Dreams of Stardust

by Lynn Kurland

  He opened his eyes. He was in a sort of hospital room. A garish night-light of some kind spilled out from the bathroom. He was, amazingly enough, strapped to the bed. He felt astonishingly bad, but at least this time his head was marginally clearer. Maybe they were giving him fewer drugs, or maybe his system was cleaning them out more quickly.

  His eyes adjusted to the semi-dark and he determined that he was indeed in some kind of hospital-like room and, yes, he was certainly tied down. The why escaped at him at the moment, but he supposed he would find that out as well in the end.

  Assuming he didn't meet his end first.

  He examined his bonds and found that they were much looser than he would have assumed. Maybe his jailers had more faith than they should have had in their drugs. Maybe they wanted him to try to escape so they could shoot him and be justified.

  Maybe he really did deserve to be in a madhouse, because none of it made sense and he was beginning to wonder quite seriously if he were losing his mind.

  He decided he would give that more thought later. For now, the most sensible thing he could do was try to escape. He wiggled and shoved and pushed his calves down into the ankle bindings until he could get his teeth near one of his hands. He supposed he would have been willing to gnaw his own hand off, but fortunately all it required was a few good tugs that he hoped wouldn't require dental surgery down the road to repair. He reached over to free his left hand, then froze when he heard footsteps stop outside his door. He kept his right hand motionless by its former bond as the door opened and light steps came his way.

  "Oh," a female voice said in dismay. "Thrashin' about he is. I'd best give him another jab whilst I can—"

  Jake grabbed the needle and had jammed it into the woman's thigh before she managed a squeak. She slumped over him without so much as a peep. That was enough to give him pause, but he would work that out later, when he had the luxury of determining the strength of the narcotics he'd been given. He sat up and undid his other hand. He ripped out the IV line, then shifted far enough to get out from underneath Nurse Hatchett. He sat up and freed his feet only to find that he was missing his clothes. Well, that would be something to solve straightaway.

  He got out of bed, but had to stop and clutch his head as the room spun violently. He felt like he hadn't eaten in days.

  He probably hadn't eaten in days.

  He waited until the pounding subsided a bit, then looked around to get his bearings. His medieval gear was laid out on a table, including his sword. That was a boon, at least. He turned back to the bed, secured the nurse there, then went to retrieve his clothes. He put everything on, strapped his sword around his waist, then paused. There was no sense in not knowing a little more about where he was and what he'd been given.

  He found his chart, which contained lists of medications he knew nothing about.

  But that wasn't what blew his mind.

  It was that he'd been out for almost a month.

  A month?

  No wonder he felt like hell.

  He put the chart down and considered as best he could with his extremely foggy brain. He could only hope that time passed at the same rate in the past. The last thing he wanted to do was pop back to the Middle Ages and find Amanda a grandmother.

  He scrubbed his face with his hands, then gathered what was left of his wits about him. Escape was his first priority. He would worry about the rest when he was free of wherever he was. He retrieved the syringe. There was a bit of it still to hand. It would surely serve him at some point. He opened the door. It occurred to him that he should have put on the nurse's uniform, but he realized with equal clarity mat he was obviously not thinking straight because it never would have fit. He didn't do drugs and it showed.

  He eased out into the hallway, picked a direction, and sprinted in it.

  A nurse tried to stop him. He treated her to the rest of his shot.

  A very large bouncer-type with a billy club tried to stop him as well. With apologies, Jake dispatched him to temporary oblivion.

  A doctor with a lab coat appeared in the hallway, carrying another syringe. Jake pretended to freeze with fear, even allowing the needle to come within striking distance, before he faked right, retrieved the drug and administered it without delay to the man seemingly willing to do whatever it took to make a buck.

  Jake nipped into the good doctor's office, locked the door behind him, and made good use of a functioning window, pinching the man's keys as he did so.

  People really shouldn't leave their car keys just laying about. It led to bad things.

  He was letting himself into the car that beeped in response to the keys before he realized that he wasn't entirely compos mentis. The bobbies wouldn't come after him for being detained without cause, but they certainly could pick him up for grand theft auto.

  He shut the car door, then disappeared into the night with the keys, hoping to buy himself some time before things—people or his unfortunate stay in la-la land—caught up with him. He would keep the keys for a while, then ditch them and change directions. Or maybe he would bury them deep enough that the man who so casually spoke of his demise would at least have the hassle of wondering if someone might find them and use them.

  It was the least Jake could do.

  He walked until dawn. By then he was almost incoherent with weariness and with the aftereffects of the drugs in his system. He found himself a likely briar patch in the far corner of a farmer's field and lay himself underneath it.

  He hoped he'd wake up to thorns, not needles.

  Sunlight woke him. He lay completely still as he tried to come to a conclusion about whether that was really sunlight or a very bright lamp designed to torture him.

  No, that was definitely sunlight and that was also definitely a root in his back. He shifted just the slightest bit, but didn't move from his hiding place. Sunlight meant daytime and that meant potential discovery.

  He was beginning to get a very minute glimpse into Thad's special ops mentality.

  He let himself wake fully and quietly before he felt around for weeds he was fairly sure wouldn't kill him if he ate them. And he sat right where he was and waited the day out. It would have helped to have known where he was, but he didn't dare risk any exploration. He had obviously been held illegally, unless someone had had him declared insane, but who could have done that? No one had known where he was until he called his office.

  Ms. Cleary had a collapse and has gone to hospital. We're the answering service she engaged before she left.

  Jake turned that over in his mind and found two things wrong with those statements. One, Penelope was a tank, a Mercedes 850 with no dings and a frame that could withstand the broadside of a truck. A collapse was not something she would have permitted herself. The other was the idea of anyone else taking over her post. It simply wasn't possible.

  So who had had her locked up?

  Jake spent the morning going down the list, examining from every angle the men and women he dealt with. It was, he determined in the end, impossible that any of them could have cooked up a scheme like this.

  He turned next to importers, gem cutters, people he'd haggled with in other countries. Several of those might have wanted him dead, but they would have killed him outright, not locked him up. There were the gypsies to consider, those of the aquamarine that shouldn't have been cut, but he suspected a pithy curse would have sufficed them. Committing him to an asylum was not their style.

  It was late afternoon before Jake finally arrived at the mental destination he'd been avoiding all day.

  His father.

  It was possible, but why? Because Jake had neglected to deliver papers to Artane? Surely Gideon would have called Jackson III when Jake didn't arrive. And it was possible that such a phone call could have put events into motion. But why? What possible reason could his father have had for getting rid of his assistant and then shutting him up in a nuthouse?

  Money was the only thing Jake could come up with and that seeme
d too pedestrian a reason, even for his very unimaginative parent.

  Once it was dark, he set out again. He avoided civilization, crossed roads quickly, and searched in vain for landmarks he recognized. He ran until he could run no more, then he walked, but quickly.

  The night passed.

  He thought he heard dogs in the distance, but chalked that up to no food and residue of knock-out drugs.

  He stopped hearing dogs, but started hearing horses, or those could have been medieval thugs, or maybe just a flock of birds.

  He began to wonder, at dawn, if he really was losing his mind.

  He almost gave up.

  And then he saw it, in the distance, rising up from the surrounding countryside like a headstone.

  Seakirk.

  He ran. He stumbled. He wasn't sure how many times he fell, or how many times he drove himself back to his feet. All he knew was that he would find safety within those walls. If nothing else, Worthington would let him in and Jake would retreat immediately to Seakirk's study and have a short, pointed conversation with a few ghosts.

  He made it to the gates. He hadn't lifted his hand to knock before they swung inward. He stumbled inside and they closed behind him as if unseen hands were at the helm. He supposed they probably were.

  He staggered across the courtyard and up the steps to the front door. It was appallingly early, but Jake didn't care. He banged on the door with all his strength. He had to get out of the open. He was hearing dogs again and he had the feeling these were quite real. He banged again. The door opened so suddenly that he fell over the threshold and went sprawling.

  He lay there for a moment, stunned and grateful. He probably would have lain there for the rest of the day with his face against that cool stone floor, but a voice brought him back to himself.

  "May I help you?"

  Not Worthington. Jake considered the accent, then realized it sounded like English with a sort of Norman French twang. He took a deep breath, then heaved himself with a Herculean effort to his feet. He looked at his rescuer. His first impression was of height, breadth, and dark hair. Upon closer inspection, he found that the man had green eyes, much like his own.

  But in all other respects, he looked so much like Robin of Artane that Jake sucked in his breath involuntarily.

  The man shut the door, then looked at Jake with a polite smile. "In a spot of trouble, are you?"

  Jake thrust out his filthy, bleeding hand. "I'm Kilchurn. I need sanctuary."

  The other man shook his hand and smiled again. "Kendrick, lord of Seakirk," he said. "Sanctuary is yours."

  Jake would have laughed, but he'd had a rough few days.

  Instead, he took back his hand and wished desperately for pockets. "Thank you," he managed. "I'm being hunted."

  "Why?" Kendrick asked.

  "Beats me." Jake hesitated. "This may not make you feel any better, but I just escaped from the loony bin up the street."

  Kendrick looked at his sword. "Delusions of medieval grandeur?"

  "Something like that."

  Kendrick folded his arms over his chest in a gesture Robin had made dozens of times. Jake didn't consider himself overly sentimental, but he almost wept. It might have been tempting, after four weeks of being stoned out of his mind, to have believed that his whole trip back to the past had been an outlandish fantasy. But as he stood there, with his hand clutching the cold steel of his sword, facing a man who looked so much like Robin de Piaget that Jake could hardly stand it, he knew he hadn't lost it.

  "I have a question or two for you," Jake said.

  "Cheeky of you," the lord of Seakirk said with a cheeky smile. "Shouldn't I be the one asking the questions?"

  "How about a trade? You go first."

  "Very well," Kendrick said. "What is your full name?"

  "Jackson Alexander Kilchurn IV," Jake said. "Call me Jake. I own Kilchurn—"

  "Ltd.," Kendrick finished for him. "I know. I've bought a piece or two of yours for my wife. Lovely bits, those." Then he reached out and put his hand on Jake's shoulder. "You look fair to falling down. Why don't you make yourself comfortable and have a bite to eat? I take it your hunters are still outside?"

  "Could be."

  "I'll go see to them. Worthington!" Kendrick bellowed. "Guest for breakfast!"

  Jake watched as Worthington appeared, looking no less immaculate than he had the last time Jake had seen him. He approached, then inclined his head.

  "Master Kilchurn."

  "Worthington."

  Kendrick looked at them both with one raised eyebrow. "You know each other?"

  "Master Kilchurn's beautiful Jag broke down in front of the gates whilst you and the mistress were away with the children and I offered him shelter." Worthington looked at Kendrick placidly. "I told you as much, my lord."

  "Slipped my mind," Kendrick said easily, "though anything to do with a '67 probably shouldn't. You know," he said, turning to Jake, "there was a '67 burning up in a field not far from here a few weeks ago. No driver inside, though." He paused. "Very odd."

  Jake listened to him talk and thought that there might be more than one odd thing going on there. He couldn't have said why, but unless there was some very weird generational thing going on, he would have bet his right arm on Kendrick being related to Robin.

  "You look like someone I know," Jake said suddenly.

  "Who?"

  Jake took a deep breath. "Robin de Piaget."

  Kendrick didn't blink. Jake wondered briefly if he was barking up the wrong tree in the wrong forest, then decided he wasn't. The similarity was too striking.

  "Do I?" Kendrick asked.

  "Against all odds, yes, you do," Jake said. "Know him?"

  Kendrick smiled and nodded toward the table. "Eat, my friend, then we'll have speech together. I believe I'll have a bit of a look outside and see what yammers at my front gates."

  "Want help?" Jake asked.

  "I have retainers," Kendrick said with another smile.

  "You certainly do," Jake said with a snort. "I met them when I was here the last time. They got me into more trouble…"

  "No doubt. I'll join your shortly. Worthington, see to his comfort."

  "Of course, my lord. Master Kilchurn, let me see to your luggage. Ah, you have no luggage. Breakfast, then."

  "Breakfast would be superb." Jake started to follow him, then paused and looked at Kendrick. "You know, I've been drugged for a solid month. I could be hallucinating the guys following me." He paused. "I could be hallucinating you."

  Kendrick clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I'm quite real, and so is that table at the other end of the hall."

  Jake nodded, then walked wearily across the great hall, too tired to protest Kendrick fighting his battles for him. He sat down, put his head down on the wood, and thought he might have heard himself snore once or twice. He realized he'd fallen asleep only because Worthington gave him a discreet tap on the shoulder.

  "Food, sir?"

  Jake sat up straight, rubbed his eyes, then nodded. "Food," he rasped. "Then maybe a nap in a bed that's long enough."

  "I will return to take you upstairs," Worthington said, then he headed back to the kitchen.

  "I'm tempted to head up myself," Jake muttered to himself, "but maybe I should wait politely until someone comes to fetch me."

  "I should hope so," a voice muttered from behind him.

  Jake was past being surprised by most everything. He looked over his shoulder to see one of the ghosts from the study. Jake struggled for a name to put to the face. He smiled briefly.

  "Sir Stephen," he said, inclining his head.

  "Aye," said the ghost, "and His Lordship's most loyal retainer, if you please."

  "I please," Jake said. "I won't help myself to a bed and I promise not to poach any of His Lordship's trinkets."

  "Harrumph," Sir Stephen said, looking unconvinced. "I'm not at all sure of you."

  "If it makes you feel any better, I'm not sure of me either."

 
; But he was sure that he was starving. He helped himself to a very large breakfast and didn't argue when Worthington showed him upstairs to the room he'd had before. He managed to get his sword and his boots off before he collapsed on the bed. His head was filled with questions, but he didn't have the energy for any but the two most pressing ones.

  Who wanted him dead?

  Why did Kendrick of Seakirk look so much like Robin of Artane?

  He yawned hugely. The first would take some investigation. The second would take some imagination and a look at that portrait above Kendrick's desk, the one with Robin, Anne, and four children.

  Was Kendrick one of those children?

  After the summer he'd had, Jake wouldn't have doubted it at all.

  * * *

  Chapter 22

  Genevieve de Piaget walked down the hallway with her baby in her arms, on the hunt for a rambunctious three-year-old who had escaped while she'd been unable to chase him. Young Christopher was almost as fast as his older brothers and that was saying something, given how much shorter his legs were. She peered ahead and saw nothing, which inspired her to hurry the more. Who knew what sort of mischief he could have gotten into?

  She slowed when she saw a mailed knight standing in front of the guest room door. "Sir Stephen?"

  "Not to worry, my lady," Sir Stephen said. "I've everything well in hand here. We've a rogue sleeping off the saints only know what inside the chamber here. My lord has no worries, but I've met this one before," he said with a knowing look. "Trouble."

  "Nothing you can't handle, of course," Genevieve said politely.

  "Of course, my lady," Sir Stephen assured her. "And I've the garrison waiting to aid me if need be." He nodded toward the baby. "How is the wee one?"

  "Fine," Genevieve said with a smile. "Though I'm thinking she howls louder than any of her brothers ever did."

  "Not our Mistress Adelaide Anne," Sir Stephen said with a vigorous shake of his head. "Why, she's simply perfect and I defy any man to gainsay me."

  "Well, let's hope they don't. I would hate to see what you'd leave of them otherwise."