Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123)

by Coulter, Catherine

  He said over and over, his hands fluttering over the knife, afraid to touch it, “No, you cannot die.” His voice broke into a sob. He looked up at his mother. “You wanted to kill me, but she saved me. She gave her life to save me. You are more evil than even I believed.”

  “Now it is your turn, whelp,” Epona said, and suddenly another knife appeared in her hand. “Your turn and then I shall rule and all will be as it was supposed to be. I always told Sarimund his spells were worth spit.”

  She raised the knife, but Egan didn’t run. He jumped to his feet and faced her. He said, “You cannot kill me, you cannot. I am a wizard. I will not let you,” and he pointed his finger at her and began to chant.

  “You are a little nothing!” She raised the knife to plunge it into his heart, but the sound of running feet made her jerk up.

  Nicholas ran into the white room, an ancient sword in his hand. He saw Rosalind lying on her back, so still, lifeless, a knife sticking from her heart. A small boy was leaning over her, his hand pressed against her shoulder.

  “No!” He threw back his head and howled.

  “Get out of here! She failed, you have no business here. He dies now, and there is nothing you can do about it, nothing!”

  Nicholas felt pain so great fill him, choke him, he thought he would die with it. But he forced himself to look away from Rosalind, to look at the mad witch, at Epona, holding her knife poised and ready, knowing she’d killed Rosalind, knowing she would kill Egan as well if he did not stop her. It made the pain freeze. Now all he knew was wild rage. He wanted her blood on his hands, the smell of it in his nostrils.

  Nicholas saw the witch rise off the floor, her white gown billowing around her, and fly directly at him, snarling, white teeth glistening. But now there wasn’t a knife in her hand. Instead she held, in one thin white hand, a short ink-black spear, its tip so sharp it seemed to split the air.

  Nicholas shouted, “Black witch, your demon lover gave you the sword, didn’t he? Sent it up to you from Hell. What did he expect you to do with it—eat it with your hay?”

  Epona hesitated a moment, screamed curses, and aimed the demon sword at him. Bright orange light shot from the end of it, lighting the still air, forming terrifying shapes.

  He looked at his own sword, a very old sword, perhaps older than Captain Jared Vail, its handle bejeweled.

  He then stared up at the creature who had killed his wife, his wife who’d willingly given her life for the boy. “You are a monstrous evil,” he said, voice as soft as the night air. “It ends here, and I am the one to end it.” And he leapt upward, slashing with his sword.

  But Epona leapt up another five feet into the air, out of reach.

  He was in the Pale. He could do anything at all. He rose straight up, his sword aimed at her. “Come fight me, witch, or perhaps you wish to gallop away from me?”

  She hurled curses at his head and Nicholas flew nearer to her, only about six feet away from her, and he taunted her, laughed at her—“Your face is the color of fresh dead snow, and all those billowing white skirts—you are ridiculous, witch.”

  Epona howled at him. “You are nothing more than a mortal loosed upon us who believes himself powerful, but you are so new I can see the wet on your flanks!” She froze, moved farther away from him, hovered, then landed gracefully on the white floor.

  He looked down at her, bored as a man six feet in the air could look. She yelled, “I did not mean to say flanks! A new colt has wet flanks, not a human.”

  Nicholas neighed down at her.

  Epona suddenly wore bright red, the skirts still billowing out in an unfelt wind. She rose straight up again, pointed the demon spear at him, mumbled something very, very old, and hurled it at him.

  His hurled his own sword. It clashed hard against the demon spear in midair, both hitting their tips together; then as one, they exploded, filling the room with a rainbow of lights. Then Nicholas dove for her, his hands outstretched.

  She screamed, “No!” and in her hand was a knife. “You damnable wizard! You’re dead!”

  Nicholas simply thought it and the ancient sword was once again in his hand. He knocked her knife aside and plunged the sword through her, its point sticking out of her back a good foot.

  She hung there in the air, staring down at the sword thrust through her chest. Her surprise was plain on her face. She looked up at him. “This cannot happen, it cannot. My demon chant, none can overcome it, but you have killed me.”

  “Yes,” he said. “It is a very old, very powerful sword.”

  “But my demon spear—”

  “Naught but weak and pitiful evil,” Nicholas said, and reached out. He pulled the sword out of her body. She hung, as if suspended by unseen strings, until finally she fell onto the floor, on her back. He hovered over her and watched her eyes slowly go blank into death. He watched white drops of blood pool out around her body, seep into her gown, not red now, but white again. And the white mixed together. Her face began to lose its beauty, its youth. She began to change, her flesh growing slack, wrinkles digging into her cheeks, her forehead. She continued to wither until nothing but a skeleton lay on the floor, swathed in white. Then there was nothing save a small pool of white blood where her back had once lain.

  Nicholas dropped to the floor and raced to Rosalind. The boy was gone. The knife was still in her chest. “No,” he whispered and pressed his face against hers. “No, this was not to happen. You cannot die. You give your own life for the boy’s? No, surely that was not to happen!”

  “Nicholas, could you please pull out the knife? It is very cold inside me.”

  He jerked back, stared down at her. He was shaking his head, then suddenly—

  “Yes, you remember what Sarimund told me. No evil can touch me. And so it didn’t, just blotted out the world for a moment and sent me into darkness. But I am here again and I am all right. Please, pull out the knife. I tried to order it out of me, but I couldn’t, and my hands don’t want to move. I don’t think I yet have the strength.”

  He couldn’t, couldn’t—he grasped the hilt and jerked it out of her. He stared down. There was no blood, only the rent in her white wool gown.

  “Ah,” she said, still not moving, “that feels much better.”

  He went back onto his knees. “I believed that monster had killed you.”

  “No, no. You killed her, just as you were supposed to, just as I knew you would. I was conscious, I simply couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Where is Egan?”

  “I saw the boy leaning over you when I came in, but then he was gone.”

  “Well, now, that makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “Nothing makes sense in this accursed place.”

  Rosalind lightly touched her fingers to her chest. The gown was whole once again. “Ah, I am coming back to myself.” Slowly, she sat upright, smiled at his hand cupping her elbow.

  “You swear to me you are all right?”

  “Oh, yes. Egan is gone, Nicholas, because you cannot meet yourself, even here in the Pale. You know that.”

  Suddenly they heard Taranis trumpet.

  Nicholas and Rosalind walked out of the strange stark white room. But there was no endless corridor with statues of warriors and rooms filled with colorful cushions. No, they were once again standing on the ramparts of Blood Rock.

  They raised their faces to see Taranis hovering above them, his wings whipping the rivulets of blood outward on the black rocks, making them splatter to the rampart stones.

  Taranis raised his huge head and trumpeted again, the sound echoing off the rocks, making the sky lighten to a pale gray color. The wind died. All was silent, save for the echo of Taranis’s shattering bellow. She knew all could hear it—every Tiber, every Lasis, even the yellow Sillow tree. And the wizards and witches.

  He sang to them, “All is well. All is well. You saved Prince Egan, mistress, as you were supposed to. Ah, Sarimund, finally, his spell succeeded.

  “To know a modern man can kill a monster
, it is gratifying. It is over. The mistress saved the prince, and you, the man, paid your debt to her. It is over and Prince Egan will rule as he was meant to rule.”

  Nicholas smiled at her. “I wonder how high I can jump here in the Pale?”

  “As high as the eggplant clouds. After all, you can fly.” She couldn’t help herself, she threw back her head and laughed. “Ah, Nicholas,” she shouted, and threw herself against him, her arms locked around his back.

  He kissed her once, twice, unable to stop until Taranis cleared his mighty throat in what sounded like a muted roar. Nicholas released her, stepped back, and raised his head to the heavens. He spoke in a voice that shook the very rocks of the fortress. “Sarimund! She saved the boy who is your son. I paid my debt. Epona is dead. You heard Taranis, now Egan will rule over the Pale as it was meant to happen.

  “All will be different now, all will proceed now in the Pale on a very fine path indeed.”

  He nodded, as if hearing a reply. He looked back at his wife and smiled at her. “Do you hear the rumbling? It is time for us to leave. The boy is now a man. It is time for the change to come.” He gave her a crooked grin. “As much as I would like to, I cannot meet him. What would happen were the two of us to come face-to-face? I do not know and I don’t want to know.”

  Nicholas lifted her onto Taranis’s back. The dragon lifted into the sky above Blood Rock and hovered. He sang to them.

  A new season for the Pale,

  A new life force to leaven the plains,

  A calm darkness to bless the nights,

  And wisdom to light the spirit.

  As they rose higher, they watched as the fortress began to tumble in on itself. Black rocks began to crash down the side of Mount Olyvan, the sound like mad thunder, deafening them. The turrets tumbled, the arches split asunder, the air was thick with rubble and dirt.

  They watched until Blood Rock was no more, until the top of Mount Olyvan stood quite bare. Slowly, they saw Mount Olyvan begin to green, wildflowers spring up, bushes with incredible color begin to cover the mountain. There were yellow Sillow trees spouting from the very rock itself, glowing bright.

  “Ah, the new kingdom,” Taranis sang, “and a new leader for our land.” And they watched a white fortress build itself, the stones fitting themselves together, rising into the air to great heights, brilliant white turrets springing upward, gleaming beneath a new sun that glistened over all the land.

  Banners flew from the ramparts. They were white with three pale yellow moons covering them. They fluttered in a soft wind.

  The air smelled different. It smelled whole.

  They saw Belenus and Sarimund walk out of the vast white palace, onto the ramparts. They were speaking to each other. Another man appeared, a beautiful man, a young man, and he stood there, until Sarimund held out his arms to him. Prince Egan walked quickly to him and they embraced. Sarimund raised his head to look up at them. He smiled.

  Rosalind heard him say clearly in her mind, “I thank you for saving my son, Isabella. Egan rules now. He is good. If ever you need me, you have but to call. My lord, your debt is paid. All thank you. Captain Jared Vail thanks you. Go home, Isabella, go home.”

  Taranis bellowed once more and raised himself straight up. “Hold tightly,” he sang to them, and flew straight up directly toward a sun the color of a ripe lemon. They looked down to see the land below become smaller and smaller, then disappear. The air was warm, like swirling silk sliding off their flesh.

  All was brilliant and calm, the air so clear they could see through the gems that studded Taranis’s back.

  Rosalind heard singing—soft, compelling, a woman’s voice, and it sounded familiar. It was her mother’s voice. She saw a man’s face, her father, and he was nodding at her, smiling, his arms open.

  She felt Nicholas’s arms tighten around her waist, felt his warm breath on her neck. She leaned back against his chest. She felt calm, at peace.

  Was that Taranis singing to them?

  Then neither Nicholas nor Rosalind knew anything more.

  EPILOGUE

  San Savaro, Italy

  They heard cheering.

  Their carriage rolled over the cobblestone streets into the sun-baked capital city of San Savaro. Crowds lined the streets, yelling and clapping, waving at them. Behind the crowds were shops and cafes, small parks, horses tethered to posts, carriages next to drays. And flowers everywhere, trellised, in huge pots, in small window boxes, growing out of every spot of green. The colors and the scents were overwhelming.

  “What is this?” Nicholas said, staring at all the people obviously welcoming them. “Surely they must believe we are someone else.”

  They’d left England a month after they’d awakened in their bed at Wyverly Chase to find Richard pacing the drawing room, his mother on his heels, yelling she wished to leave this house because that wretched ghost ignored her—her!—wouldn’t even sing insults to her, wouldn’t even tilt his chair to acknowledge her presence, and she was tired of her cursed stepson and that hussy of a wife of his lording it over them.

  “But he is the earl,” Richard said, “it is his right to lord it over us. He is Lord Mountjoy. The hussy is his wife. Accept it, Mother.”

  Rosalind had said from the doorway, “Madam, I imagine that our ghost has finally continued upon his chartered course. You see, there is no longer a reason for him to remain. Richard, everything will be all right now. All of us will be all right now. You may believe that.”

  Richard Vail stared at her, then smiled, actually smiled at her, then he smiled at his half brother, a smile so much like Nicholas’s that it nearly made her weep, and he said, “Good. That’s good.”

  A sea change? she wondered. She heard Lancelot’s sneering voice from the corridor. Perhaps it would be too much to expect a sea change in Lancelot.

  “I cannot get over this,” Nicholas said now, staring at the crowds of people. “They must believe we are visiting dignitaries.”

  “Or perhaps they are expecting the Pope,” Rosalind said, and grinned at him. She hadn’t told Nicholas she’d seen her father in the Pale, that her father had turned to look at her, and she’d known he’d seen her and known she was alive, and coming to him.

  She looked up at the brilliant sun overhead and thought of the bright yellow sun in the Pale, and how Taranis had flown toward it, and then—simply nothing. How had they returned to Wyverly Chase to wake up in their own bed, still wearing their cloaks, still holding hands?

  But they had. They’d also had some bumps and bruises and sore muscles. Rosalind’s chest was a bit tender to the touch. Where Epona’s knife had plunged into her.

  The crowds thinned as their carriage, pulled by Grace and Leopold, nearly prancing what with all the attention they were getting, rolled out of the center of San Savaro. The cobblestone road widened and began to wind upward toward a crest upon which stood an immense yellow brick palazzo, the yellow as pale as a watery sun. As they drew closer, they saw that the entire length of the palazzo was showcased by a long row of magnificent Doric columns, surrounded by fountains spraying water high into the air from the mouths of nymphs and grinning satyrs. Ancient statuary stood in groups or alone on the grounds, and more huge pots of tumbling flowers than Nicholas had seen since they’d left their own gardens at Wyverly Chase dotted the green scythed lawn. It was elegant and graceful. Nicholas said, “Do you remember?”

  “Yes. It doesn’t seem quite so big now, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, not big at all,” he said, and kissed her ear.

  Their carriage pulled up with a flourish, executed with great panache by their driver, Lee Po, who could do anything, he’d assured Rosalind. He allowed both Grace and Leopold to stamp their feet and snort.

  To Nicholas’s astonishment, standing at the top of the endlessly wide two dozen marble steps stood a line of people—two men, a woman, and three boys, young, all of them, Nicholas suspected, dressed in their finest. They were all waving madly.

 
He recognized Rosalind’s mother immediately, and knew this was what Rosalind would look like in her older years. A beautiful woman, rounded and soft, with glowing skin, and that glorious red hair glistening beneath the hot Italian sun. She was wearing a green gown of the same style and color Rosalind had worn the previous day. She was holding a babe in her arms.

  There was Rosalind’s older brother, Raffaello, a tall, handsome young man who looked very familiar to Nicholas, and surely that was odd. Then he looked at his wife’s father and stilled. No, he thought, it couldn’t be possible.

  “No,” he said aloud. “No.”

  “They did not want to let you out of their sight. I wondered if they will let me snag you away when it is time to return home to attend Grayson’s wedding in September.” He paused and looked around. “Was this your bedchamber?” He pulled off his boots and began unbuttoning his shirt. He was hot.

  “Yes. They didn’t change anything in it.”

  Nicholas opened all the windows and leaned out to breathe in the unique scent of Italy. Her bedchamber faced the east gardens and the air was warm and smelled of jasmine. And what? Excitement, he thought. There was so much excitement in the air itself since they’d arrived this afternoon.

  Nicholas said, “I like your brothers. And Raffaello is a good man,” he said, turning to look at his wife as she pulled on a lovely peach silk dressing gown. How lovely that the gown beneath it was as sheer.

  “Yes, I like them too. The young ones don’t know what to make of us—of me—but they will come to accept me as their sister and you as another brother. I brought a dozen boxes of English sweetmeats. Those candied almonds, in particular, should help them accept us all the more quickly.” She paused a moment, frowned. “How odd that Raffaello is a man grown now. I can see him so clearly as a boy.”

  “Your father, Rosalind, he—”

  “Yes, I know. I wouldn’t have realized it, though, if I hadn’t seen the portrait.”