Rain poured down with furious noise, thunder sounded in the distance, and Miss Linley, getting soaked, asked with concern, “Mister Seymour? Are you all right?” Behind him Abercraf and Jane murmured with veiled indignation—they couldn’t go inside until their employers did, but they didn’t at all like having to stand behind them in the rain.
Niclas opened his eyes to see the innkeeper staring at him with a look of apprehension. What kind of man would stop in that kind of rain, forcing both a high-born lady and everyone else to stand there, too? If Niclas had hoped to have any influence over the fellow at all, it was rapidly dissipating.
He had to make a choice, stay or go, else lose any chance they had of finding a refuge for the night.
Every instinct told him to turn around and leave, but reality—and the rain—won out. Niclas stepped forward.
The innkeeper was a pleasant fellow and eager to please an obviously wealthy patron. Unfortunately, he assured Niclas as they made their way into the warmth, crowds, and noise of the inn, finding a room even for the young lady and her maid would be quite impossible. They would simply have to make do with the common room.
“We’ll discuss the matter in a moment,” Niclas said, shepherding Julia protectively to the nearest quiet spot. “For the time being, be so good as to procure a private parlor for Miss Linley to rest in.”
“There are none left, sir,” the innkeeper said. “What with the rain, and all the coaches unable to—”
“I want a private room for Miss Linley,” Niclas said in a quiet but firm tone that didn’t allow for argument. He turned to stare very directly at the man. “It must be clean and comfortable and quiet. I don’t care if it’s one of the maids’ rooms or even your wife’s room, just so long as Miss Linley may warm herself and take some manner of refreshment.”
The innkeeper paled. “Yes, Mister Seymour. I think I may be able to find something suitable. Only give me a moment, please.” Bowing, he hurried away into the noisy common room.
A few moments later he returned, bowing again.
“We are most fortunate, sir,” he said, breathing rapidly, his pleasant face flushed with success. “Another patron, a very fine gentleman, has kindly given up the private parlor he and his company had reserved. They’ve already moved into the common room and one of my girls is clearing their meal away. It will be ready to receive Miss Linley and her maid shortly. Shall you wish to join Miss Linley there for dinner, Mister Seymour? My cook has some fine chickens roasting on the fire.”
It was all quickly settled. Niclas followed the innkeeper to the parlor, inspected it, and when he was satisfied, he saw that Miss Linley and Jane were comfortably settled before a fire with a promised light tea on the way. Dinner was to be served in an hour, giving both Miss Linley and her maid and Niclas and his men time to warm and dry themselves as best they could. Until then, Niclas intended to secure a room for Miss Linley to sleep in for the night, no matter how much it cost him, and then find the gentleman who’d vacated the parlor and properly thank him.
But first, he wanted dry clothes, and the innkeeper had kindly offered—for a small fee—the temporary use of his own private room in order to change.
It was wonderful to strip off his soaking garments and be warm and dry. Abercraf shook the folds out of a freshly unpacked coat and held it out for Niclas to slip his arms into.
“Thank a merciful God,” he murmured, feeling comfortable for the first time in hours. His bones were yet cold, but they would warm soon enough before the common room’s great fire, and after a pint or two of ale.
Since the day had been almost entirely miserable, Niclas felt that he and his men deserved a pleasant night. If they must spend it in the common room, then they would make the best of it. The noise from those currently assembled there sounded inviting enough, and he had no doubt they’d find amiable companions to pass the long night with. His mind would be under chaotic assault, but being in the company of a group of merry, half-drunk or even completely drunk men was a much easier thing to do than spending an hour in the presence of sober, scheming, conniving members of high society.
“Do you want this, sir?”
Abercraf had gone through the pockets of Niclas’s wet jacket and pulled the Tarian out into the light.
For once, Niclas was glad to see it. That strong sense of danger was with him still, and even if it proved to be nothing more than the product of his weary mind, he wanted to be prepared.
“I’ll feel better having it with me than packed away anywhere at this inn.”
“Yes, sir.” Abercraf stepped back to survey his employer’s appearance, clearly satisfied with what he saw. “Shall I send the men in to change, sir?”
“Yes,” Niclas said, shoving the Tarian into a safe pocket. “Tell them to be quick, lest the innkeeper lose charity with us. I’ll go thank the gentleman who gave us the use of the parlor and make arrangements for you and the men to dine in the common room.”
The inn was a riotous mixture of sound and noise as Niclas stepped out of the innkeeper’s private enclosure and into the inn proper. Even more customers had arrived to seek refuge from the pouring rain; noblemen and ladies as well as common folk who’d been traveling on the public coaches. There was so much smoke in the air from both pipe and fire that his eyes burned, and he strode toward the open courtyard doors to draw in a breath of the fresh, damp air.
He stood there a long moment, staring out at the rain and letting the fitful breeze push at him. It was so pleasant and peaceful; the calm before the storm that awaited him inside.
And then, suddenly, he shook off his agreeable lethargy and attended to the warning bells that had begun to clang ever louder.
“Julia,” he murmured, stiffening.
Turning, he pushed his way into the depths of the inn, toward the private parlor where he’d left her, shoving everyone in his way aside.
But he knew, even as he reached the door, that he was too late. The suspicion that had been growing in him since they’d arrived at the Blue Hind was real; he’d simply not wanted to accept it.
Niclas didn’t even bother knocking, but thrust the door open.
And he was there, just as Niclas had known he would be, standing near a chair where Julia sat, but filling the room with his presence and power.
Morcar Cadmaran. The earl of Llew.
He was a tall man, powerfully built, intimidating. As dark as the earl of Graymar was light and fair, Cadmaran’s hair and eyes were a deep and unfathomable black, so incredibly black that there wasn’t a shade dark enough to describe them.
Niclas had only spoken to him twice in his life; once when they were both boys, and once as men. Both times he’d come away more than a little thankful that the only member of the Seymour family who had to constantly worry about that kind of evil was Malachi.
The earl of Llew. He wasn’t the most powerful sorcerer in England—the earl of Graymar held that title—but he wanted to be.
“Julia,” Niclas said breathlessly, moving toward her. She didn’t move, didn’t respond to the fact that he’d been so reckless as to call her by her Christian name. She was staring at Cadmaran, her expression completely blank. Jane, her maid, was doing the same on the other side of the room.
The door, which Niclas had left open, slowly swung shut of its own accord. A soft clicking sound gave evidence to the lock being engaged.
“I’ve been wondering when you’d make an appearance,” Lord Llew said, turning from Julia to face Niclas. “I very nearly sent the innkeeper to fetch you, but it seems that your once famously facile brain began working at last. It appears that the rumors about the curse addling your wits are at least partly true.”
Drawing up to his full height, he was even more imposing, and Niclas scowled to find himself looking up at the man. A tall man himself, he wasn’t used to being in such a position.
But Cadmaran was more than simply abnormal in height. He was an arresting figure in every way, strikingly handsome, irresistibly charmin
g, inhumanly compelling. Niclas wasn’t afraid for himself, but for all those who were traveling with him and under his care. Niclas was a wizard, but, like other dark-haired Seymours, the powers that he had been born with were more intellectual than physical, excepting his strength and the ability to move very quickly. Apart from these, he possessed none of the magic that could help him overcome a sorcerer of Cadmaran’s might.
“They’ve done nothing to you,” Niclas said. “They’re not Seymours. Nor are they from any of the Families, and you know what the rules we abide by say about using magic on humans who’ve brought us no harm. Release them.”
Lord Llew laughed in a low, amused manner. “You wish to lecture me on rules?” he asked with a touch of sarcasm. “A cursed Seymour—pardon me, a blood-cursed Seymour—advising me on how to behave. How droll. You must forgive me, sir, if I decline to take your advice. As to Miss Linley and her maid not being one of us, of a certainty they’re not. I knew that when I sensed a Seymour traveling in company with mere mortals while you were yet five miles away. Of course, it wasn’t until your footman arrived, begging for rooms, that I knew precisely which Seymour you were. Then my curiosity got the better of me and I arranged for you to come to the Blue Hind.” Glancing at Julia and Jane, he added, with a smile, “I’m glad now that I took the trouble.”
Niclas frowned. “You arranged for us to come?” he asked with disbelief. “Ioan would never—”
“No, he’s immune,” Cadmaran assured him, “just as you are, regardless the weakness of his magical heritage. But the innkeeper isn’t. I convinced him, as soon as I knew who you were, to offer the footman a place in the common room for you and your companions, despite his having to turn out several patrons who had already arrived. There simply wasn’t room for all of you, but I was curious, just as I told you, to know what Graymar’s dearest cousin was doing on the road to Shrewsbury, and in company with two mortals who were not among our sympathetics. Your servant was delighted to find any manner of refuge for his lord.”
“I’m not his lord.”
The earl of Llew looked at him curiously. “What?”
“I don’t allow my servants to call me their lord,” Niclas stated. “I am not titled, and have never agreed with the ancient custom that mere mortals should address our kind in such a manner. I’m simply their employer.”
A small, disdainful smile crept over Cadmaran’s lips. “Ah, I see. You are one of those odd Seymours who have little regard for their heritage and refuse to accept that all lesser beings should be properly servile to our kind. Lord Graymar doesn’t share your sympathies, I would guess. But, then,” he added, his gaze measuring Niclas with slow care and clearly finding him wanting, “you’re a dark-haired Seymour, and nothing like the so great, so highly lauded Malachi.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you?”
Niclas understood him very well, and could scarce deny that Lord Llew had the right of it. But falling into the earl’s trap and discussing Malachi would be the gravest mistake Niclas could make at the moment. Cadmaran had only one use for such talk: to try and ferret out any information regarding the earl of Graymar. Indeed, Niclas had no doubt that this was precisely the reason that he found himself facing Cadmaran at the moment—he wanted news of Malachi. Niclas wasn’t going to give it to him.
“I suppose the rain was your doing, as well?” Niclas asked.
“Hardly,” the earl of Llew replied with a laugh. Moving across the room to the table, he picked up a small glass of wine. “I am not that powerful. Yet. Please, sit and be comfortable. Will you have some wine? Miss Linley was just telling me all about your journey to Wales.”
“I imagine she was,” Niclas said, and strode to where she sat. Kneeling, he took her hands in his and gazed closely into her face, into her eyes.
“Julia,” he murmured, “are you all right? Do you know who I am?”
She looked at him, yet her eyes appeared to be unseeing.
“Yes, Mister Seymour,” she said tonelessly, “I know you. I’m very well, thank you.”
“You’re under a spell,” he told her, speaking firmly. “It’s very powerful, but it can be broken if you’ll only fight hard against it. Julia? Do you understand me?”
“You’re wasting your time,” he heard Cadmaran say from where he now sat. “She has no magic in her blood. She has no immunity, as another might.”
She does have magic, Niclas thought. I know it. I’ve felt it. Surely she had enough—even a little—to fight Cadmaran’s charm.
If he could find some way to get her out of the room, even for a moment, or away from Cadmaran, he could slip the Tarian over her neck and she’d be as immune to magic as the most pure-blooded Seymour.
“Julia,” he whispered, squeezing her hands hard. “You wish to go to your room, do you not? I’m sure it’s ready for you now. You wish to go and change before dinner.”
She blinked slowly, and for a brief moment her eyes began to focus.
“Dinner?” she asked. “Mister Seymour?”
“Miss Linley will be having dinner with me,” Earl Llew said mildly. “Is that not so, Miss Linley?”
She blinked again, and Niclas could see her struggling.
“Is that not so, Miss Linley?” Cadmaran stated more firmly.
She slid away, back into a trance.
“Yes, my lord,” she answered dully.
“You must join us, Mister Seymour,” Cadmaran added easily, a touch of amusement in his tone. “I should like to hear all about Ffinian and his plan to wed Lady Alice. They’re neighbors of mine, in a way. Castle Llew isn’t more than twenty-five miles south of Lady Alice’s estate. But you know that, of course. We do tend to keep track of one another, don’t we? Each of the Families. We always know what the other is doing.”
“How I wish that were so,” Niclas muttered in a low voice, but the earl of Llew heard him despite that, and laughed.
“How odd you Seymours are,” he said, “in all your variety. None of my people are so lacking in power as some of you are. It’s a wonder Malachi keeps any of you lesser ones in the lineage.” He paused before adding, softly, “I wouldn’t.”
“What do you propose he do with us?” Niclas asked, not looking at him, his gaze held fast on Julia’s lovely, empty eyes. “Drown us at birth?”
Cadmaran laughed once more, but this time the amusement in his voice was full and real.
“Something like that,” he finally said, still chuckling.
Releasing a taut breath, Niclas stood and looked at Jane, who hadn’t said so much as a word since he’d entered the room. She was the sort of open, unaffected person whose emotions he felt in an especially keen manner. When she’d been in pain the day before, he had felt that pain as if it had been his own. But he couldn’t feel any of her emotions now. It was as if she’d turned to stone, and had neither thought nor spirit left in her.
“I’m sorry, Jane,” he murmured, gazing at the little maid with sadness. He could only imagine how frightened she’d been of Cadmaran upon first sight of him. How he wished he’d been here in that moment; perhaps he might have been able to protect them from Lord Llew’s powers.
But it did no good to think of what he might have done half an hour ago—he had to think of something now.
He finally turned to face Cadmaran, who was sitting in a comfortable chair near the fire, the half-filled glass of wine grasped lightly in his long, well-manicured fingers.
Like Malachi, the earl of Llew presented a picture of the perfect gentleman of the ton. He was immaculately tailored, shaven, and groomed, and his cravat was a thing of perfection. He was also, like Malachi, a wealthy nobleman, and the head of a family claiming an ancient, fabled lineage.
Unlike Malachi, however, Morcar Cadmaran loved to flaunt his wealth and power and ancestry. Especially his power, which was exactly the sort of behavior that bred the most danger for all magical families.
“What do you want of me?” Niclas asked.
Cadmaran smiled. “I want to speak to Earl Gr
aymar. Face-to-face.”
“Then you must ask him for a meeting yourself,” Niclas said. “I don’t hold sway over my cousin.”
“The coward won’t meet me,” Lord Llew replied curtly, the smile dying away. “I’ve made dozens of requests—even going so far as to swallow my pride and make them politely. But he refuses.”
“Is it so urgent?” Niclas asked, baffled. “What could possibly be so important that you must speak to him in person? You’ve generally used emissaries in the past.”
Cadmaran stood, setting the glass aside. His movements were graceful, easily controlled, and Niclas felt a new appreciation for just how powerful the man was. Not just magically, but in physical strength.
“Aye, it’s important to me. So much so that a mere emissary won’t suffice. I must gain Graymar’s agreement or challenge him, but I can do neither unless we speak.”
The earl of Llew towered over him, intimidating, but Niclas held his place, forcing himself to remain calm and think carefully. He was safe enough. Cadmaran could easily harm or even kill him—it would require nothing more than the lifting of a hand for so powerful a wizard to send Niclas flying into the nearest wall, something Niclas had seen the earl of Llew do to a mere mortal when they were boys. But to attack an unchallenged magical being would be a grave infraction of their laws, with serious consequences. Far worse than holding two mere mortals captive.
And that, Niclas understood, was precisely why it was so necessary for Lord Llew to meet Malachi face-to-face. If Cadmaran challenged him during a personal confrontation, they would be able to meet as equals. But if he breached the laws that had been laid down for families like theirs centuries ago, Malachi’s powers would be twofold, and, though he didn’t know the other man well, Niclas doubted that the earl of Llew was clever enough to best the earl of Graymar by relying on intellect alone. He wasn’t a stupid man, but neither was he particularly cunning, and he would be hard-pressed to find victory in such a match even with all his supernatural powers at hand, let alone without.
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