His words were the ramblings of a mad man. I dismissed them. It was time to apply leverage. “You do realize that your father means to destroy me in some hideous fashion? Whatever might one day grow between us is therefore pointless.”
His eyes turned crafty. The planes of his face hardened. “No. I will not let it come to that.”
“But…” I feigned bewilderment, “what can you do?”
“Though no longer the Gamesman, I remain a formidable strategist. Leave it to me. I will think of something.”
He turned to go.
“Wait!” I called.
He faced me again with eagerness, hungry for my words.
“You truly dragon? Is that what I once gave my body to?”
He shrugged as if it were of no consequence. “When I look human, I am human. But yes, father and I are dragon at heart. Our clans have traveled thousands of worlds, leaving legends in our wake—our home is not this world, or even your own. But you and I shall have time later for deeper truths. Right now, I must plead to my father for clemency on your behalf.”
“Abaddon,” I mouthed the name, disliking the taste of it. “What of Phillippe? Please, let me see him!”
“I… I will try. It will not be easy. Father keeps him hidden away, lest Amelia learn of him, taking possession of her great-grandson. While Death is denied the pleasure of her company, he will not grant her Philippe’s.”
Like father, like son; both spiteful to the core.
“Then let me speak with Grandmama.”
“That is beyond my power. She has secluded herself from me as well, and seldom leaves her chambers, though her handmaidens go ever about her business. Any attempt I make to speak to Amelia will be immediately rebuffed as a crude deception on my part.” He grinned at last, a shadow of his former self. “Can you believe it? She finds me both treacherous and tiring.”
His fingers pressed against the glass, sliding gently as he indulged in the illusion that it was my face he caressed.
“I shall return when I can, Celeste. Have faith.”
I leaned forward, pressing my forehead to the glass as I closed my eyes, veiling deceit. “Hurry, your company is not ... altogether ... despicable.”
He laughed. “Damned by faint praise am I? Well, I will take any praise you offer. However meant, it is better than your disdain.”
He left me, his fading footfalls muted by the glass so as to seem unreal. I opened my eyes and pulled back from the mirror. All that was possible, I had done. Now, only patience could serve me. It remained possible that Azrael might still find a way to reach me, though Death would know instantly of his arrival.
Having nothing else to do, I put my back against the glass and slid to the floor to wait. A deeper weariness set in from all I had suffered. Boredom arrived as well, stretching out each moment intolerably. After a while, I slept though it was a poor and fitful experience.
Unaware of how much time might have passed, I came awake, feeling an odd twisting sensation and a rush of speed. I opened my eyes to see the dark hall around me dissolve, replaced by an elegant salon. I scrambled to my feet and spun around, curious as to the change. The other side of my mirror now showed a new section of Death’s palace. Apparently, my prison could be accessed from any mirror in the palace that Death found handy. I would remember that fact and try to make use of it later.
Death pointed at me, but spoke to his son. “Your compassion is wasted on this creature. Whatever admiration you feel for her skills as an adversary, she must answer for her crimes.” Death’s hand fell to his side and curled into a fist.
“Trust me,” Abaddon said, “you do not want to do that.”
“Explain yourself!” Death demanded.
“I ... I cannot, Father.”
“Who is this woman to you? What spell has she woven that compels you to defend her?”
Abaddon remained stubbornly mute on that point. I understood—he did not want to bring his incestuous behavior to light before his father. It was up to me to speak for myself now that I had opportunity.
“The only crimes I know of are those you have both committed against me.” I turned a wrathful glare upon Death. He iced the depths of my soul with fear, but I was determined not to show it. I gambled that he was not above honor, or at least had an illusion of integrity that could be appealed to. “You speak of justice, you who are most unjust of all? There can be no justice from your hand, merely petty revenge. At least be truthful with yourself!”
Death whipped his fist toward me. It crackled with green, spectral flames. I stood a breath away from some punishing tempest, but he hesitated at the last moment. A sense of vague familiarity seemed to afflict him, for he searched my image exactingly. The space between his eyes creased with concentration.
He stepped closer.
“Father,” Abaddon cried. “No!”
The fist lowered. “Just who are you?” he asked. “Remove the mask you wear, imposter.”
“I am no imposter,” I lifted my ring that he might see it. “This is my heritage, my right.”
Abaddon turned soulful eyes upon me, silently pleading for my silence, but I could not give it any longer, nor did I want to. The time had come to dust off the past and bring old sins to light.
He read my intent, and it filled his eyes with desperation.
“I am Celeste Co—”
Abaddon thrust his hand toward me. The reflected salon I inhabited twisted around me into dark folds of cloth. I occupied a much smaller space with the interior distance cut off by drapery of some kind. Transferred cavalierly, I occupied a covered mirror somewhere in storage, where I might not be easily found by those seeking me.
Irritated, I growled low in my throat. Once more, Abaddon had betrayed me. If I could kill him again, I would, most cheerfully. I took the silver mask from my face and placed it in my pouch. I had clung to it too long, needing it to fortify my spirit so I would not feel so vulnerable and exposed.
I took a moment to clasp my hands and pray for guidance.
As my eyes opened, my gaze caught on the ring I wore. If only there was a way to use its power in these circumstances…
Then again, perhaps there was. My desire had ignited it twice before, summoning the Bridge-Between-Worlds. Passion made the band burn when I confronted the new sentry outside the Necropolis. If the ring’s power could be used to move me from mirror to mirror, I need not stay where placed by anyone. Surely, I could not lose much by attempting escape.
I climbed to my feet, closed my eyes to better concentrate, and attempted to recapture the details of the last room I had seen. If I could hold the picture in my thoughts, perhaps the ring could take me there. I found using my mind fully, concentrating upon a single problem, was taxing as the hardest labor. Unfortunately, I had paid little attention to the salon, concerned more with its occupants. The details I wanted would not come.
Giving up the attempt, I consoled myself with a kick to the mirrored wall.
I poured over the situation from every conceivable angle while my nerves stretched to the point of snapping, and at last, a glimmer of an idea surfaced that I thought had merit. If I could not envision an entire room, I might still find a single object to anchor my desire upon. If I could capture Death in detail, I might straightaway take myself to him. Following this logic, my thoughts took a strange turn. Phillippe was here somewhere, perhaps with a mirror nearby. Might I not take myself directly to him? I knew his face intimately and had no trouble holding it in my mind’s eye.
My hand thrust out. The band I wore clicked against the dark glass. I willed a change of aspect. Pale gold ripples spread out from the point of contact, and traveled to the frame. The material blocking my view dissipated like smoke, thinning to nothing. Elation blazed in me as my son appeared. He took no notice of me, standing across a bedroom, on a balcony. He faced away. His outline was sharp against the hateful green sky.
My heart raced with joy, coming so close at last! If only I could breach my prison, I could
hold him, for like all the dead, he would have solidity on this world.
“Phillippe!” Breathlessly, I called to him. He began to turn my way. Then a black-sheathed figure intruded, blocking my view. Death stared at me with considerable surprise since I no longer wore the silver mask.
“Amelia! Why are you dressed like that? And what are you doing here?” The last question was asked with uncertain overtones, as though he hoped his worst fears would not be confirmed, and his deception revealed.
“Did you call me, grandfather?” It was my son’s voice, growing stronger as he approached.
Death struck the glass. It cracked, going utterly dark. There was that rushing away feeling again. The mirror-lined throne room returned, but with a change of angle that now included Death’s throne. That suited me fine; I needed a place to sit, and if my comfort irritated the dread monarch, that was his problem. I was past caring. Not even the return of the chittering whispers and the elusive shadows creeping at the edge of sight daunted my rekindled defiance.
One either dies of terror in Death’s shadow, or learns fearlessness. I made my choice. I had seen my son, and he was well. I would keep fighting until he was free!
I went to the copied throne and sat upon it as though I had every right. That accomplished, I reflected on what had just occurred. Thinking that I was my grandmother, Death had acted swiftly to ensure that I would not get too close a look at Phillippe. Death was being most selfish, I thought, denying Grandmama her great grandson. Of course, I could not let him get away with it.
My lips pulled in a thin cold smile as a plan took shape. The obvious solution was to get Grandmama into the middle of things, and let the pot boil over. If anyone knew how to handle Death, it would be his consort. She had always been a force to be reckoned with, so I refused to believe that even her death had tamed her.
Once more, I sought out the mirror wall. I set my ring against the surface and built up an image of Amelia as shown in Count Dupree’s oil painting. This time, the movement was slow, grinding, as though I fought formidable resistance. I wondered if Death had affected some measures to keep me in place, or if this were some defense used by my grandmother to preserve her privacy. Either way, the strain beaded my flesh with a cold sweat as I fed the ring’s magic with my driving will.
At last, there came a yielding and the view beyond my prison lurched. I saw a sprawling bedroom with a poster bed, armoires, a dressing table, embroidered high-backed chairs, and diamond paned windows graced with jade green draperies that were tied open with golden cords. My eyes searched the bedroom, yet I did not see Grandmama. Still, I had to believe she was close by.
I called out. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
Footfalls preceded a handmaiden dressed in a pearl-seeded gown the color of pink icing.
“My Lady?” The maid stopped in the middle of the room and stared about in confusion. She shook her head, denying what her senses reported. “I could have sworn I heard…”
I beat against the glass. “You there!”
Her startled gaze alighted upon the mirror I occupied. “Oh, merciful Heavens!” She came closer. “How did you get in there, My Lady?”
Ah! She thought me her mistress. Very well, I would assume the part. I brushed aside her question. “Never mind, go find … me … and bring me here ... at once!”
“Bring you ... to … you?”
I glowered at her and put on a hard tone of voice. “Go, now!”
“Yes, My Lady!” She curtsied and hastened away, plainly disconcerted.
“Finally,” I muttered. “Progress!”
Excited voices reached me from an adjoining room. A moment later, the maid returned, anxiously tugging on the sleeve of a woman that could well have been me, if I were in the habit of dressing in extravagant silks with diamonds flashing all about me.
Amelia stopped, putting a hand to her heart as she stared at me. Her shocked expression gave way to a suspicious glare that surveyed the whole room. She seemed to suspect a hidden presence. “Who presumes to toy with me?” she demanded.
Getting no answer anywhere else, she strode to the mirror as though to assail it.
I understood why she did not know me. I had yet to grow into a woman at the time of her death. This was her first time seeing just how much I favored her as an adult. Moreover, with Abaddon in the family, she could not help but suspect some devious game was afoot.
I put the love I had always felt for her into my smile, and reassured her, “Grandmama, it is Celeste!”
“Celeste? Celeste!” Her face expanded into joy and amazement, then confusion. “But, what are you doing here, in my mirror of all things?”
“You had better ask Death,” I told her. “He has put me here and means to destroy me when he finds a grisly enough method.”
She staggered back, blood draining from her face. For the first time ever, I heard harsh words fall from her lips, “That villainous scoundrel!” She whirled to her servant. “What are you standing there for? Go get me my sword!”
“Yes, My Lady.” The flustered servant hurried to an armoire, flinging open its doors. In a back corner, she found what was wanted, pulling out a rapier. She ran with it back to Amelia.
I have seen many fine blades in my father’s house, but none to rival this except for my own sword. The sheath was jet black, its end capped with silver. The hilt was silver too, with a matching back-swept hand guard made to resemble the winding of ivy—Elven forged, probably spell-inscribed as well.
Grandmama drew the blade and tossed the sheath onto the bed. All-at-once dreadfully calm, with a naked weapon in her fist, she turned back to the maid. “Wait here with Celeste. I must have words with my dear husband.” Without waiting for a response, Grandmama whirled grandly in her skirts and strode vigorously away—a storm seeking some distant shore to crash upon.
Staring after her, the servant wrung her hands, acting as if she wanted to call her back, but did not dare.
From outside these chambers, I heard slamming doors and nervous shrieks. I imagined that Grandmama was stirring up quite a storm with her unexpected emergence from self-imposed seclusion. I was happy to have enlisted someone capable of conducting a war all on her own, but the solace was small as long as I could only wait on events that I ought to be a part of. If only I were free of this looking-glass prison...
The servant turned fretting eyes my way. “Is there … is there anything I can do for you? Does it … hurt … to be so flat?”
Flat? With my figure..? Oh, because I am in a mirror. With a straight face, I reassured her. “One gets used to it after a while.”
In the distance, I heard the confusion and shrieking strengthen. Men were shouting in alarm. I heard the telltale scrape of swords being drawn. Many feet ran through the nearby corridors. The maid gasped, her face flushed with excitement. “We are under attack!”
My fragile peace was swept away by excitement—I sensed Azrael at work here. The rest of my forces wouldn’t be far behind him. I stamped my foot. Everyone was getting to fight but me!
19. TERMS OF SURRENDER
“I must barricade the doors!” the servant screeched, hastening away. Moments later, I heard her startled gasp from the next room as she met something unexpected. I knew what that was when Abaddon rushed into my presence, taking advantage of the general upheaval. He closed the bedroom door to prevent interruption, and came straight to my mirror. His eyes brimmed with dread.
“What did you tell her?”
I played at ignorance. “Her?”
“Amelia! What did you tell her?”
I did not try for a convincing tone. “Why, we have been discussing the rose gardens of my cottage. She misses them terribly.”
He attempted fierceness. “Do not play games! Have you not betrayed me?”
In his heart, I knew he hoped to be wrong, yet had I told him that the incestuous secret remained between us two, he would not have believed me. I therefore told him what he would believe, since he anticipated the wor
st.
“She knows. She knows and has gone to Death with the truth. What else could have driven her from seclusion?”
“Then … I am … ruined!” he choked out.
His eyes burned with savage intensity. He snarled like some cornered beast, but I did not care a whit. He had brought disaster down upon himself by trifling with my heart and stealing my son.
“If you would avoid embarrassment in the future,” I advised, “it is best not to sin. Failing that, you should not be so stupid as to get caught.”
Abaddon found my comments less than helpful, for he tore himself away from my insolence, and seized a vase of white roses. In another second, I knew he would hurl the flowers at me in childish temper.
“It is bad luck to break mirrors,” I reminded him.
He paused. A lunatic gleam danced across his eyes. He laughed manically, then sobbed uncontrollably, dropping to the floor. He cradled the vase as though the roses could give absolution, and rocked in place, forgetting me altogether.
“Bad luck,” he muttered. “Yes … that is what it is … cursed, wretched luck. Not my fault. Nothing is ever my fault. Dragons will be dragons, after all…”
He continued in this vein, so I turned my back on him, unwilling to watch him unman himself. Besides, I had problems of my own that begged for attention. I needed to get out of this glass and put my sword to use!
As I pondered how to do this, I felt the wrenching sensation of being moved. The charcoal-hued reflection I inhabited twisted around me and drained at my feet, passing through a hole that whisked me down as well. A black current flung me violently onto … the throne room floor. I trembled with relief at the end of the rough ride, glad to be out of the mirror world.
I turned my head and saw Grandmama’s feet inches away.
She helped me to stand as the chamber doors burst inward. Elves bounded my way with Azrael in the lead. He had to have brought them all in the shadows of his cloak. The elves slowed to make a violent clatter, crossing blades with servants in green livery. The shape-shifters weren’t far behind. The snarls of wolves and the screech of owls added to bedlam, setting my heart to race.
The Farthest Gate (The White Rose Book 1) Page 27