by L. J. Smith
“His bedroom’s up here,” Emptier murmured finally. Maggie followed her closely. She was just thinking that they had made it all the way without even being challenged, when a voice sounded from a side corridor.
“Where are you going? Who’s this?”
It was a guard, Maggie saw, peering from under her hair. A real medieval guard, with, of all things, a lance. There was another one in the opposite corridor just like him. She was fascinated in the middle of her terror.
But Chamber-pot Emptier of the not-so-quick wits reacted beautifully. She took time to curtsey, then she said slowly and stolidly, “It’s Folder from the laundry, sir. Laundress sent her with the sheets and I was told she could help me. There’s more work because of the guests, you know.”
“It’s Chamber Maid’s work to spread sheets,” the guard said irritably.
Chamber-pot Emptier curtsied again and said just as slowly, “Yes, sir, but there’s more work because of the guests, you see—”
“Fine, fine,” the guard broke in impatiently, “Why don’t you go and do it, instead of talking about it?” He seemed to think that was funny, and he turned and elbowed the other guard in the ribs.
Chamber-pot Emptier curtseyed a third time and walked on, not hurrying. Maggie tried to copy the curtsey, with her face buried in the sheets.
There was another endless corridor, then a doorway, and then Emptier said, “We’re here. And there’s nobody around.”
Maggie lifted her face from the sheets. “You’re absolutely wonderful, you know that? You deserve an Academy Award.”
“A what?”
“Never mind. But you were great.”
“I only told the truth,” the girl said placidly, but there was a smile lurking in the depths of her gentle cowlike eyes. “There is more work when guests come. We never had them before three years ago.”
Maggie nodded. “I know. Look, I guess you’d better go now. And um—Emptier?” She couldn’t bring herself to say the entire name. “I really hope you don’t get in trouble because of this.”
Chamber-pot Emptier nodded back, then went to reach under the bed and retrieve a ceramic container. She walked out again holding it carefully.
Maggie looked around the room, which was very big and very bare. It was somewhat better lit than the corridors, having several bowl-shaped oil lamps on stands. The bed was the only real piece of furniture in it. It was huge, with a heavy wooden frame and carved bedposts. Piled on top of it were quilts and what looked like fur coverlets, and hanging all around it were linen curtains.
I’m probably supposed to take all that stuff off and put the clean sheets on, Maggie thought. She didn’t.
The rest of the furniture seemed to be large chests made of exotic-looking wood, and a few benches and stools. Nothing that offered a hiding place. But on one side there was a curtained doorway.
Maggie went through it and found a small anteroom—the wardrobe Jeanne had mentioned. It was much bigger than she’d expected, and seemed to be more of a storeroom than a closet.
Okay. So I’ll just sit down.
There were two stools beside a figure that vaguely resembled a dressmaker’s dummy. Maggie dropped her sheets on a chest and pulled one of the stools close to the doorway. Through the space between the linen curtains she could see almost the entire bedchamber.
Perfect, she thought. All I have to do is wait until he comes in alone. And then—
She stiffened. She could hear voices from somewhere beyond the vast bedroom. No, she could hear a voice, a musical girlish voice.
Oh, please, she thought. Not her. Don’t let him come in with her. I’ll have to jump out and hit her with something; I won’t be able to stop myself. . . .
But when two figures came in the room, she had no desire to jump out.
It was Sylvia, all right, but she wasn’t with Delos. She was with Hunter Redfern.
Maggie felt ice down her spine. Now, what were these two doing in Delos’s bedroom? Whatever it was, if they caught her, she was dead meat. She held herself absolutely still, but she couldn’t tear herself away from the curtain.
“He’s out riding, and he won’t be back for another half hour,” Sylvia was saying. She was wearing a dark holly-green gown and carrying a basket. “And I’ve sent all the servants away.”
“Even so,” Hunter Redfern said. He gently moved the heavy wooden door until it was almost shut. Not all the way, but enough to screen the bedchamber from anyone outside.
“You really think he’s spying on our rooms?” Sylvia turned in a swirl of skirts to look at the tall man.
“He’s bright—much smarter than you give him credit for. And these old castles have spy-holes and listening tubes built in; I remember. It’s a stupid prince who doesn’t make use of them.”
He remembers, Maggie thought, for a moment too full of wonder to be scared. He remembers the days when castles were built, he means. He’s really been alive that long.
She studied the handsome face under the blood-red hair, the aristocratic cheekbones, the mobile mouth—and the quick flashing eyes. This was the sort of man who could fascinate people, she decided. Like Delos, there was a sort of leashed tension about him, a reserve of power and intelligence that made an ordinary person feel awed. He was a leader, a commander.
And a hunter, Maggie thought. All these people are hunters, but he’s the Hunter, the epitome of what they are. His name says it all.
But Sylvia was talking again. “What is it that he’s not supposed to know?”
“I’ve had a message from Outside. Don’t ask how, I have my ways.”
“You have your little bats,” Sylvia said demurely. “I’ve seen them.”
There was a pause, then Hunter said, “You’d better watch yourself, girl. That mouth’s going to get you in trouble.”
Sylvia had her face turned away from him, but Maggie saw her swallow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was a secret. But what’s happened?”
“The biggest news in your short life.” Hunter Redfern laughed once and added with apparent good humor restored, “And maybe in mine. The witches have seceded from the Night World.”
Maggie blinked. It sounded impressive the way he said it—but more impressive was the way Sylvia froze and then whirled breathlessly.
“What?”
“It’s happened. They’ve been threatening for a month, but most people didn’t believe they’d really do it.”
Sylvia put a hand to her middle, pressed flat against her stomach as if to hold something in. Then she sat on the fur-covered bed.
“They’ve left the Council,” she said. She wasn’t looking at Hunter Redfern.
“They’ve left the Council and everything else.”
“All of them?”
Hunter Redfern’s fine red eyebrows went up. “What did you expect? Oh, a few of the blackest practitioners from Circle Midnight are arguing, but most of them agree with the liberals in Circle Twilight. They want to save the humans. Avert the coming darkness.” He said it exactly the way Maggie had heard lumberjacks say, “Save the spotted owls. Ha!”
“So it’s really beginning,” Sylvia murmured. She was still looking at the stone floor. “I mean, there’s no going back now, is there? The Night World is split forever.”
“And the millennium is upon us,” Hunter said, almost cheerfully. He looked young and . . . personable, Maggie thought. Somebody you’d vote for.
“Which brings me to the question,” he said smoothly, looking at Sylvia, “of when you’re going to find her.”
What her? Maggie’s stomach tightened.
Sylvia’s face was equally tight. She looked up and said levelly, “I told you I’d find her and I will.”
“But when? You do understand how important this is?”
“Of course I understand!” Sylvia flared up. Her chest was heaving. “That’s why I was trying to send her to you in the first place—”
Hunter was talking as if he didn’t hear her. “If it gets out that Ar
adia, the Maiden of all the witches, is here in the valley—”
“I know!”
“And that you had her and let her slip through your fingers—”
“I was trying to bring her to you. I thought that was important,” Sylvia said. She was bristling and distraught. Which was exactly what Hunter wanted her to be, Maggie thought dazedly. He really knows how to play people.
But the analysis was faraway, in the shallowest part of her mind. Most of her consciousness was simply stricken into paralyzed amazement.
Aradia.
The Maiden of all the witches.
So it wasn’t Arcadia at all, Maggie thought. She might have mentioned that, after I’ve been calling her Cady for days. But then she hasn’t been conscious much, and when she was we had more urgent things to talk about.
Aradia. Aradia. That’s really pretty.
The name had started an odd resonance in her mind, maybe bringing up some long-forgotten mythology lesson. Aradia was a goddess, she thought. Of . . . um, sylvan glades or something. The woods. Like Diana.
And what Maiden of all the witches was, she had no idea, but it was obviously something important. And not evil, either. From what Hunter was saying, it was clear that witches weren’t like other Night People.
She was the maiden Bern and Gavin were talking about, Maggie realized. The one they were supposed to deliver. So Sylvia was bringing her to Hunter Redfern. But Cady herself told me—I mean, Aradia told me—that she was already coming to this valley for a reason.
Before she could even properly phrase the question, her mind had the answer.
Delos.
In a coincidence that lifted the hair on Maggie’s arms, Sylvia said, “She won’t get to Delos.”
“She’d better not,” Hunter said, “Maybe you don’t realize how persuasive she can be. An ambassador from all the witches, coming to plead her case . . . she just might sway him. He has a despicable soft spot—a conscience, you might call it. And we know he’s been in contact with the human girl who escaped with her. Who knows what messages the little vermin was carrying from her?”
No messages, Maggie thought grimly. Not with this vermin anyway. But I would have carried them if I’d known.
“Gavin said Aradia was still unconscious from the truth potion—that she was practically dead,” Sylvia said. “I don’t think she could have given any messages. I’d swear that Delos doesn’t know she’s in the valley at all.”
Hunter was still brooding. “The witches have one Wild Power on their side already.”
“But they won’t get another,” Sylvia said doggedly. “I’ve got people looking for her. All the nobles are on our side. They won’t let her get to Delos.”
“She should have been killed in the beginning,” Hunter mused. “But maybe you have a soft spot for her—like you do for that human boy.”
Behind the linen curtains, Maggie stiffened.
Like you do. Not like you did. And who else could the human boy be?
She gritted her teeth, listening so hard she could hear the blood in her ears, willing them to talk about Miles.
But Hunter was going on in his smooth voice, “Or maybe you still have some loyalty to the witches.”
Sylvia’s pale face flushed. “I do not! I’m finished with them, and you know it! I may be a spellcaster, but I’m not a witch anymore.”
“It’s good to see you haven’t forgotten what they’ve done to you,” Hunter said. “After all, you could have been a Hearth-Woman, taken your rightful place on the witch Council.”
“Yes . . .”
“Like your grandmother and her mother before her. They were Harmans, and so was your father. What a pity the name isn’t passed through the male line. You ended up being just a Weald.”
“I was a Harman,” Sylvia said with muted ferocity. She was staring at the floor again, and she seemed to be speaking to herself rather than to Hunter. “I was. But I had to stand there and watch my cousins be accepted instead of me. I had to watch half humans be accepted—be welcomed. They took my place—just because they were descended through the female line.”
Hunter shook his head. “A very sad tradition.”
Sylvia’s breath came raggedly for another minute or so, then she looked up slowly at the tall man in the center of the room. “You don’t have to worry about my loyalty,” she said quietly. “I want a place in the new order after the millennium. I’m through with the witches.”
Hunter smiled.
“I know it,” he said, lightly and approvingly, and then he started pacing the room. He got what he wanted out of her, Maggie thought.
Almost casually, he added, “Just be sure that Delos’s power is kept in check until everything’s decided.”
Sylvia bent and lifted the basket, which Maggie had forgotten about.
“The new binding spells will hold,” she said. “I brought special ingredients from one of the oldest Midnight witches. And he won’t suspect anything.”
“And nobody but you can take them off ?”
“Nobody but me,” Sylvia said firmly. “Not even the Crone of all the witches. Or the Maiden, for that matter.”
“Good girl,” Hunter said, and smiled again. “I have every confidence in you. After all, you have lamia blood in you to balance the witch taint. You’re my own eighth-great-granddaughter.”
Maggie wanted to punch him.
She was confused and frightened and indignant and furious, all at once. As far as she could tell, Hunter Redfern seemed to be manipulating everybody. And Delos, Delos the prince and Wild Power, was just another of his puppets.
I wonder what they plan to do if he won’t join their new order? she thought bleakly.
After a few minutes, Hunter turned in his pacing and walked by the door. He paused briefly as if listening, then glanced at Sylvia.
“You don’t know how happy it makes me just to think about it,” he said, in a voice that wasn’t strained, or overly cheerful, or too loud, or anything that rang false. “To finally have a true heir. A male heir of my own line, and untainted by witch blood. I would never have married that witch Maeve Harman if I had known my son was still alive. And not only alive, but out having sons! The only true Redferns left in the world, you might say.”
Maggie, with her teeth set in her lower lip, didn’t need to guess who was on the other side of the door. She watched tensely.
And Delos came in, right on cue.
CHAPTER 16
I’m sorry. Was I interrupting something?” he said.
Maggie had to struggle not to draw in her breath sharply.
It was always a little bit of a shock seeing him. And even in a room with Hunter Redfern and the pale and dazzling Sylvia, he stood out. Like a cold wind blowing through the door, he seemed to bring coiled energy in with him, to slap everyone awake with the chilly smell of snow.
And of course he was gorgeous, too.
And not awed by Hunter, Maggie thought. He faced his great-grandfather with those fearless yellow eyes level, and a measuring look on his fine-boned face.
“Nothing at all,” Hunter Redfern said amiably. “We were waiting for you. And planning the celebrations.”
“Celebrations?”
“To honor our agreement. I’m so pleased that we’ve come to an understanding at last. Aren’t you?”
“Of course,” Delos said, pulling off his gloves without any change in expression. “When we do come to an understanding, I’ll be very pleased.”
Maggie had to bite her lip on a snicker. At that moment, looking at Hunter’s facile smile and Sylvia’s pinned-on simper, she had never liked Delos’s dour, cold grimness better.
Idiot, she told herself. When did you ever like it at all? The guy’s an icicle.
But there was something clean and sharp-edged about his iciness, and she couldn’t help admiring the way he faced Hunter. There was a little aching knot in her chest as she watched him standing there, tense and elegant, with his dark hair tousled from riding.
>
Which wasn’t to say she wasn’t scared. That aura of power Delos carried along with him was very real. He had sensed her before, even with Aradia blocking the signs of her life force. And now here he was, maybe twelve feet away, with only a piece of linen between them.
There was nothing Maggie could do but sit as still as possible.
“Sylvia has taken the liberty of beginning the preparations,” Hunter said. “I hope you don’t mind. I think we can work out any little details that are left before tomorrow, don’t you?”
Suddenly Delos looked tired. He tossed his gloves on the bed and nodded, conceding a point. “Yes.”
“Essentially,” Hunter Redfern said, “we are agreed.”
This time Delos just nodded without speaking.
“I can’t wait to show you off to the world Outside,” Hunter said, and this time Maggie thought the note of pride and eagerness in his voice was sincere. “My great-grandson. And to think that a year ago I didn’t know of your existence.” He crossed to slap Delos on the back. It was a gesture so much like the old king’s that Maggie’s eyes widened.
“I’m going to make some preparations of my own,” he said. “I think the last hunt before you leave should be special, don’t you?”
He was smiling as he left.
Delos stared moodily at the fur coverlet.
“Well,” Sylvia said, sounding almost chirpy. “How’s the arm?”
Delos glanced down at it. He was still wearing the complicated brace thing Maggie had seen him in yesterday.
“It’s all right.”
“Hurts?”
“A little.”
Sylvia sighed and shook her head. “That’s because you used it for practice. I did warn you, you know.”
“Can you make it better or not?” Delos said brusquely.
Sylvia was already opening the basket. “I told you, it’ll take time. But it should improve with each treatment—as long as you don’t use it.”
She was fiddling with the brace, doing things that Maggie couldn’t see. And Maggie’s heart was beating hard with anger and an unreasonable protectiveness.