The Illusions In Between

by J M Robison

  He whacks at the cows with a stick, and they haul their swaying bodies to their feet, neck bells clattering an awful din which finally wakes Jaicom and Zadicayn. The farmer shoos his animals out and closes the door.

  I dig into my bag and pull out a device I picked up in the Fae Realm used to create a spark, along with a bundle of sticks. Deft practice has a small flame spreading out beneath the palm-sized cast iron pan I brought, now sizzling with egg.

  Zadicayn rolls over, leaning on an elbow, looking at the dry straw around us, and then at me with a glare. “A fire?”

  “I’m not stupid,” I snip, looking down at my breakfast. I intend to ignore him the rest of my life for what he said about my face two nights back. Anger and hurt rest in my chest like smoldering coal.

  I don’t look up to see his reaction to my rebuke, keeping a fixed gaze on the eggs sizzling and popping in my pan. Zadicayn rolls away from me and stands without a word.

  Jaicom tries yanking out the wrinkles in his shirt and breathes on his buttons to polish them. Hat, shoes, and coat replaced, with a splash of perfume, he looks like he just walked out of a business meeting with the workers at his logging warehouse. Zadicayn pulled on his boots and called it good.

  Breakfast is a silent affair, all sharing the scrambled eggs I made. Afterward, I’m packed and sliding down the ladder before the other two have even grabbed their bags, sticking my head out of the barn doors to make sure our exit won’t be noticed. I turn around to see Jaicom leaving a small handful of francs on an upside-down water pail. It will confuse the farmer, but he’ll keep it, nonetheless.

  “I best get directions,” Zadicayn says, then he looks sideways at me. I still have his amulet.

  “I got them last night.” I don’t look directly at him. “Rome is that way.” I point, then spread out my strides, leaving Zadicayn and Jaicom far behind, listening to their mumbling back and forth I’m certain is about the distant behavior I’ve thus so far displayed.

  I’m starting to feel like Zadicayn when he first left the undercroft. Having been so long in the Fae Realm myself, I’ve lost a sense of purpose, personality, and friendships. I don’t know where to place my feet, where to put my hands. Whereas Zadicayn has made a good–if not full–recovery, I am just starting. We’ll go to Rome, rescue Brynn, and then what? Zadicayn and Brynn are the only friends I know, though I don’t believe they want me living about their castle the rest of their lives. Not that I want to. Their loving relationship angers me on an unfounded level because it’s something I can’t have.

  The barn and partnered house skirt the edge of town, though all the houses match with thatched roofs and crooked chimneys. No carriages, only horse-drawn wagons. It looks terribly medieval. I’m certain Zadicayn feels right at home.

  “Jaicom?” Zadicayn asks. They’ve caught up enough to me that their conversation mumbles in the background.

  “Yes?”

  “How do ye feel about thy son taking a liking to Eudora?”

  “A childhood infatuation. I had five of those before my eighth year.”

  “I bet one of those was Clarissa.”

  “So?”

  “So…I’m saying one of those infatuations for Henry might be Eudora.”

  “…I highly doubt it.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d believe ye don’t want Henry yearning after my daughter.”

  “I’m starting to hate your Old English.”

  “Because it strikes at the truth in a more poetic way?”

  Jaicom apparently does not answer, because Zadicayn begins again with, “Come now, Mister Whaerin. My bloodline must continue or the Faewraith should—”

  “I know! Destroy the whole world.”

  “So ‘twould be in thy greatest interest to encourage and promote this honest endeavor, or the world’s death shalt rest on thy shoulders.”

  “Don’t put the blame on me.”

  “No? Was it not thy own many great-grandfathers who stole my amulet of power and imprisoned myself in the undercroft?”

  “I helped free you, so my ancestor’s debt is paid.”

  “But then ye married my lass.”

  “To protect Brynn. You were dead anyway. I married her so my father wouldn’t kill her, even though I didn’t love her. See? I’m not so selfish. And my debt is still paid.”

  “Ye know, back in my time, to marry a wizard was a mark of prestige close to marrying a knighted lord. There were only twenty of us; now there be only one, so Henry would be close to marrying a rank equal to a queen.”

  Jaicom harumphs.

  “A queenly status be too rich for thy poor lordling heritage. I hope Henry can find someone equal to his status.”

  “I should have left you in the undercroft.”

  “Wizard blood makes us very nice to look upon. Just take a look at myself. ‘Twas why Brynn yearned for me instead of thee.”

  “Stop saying yearn. She wasn’t attracted to me even before she met you, so looks had nothing to do with it.”

  “’Twill for Eudora when she gets older. She’ll steal Henry’s heart with the bat of an eyelash.”

  We’ve since crossed the bridge and now come upon the field we landed in last night. All the cows are huddled as far away from the bridge as the fence line would allow, bellowing as if recently separated from their calves.

  One cow didn’t make it to the fence line. Chunks of skin and muscle are missing off its flanks and shoulders. Its guts splay across the grass from a gutted stomach, blood, and ichor clumped between its legs. Varlith, in his near-human form, sleeps inside it. Naked, half his body submerged into the gooey muck. His fat belly rises and falls in snores.

  There are a retch and splash behind me. As much as I’ll never forgive Jaicom for not stopping his father from almost killing me–stopped solely because of Zadicayn’s intervention–I’ll still allow Jaicom to maintain his decent reputation and not turn to watch him vomit his guts out.

  Zadicayn walks to the dragon and prods his backside with his boot. Varlith raises his bloody horned head as if it weighs as much as the cow. He blinks at Zadicayn, each eye independently. He rolls onto his belly and stretches, tail snapping out straight and sharp.

  “Did ye eat this cow in dragon or human form?”

  Varlith yawns, fur clumped between his fangs. “Human. I understand your warning about my dragon body. This beast was so good. You called it a cow? I can’t believe the Fae won’t let us out of the realm to experience this! I’m not going back. I’m staying upon your land to feast like the king I am!”

  “I can now sympathize with the people who almost made dragons extinct,” Jaicom murmurs in a low tone behind me.

  “I shall let ye tell the Fae that. Right now, ye should clean thyself in the water so we can be off.”

  Varlith lolls as if tittering rapidly in and out of a warm food daze and stumbles to the stream.

  “You’re paying for the cow!” Jaicom thrusts a finger at Zadicayn. “He’s your dragon.”

  “What, leave a handful of coins on the carcass?”

  “Unless you want to find the farmer, explain that this freakish-looking human is actually a dragon who got hungry–hoping the farmer speaks English–and hoping he doesn’t try killing you for stealing from him?”

  “I’d be just as happy not to do anything.” Zadicayn throws his right hand into the air. “Dragons took cows from us, growing up. It was life. We just always made sure to have one more cow than planned. Much like ye keep extra chickens for when the wolves break into the hen house.”

  Jaicom pins him with a rigid challenge. I have to say I’m with Zadicayn on this matter. Perhaps life’s poor treatment on us both has turned us bitter and unsympathetic to those whose plight is still not as bad as our own.

  Zadicayn dumps a pile of Fae coins-turned-into-francs beside the cow’s head. Jaicom stalks back toward the river, likely to rinse the taste of vomit out of his mouth.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Brynnella

  Sitting
on the straw which covers my cell floor, I start to see pictures of Levi, Eudora, and Zadicayn between the chaff. I reach a finger out to touch them, then pull back because I’m afraid the pictures will vanish. It’s all I’ve got left of them. The fate of Levi is unknown. At least he was delivered to a church and not left in a ditch, my bitter heart tells me. And of Zadicayn? Of course, he’ll come to Rome. I force myself to believe his magic will be enough to defeat these men who hold me hostage.

  I’ve never seen Zadicayn perform a massive, powerful spell. There’s never been a need, though I’m certain he’d be capable of moving mountains if he put his focus to it.

  Someone approaches my cell. I’d believe it was the change of the guard, but that only happens at every meal, and breakfast was an hour ago. It might be yet another member of the Illuminati come to gawk at the prize who will lure Zadicayn to them. I press my cheeks into the bars and look. My stomach withers as I recognize Carlo. I back away from the door and cover myself with my blanket.

  “Brynnella.” A rattle of keys follows my name. “Get up. We’re going out.”

  A fist seizes my heart, almost giving me the courage to push past Carlo and escape. Black Magician, I’m reminded. I suppose they don’t need me to get to my husband. Only to make Zadicayn believe I’m in their custody.

  “Get up.”

  The blanket I hide under wrenches out of my hands and presses against the ceiling of my cell. Carlo has not moved from his position by the door.

  I force rebellious muscles to move, refusing to make eye contact with the man who kidnapped me, gave my son away, and is luring my husband into a trap. Carlo grasps my upper arm and says something in Italian to the man posted as my guard, who replies in Italian and comes to stand behind me. I’m walked forward, my guard following close behind.

  We ascend ancient stairs, up and up until we’ve reached a massive, spiraling ramp which delivers us further upward until we stop next to a set of doors. Carlo pushes me through the door and into a room ornately constructed in both floor, walls, and ceiling. Women stand in assembly here, ready with dresses and other feminine implements reminding me of all the finery of English society I haven’t missed since being married to Zadicayn.

  Carlo speaks Italian to the women in the room, and to the guard behind us. Carlo and the guard leave me in the room and close the door. No doubt one–maybe both–men are right outside. There are no other exits in the room except for the window. I must be three stories up, for I’m level with chimney smoke I see rising across Rome.

  “Vieni qui, signora,” one of the women waves at me and I move forward. I conclude I’m getting dressed, but for what occasion, I cannot even guess.

  I step into their circle, and hands move to undress me. I’m seated and washed with a towel and basin before petticoats, bustle, corset, and dress enshrine my body. My fingernails are filed, feet jammed into shoes, face powdered, and hair pulled.

  I’m not given a mirror, but the bulk of fabric around my body is no different than what I wore at my debut before Queen Victoria, if only slightly changed to blend in with Italian society.

  “È vestita, Signor Vizzardelli!” one of the women shouts.

  It must have been a signal, because the door opens and Carlo steps in. He hides a greedy smile behind two palms rubbing abruptly together. “Beautiful, Signora Eldenshod. Your husband will absolutely love it.”

  The air is zapped out of my lungs, and I’m afraid to ask questions but desperate to do it at the same time. “Are we going to see him?”

  “Not yet, I’m afraid. Come. We have an appointment to keep.”

  He holds out his arm, but I march past it without even looking at him. He catches up to me and grabs my upper arm as we walk down the ramp. We walk outside to a bright but cold day. I hug my shawl closer to me. Carlo walks me around the courtyard to the back of the fortress. He sweeps me into his arms before I have time to protest, and we levitate up and over the wall to the ground on the other side. He puts me back on my heeled feet, and I shove him to show my displeasure. He absorbs the thrust and grabs my arm, walking toward a two-horse carriage parked in the grove of trees.

  He opens the door and indicates I’m to get in first. We sit across from each other; my eyes zipping to the window. It’s the first touch of sunshine I’ve had since I was imprisoned yesterday. Not yet. Not yet. But it sounds like I will see him soon. Something warns it will not be the reunion either I or Zadicayn want.

  The horses trot out of the trees and onto a paved road which wraps around the fortress. We cross a bridge over the river, and down many streets, with so many turns I’ve lost track of how to make it back. Finally, the carriage pulls in front of a door. Rome doesn’t have sidewalks. The doors into buildings empty right out onto the road.

  Carlo gets out and offers his hand to assist me. I want to scream. I want to fight. I want to rip Carlo’s heart out with my hands. I run through my options if I refuse: I have no options. I force myself to understand that Carlo doesn’t need me, only the belief that he has me, to lure Zadicayn to him. I take his hand and step out of the carriage.

  We walk through the door and into a painter’s emporium. Paintings cling to every surface and splatters of color speckle the floor boards. This was not always a painter’s emporium by tell of the awkward places the paintings are kept and the crooked walkways one must navigate around them.

  A man among the mess looks up at us and grins, approaching Carlo with a firm grasp of his hand and some greeting in Italian. After a few more exchanges and an indication to me–the man nods–we are led to a back room. A white sheet stretches across one wall and an empty space on the floor in front of it, where Carlo drags me to stand with him. On the edge of the empty space sits a large canvas and stool.

  The man provides what must be directions for Carlo, because Carlo pulls me in with his left hand in the small of my back and the other holding my hand toward the painter, like a dancing pose. I squirm and try to let go.

  “Don’t,” Carlo warns in a low tone. I stop.

  The painter makes frequent up and down motions with his head as he looks at us, and then proceeds to paint or draw or whatever it is he’s doing. Carlo’s arm starts to shake with fatigue because I refuse to hold up my own arm.

  “Riposo,” says the painter, and Carlo drops his arm. “Siediti se ti piace. Ho lo schizzo di base e posso ottenere gli altri dettagli mentre sei seduto.”

  Carlo grunts and moves to a line of chairs along a wall, sitting down. I sit down as well, as far from him as I can get. Another man appears in the room, bearing a platter with a wine bottle and glasses. He pours Carlo a glass first and then me. I hope the wine will soften my anxiety before it eats me alive.

  After a long while, Carlo walks over to the painter, stroking his chin as he looks at the canvas.

  “You should come look at this,” Carlo says to me. “Your husband will love it.”

  I remain seated. I posed for the bloody thing. I don’t need to see what other sickness the painter is doing to it.

  “Va bene, signore, è fatto.” The painter sets down his paint brush and spins on his stool to look at Carlo.

  He says more Italian, but the only word I’ve managed to so far understand is signora, which I’ve come to recognize as them talking about me.

  “Ben fatto. Grazie.” Carlo walks back toward me. “Come, Brynn.”

  I stand, hands clasped in front of me. I promised myself not to look at the painting, but I do. It’s of me and Carlo in the dancing position we held. His head is turned away, but mine is in clear focus, looking outward with an expression I can’t place.

  Your husband will love it.

  Chapter Twenty

  Zadicayn

  The days crank out an aggressive pattern of flying and resting, flying and resting, sleeping under the open sky, in barns when we can find them, Joseara’s crinkly silence behind me and Jaicom’s discontent at his sore legs, dry eyes, cold fingers. I deduce that if humans had nothing to complain about, they wouldn�
�t have anything to say.

  I tune out the noises outside my own mind. I’ve got enough cluttered thoughts to keep me anxious and occupied until the end of my days. I steel myself a bit of reprieve, looking at the landscape below my boots, watching farms and villages slide by, and pretend I’m back in the year 1517 flying to Manchester with Father.

  “I wonder if we’ll ever invent something that will enable us to fly.” Jaicom leans so far over the side of the dragon to look at the landscape, I reach past Joseara to clinch onto his jacket. “We’ve come a long way since pillories, wagons, and bathing.

  “Not jails, though. For some reason, locking people up for their crimes hasn’t changed at all since your time, Zadicayn. Shove them in a stone room and tell them they can’t leave. You’d think we would have come up with a more sophisticated system of incarceration that actually works to punish people to the point they will never do their crimes again.”

  “Public hangings worked well,” I say. “And cutting off tongues. Branding…I say, giving criminals what ye call a trial is far more sophisticated today than what I grew up with.”

  “Certain. I suppose when compared to that. It’s just…my father is getting released in July, around the same time the ungrateful colonials celebrate their bloody Independence Day.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, just…a bit of history you missed. We’ll discuss it some other time.”

  “Ye worried thy father would pose harm upon you?”

  “He’ll be rightly upset when he reads my correspondence informing him the queen granted me his lordship. And that I helped free you. No telling what he’ll do.”

  “A shame Henry and Eudora aren’t old enough to marry. Ye would have protection. Wouldn’t that be a hearty laugh? Thy father is affronted by the very thing he and his ancestors sought to control?”

  “He took your amulet, which gave your magic–and therefore, your power–and I took his lordship which would have been his power. Locked in a stone box for six years like you were for three hundred. Karma?”