The towel lay on the floor in a heap, softly glowing. Kate gingerly touched it, and when nothing happened, she smoothed it out and began to study it.
This wasn’t a towel. It was a scroll.
“Bloody hell…” Kate murmured, awed.
She had been around magic all her life and she had never seen magic like this. Every conceivable inch of the linen scroll, beginning with the top left corner and extending down to the lower right, was covered with fine lines of magic, the inscription done in a neat and precise hand.
She traced the lines of the magical construct and found, to her growing amazement, that it continued on, row after row after row, until it reached the very bottom.
And there it ended.
The scroll was as long as her arm, extending from fingers to shoulder, and it contained a single magical construct—a construct so complex that Kate could not begin to understand it, much less cast it.
She had no idea what it was meant to do. She knew one thing: Whatever the magic was supposed to do would succeed. The magic was viable. Kate could see and feel and even hear the power of the construct humming, pulsing, eager to be activated.
Amelia was wrong. If this spell was meant to kill dragons, it would work. The crafter would need to be highly trained in the casting of it, however. Kate could make neither heads nor tails of it and she was thankful that she and Amelia had arranged to hand it off to Sir Henry. She wanted nothing to do with it.
She picked up the linen scroll, gingerly holding it by a corner, and started to return it to the saddlebag.
A floorboard creaked. Someone else was in the house.
“Trubgek!” Kate muttered.
The sound had come from behind her. She heard another creak and the sound of breathing, moving steadily toward her. She thrust the cloth into the saddlebag using her left hand. Her right hand stole to her belt and clasped hold of her pistol. Stealthily drawing it, she slowly drew back the hammer.
She caught a glimpse of a man in a greatcoat coming at her in a rush. Kate fired and missed. He lunged at her and kicked the pistol from her hand. Kate made a desperate grab for her other pistol, but he slammed his booted foot down on her hand with such force that she gasped in pain.
Kate fumbled with her free hand for the knife in her boot. Her assailant saw the danger and grabbed hold of the blade a split second before she could reach it. He tossed it away and struck her across the face, leaving her dazed and bleeding. Bending down, he drew a handkerchief from the pocket of his greatcoat and pressed the handkerhief over her nose and mouth. As he bent over her, the scarf concealing his face slipped.
Kate caught only a glimpse, but enough to know the man was a stranger. He wasn’t Trubgek.
A sweet, nauseating smell filled her mouth and nose. She coughed and jerked her head, trying to free herself, digging her nails into his flesh. He pressed the handkerchief more tightly over her mouth. The fumes flowed into Kate’s nose, down her throat, and into her lungs.
She sank beneath them.
* * *
Trubgek was outside the house on Waltham Lane, sitting at his ease on the doorstoop of the burned-out hulk across from number 17. He had been at his post from twilight on. Kate had walked right past him without noticing him.
He watched her enter the house and followed the glow of her lantern as it moved from one dirty window to another. The glow dimmed and he guessed she had lowered the lantern to the floor. He patiently waited for her to come out of the house with the construct. When she did, he would deal with her and take the construct to Coreg.
He was debating what to do about Kate. She disturbed him and he didn’t like that. Nothing ever disturbed him. But she knew the truth about his name. She knew that every time Coreg spoke to him, the dragon was deriding him, demeaning him. No one else Trubgek had ever met had either known or cared that his name was an insult. Trubgek had forgotten he cared, until he had met Kate. Her words had set free feelings he had kept chained up in the darkness of his soul.
The light shifted, grew brighter, and Trubgek stood up. Kate would have to walk past him to return to her horse and he would seize her then.
The door opened. Trubgek saw, much to his surprise, a man wearing a greatcoat and a scarf emerge from the house. The man carried a large bundle slung over his shoulder.
Coreg was right, Trubgek thought. It was a trap.
The bundle, of course, was Kate. She was unconscious, her head lolled, her arms dangled down the man’s back. In addition to Kate, the man carried a saddlebag and—oddly—a sword.
Trubgek swiftly walked across the street. He did not fear the man would see him, for Trubgek could make himself one with the mists and the rain if he chose. He stationed himself beneath the broken streetlamp outside the house, placed his hand on the pole, and waited.
The man walked beneath the broken lamp.
Magical light flared. The man, startled, lifted his head to stare at the lamp, squinting against the glare. Trubgek got a good look at the face.
For the second time that night, Trubgek was surprised, and that was unusual. Nothing ever surprised him. He recognized the man.
The light flickered and went out and the man continued down the street to Kate’s horse. He flung her limp body over the saddle, covered her with a blanket, and strapped her securely to the horse’s back.
He gave a low whistle and another man emerged from the shadows. The first man handed over the reins of Kate’s horse to the second. The two exchanged a few words; then the first man departed, carrying with him the saddlebag and the sword. He walked around the house and disappeared around back.
The second man led away the horse with Kate, still unconscious, tied to it. Trubgek forgot about her. He kept watch and a few moments later heard wings flapping. Trubgek turned his head to see a griffin with a rider rise from the alley behind the house.
Trubgek watched the griffin until it disappeared behind the rooftops. Truly a remarkable development. One he had not foreseen.
He knew he should return to Freeport, report this to Coreg. But Trubgek had the feeling events were going to move rapidly, and if the events unfolded as Trubgek anticipated, he needed to be here. He had recognized this man and he would have him in his power.
Trubgek decided to wait.
FORTY
The Lord Willingham Arms in Durham was about five miles as the wyvern flies from Castle Lindameer. Amelia arrived at sunset. When the clerk had his back turned to get her key for her, she cast a surreptitious glance at the guest book, curious to know Sir Henry’s room number. Finding it proved to be easy. He and his secretary, Franklin Sloan, were the inn’s only other guests.
Amelia brusquely refused the clerk’s offer to carry her valise, and climbed the stairs to her room. She made herself presentable, then went down to dinner, where she was disappointed to hear that Sir Henry was dining in his chambers. She had hoped to speak to him at dinner, but now she would have to wait.
Upon reflection, she was rather glad. Over her quiet meal, she had the opportunity to compose her thoughts, decide exactly what to say and, more important, what not to say.
When she was finished, she noted the hour. Sir Henry would likely be enjoying a glass of port. Patting her hair into place and arming herself with the reticule, Amelia went to boldly knock upon his door.
Mr. Sloan answered.
“Miss Amelia Nettleship to see Sir Henry,” she said as she handed Mr. Sloan her calling card and deftly swept past him into the room.
“Madame! Sir Henry is not receiving visitors!” Mr. Sloan exclaimed, shocked.
“At ease, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry. “Miss Nettleship and I are friends of long standing. We can finish the correspondence at another time.”
“Very good, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan stiffly. He gathered up a bundle of papers, placed them into a portable writing desk, looked his disapproval at Amelia, and departed.
Henry rose from the armchair where he had been sitting and advanced to shake hands. “How do you do, Miss
Nettleship? Please, sit down. May I offer you sherry, or ring for some tea?”
“Thank you, no, Sir Henry. I will not be staying long,” said Amelia, settling herself on the edge of a chair. “I intend to retire early. And please call me Amelia. Saves time. I have an early meeting tomorrow morning with the dragon, Odila—”
“Lady Odila,” Sir Henry gently corrected. “Her Majesty has conferred titles upon all the dragons now living in Freya.”
“Ah, yes, thank you for the reminder, my lord,” said Amelia. “I would not want to offend.”
“I did not know you were meeting with Lady Odila,” said Henry mildly. “Might I inquire what the two of you will be discussing?”
“I am researching an article regarding the history of dragons in Freya, my lord,” she replied. “Lady Odila has very kindly granted me an interview.”
“I fear your article will be extremely short … er … Miss Amelia,” said Henry. He poured himself a glass of port and carried it to the armchair. “Dragons have never before lived in Freya and thus do not have a history.”
“They have more than one might think, my lord,” said Amelia. “For example, there was King Godfrey’s attempt to create magical constructs that could kill dragons.”
Sir Henry took a drink of his port and shook his head.
“Good God, Miss Amelia, you astonish me. I have not thought of that fiasco in years!”
Amelia observed Henry narrowly. He was adept at revealing nothing of his true thoughts, but this time, she did not think he was dissembling. He was smiling, albeit with a touch of melancholy.
“Poor Godfrey,” Henry continued with another sip of port. “Magic of the ancient Imhruns, wasn’t it? I was in Estara at the time, handling a mission of some delicacy for His Majesty, but I heard about it on my return.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “Godfrey was an intelligent man, but he was always falling for crackpot schemes; the crazier the better as far as he was concerned.”
“Then, to your knowledge, my lord, the magical construct did not work,” said Amelia.
“Work?” Henry laughed. “No, it did not work. Any more than Godfrey’s scheme to transmute coal into diamonds.”
“Thank you for your time, Sir Henry,” Amelia said. “You have been most helpful.”
She rose to her feet and Henry rose with her.
“You will be attending the meeting between Lady Odila and Her Majesty tomorrow,” Amelia added. “I was wondering if I could ask the favor of meeting with you in private afterward. Captain Kate and I have recently come across some information that I believe could be of value.”
Henry frowned. “Where is Captain Kate? She was supposed to have set sail a week ago!” His tone was cool, his brows creased.
“She was delayed. She will join us tomorrow,” Amelia answered.
“The meeting is slated for noon,” Henry answered. “I should be free around four, the time when Her Majesty is scheduled to return to Haever. Will that hour suit you and the captain?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Amelia. “I wish you a good night.”
Henry walked her to the door. “Before you go, Miss Amelia, could I ask how you came to hear about the magical construct? I was given to undertand that it was a closely held secret.”
“Closely held!” Amelia snorted. “Suffice it to say, I wrote a story about it at the time, my lord. The article was never published.”
“I am sure you can understand why, Miss Amelia,” said Henry.
“Indeed, yes, my lord,” Amelia said drily. “God’s anointed king could never be made to look ridiculous.”
“Then you understand that you should not write about it in this article,” said Henry, smiling.
Since Amelia had no intention of writing about the history of dragons, she agreed, although she made a show of being reluctant to acquiesce.
She again shook hands and walked out, pleased with her meeting. Henry had confirmed what she already knew: the construct was a failure. Returning to her room, she started to write down the questions she was planning to ask Lady Odila.
Amelia found herself distracted, however, for she was thinking about Kate and listening for sounds of her arrival. The hours passed, and Kate did not come. When the clock chimed midnight, Amelia decided to give up waiting and go to bed. She was concerned, though not overly so. Kate was someone who could take care of herself.
Amelia woke just before sunrise, her customary time for rising. Mrs. Ridgeway could not abide “lie-abeds” and the girls of her school were all awake and doing their morning exercises at the crack of dawn. Amelia dressed and went downstairs to speak to the servants.
“A friend of mine was supposed to arrive during the night,” said Amelia. “Her name is Katherine Gascoyne-Fitzmaurice. Can you give me her room number?”
“I’m sorry, mum,” said the servant. “No one came during the night.”
Amelia was now worried for her friend. She drank her morning tea and ate her porridge, her customary breakfast, and told herself that Kate could be late for any number of reasons. She might not have been able to find a cab at such a late hour or perhaps she had decided to return to the house, planning to travel today. Amelia settled on these as hopeful possibilities and readied herself for her meeting with the dragon, which was at eight of the clock.
The inn was some distance from the castle, but Amelia decided the walk would do her good, help her to brush away the cobwebs. She set out with the reticule and the umbrella to enjoy the fresh air and the beauty of a day in the country.
Castle Lindameer was an enormous edifice dating back centuries to a time when barons fighting for control of Freya built solid fortifications to help keep what they had. The family that owned it had moved into a much more fashionable palace about the time of King Frederick, but they still maintained the castle, opening it several times a year for large parties. Although they were not particularly fond of dragons, the family could not very well refuse the queen’s request to house Lady Odila in the castle on her state visit.
The road that ran in front of the inn led directly to the castle, whose stone fortifications ranged across the top of a hill. Built in a rectangle around an inner courtyard, the castle consisted of ten stone guard towers connected by stone walls, surrounded by a moat that had long since dried up, spanned by a drawbridge that had rusted in place.
The castle’s interior was more welcoming. The entry hall had recently been refurbished and was quite splendid, although Amelia found all the furniture covered with sheets and the floor in need of scrubbing. In honor of the queen’s arrival, two servants were now engaged in cleaning and talking to each other in Travian.
Lady Odila must have brought her own human servants with her. A good idea, Amelia reflected, considering that the dragon undoubtedly could not have found any Freyans willing to work for her. Amelia stood waiting at the entrance until a maid looked up from her work, saw her, and ran off to tell someone.
A harried-looking man arrived. He introduced himself as Gunthar, Lady Odila’s steward.
“You must excuse us, madame,” he added, speaking passable Freyan. “We are preparing for Her Majesty’s arrival and we have much work to do and few hands to do it.”
“I quite understand,” said Amelia. “I have an appointment with Lady Odila.”
“Her Ladyship informed us she expected you to visit, madame. I have not heard her stir yet, but she is always awake at this time of day. I will take you to her—”
“No need. You are required here,” said Amelia. “As long as Her Ladyship does not stand on ceremony, I can find the way myself. Give me directions to her chambers.”
“Lady Odila will not mind,” Gunthar said, looking relieved. “As I said, she is expecting you. She is residing in the large chamber belowground. Follow this hall until you come to the corner tower. You will need a lantern.”
Amelia had studied the layout of the castle prior to her arrival, planning to feature it in her article about Coreg and the interview with Lady Odila.
The baron had used the large underground chamber where Odila was staying to store water, grain, and other supplies in the event the castle should come under siege, a frequent occurrence during that turbulent time in Freya’s history. The chamber was accessible either from the castle proper or from a large entryway outside the walls, as wagons would be needed to haul in the supplies, thus providing Lady Odila with easy access.
Following the steward’s directions, Amelia hurried along a bleak, dark passageway that led past two smaller towers until she reached the large corner tower. A narrow spiral staircase led to the levels above, as well as down to the dragon’s chamber. Amelia lit the lantern and descended the stairs to the ground level.
She did not really require the lantern, for the hallway was well lit with magical light glowing from wrought-iron braziers placed at intervals. Amelia left the lantern hanging on a hook by the door and hastened down the hall. She did not want to be late, and her talk with the steward had put her a little behind time. She could not judge how far she had to go, for the hall did not run straight, but curved to the right, blocking her view.
She began to notice the smell of blood as she followed the curve of the hall. She thought nothing of it, for she had noticed the same odor whenever she had visited Dalgren. Dragons feast on freshly killed carcasses, after all.
But the odor grew much stronger than anything Amelia had noticed around Dalgren. She was not squeamish, yet she was forced to take out a handkerchief and cover her nose and mouth. Picturing the queen having to stop in the hall to vomit, Amelia decided to mention to Gunthar that the servants would be better employed cleaning down here than at the entrance.
Rounding the curve, Amelia stopped short.
Lady Odila’s chamber was about twenty feet distant. The entrance was guarded by large double doors made of wood and banded with iron. The doors were closed. A pool of dark liquid had formed beneath the door and was starting to flow in rivulets down the hallway.
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