Beyond the Dark

by Angela Knight

  But it was a very strong charm, more of a spell from a mage’s arsenal. Nurse could work it, because she was a magick worker who’d competed for mage school, although she hadn’t been selected. Emma didn’t have any such strength, and the mage was too close to death to help. But perhaps the gryphon ring could help a little, although she’d never heard of such a thing in the old stories. Still, it was the only chance.

  Squatting once again, she wrapped her arm under the man’s shoulder and quickly chanted the puppeteer’s charm. Then she straightened up, keeping his arm over her shoulder and her arm around his waist, hoping at least part of his body would come out of the surf.

  To her vast shock, he stood up with her, his eyes shut. He was lightweight, unresisting—and wholly unable to steady himself.

  Thunder cracked, as if hurling a curse. Waves crashed against the headland, and boulders tumbled into the ravaging sea.

  Emma gulped, locked her hand into his leather braces to hold him, and ran for the path, her hip and leg rubbing against him with every stride.

  The longer she held on to him, the more she brushed against him—and the easier it became to move him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Emma shoved open the kitchen door and staggered across the threshold, her companion’s head lolling against his shoulders, and his feet dragging across the broad planks. It was odd how her strength had come rushing back as soon as she’d stepped within the garden walls. Now she was barely winded. But she wasn’t about to inquire into such details now.

  She booted the heavy panel shut, a trick learned from a scullery maid, and something she hadn’t used in years. Her mother had punished her severely back then, saying no lady behaved in such a fashion. But this was not a night when ladylike manners held sway.

  Through the windows, lightning bursts reflected off copper and brass pots and pans. Water drummed against the walls and windows like an army demanding entry. Heavy bars to hold pots and pans lunged out of the deep hearth like dragons’ snouts. The extremely modern and massive iron kitchen range, Cook’s pride and joy, loomed against the creamy walls. By daylight, this would be a warm and welcoming place, but now it was a web of shadows and hidden threats, as heavy with remembered threats as the breathing of the man beside her.

  Emma refused to sway, no matter how heavy and large he was, especially in comparison to any of the chairs. Or her chances of lifting him up onto the kitchen table alone.

  The door into the hallway burst open, and Nurse rushed through, her mob cap awry and iron gray curls springing in every direction. “Miss Emma! Where have you been?”

  “Who is that fellow?” demanded Nurse’s husband, eyeing the unconscious stranger, as if the fellow could start firing a pistol at any moment. He held a candle high, showing the man’s ragged beard, with water and blood streaming down over his shoulders.

  “I found him washed up in the cove. Help me put him up on the table, Keverne,” Emma snapped.

  The head groom muttered something in Cornish, which his mistress ignored, before handing his candle to his wife. He took the stranger’s legs and hips, somehow levering most of the man’s bulk onto the sturdy table. Emma heaved the fellow’s head and shoulders up, settling him reliably onto the long stretch of wood.

  She caught her first true glimpse of him in the light—and her breath stopped.

  If he’d been standing, he’d have easily mustered six feet or more in height. He had broad shoulders, heavy with muscle under his waistcoat and shirt, which almost filled the table. Like the rest of him, his buckskin breeches were sodden, displaying horseman’s thighs above high cavalry boots. His hair streamed saltwater and blood over features bold enough to be labeled arrogant, and possibly handsome, despite a nose that had clearly been broken more than once.

  Perhaps even magnificent? No, surely not. He was simply a traveler who needed help.

  She shook off the fancy and stepped back to begin fetching him aid, sending his right hand dangling off the table.

  For a moment, the floor gleamed crimson like banked embers. Wings flashed bright as flame above a lion’s body crouched protectively over the man. A pair of fierce eagle eyes surveyed everyone in the room, its beak snapping the air over the unconscious man. Its furred torso reared up, challenging all comers with razor-tipped paws, while its great tail thrashed. It settled back down, and two piercing ruby eyes surveyed its watchers, its golden talons flexing.

  A living gryphon? One of Britain’s elemental spirits?

  Yet it almost seemed as fragile as a morning mist, since she could dimly see the hearth and kitchen walls through it.

  Desperately trying not to gape, Emma sank into a full court curtsy, the same homage she’d give a member of the royal family. Beside her, Nurse folded herself into the same curtsy and Keverne bent his knee, their gasps hanging on the air, despite the thunderstorm outside.

  The great beast nodded slightly and lifted a single paw in salute. An instant later, it had spiraled back into the stranger’s gold ring and disappeared.

  Emma’s heart started to beat again. She stood up shakily, her mind whirling with implications.

  “A gryphon?” Nurse choked out and reached out to steady herself on the big wooden dresser. Keverne walked around her and began to silently light the fire, laid ready and waiting in the hearth.

  “Standing watch over a King’s Mage,” an old man’s voice confirmed, still sharp with authority. Emma’s grandfather glared at them from the threshold, erect and commanding, despite the toll of four-score years. He began to limp toward a chair, his heavy cane marking time to his words. “His business is the King’s business. Who aids him aids the King. Who delays him delays the King. And who injures him deliberately…”

  “Damages the Realm and thereby commits treason,” Emma finished the ancient maxim, staring at her still unconscious companion. For the first time since she’d found him, she was more than an arm’s length away from him. “But here in Cornwall, so far from London or any of the great roads or ports? And so badly injured when we’re at peace with France?”

  The stranger sighed, the sound quickly turning into a harsh rattle. The death rattle.

  No!

  Emma ran to him and grabbed his hand, clutching it to her chest. “Don’t you dare leave me!”

  The rattle turned into a gasp, then a cough. A moment later, he was breathing softly again, his fingers curled around hers.

  “Lady bright,” muttered Nurse and considered the younger woman thoughtfully. She handed Emma some folded linen towels from the dresser.

  Emma ignored that slip into the old ways. It had been a most unsettling night, after all. “I can see several nasty gashes on his head, which should be stitched. But what else?”

  Nurse and her husband studied the newcomer, mob cap and grizzled queue leaned together. The storm raging outside obliterated any comments they made.

  Emma watched them, her heart in her throat, desperate for reassurance that he could be saved. She’d heard too many stories and been in too many naval hospitals while growing up to have any false illusions about his chances. Her hands moved over his forehead, cleaning off the worst of the saltwater and blood.

  “There’s something wrong with his right shoulder, too,” she babbled, unable to stop herself from fussing. “It hangs very limply, and there’s a great deal of blood.”

  “Did you empty his lungs of water?” Grandfather asked, prodding a fire into full life on the hearth, his expression intent and appearing a few years younger.

  “Yes, he coughed it up very neatly,” she answered readily, still cleaning blood away. “In fact, he seemed to improve the moment we came through the gate.”

  Nurse shot her a long, considering stare, her braid falling to one side.

  Keverne harrumphed, drawing everyone’s attention. “Aye, he’s been stabbed by something big, the size of a dirk, maybe.” The spluttering flames made his swarthy face look like an apprentice demon. But he was the best horse doctor for miles around. “Probably a wood s
plinter that went clean through.”

  “Should we send for the surgeon?” Emma asked. Her unknown companion’s hand was a little warmer under hers.

  Keverne shook his head and went back to examining his patient. “After a storm like this? The Gwythias must have already flooded every bridge leading to the village, Mrs. Sinclair.”

  “We’ll be lucky to have any of the other servants back before dawn.” Emma’s heart was in her boots, together with their prospects for aid. “There’s no chance of bringing Mr. Miller here before noon.”

  “And the storm is unnatural,” Nurse announced flatly.

  Emma went cold at the confirmation of her suspicions, staring at her oldest confidante. High magick had been worked here, close to their little village? Still…“You lit the candle, and you competed for mage school. You’d know when there’s magick afoot.”

  Nurse nodded grimly and began to pump water at the sink.

  “The gryphon has shown himself to the four of us, granting us his trust—and giving me liberty to speak of what I learned from working with King’s Mages during my army days,” Grandfather announced from the great armchair by the hearth.

  Emma twisted around to stare at him. She’d always thought he knew more about mage craft than he’d openly say, given how comfortable he was with the old Cornish ways. But to discuss military secrets with the three of them? Dear heavens, what was at stake to have wrought such changes?

  “Two mages must have built it, one at sea and one on land, to obtain such a large storm.” Grandfather’s voice rang with every bit of his former authority as a general. “I saw no storm of any significance, except toward France.”

  A deliberate assassination attempt on her King’s Mage by someone local? A growl built in Emma’s throat, and she pressed a fresh towel rather more firmly against the worst gash.

  “In that event, we’ll have to hide him,” she said flatly.

  Grandfather’s eyebrow elevated. “How so?”

  “If there’s a mage close enough to create a storm, then he’d probably be close enough to create some sort of hunting spell, correct? I don’t know how the mechanisms would operate but…”

  Grandfather and Nurse glanced at each other, two old tricksters considering options.

  “Mages never willingly speak to ordinary folk of how they work magick,” Grandfather pointed out. “So we’ve no way of knowing exactly what to guard against, except he must be very powerful.”

  Emma frowned, thinking fast. “He must be exhausted after creating the storm, which will buy us a little time.”

  “The other King’s Mages will be searching for our fellow, too,” Nurse put in, setting an iron kettle of water over the fire. “They may not be able to easily find him, since he’s so weak.”

  Emma picked up the argument’s thread. “But the traitor won’t want to draw their attention, so he’ll keep his spells less powerful.”

  “Limiting his search to a small area.” Grandfather drummed his fingers on his cane. “It may buy us some time to see our fellow healed.”

  “Can we send a message for help?” Emma asked hopefully.

  Grandfather’s expression shuttered, turning as ancient as The Morthol’s stones. “The traitor will likely have watchers on every road, watching every post, every express—every mode of communication, even carrier pigeon. If so, sending a message to Whitehall would brutally destroy the letter and the messenger.”

  Emma shivered at the memories running through his voice. “Have you seen it happen before?” she asked, hoping against hope.

  “Often.” His voice didn’t invite further questions. “I’ll see if one of Taylor’s carrier pigeons can reach Falmouth with a message. That way, if the mage is watching all the routes, we won’t lose any of the men.”

  Emma nodded, keeping her head high. Blast all traitorous mages—and Napoleon Bonaparte for his greed and stubbornness, which paid them and killed good men like her husband. She was damned if she’d let another Englishman die in Bonaparte’s war.

  She refolded the towel, refusing to flinch at its now crimson color, and mopped saltwater from her mage’s temple. She lingered a moment to kiss his hair, silently promising him he would live.

  His breathing hesitated a moment before steadying and deepening. Color almost touched his cheeks.

  Someone would have to nurse him and give him the strength to heal. Someone young and strong. He was her catch, salvaged from the ravaging sea, giving her the first responsibility.

  “Our guest has lost a great deal of blood. He’ll need warmth and nursing during the night for healing. What bedroom should we prepare for him?”

  Three appalled old faces snapped around to stare at her. Even though Trethledan House was large and comfortable, Emma and her grandfather were the only family members currently living there. So only two bedrooms had fires built in them and their beds warmed for sleeping. Preparing another bedroom would take time and precious energy, of which Nurse and Keverne had little to spare.

  Emma hid a wry smile. “Surely something in the family wing?” she prodded gently. “Perhaps Mrs. Bennett’s room? My sister’s room is next to mine, so it may be a little warmer.”

  Nurse nodded grimly. “I’ll go up once we have enough hot water here.”

  “He can wear my grandsons’ clothing, especially once he starts moving about,” the master of the house announced. “He looks to be fairly much of a size with them.”

  Now for the difficult part, the scandalous hurdle. Emma stealthily crossed her fingers.

  “When we’re done here, I will sleep with him,” she announced softly.

  “You will not!” Grandfather’s cane slammed against the floor for emphasis.

  “You’ve seen how he gathers strength from me, more than anyone else here. He’ll need freely given companionship during the night to strengthen his heart, according to the old tales.”

  “Emma…” Grandfather growled. “Regardless of how much he takes to you, I’ll not have you ruin yourself for a stranger.”

  “What scandal? I’ve been widowed for five years, so I don’t have to watch every move like a young girl.”

  “I will not have you subjected to scandal!”

  “A King’s Mage has been attacked. It is our duty to succor him in any way necessary.” She met the old general’s glare steadily. At four-and-twenty, she was the only one here young enough to give the castaway any strength. “There are only four of us. I will share his bed.”

  “All she’d need is a day or two, perhaps three, until he’s well enough to contact his own people,” Nurse urged. “The other servants would never say a word.”

  “Are you so lost to all propriety, woman, as to suggest that your mistress lose her good name for a stranger?!”

  “It is our duty to protect him, as we would the King,” Emma hurled back. “To do anything less would risk killing a King’s Mage. And I will not lose another man to Bonaparte’s murderers, no matter what I have to do or what it costs me.”

  An angry silence fell. Keverne began to cut her gentleman’s clothes off.

  Grandfather glowered at her. “You are the granddaughter of a general, the daughter of an admiral, and the widow of a naval lieutenant. I cannot deny you the opportunity to do your duty to your King and Country. But I do not like it, and it will not last a minute longer than necessary, do you understand me, girl?”

  “Yes, sir.” She dropped him a curtsy.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Owen stirred, his brain as uncoordinated as his limbs.

  He ached damnably in every muscle with a sheer concentrated fury that would barely let him draw breath. His head pounded as if every Bavarian troll was trying to drill a spike through his temple. And his shoulder…Good Lord, it burned like all of Hades’s nine circles.

  Where was he? Instinct commanded him not to betray his wakefulness.

  Cloth was very, very soft under his cheek. And his back, and his hips, and his legs. Everywhere, in fact. Whatever lay underneath cradled his
body easily, unlike his shipboard hammock.

  The universe was steady, with no storm throwing everything and everyone about, nor sending bursts of magefire and cannon fire to shatter solid wood. No screams of dying men in seas tinted with crimson—and his vows of revenge. No, here there was only peace.

  He snatched at his slippery thoughts, since experience offered no guide. It must be a very fine bed, with smooth sheets caressing his skin and a feather bed for warmth. Someone had washed him up, so he didn’t reek of saltwater and blood. They’d clothed him in a fine cambric nightshirt, which felt like a garment his father’s wife would have crowed over. The only item he recognized was his gold signet’s hard edges.

  He shifted his vision, trying to use his mage’s sight. His head immediately threatened to explode with pain, a million more trolls quickly slamming their hammers and picks into his skull and making his stomach roil in agony. He stopped searching and tried to relax, determined not to heave whatever small amounts of food lay in his stomach.

  So all he knew of his surroundings’ magickal qualities was what they chose to tell him. The room was uncommonly comfortable, with a strong protective glow underlying everything. It didn’t seem to have been shaped and formed by a mage, though, at least not that he could tell. And, irritatingly, when he studied its powers for too long, he’d start to grow sleepy. It only deepened the puzzle.

  Why was he here, in a natural fortress with strong healing powers? Why had they tended his wounds, bathed him, and clothed him?

  No French prison would treat him this well. If he was in Britain, the mages’ castles offered luxuries only for high-ranking mages, not those who’d chosen to walk alone.

  He shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t send a fiery mass of swords jabbing into his shoulder. He said a healing spell under his breath, wishing he had the strength to completely cure himself. For a moment, his ribs stopped aching.