In his mind’s eye, however, bright flames swirled—red flames surrounding a tall, slender body of polished black. And Heloise before that figure, so small, so helpless . . .
His hand tightened around the poker. He wanted to get up, to pull on his boots, to steal his horse and ride out even as he had done a few days ago. She’d gone out to the Oakwood. But why? Benedict recalled the wind spirit they had met together out there, and wondered what other strange beings might dwell therein. It couldn’t be safe. She couldn’t be safe.
But she’d told him to wait. To keep his window open. She was counting on him to be there when and if she returned.
A chill wind blew through the open window behind him, breathing down his neck and shoulders. He drew his cloak tighter but could not prevent the shiver that ran through his limbs. For an instant he feared it was the shivering that never stopped, the shivering that belied the raging fever burning from the inside out.
A knock at the door startled him from these gloomy fears, and he nearly dropped the poker as he sat upright. “Who’s there?” he called.
“It is I, Master Benedict.”
The voice was like the intonation of a sepulchral spirit. Well, probably not quite that bad. But close enough that Benedict shivered again, this time for a rather different reason. With a forlorn sigh, he said, “Enter,” and sagged back in his chair. He didn’t bother to look around as the door opened and Doctor Dupont’s footsteps crossed the floor. It was amazing how ponderous a tread such a thin man could produce!
The doctor scanned the room from beneath heavy lids and raised a single brow at the sight of his charge sitting up in his chair. The bed lay rumpled, half-heartedly made, and did not look as though someone had recently slept in it. “You are awake, Master Benedict?”
“As you see,” Benedict muttered, still without turning around. He nearly apologized for his rudeness the next moment, but after what he’d been through recently his apologetic spirit wasn’t as keen as usual. His mouth remained shut. By the sound of the heavy footsteps he guessed when the doctor approached the bedside table, then heard the slide of the drawer opening, the clink of the vial and cup being removed. A glugging sound told him that Dupont poured more of his brew than usual. Benedict closed his eyes and muttered, “Dragons eat it,” between his teeth.
The doctor approached him from behind. A pale hand holding the cup appeared before Benedict’s face. “Your draught, Master Benedict.”
Benedict looked at it. He sighed. Then, accepting his fate along with the cup, he tossed the medicine to the back of his throat and downed it all in a gulp. The next several moments were spent doubled up and gagging, stuffing the corner of his cloak against his mouth to keep everything where it was meant to be. A few brown droplets spattered among the dead hearth ashes, but with a brave effort Benedict managed to get most of it down.
Doctor Dupont observed all in solemn silence. When Benedict’s convulsions subsided, he took the cup and returned it to its drawer. Benedict hoped he would leave then, but no such luck. Instead, the doctor returned to his side and, without a word or warning, grabbed him by the head, tilting it sharply so as to peer into his ear. Benedict had suffered this indignity many times before and only uttered a small groan of protest.
“Hmmmmmmm,” said the doctor, and turned Benedict’s head the other way to peer into his other ear. “Mmmmmm, hmmmm.”
He possibly imagined it, but Benedict could have sworn he smelled Lord Cœur’s fine vintage on the doctor’s breath. He grimaced and asked, “No fever spirit?”
Rather than answer, the doctor said, “Where were you last night, young sir?”
It took tremendous willpower not to pull himself from Dupont’s grasp and spring to his feet. Instead he sat very still, his fingers tightening on the arms of his chair as though to hold himself in place. “I was—I was in bed,” he said. But he wasn’t a good liar and he knew it.
Doctor Dupont let go of Benedict’s head and moved slowly to stand in front of him. He pressed his palms together before his breast as though in an attitude of prayer. Behind his heavy eyelids, his eyes were bright. A little too bright.
“One of the guardsmen came to me this morning,” he said. “Young Briant, a dull-witted but quick-eared sort of lad. He knocked on my door, interrupted me in the middle of my work.” The doctor’s voice dropped an octave lower, though this shouldn’t have been humanly possible. “I do not like to be interrupted in my work.”
Benedict knew how the heroes of old must have felt when the Dragon stirred in his slumber. He bravely stood his ground—or sat his ground, as the case may be—and said nothing.
The doctor continued, “Guardsman Briant claims that he heard you last night.”
The blood rushed from his head, leaving Benedict pale and dizzy. Yet he held the doctor’s gaze and managed a quiet, “Oh?”
“In the Great Hall. With a girl.”
“Oh,” said Benedict again. His brain, sluggish from lack of sleep, sifted through several possible answers as quickly as possible. None of them seemed worth speaking, even in the privacy of his head. But he had to answer promptly or he would appear all the more guilty. “Doesn’t sound much like me, does it?”
The doctor’s brows lowered, dragging the whole of his tight cap forward. He said nothing beyond a deep “Mmmmmmmm.”
“Truly,” Benedict persisted, hating how weak his voice sounded to his own ears, “I’ve been in bed. Don’t have much energy for traipsing about in the night. And I don’t know any girls.”
Victor would have been much better at this. Victor had spun stories for the Black-Tops that convinced everyone of his veracity, himself included, until the lies he told might as well have been truths. Victor would have laughed at Benedict and his paltry attempts at deceit, would have laughed at the way his paling then blushing complexion gave away every emotion.
Doctor Dupont did not laugh. He merely observed. But the way he observed made Benedict want to crawl under his bed where Heloise had spent the whole of yesterday. Once he got there, he might never come out again.
“I feel it is my duty to warn you, young master,” said the doctor at last, “that such carryings-on cannot be conducive to your future or health. Any association with a young woman is sure to awaken the fire spirit sooner rather than later. When it wakes again, it will kill you. Yes. It will kill you as it kills all whom it indwells. I will have to be swift to extract it if there is to be any hope of saving you.”
The doctor took a step toward him and leaned down so that his thin face was level with Benedict’s. The smell of wine on his breath was beyond doubt. Benedict thought, This man is mad. I don’t care what his credentials are. I don’t care if Father trusts him. He’s out of his dragon-eaten mind!
But he dared not say anything. He sat motionless and met the doctor’s gaze, eye for unblinking eye. Carefully he said, “I will keep that in mind, good doctor. Thank you.”
“Mmmmmmm.” The doctor straightened, and his eyes narrowed to shiny slits. Without another word he turned and wafted from the room, his somber robes rustling in his wake. The door shut with a decisive clunk behind him.
Benedict sprang from his chair and, despite his fatigue and grogginess, rushed to the door and locked it fast. He then stood staring at the lock and muttered, “I’ll write to Father. As soon as . . . as all this . . . is over, I’ll write to Father and ask him to remove Doctor Dupont.” He didn’t know if he’d mention the theft—Lord Cœur had a strict and rather awful approach when dealing with thieves. But somehow he must make his father understand that the doctor’s treatments were not working out for the best, would ask him to send someone else . . .
Only, what would he do if Doctor Dupont followed up his letter with a letter of his own that explained in fine-sounding medical terms how Benedict’s complaints were but the product of his sickness-weakened mind?
“Master Benedict.”
“Beards!” Benedict exclaimed, whirling about, his eyes wide and startled. There sat Heloise i
n the open window, her hands clutching the frame, one leg sliding through. How long had she sat there? Had she heard the whole exchange with Doctor Dupont?
“Get in, quick!” Benedict strode across the room to offer his assistance, but she scrambled through before he reached her. She stepped out of his path as he hastened to lean out the window and look this way and that and even up along the wall of the house. As far as he could see, no one was about. But this didn’t mean she hadn’t been spotted. If one of the guardsmen believed he was keeping company with a peasant girl, gossip would surely have spread throughout Centrecœur by now. Thank the Lights Above, the house servants gave him wide berth, afraid as they were of catching his illness.
He pulled his head back in and shut the window. “We can’t keep doing this,” he said, turning to Heloise, who stood now in the center of his room, her arms wrapped tightly about her skinny body. “You can’t keep sneaking in this way. Someone’s going to catch us, and I don’t—”
He broke off abruptly. His gut, full of Doctor Dupont’s brew, churned violently, and his whole body shook with the foulness welling up inside him. With a groan he sat down on the floor, his head between his knees, and waited for the dizziness to pass.
Maybe the doctor was right. Maybe the spirit was waking up. Maybe associating with Heloise, taking part in her mad plots and schemes, had shaken something loose inside him, and the fever would return. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing to all the heavenly hosts that he’d never met—
But no. He couldn’t wish that. Not even when he tried.
A cold hand touched his forehead. He didn’t look up when Heloise sat down beside him but remained in the same attitude, his head bowed.
“You’re warm,” she said.
“No, you’re cold,” he replied, and she couldn’t deny it; her fingers were icy. Benedict shrugged and glanced up at her with one eye. “I’ll be fine. Where were you this morning?”
“Down at the Oakwood. Did the doctor make you drink more nightshade?”
“Tannins of nightshade,” Benedict said. “And a lot of other things. Shriven and whatnot.”
“You should stop taking it. It’s going to kill you.”
“Well, the idea is that it’ll kill the fire spirit inside me before it kills me.” Benedict stretched his legs out before him and leaned back against the wall beneath the window. “Someone heard us in the Great Hall,” he said, his voice low as though he did not want even Heloise to hear him. But her quick ears caught every word, and he felt her tense beside him. “One of the guardsmen, Briant. He told Doctor Dupont.”
“Pigman!” Heloise growled the name like a curse. “Briant Pigman, the stupid oaf. Once a Pigman, always a Pigman; doesn’t matter if they dress him up in armor and give him a pike!”
Startled at this passionate outburst which he did not understand, Benedict raised both eyebrows. “Well, the point is,” he went on, “they’ll be watching us now. Watching me. We can’t keep on as we’ve been.”
Heloise studied him closely. He felt her gaze on the side of his face, and he couldn’t make himself meet it. “What are you saying?” she demanded.
Benedict rubbed at one ear as though he could even now reach inside and pull out whatever evil spirit lurked within. “I’m saying,” he whispered, “that you need to go away and not come back.”
For a long moment neither spoke, neither moved. Then Benedict sat up straighter and turned to Heloise with a hasty, “Forgive me, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that!”
She was pale. Very still and very pale. Her expression was . . . nothing. Completely blank. Her gaze didn’t move from his face.
Benedict hurried on, stumbling over his words as he tried to get them out. “I don’t mean you should never come back. I just mean, not for a few days. A few weeks even. Give some time for the attention we’ve attracted to die away. I’m not saying you should give up trying to save your sister, I swear it!”
Slowly Heloise drew herself together and stood. Though she was as barefoot and ragged as ever, a scrawny peasant girl with dark shadows under her eyes from both fear and lack of sleep, she loomed above him with all the imposing force of a short, dirty-faced warrior. Benedict had no trouble whatsoever seeing great Rufus’s red-blooded spirit flash in her eyes.
“I don’t care what you swear,” she said. “I don’t care what you believe or don’t believe. I’m not going away. I’m not leaving my sister.”
“Please, Heloise, be reasonable,” said Benedict, gathering himself and standing with some difficulty. But even when he looked down upon her from his superior height, he felt at a disadvantage. The force of her stare alone could skin him alive. “It’s just for a few days. I promise. But if we try to—”
“We’re not trying anymore!” Heloise cried. Her hands rose in fists, and for an instant he thought she would strike him. Instead she caught at her own hair and tugged as though she would pull it all out. “I’m not trying again. I’m doing. I’m going to dance Le Sacre tonight. I’m going to do it myself. No mirrors. No magic. I will find a way into their world, and I will dance their dance, and . . . and . . .”
“You’ll die,” Benedict said softly.
She did not reply. But the longer her silence lingered between them, the more surely he knew he’d stated exactly what she was thinking.
“You’ll die,” he persisted. “You cannot physically do what they want. You cannot dance their dance. Maybe they won’t kill you, but they’ll let you kill yourself. Then who will break the curse?”
She dropped her gaze and stared down at her feet. “I’ve got to do it,” she said.
“You don’t even know if this is how the curse is broken!” Benedict reached out and took her hand, but she pulled away, turned her back on him, and crossed her arms. A forest of shields could not have been more impenetrable than her stance and attitude. But Benedict wouldn’t give up easily. “Heloise, what did that fiery woman do to you last night? What did she say? Did she tell you that the curse would be broken if you danced Le Sacre all night?”
Heloise shook her head.
“What about the . . . the princess you met? In the Tower. Did she tell you as much?”
Again Heloise shook her head, one short, quick shake.
“Then this could easily be a ploy of theirs to kill you without breaking their law! If you kill yourself, they’re not to blame, and then you can do nothing more to end this curse. You’ll just be . . . dead.” Benedict stepped around to stand before her again, trying to make her meet his eyes. She ducked her head, refusing to look at him. Were those tears on her cheeks trailing white lines through the grime?
“You’ve got a life ahead of you,” Benedict said. He knew better than to touch her, but he reached out to her with his voice, trying to compel her to hear reason. “You’re strong. You’re healthy. And you’re brave. You’re the bravest girl I’ve ever met. And while, granted, I haven’t met many girls, I think you might also be the bravest person I’ve ever met! You’ve come this far all on your own, and I—I think—well, imagine how much more you could do with your life! Don’t throw it away.”
She didn’t move. Another tear ran down her cheek and dripped off her tucked-in chin.
Benedict went on, his voice more urgent than before, “It’s not your fault. You know how many others tried and died. It did no good. Why should you give your life needlessly? What’s the point of it?”
In his memory he saw again the caskets which held the bodies of Henri, Giles, and Luc. What was the point of that? Young, brave lads they’d been, and Victor too. Full of bright ideas and mad schemes and vows of honor and courage! Each one a perfect representation of the kingdom’s pride, a bright hopeful light for the future. All dead. All gone. All for nothing.
“Nothing,” Benedict growled. He shook his head, and his jaw clenched in an effort to keep back what he very much feared might be a sob rising in his throat. Only when he could be sure of his voice again did he say, “Don’t do it, Heloise. There’s no use. Go home and
live your life.”
But Heloise, her gaze fixed upon the floor, stared back into her own past. She stared into her sister’s grave.
With one hand she wiped away the tears on her face then reached into the pocket of her gown, grasping the three-part branch in a tight fist, just to feel its sharp contours poke into her skin. She was stronger than she thought. But no, that wasn’t true. She knew she was strong. She’d always been strong—stronger than Hélène because she’d taken Hélène’s strength. Perhaps that strength would prove enough. Perhaps not. But either way . . .
“If I don’t try,” she said, raising her eyes to Benedict’s white face, “what’s the point of me?”
He opened his mouth. For a moment she feared he would make protests, stupid protests, saying things she didn’t want to hear and couldn’t bear to hear in any case. Her mind was made up. He could help her or not, it made no difference.
And he knew it.
Benedict drew a couple of long breaths. Then, very quietly, he said, “All right then. What do you need me to do?”
“I don’t know,” Heloise said. She sagged as she spoke, and the determination in her face and stance sagged as well. In a moment of vulnerability she felt the full weight of her ignorance, and it was crushing indeed. “I don’t know if there’s anything you can do. I need to find a way back into their world. A way that doesn’t involve—”
Suddenly a roaring gust blew at the window, pounding like a small body hurling itself at the glass over and over again in an effort to break through. A laughing fey voice cried out from beyond:
“I know! I know! I can help you, mortal girl!”
THIRTY-SIX
“Oh, no!” Benedict cried and leapt for the window to more firmly secure the latch. Much to his horror, Heloise leapt a split second later, crying out, “Wait! Let it in!”
He was fast, but her hand knocked his away with surprising force, and before he could move to prevent her, she flung wide the window. The next moment both were knocked from their feet as the sylph, cackling like a fiend, gusted hugely into the room. It struck the far wall, bounced off, and whirled around the bed posts, tossing covers and pillows about like so much dandelion-down. Then it roared across the chamber and jumped into the fireplace, and the air filled with a cloud of ashes that stung the eyes and burned the nose. Benedict could do nothing but lie flat with his arms over his head, his eyes squeezed as tightly shut as possible, and curse through clenched teeth.
A Branch of Silver, a Branch of Gold Page 32