"Everyone--join hands! Quickly!" Blackbeard shouted.
Mary took his hand and Ivan's; Ivan took Leopold's and grasped Lucas in the other. The dragon bore down on them like vengeance itself—yet found only a circle of ash. Nothing remained of the sorcerer or the woman it called a diamond, an emerald, a gleaming jewel. For the first time in its ancient life it had been robbed of a priceless treasure. And for the second time it had reason to curse the name 'Hildigrim Blackbeard.'
"I will find him...I shall forsake my home--my treasure--to seek him out. Nothing he loves shall live."
* * * *
Mary found herself in a room cradling Leopold's lifeless body. But no, not lifeless. He slumbered on in a trance, his body warm and responsive. Yet he didn't wake up, no matter what she said to him, or how many times she kissed his forehead, cheeks, or lips.
"How long has he been like this?" she asked.
"That's how we got caught!" Ivan said. "We were following Blackbeard's instructions when he suddenly grabbed my arm and said, 'wait, I need to..." and collapsed at my feet. I waited a few minutes, tried to wake him up, get him moving again, but nothing worked. The dragon spotted us soon after and I had to stay with him, though I might have easily escaped. I'm sorry."
"No, it's nothing to do with you," Blackbeard frowned, tugging his beard. "Something about the box...the spell didn'e spell t work properly. I blame myself. Give him a few more hours; if he has no response--"
No sooner had he said it than Leopold blinked and turned over, muttering incoherently. Mary dropped to his side, showering him with kisses and whispered phrases of love. Her words roused him and he sat up, evidently dazed. Yet he managed to clutch her arm and nod sheepishly to everything she asked him. Amazingly, he didn't remember a thing that had happened. A dragon? No, he had no memory of that, nor of flying to the island or anything before their decision to leave.
"But no matter, I'm here for the best part," he smiled, taking her in his arms.
"I knew you would come for me," she beamed, tracing the contours of his face. "The rest doesn’t matter."
"We can congratulate ourselves on happy endings when there is one," Blackbeard interrupted. "At the moment several pressing matters remain. The king's men are still looking for Ivan. Mary's father will discover her absence and mount a similar manhunt. And now this fellow who wandered in from goodness-knows-where knows all our secrets. Who the devil is he?"
Mary hastily introduced Lucas who, after a faltering moment of indecision, bowed before the sorcerer. Blackbeard clicked his tongue; hopefully the fool knew how to keep his mouth shut.
"But the dragon—it knew you," Mary said, recalling recent events. "What did the dragon mean by your 'shameless actions?'"
"A very long time ago," Blackbeard nodded, "I attempted to steal something from his hoard. It was at the beginning of my career and I was terribly unsure of myself. I only just escaped...I rather hoped it had forgotten all that. But no matter; it's a long and tiresome story—I'll tell you another time. You both need your rest."
Mary frowned with evident dissatisfaction but left him alone; on such matters he wasn't terribly loquacious. She took Leopold by the hand and retired for food and refreshments. The sorcerer waited until the couple was out of earshot and summoned Ivan and Lucas to his side.
"Ivan, I need time to open the box. Keep an eye on him for me. Otherwise, we'll talk this evening. And you—I need an assistant. I don't know what you did or what you're good for, but I'm willing to give you an outing. So come along."
Terrified, Lucas followed him out of the room, leaving Ivan alone and grateful for their absence. He had much to think about. On the one hand, he feared Leopold had escaped death only to die once more. Had he in some manner been wounded? Was he dying even now? Yet beneath this was another fear, a fear that whenever he looked at Mary he felt...well, what he ought not to feel for his brother's intended. He deeply admired her, particularly the way she handled the dragon when any lesser woman—or to be fair, any man—would have gotten them killed. The dragon was right, she was a priceless jewel. He could never own her, or better yet, give himself entirely to her, but that was of little account. He could still protect her: from her father, from dragons, even from Leopold if it came toif it ca it. How little he knew his half-brother, particularly now, when he was truly a different person. A man without fear of death. No wonder the dragon bored him.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Blackbeard sat like an idol before the box. The secret was there; he had only to divine it, to tease it into existence. Where was it? An hour passed with nothing to show for it. However, his suspicions remained, the more so as the box seemed suspiciously alive. Not that it moved or made any sound—it didn’t—but something peculiar resonated about the locks. As if someone inside was trying to pry them open again.
The sorcerer ran his hand along the box, even pressed his ear against the lid. Nothing...not even a faint scraping or a thin, angry whisper. No, the specter of Leopold's death was gone. That offered a small measure of comfort. It must be his nerves, conjuring up phantoms in the shadows of twilight. And yet in some vague, unsettling way, he felt the secret was just beneath his gaze. But how to see it?
"What is it?" Lucas asked.
"Nothing I can put my finger on," the sorcerer frowned. "But it's not just me…something has changed. The way he looks at me now, sizing me up, as if I'm his competition! Me! After all I've done...I have half a mind to pack up and said good-bye to the lot of them. That is, I would, if I didn't feel so blasted responsible."
"He did seem a bit irritable," Lucas nodded. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Yes, alcohol—something potent. At once."
"Isn't it a bit early to—"
"Not for me, you fool—for a spell. Now go!"
Lucas quickly backed out and closed the door. Unfazed, Blackbeard returned to the puzzle of the locks. His pride could overlook re-fastening the locks, or even making away with the key (at least, he assumed Leopold had it; it had gone missing). Even the strange business of sleeping through Mary’s rescue could be explained in various ways, none of them conclusive, of course. Yes, he could understand all that. What bothered the sorcerer most was a stray comment which even Leopold himself cut off: calling Ivan a “bastard.” He had never done that before, even when Ivan deserved it. And it was more the way he said it, in a cavalier, off-hand manner, as if the two were complete strangers.
Blackbeard tugged on the locks, half suspecting them to snap open without the treasure inside. Failing that, he murmured a dark spell, one that if uttered too loudly could shatter the room. The lock trembled—but nothing more. A strange magic was behind this. All the stranger since he recognized it as his own. Somehow, his magic had rallied against him. Spells were concocting spells of their own, dimming his sight lest he behold the secret in their shadowy arms. There was nothing for it; he had to find the key. That meant talking to Leopold, though he doubted the Count would own up to it. But there were other ways to ask...
* * * *
Mary tried to hide her disappointment, though the tears shimmered in both eyes. After such a happy reunion, to find him cold, lethargic, and once more, asleep. She stroked the arm of her sleeping lover, who scarcely acknowledged her presence (a slight grunt, nothing more). Moments ago she had held him in her arms, dreaming of the forever that awaited them in the months and years to come. Suddenly 'forever' seemed a forbidding prospect. Would this be their life together: snoring, sleeping, perhaps a chaste grunt 'good night'?
"Leopold, wake up. Please," she said, nudging him. "I'm here, Leopold. We've dreamed about this for so long...at least, I have. And all you want to do is sleep?"
Leopold muttered an incoherent reply, rubbing his face. She took his hand and kissed it. Again, a sort of response, but nothing more. So much for her happily ever after. Either his affection had cooled—absence, in this case, did not make the heart grow fonder—or some part of him had died in the skirmish. What did it mean to lose one's Dea
th? Were you still, technically speaking, a human being? She shuddered at the thought. Perhaps Leopold was gone, leaving this replica in his place? Would she still want to love him…love it? Even if it meant they could be together forever?
"Leopold, I need to ask you something. Please listen to me."
"Mmmffffgghh," he said, without waking up.
"Leopold, did something happen? Are you still...there?”
“Leopold?" he replied.
"Yes...you're still you, aren't you? Just tired—perhaps hurt in some way? You'll get better, won't you?"
"Leopold...is safe," he said, in a whisper.
"Does that mean you're still here, with me?” she said, leaning close. "You're still mine?"
"I have her...and he's safe," was the reply.
He abruptly turned over and began snoring. The answer seemed to echo in the room. He had "her"? Not "you"? And why did he keep going on about being safe? Safe from what? His Death? If only she had been there to help him. Ivan did what he could, but he wasn't enough—he had failed him somehow, let him suffer too much. Her poor, dear Leopold...whenever she looked at him her fears melted away. Of course it was him--there he was! Every inch of him exactly the same. But then he spoke, and though the voice was the same the words came from someplace else.
"Leopold...just tell me this. Please. Do you still love me?"
No response.
"Leopold!" she repeated, leaning over his ear. "Do you still love me? I need to know...do you love me?"
Leopold smiled in his sleep and through a kind of yawn, replied: "he's safe."
Mary turned over into her pillow and wept. What man could hear the love of his life whisper into his ear "do you love me?" and not reply? She would do anything for him, give him everythinhim everg she had to give, all for a simple reply. But even that was beyond him. He wasn't him, he wasn't anything she once knew or fell in love with. Now she had no one: no Leopold, no family, no beautiful castle on the island of Cytheria. It had all come to ruin.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
They shared a subdued breakfast the following morning. Though Leopold woke up just before sunrise and seemed full of life, he gradually declined by morning, giving listless answers to Mary and Ivan's conversation. Mary watched him as he devoured his omelet: each movement became less coherent and he often missed the plate entirely. She caught his eye once and he beamed with unfeigned delight. He even seemed about to say something, but his expression became dim and he abruptly returned to his meal.
"What do you think, Leopold? I hear Russia is quite beautiful and remote. They would never think to look for us there."
"What? Russia?" he said, his mouth full. "I don't know...yes, I suppose. When would we go?"
"Not yet, of course; you're not well, Leopold," Mary said, touching his arm, "That is, you don't feel well, do you?"
"I feel fine, just tired," he smiled. "In a few days, perhaps."
Mary and Ivan crossed glances. She recognized the same sense of fear and suspicion. And something else.
"Darling, why are you always so sleepy? You slept all night—like a rock."
"I can't say. It's the strangest thing. I feel fine when I wake up, but as I start to move around...my body, it's like lead. I feel like I have to carry it around on my shoulders...though it's my shoulders that are weighing me down. Don't know how your kind puts up with it."
"Our kind?" she laughed. "And what kind is that? Women? Do you imagine it's harder for us?"
"Ah, what? Women? Ah, no, I didn't mean...never mind, my brain is scattered. Perhaps I should take a rest. Just for a moment, to get my feet. Excuse me, dearest."
He leaned over and kissed her—a rather listless peck, she noted—on the forehead. Making his excuses, he awkwardly got up from the table and left the room. A palpable silence took his place at the table; Mary was surprised it didn't take up a fork and devour the rest of his omelet.
"Mary...I have something to confess..." Ivan began.
Mary flinched. She had seen something in his eye, something she hoped she would never see again. And there it was, flickering across the table.
&qouot;Something about Leopold?"
"Yes,” he said, reluctantly. "When we fought it...when we opened the box...it's all a blank. I remember hearing its voice, but nothing else. When I came to, there he was, standing over me."
"So you didn't see him fight it? You didn't help him?"
"That's just it—he says I did! He says I helped him. But I don't remember a thing. It just came and went."
"So why are you telling me this?" she said, her throat tightening.
"Because I can't explain what's happened to him," he said, moving to Leopold's chair. "But something did happen. Not even Blackbeard can say what it was. It's like he's dying, even though he swears we destroyed it. I don't know what else to think. But I think...that is, I fear...we didn't kill it."
"Then how...why didn't it kill you both?"
Ivan threw up his arms in amazement. He had no answer. Only fear, confusion, and other emotions he dared not put into words. He longed to throw his arms around her and press his lips into her neck, forgetting everything he had endured and what was still to come.
"Ivan, I have to be honest. I don't trust you. You tried to kill him—you did kill him before. And now...you're still the same person."
Ivan lowered his head, feeling the justness of her accusation but wounded all the same. How could she suggest it? Didn't she see...after all he had done, risked for his brother's sake and now for her?
"I can only tell you what I feel in my heart," he said, leaning forward. "As if I've found a place here, among you...and Leopold, and even Blackbeard. My whole life it's just been me; not even my mother was ever really there. With you I have a reason to be, something to fight for. I want you to be proud of me; I want to be proud of myself."
Mary smiled despite herself. It was a guileless performance. Not at all what she expected from "Ivan the Terrible."
"So what should we do?"
"We need to help Blackbeard open the box. Maybe it's still inside--wounded, not dead, still exerting control over Leopold. If so I vow this time I'll kill it myself. You have my word."
"You can't promise something like that," she said, tearing off a piece of her half-eaten roll. "What if it tricks you again and escapes? And kills him on the spot?"
"There's three of us now. We'll be ready for him."
"I may not trust you, but I trust myself. I'll kill it with my bare hands if necessary," she said, coldly. "Very well: let's open the box."
Chapter Forty
Blackbearrd knew. That much was clear. How much he knew, or what action he was prepared to take was another matter. Either way, he couldn't be trusted. He would have to be killed. The others were simpler, they had reason to love the Count, and as long as he said the right things they wouldn't question. He just had to stay awake! No matter how long he slept, the mere act of moving, thinking, or even being made him sleep. Watching them from the outside it all looked so easy. They woke, ate, ran, sang, danced, fought, fell in love. Nothing simpler. Yet to actually do it, to turn thoughts into actions and go through the endless repetitions, the sheer exhaustive effort required to walk from one place to another...how did even the most resilient human endure it? He just needed time; in time he would learn to be human, to lug the weight of his body from place to place. For now, the mere thought of stepping out of bed was torture.
Footsteps. Mary entered the room, smiling her nervous smile. A profound sorrow lingered behind it. Obviously, he wasn't what she expected. He wanted to tell her, "I never expected this, either! Watching you as I did, I wanted you for my own; I would do whatever it took to possess you. And now that I have you...my body is lead, ice, of no one use to anyone!" Instead, he merely said something about falling asleep unexpectedly and hoped she had time to stay with him.
"Of course, that's what I came to do," she said, approaching. "Are you sure you're awake? I can come back--"
"Nonsens
e, please stay," he insisted, patting the bed. "One day, I promise, my powers will return. I won't be an invalid forever."
"I hope so. Which reminds me..." she said, sitting beside him. "You never told me what happened with the box."
He frowned; it was an unexpected question coming from her. He had answers for Blackbeard and even for that other one, but for her...so much harder to lie to her. He shrugged his shoulders and mimed an inability to express himself, hoping she would excuse him and change the subject. Yet her expression remained the same, an intent, alert stare, looking for the slightest clue or contradiction.
"I don't quite know how to put it into words...it came out, we fought it...and despite a difficult moment or two, emerged victorious."
"So Ivan helped you?" she asked, eyes searching.
"Yes—indeed! Without him I wouldn't be here at all. I owe him my life. He distracted it at a critical moment, allowing me to strike. It never recovered."
"He seems very mystified by the whole experience," she mused, looking away. "Was he damaged in some way?"
"I believe it struck him dreadfully...I was amazed to find him in one piece."
She didn't say anything at once, but he could see her searching for a way to continue. Was she suspicious of him? No, he didn't see that. Yet a deep fear gnawed at her heart, made her question something; the sorcerer must be behind it. Blackbeard asked too many questions, made her look too closely at him. WheneveÀ him. Whr she locked eyes with him, he felt exposed. Surely she could see the emptiness in those eyes, the mask that stared but couldn't blink. He had to be cautious, lest so many years of labor end before he could take her in his arms--and see Blackbeard dead at his feet.
The Count of the Living Death (The Chronicles of Hildigrim Blackbeard) Page 12
