irrational. She didn’t know he was there.
Biting her lip, she muttered, “I beg pardon, Jeremy. I don’t forget we’ve lost Cabot and Kit, but I won’t believe Richard is also gone.”
Miranda continued, “If he were dead, I’d know it. I’m sure I would.” She huddled deeper into her cloak, her old, faded blue one.
Where was the new one, green velvet lined with sable?
Yes, my lady, Richard thought to her. I’m here. He reached out to her. Again his hand sliced through her form as it would through air.
God’s blood, so close, and yet so out of reach. Miranda, sweetheart.
She showed no reaction. Hellfire!
Edmund said, “Try again while she sleeps. The mind has lower defenses then. That’s why I first visited you when you slept, not that you ever made that easy.”
Although Richard couldn’t touch her, he traced the line of her back with his hand. Somehow, he would return to her. “Tell me about this place so I can restore the timeline and go home.”
“Richard,” Miranda whispered. For a moment, she had almost thought ... But that was mad. She glanced at Jeremy.
He didn’t seem to have noticed anything. He must fear for Cabot as much as she did for Richard. The changes in history had overtaken them as they left the warded tunnels. She and Jeremy had found themselves in the middle of King Edward Street, near the Fleet River. Now a former Winfield retainer hid them in a warded nook above his tavern in Fleet Street.
Despite Jeremy’s reluctance to use his magic, they’d both tried to scry for Cabot, for Lucius, for anyone they knew, but failed. Those people were either dead or magically hidden too well.
“We should try again to enter the shadow world,” Jeremy said, rubbing his hands over his face. “If we can manage that, we can meet up with Richard or this Edmund and try to put matters right.”
“We’ve tried for the past two days, Jeremy. Unless you know some other approach, doing the same thing again and again likely won’t succeed. If we can’t reach anyone there, Richard said, we can’t pass through.”
He scowled. “We must try something. We can’t just sit—”
Loud voices cut through the din below. Shouting. Shrieks.
She and Jeremy exchanged worried glances. He peered through a knothole in a floorboard. “Soldiers,” he murmured.
“You, you, and you,” a rough voice barked. “Lord Withersby needs servants. You’ll do, and honored for it.”
“But I’ve a family to care for,” a woman’s voice protested.
“No one refuses,” the rough voice said.
“But—no! No, please! I’ll come, I’ll do whatever you say.” Her voice rose in a shriek. The stench of burning wool filled the room.
The slice of Jeremy’s face Miranda could see turned ashen. His lips moved as though in silent prayer.
She peered between the floorboards. The narrow crack gave her a limited view, but enough to see a brown skirt blazing below. Did the soldiers mean to burn that woman alive?
Coup de grâce, Arabella’s voice in her memory said. Miranda shuddered. Could she kill this woman to spare her pain? If she did, would the Gifted with the soldiers sense—
The rough voice said, “That’s better. Don’t give us any more trouble.” A pause. “Any o’you lot. Now let’s go.”
Jeremy glanced up and whispered, “Fire’s out.”
“Can we help?” she murmured
He shook his head. “Not against a wizard and soldiers.”
She peered through a crack in the floor. Men wearing breastplates and helmets pushed half a dozen people into a line. One woman had a large, charred hole in her skirt and petticoats. The blistered flesh of her legs showed through.
Miranda ached to do something, anything, but Jeremy was right.
She slumped against the wall. “The Gifted never terrorized others. Why now?”
“It happened, and more often than we’d like to admit. Why do you think the fear of witchcraft persists? Some folk, Gifted and not, will do anything for power, but they’re few enough that the rest of us keep them in check. Somehow, we must find others like us.”
She had Seen something much like this, and now it had come to pass. What worse horrors lay in store?
“Again,” Richard said to Edmund. “Tell me again how you talk to the others.” He swept his gaze around the tent. What wouldn’t he give for a single drink of cool, fresh spring water?
“I think of them, but I don’t actually go to them, nor do they come to me.” Frowning, Edmund shook his head. “I’ll ask the others if they know anything about splicing time, though I wouldn’t hold out much hope. Meanwhile, practice traveling.”
“While Wyndon grinds England under his boot. Damnation, Edmund. There must be something you’re forgetting to mention.”
Edmund raised an eyebrow. “How many times did you
have to practice glamours before you could hold one steady?”
When Richard’s jaw tightened, the ghost nodded. “Precisely,” Edmund said. “Traveling. One bit at a time, Richard.”
Perhaps he had a point. “Traveling, then. To Plymouth. I like one of the taverns.” He’d often been there with Cabot, who could talk for hours about the English fleet sailing from there to defeat the mighty Spanish Armada.
“All right, then. Off with you.”
“You’re not coming?”
“I rather thought you wanted to be alone.”
The memory of Miranda’s grief-stricken face still burned in him. “I do,” Richard agreed. “Edmund, do you sleep?”
“Sometimes, but I don’t need to. I exist in the middle of a waking dream, you see. I created the tent to protect you. I don’t need it, either.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t,” Edmund replied, “but I’m sorry to say, you will one day.” He sighed heavily. “Richard—truly, I am sorry.”
“I know. Forget it. You saved my life, after all.” The help Edmund had given him since their meeting in Dover had bled away the last of Richard’s resentment. Behind it lay only a soft, silvery regret.
Edmund looked down at his toes. “Go on with you. I’ve things to do.”
“How will I find you again?”
“Look for me, as you do for the places you want to see. Then you’ll find me.”
“Very well, then. I’ll see you later.” Richard gathered power to shield himself and stepped out into the mist. Peering through it, as he had earlier, he sensed the world moving by.
Could he make it move faster?
Wraiths swirled around him. He ignored them, and they gradually drifted away. As he walked through the stinking fog, the world moved at its same pace, as Edmund had told him it would. Scowling, he slowed his steps.
He hadn’t visited Plymouth in a couple of years. Then, he’d met a Dutch double agent in a tavern near the docks. Was the coffee house opposite it still open? Legend had it that Drake had dined there the day before he faced the Armada.
What a day that must have been, with ships anchored in the harbor and long boats docked at the wharves, waiting to take the captains to their crews. Had those legendary captains really played at bowls that day?
I sound like Cabot, he realized, grinning. The grin faded as he also realized he had lost track of the real world.
Ah, there lay Yelverton. Only a little farther.
Time moved so strangely here. He had to reach London again while Miranda slept.
There was Plymouth. He concentrated on the coffeehouse, as he had done with the alley in Canterbury, and found himself standing opposite the old tavern, in front of the coffee house. Save that the coffee house and tavern signboards were gone. Had they fallen in a storm?
People were hurrying toward the wharves. Again watching through gauzy haze, he fell in with the crowd.
They were talking about a battle. Had the Dutch taken arms again? The people’s clothes—
“Who are you?” someone asked behind him.
Wheeling, he tightened his defenses. The man staring at him had dark hair and gray eyes. His square-jawed, aristocratic face had passed its first youth but not yet reached great age. It bore a curious expression.
In all, the man looked much like the portrait of Miles Mainwaring, right down to his clothing, the doublet, puffy breeches, hose, and high boots of an Elizabethan captain. Richard’s heart beat faster.
But the man didn’t look gauzy. He seemed as real as Edmund, so did he belong here? Was he as sane as he appeared, or was he a wraith in disguise?
“First, tell me who you are,” Richard said.
The man raised one eyebrow. “Sir Miles Mainwaring. Now, who are you?”
Richard rocked back on his heels. Miles Mainwaring had commanded the Queen’s Honor against the Armada. How had the old seadog gotten here? Assuming he was who he claimed to be.
“Richard Mainwaring. Lord Hawkstowe, thanks to you.”
Miles shrugged. “We’d had that title since Arthur’s day. It seemed little enough for the Queen to give back what her sire had taken.”
A woman walked through Richard. He glanced over himself. Although he found no damage, his stomach did a slow roll.
Miles drew Richard into the shadow of a building. Frowning, he demanded, “If you’re real and not a shade, where were you born, that I don’t know you?”
“At Hawkstowe in June 1642.”
Miles blinked, then raised an eyebrow again. “Good God, man, how did you come to 1588?”
“1588?” Richard stared at him. “This is 1674.”
Miles snorted. “The devil, you say.” He nodded at the crowd. “Where d’you think they’re going? Off to the wharves to see the captains set out, is where.”
“Set out? You mean—?”
“To meet the Armada, lad.”
“God’s blood.” Richard forgot the Armada. He had breached time. Had discovered the means Wyndon had used to change history. He could change it back.
If he could escape this place.
Chapter 28
“If you’ve figured out the time currents, Richard, why come back here before trying to see when Wyndon stole the scroll on necromancy?” Edmund frowned. “Why not tend to everything in one effort?”
“I don’t want to miss Miranda’s dreams.” When a pitying look swept over Edmund’s face, Richard shot him a warning scowl. “I had no way to know the hour in London. Since she hasn’t retired, I’m going to Pendragon—and Wyndon and the scroll, I hope—now.”
“Good luck, then.” Edmund rubbed his jaw as a distant, thoughtful expression stole over his face. “You know, Richard, once you’re free ... ”
“What?”
“Nothing. It can wait.” With a brisk, shooing motion, Edmund herded him toward the opening. “Soonest done, and all that. Off with you.”
That was an odd change of mood, but Richard shrugged. Edmund would tell him, or not, eventually. Now, he had other matters to attend to.
At the tent opening, he paused. “I wish I could see my father.”
“He cannot come forward in time to you.” Edmund studied the fog shrouding his boots. “Even if he weren’t trapped in his own time, he couldn’t face you. The madness fades when they arrive here, but the guilt over not lifting the curse does not.”
Edmund sighed. “I think you can travel time, where I cannot, because you yet live. If so, you might be able to go to your father, but I wouldn’t. Not yet.”
Richard had come to trust Edmund, so he nodded. “Father should know—that is, I understand, Edmund. I’ve been happy despite it all. Tell him.”
“Of course.” Edmund hesitated. “Be careful, grandson.”
“I will.” With a nod, Richard strode into the mist.
Reaching for the world let him sense it moving past. Miranda’s presence in London lured him like a beacon, but he had a job to do now. At least learning time travel moved him a step closer to fixing the problem.
And losing her forever.
Jaw set, he banished the thought. Somehow, they would be together again, even if not for long.
As he drew farther from Edmund, the wraiths swirled around him. Their screeches stabbed into his spine, and the skeletal claws swiped at him, bouncing off his magical shield.
Emulating Edmund, he snapped, “Begone” and sent a flare of magic at them. They wheeled away.
Richard gave a grim nod. Good to know he could do that.
Wyndon and the scroll. Pendragon. He kept his mind on that image. He had to know when Wyndon stole the scroll so he could put it back. Or, better yet, take it before Wyndon did. Anyone living who could reach this place could wreak havoc on the world. It would be better if no one figured out how to do that.
Something in the living world tugged at him. He followed its pull. The mists thinned, revealing Pendragon Manor, secret haven of the Gifted. The late afternoon sun cast slanting, golden light over the lon
g, low, stone building and brightened its roof thatching.
The tug continued, drawing Richard into the building. He passed through walls as though they weren’t there. The library was warded to prevent anyone from removing anything. That obviously hadn’t stopped Wyndon, but why?
He obeyed the compulsion and found himself in the library. As usual, jumbled stacks of scrolls and books littered the long walnut table and spilled from the ceiling-high shelves. The doorway glowed silver, and Wyndon suddenly appeared in the room. Not in the shadowland but actually in the chamber. He could only have come from the afterworld. How, without Richard’s seeing him there?
Was the fact that this had occurred in the past creating a rift of some kind? Something that kept Richard from encountering the man he watched, even though they both reached this place via the shadow realm?
Even more important, how had he breached the library wards? Any wards other than Mainwaring ones would stop Edmund. Was this another difference between what the living could do in the shadowland and what the dead could?
Wyndon hurried to the corner shelf. Stretching up, he reached behind a stack of big, leather-bound books. He drew back a thick scroll like the one Richard had seen in his house. He unrolled it quickly, scanning its contents.
Richard slid behind him to read over his shoulder. One word leaped off the page, Necromancy. This was the scroll Richard had seen in Wyndon’s house. As he’d guessed, Wyndon must’ve learned to travel here the same way Richard had, by speaking with one already trapped in the shadowland. From that, all else flowed.
But that must’ve already happened, if he’d come through the afterworld to steal the thing.
Tucking the scroll under his arm, Wyndon hurried to the door, which glowed soft argent. He strode toward it and vanished. Richard braced himself, but apparently the past in the real world didn’t coincide with the past here. It seemed always to be “present” here, with a view of whatever time or place one chose. No future, no past.
No hope.
Richard grimaced. Fatigue weighted his limbs, and his stomach growled with hunger, reminders that he couldn’t sustain himself on the mists for long. He’d found the key to fixing everything. If he went back in time and stole that necromancy scroll before Wyndon ever saw it, Wyndon would never learn how to change history. All would be as it had been before.
The Herald of Day Page 32