by Sean Russell
“Farrelle preserve me,” she whispered. “Farrelle preserve . . .”
The great beast, far larger than she expected, had progressed to the place where she was standing, and sniffed around her feet. She looked down at the massive back and realized that a beast so muscled would tear her to shreds before any rescue could arrive.
A mage’s familiar, she thought. As she herself possessed, since taking the king’s blood. A completely unnatural creature, tied to its master in ways she did not understand. Did it know her? Know her scent? Was Eldrich’s mark upon her so that it would leave her in peace?
It nosed at the hem of her dress, lifting it a little so that she felt its breath as it sniffed her ankles.
She pressed herself back against the wall, and found she drew her face back and away, as though to protect it should the beast lunge.
A rough tongue rasped across her ankle.
Farrelle’s blood, what if I am to its taste?
Slowly she withdrew her foot, just a few inches—and the wolf growled, hair standing up along its shoulders.
“Flames . . .” she whispered, actually feeling the teeth bare. At any second it would lunge and bury those fangs in her too soft flesh, and she did not know what to do to avoid it.
Suddenly it did lunge, but to one side, ignoring her altogether. She almost dropped the candle in her fright, starting back, hardly able to catch her breath.
The great beast had something with its paws and mouth, and then came up with it—a squirming mouse, its tiny feet running madly in the air—and then it was gone into those terrible jaws. The countess slipped away, keeping her back to the wall, a hand to her heart.
The wolf went off, sniffing along the wall again, but blessedly away from her—hunting mice, of all things! She almost laughed aloud.
The countess sank into a chair and let her racing heart come back to its normal rhythm. She shook her head. Never come between a mage’s familiar and his dinner. It was not a rule that Walky had taught her. Perhaps it was in one of those old tales of which he spoke. She laughed, though largely from release. She had come face-to-face with a creature from myth, only to find this terror hunting mice! If only she could tell Marianne this story one day.
Thoughts of Marianne brought Kent to mind, for some reason, and she resumed her search.
Not three doors on she found what she sought—a glow from under a door. She stood close to it for a moment, but hearing nothing she pressed her ear to the cool wood.
Something inside. A man singing softly, and footsteps. But was it Kent?
What if this were Eldrich’s room, and she knocked on his door instead. Even the thought of this quickened her pulse.
He is an uncaring creature, hardly more human than his wolf, she told herself. Briefly, she pressed her cheek against the door, trying to drive out thoughts of Eldrich and the feelings these thoughts called up.
And then she knocked, her heart in her mouth.
The singing stopped. A hand on the doorknob—she saw it tremble—and then the door opened a crack, a single eye appearing in the gap.
“Lady Chilton!” the painter said, and paused before drawing the door open. He stood there quite embarrassed, for he was in his stocking feet and wore no coat or waistcoat.
“Oh, Kent, do not worry about your dress,” she said. “Only let me in. I’ve just encountered Eldrich’s wolf and fear it might return.”
Quickly he stepped aside, and she came in, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Kent was clearly taken aback to find her in his room so late, and she could see that he was torn between his hopes and not wanting to appear foolish.
“Will you invite me to sit down, at least?” she said, though not unkindly.
“Yes. Yes, of course.” He took the candle from her and placed it on the mantlepiece, gesturing to a chair.
The room was dimly lit by a single lamp, and Kent had clearly been sitting close to it reading, for a book lay open on the table. There was also a bottle of wine and a half-empty glass. Clearly, Kent was on better terms with the servants than she was.
“You will be sent off tomorrow,” she said, coming straight to the point. “I talked to Walky.”
Kent nodded, his eyes searching hers. “I know,” he said after a moment. “Eldrich came to view the portrait after you left.” He stood by the mantlepiece and looked down at her, hoping for some sign, some indication of why she was here.
“Kent, I don’t know if we shall ever meet again,” she blurted out.
His gaze dropped to the floor for a moment, then back to her again. “And if we do, will I even remember? Is it not the practice of the mage to destroy the memories of those who have dwelt in his house? Will I remember that I painted your portrait and had the pleasure of your company for those too few days? Oh, that I had never learned to paint so swiftly! Will he tear these memories away from me?”
She could not predict what Eldrich would do, but she was afraid that Kent was right. He would remember nothing of his stay in the house of Eldrich. Remember nothing of his fool’s attempt to rescue her. His noble attempt. “I don’t know what Eldrich will do. I really don’t. I only know that Walky gave me a warning to pass on to you.”
Kent looked at her differently now, the distress pushed back a little. He listened intently. His blue eyes were soft in the low light, pupils large. His loose shirt, unbuttoned at the top, showed a glimpse of pale skin. For a moment she closed her eyes.
“Do nothing to antagonize the mage,” she said. “Offer no arguments. Provoke him in no way. Do you understand, Kent?”
He looked away from her, shaking his head. “What do I care what the mage does to me?” he said.
“Kent!” She rose quickly, taking up his hands, aware of the extreme warmth of them.
He looked into her face then, so close.
“Do not speak so. Please, Kent. Do nothing foolish. I will never forgive myself if you come to harm. Promise me. . . .”
Kent resisted for a moment. “But he will take everything from me,” he whispered. “Send me away from you and rob me of my memories. All that I have.”
She touched a hand to his cheek. Poor Kent. He was sick with love. Desolate at the thought that he would not even remember their time together. Was it really so precious to him?
“Do you see? I will lose you in every way. Every way.”
She nodded. There was no denying this. He would forget her. Forget his infatuation. Forget this night, this very moment. “But I will remember, Kent. Remember that it was you who came searching for me—unconcerned for your own safety. I will never forget.”
She kissed him. Not a peck on the cheek but full on the mouth. For a second they stayed close, his wine-sweet breath warm upon her. And then he kissed her in return, and took her in his arms.
He will remember nothing, she told herself. Not a thing.
Twenty-Six
Marianne Edden was more distressed than she could remember. Her carriage—actually the countess’—rolled through the Caledon Hills on a beautiful morning, birds brightening the air with both flight and song, and she hardly noticed.
She glanced over at the anonymous portrait of the countess, her only traveling companion—the countess’ lady’s maid had insisted on giving Marianne her privacy and was riding up with the driver, a rather transparent explanation, for there was clearly sympathy between the two. The countess stared out from her frame, beautiful and somewhat troubled.
“Too beautiful,” Marianne whispered. Such unnatural radiance was bound to bring trouble, if not tragedy. Any trait in overabundance was worrisome. Too much money, significant talent, a title, great beauty, charm and wit—they were like lightning rods. The countess stood too tall among the crowd—as did Marianne herself, in her own way.
It was the reason she had always avoided the court and certain circles in Avonel, and why she was
attracted to simple things and uncomplicated lives. The countess had been a rare exception, but then who could resist the attentions of the Countess of Chilton? Even women were flattered beyond imagining just to be noticed by her. Marianne often thought that she was the countess’ only true friend—or at least the closest thing the countess had to a friend. After all, Marianne was unlikely to ever suffer fits of jealousy or envy—the novelist was admired in her own right, and for entirely different reasons. They were simply never rivals.
I am doing precious little to help for the person who professes to be her only friend, Marianne thought. She could think of no other plan than to use her contacts in Avonel to gain an audience with the King, or at least with the King’s Man: that despicable Moncrief. What else could be done? The King was the most powerful man in Farrland. If the King could not intercede with Eldrich, then no one could.
Certainly Erasmus Flattery had proved a disappointment. It might be true that he knew of what he spoke, but still . . . to simply accept that there was nothing to be done! It did not speak highly of him. Even poor Kent had rushed off to try to save the countess though she feared he had not come to a good end over this.
Poor Kent, foolish with love. It was not so much bravery, she knew, as hopeless desire. That point of madness where one will die to prove one’s love and thereby gain the affections of the beloved. A bit pathetic, really. Better to live in disappointment than commit what amounted to self-murder to gain a love that one would not be able to enjoy from beyond the grave. After all, most lived with disappointment. It was the nature of things.
Marianne let out a long sigh. She wanted to leap from the carriage and thrash the bushes with a walking stick. She felt such frustration, such helplessness. It was an emotion she was familiar with, but only at a remove—she wrote about it but almost never experienced it. Marianne Edden was a person with too many resources to feel frustrated often.
The carriage rocked, suddenly slowing, and finally lurched to a halt.
“Ma’am?” It was the driver.
“What is it?” She pushed the window open.
“A carriage with a broken axle, I think. Shall I stop and offer assistance?”
“By all means.”
Someone hailed them. She could see the carriage now, a large, old-fashioned affair. Marianne pulled her head back in and took a deep breath. Was this not the carriage Kent described coming for the countess? But certainly the mage would not suffer a broken axle, like normal men?
Steeling her nerve, she pushed the door open and climbed down before the driver could lower the step.
By the listing carriage stood two gentlemen and a driver, all with their sleeves rolled up.
“Ah, fortune has found us,” a dark-haired man said.
“Miss Edden?”
“Lord Skye! What an unlooked-for pleasure. You’re returning to Avonel, too, I collect?”
The empiricist nodded his silver mane quickly. “May I introduce Mr. Percy Bryce. Miss Marianne Edden.”
Pleasantries were lost on Marianne. Hadn’t this man been rumored to be in the employ of whoever let Baumgere’s old mansion? The mansion where Kent claimed Eldrich had taken the countess?
“You do seem to have had some bad luck, Lord Skye. Can I carry you on? There must be an inn within a few hours. They can certainly send someone to repair your carriage.”
A few bags were quickly shifted, and Bryce and Skye took their place in the carriage with Marianne and the portrait of the countess. An odd situation, all in all, and a bit of luck that Marianne did not intend to let slip away.
Just who was this man Bryce and what was his place in Eldrich’s house? Certainly he was no servant in the common sense of the word, but one could serve in many capacities. And what was Skye doing in this man’s company?
“We are a bit of a traveling art exposition,” Skye said, clearly trying to make polite conversation. “I have the Peliers the countess had authenticated.”
Marianne nodded. The Peliers—she had almost forgotten them. The man crossing the bridge toward the dark coach. Skye had claimed this to depict the Stranger of Compton Heath. And the other, which showed the crypt Baumgere excavated above Castlebough. Prophetic paintings.
“Have you seen Lord Skye’s Peliers, Mr. Bryce? What do you make of them?”
Bryce had been staring out the window, apparently lost in thought. Now he shrugged. “I must admit, Miss Edden, that I know little about Pelier. People say he had a gift, and far be it from me to deny it.” He smiled apologetically, and as soon as it seemed even remotely polite, he returned his attention to the passing scene.
“Eldrich has an interest in Pelier. Did you know?” She wasn’t quite sure what she was doing, other than falling back entirely on her novelist’s intuition.
This brought Bryce back from the window, a suitably neutral look fixed on his face. Too neutral, Marianne was certain.
“Eldrich? Really?”
“Yes, Mr. Flattery told us much about the mage. I had heard that he would not speak of it, but then when he realized the countess’ interest—I don’t think men keep many secrets from the countess. Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Skye?”
Skye barely nodded, clearly trying to warn her off with his eyes. All of a sudden he looked quite unsettled.
“Mr. Flattery could read the writing on the crypt depicted in the painting. He even made me several examples of this script. Remarkable, really. I plan to incorporate it into a book. Imagine how people will react when they discover I have the actual language of the mages in a novel! That should increase my readership, don’t you think? My publisher will be pleased.” She smiled at them expansively. What was she doing? Making this servant of Eldrich believe she knew more than she did, and that she was about to publish it in every city around the Entide Sea.
“We are actually stopping to visit friends along the way, Miss Edden,” Bryce said. “I’m sure they would be delighted to meet you, and it would break up your journey.”
She nodded. “Why how very kind of you. Nothing would please me more.”
Marianne felt herself sag back in her seat. Pray that I have not miscalculated and that this “friend” is Eldrich. Certainly Bryce would not do something unpleasant to me without consulting his master. Not to Marianne Edden.
Why, then, did Skye look as he did? One would think I had entered the den of a hungry lion.
* * *
* * *
Marianne walked beneath the trees of the terrace of the inn. The buildings perched on the edge of a gorge high above a picturesque river. The terrace, walled and shaded, lay among the buildings, so that it was almost a courtyard. Emerging from under the spreading trees, she came beneath the canopy of stars. The cold clarity and sheer numbers of them stopped her momentarily, and she stared up into the depths of the heavens, as enraptured as the ancients who had organized their lives by the movements of the stars.
“Do you see the wandering star?”
Marianne started and then realized it was Skye, standing in the shadows beneath the lime trees. How long had he been there, watching?
She looked back up to the stars. “There are so many.” “Yes, but this one is unlike all the others. Look toward the Ship. Do you see there, as if hung in the rigging, like sea fire.”
“That milky blur? That is a wandering star?”
“Yes. What do you think you are doing?” Skye asked suddenly. He emerged from the shadow, his mane of hair silvered by starlight. “You have guessed who my traveling companion is?”
“A servant of Eldrich, I think.”
He nodded in agreement. “You think you are being clever, having him take you to the countess, but what will you have accomplished? You will have angered the mage who does not like to have his time wasted by others, no matter how talented or celebrated they are.”
“You speak as though you know him,” Marianne said.
> “Like the countess, I have visited him in the past, though my memories of these visits were clouded. You did not tell Bryce the truth at all, did you? Flattery told you nothing, I will wager.”
She did not answer, realizing he could ruin her plans, if he had not done so already.
“I will explain this to Bryce, and perhaps he will let you go on your way.”
“No!”
He came a step closer so that she could make out his face, ghostly in the starlight with only shadows for eyes. “Miss Edden, you do not understand what you involve yourself in. Do you think your gift for invention will help you rescue the countess? The mage detects lies more easily than even a novelist can manufacture them. I am surprised Bryce did not see through your story. You are only letting yourself in for a trial. Mages are not patient.”
“Someone must do something,” she said. “At least let me speak to the countess and reassure myself that she is not there against her will. If I can do that, I will be satisfied. Why is it no one but Kent and myself are willing to take a risk for our friend?”
Skye did not answer immediately, and when he did, his voice was very tight. “Because there is nothing one can do . . . unless proving you are loyal to the point of foolishness is important to you—as it apparently is to Kent.”
“And you, Lord Skye. Why do you wish to see Eldrich if his tolerance for humankind is so slight?”
He did not answer, but walked a few steps to the wall and stared down into the gorge where the dark river ran like an artery of the world. “Because he has the power to unlock memories. Unlock the past. . . .”
Marianne shook her head, moving to the wall near him. “People are in thrall to their past. Many spend all the years that remain to them trying to forget, for their pasts were terrible. Perhaps you will be one of these. You have always been a visionary of empiricism, looking to the future. Why do you take this chance?”