Beyond the Dark

by Angela Knight

  A woman mumbled something.

  Owen froze immediately. Was she friend or foe?

  A slender hand, with long, tapering fingers, alighted gently on his bare hand. His shoulder’s agony melted into a heavy ache, while the blazing knot in his skull became a steady pounding.

  A chalice, someone who could store magick within themselves for later use in powering a spell? But there was no sign she’d worked her own spell to effect his cure, only provided the magick to aid his own.

  Had the French put one here to try to make him talk? But surely even those cunning bastards wouldn’t have a chalice, especially one so very deep, to spare for games of trickery.

  He fought to lift his eyelids.

  The room beyond was almost completely dark. A cheerful little fire burned, showing a gracious room with elegant furniture, pale walls, and crisply painted trim. Portraits were scattered around the walls like friends, while a rich Persian carpet gave life to the floor. Colorful draperies rippled across the windows.

  A gryphon drowsed by the hearth, its head tucked under one wing. It was, as ever, as insubstantial as smoke, befitting the elemental spirit which guarded a mage who hadn’t even learned the basics of how to link with other mages.

  He didn’t need to do that again—he’d done it once before in April 1794, during the otherwise disastrous Flanders campaign. He’d been a young trooper in the 15th Dragoons, the only true home he’d ever known. He’d always done his duty well, skilled with horses and weapons—and concealing his ability to light a match, no matter how foul the weather. He’d no desire to be plucked out of the army and sent to mage school, which would have meant meeting the mother who’d abandoned him at birth.

  He’d also enjoyed dallying with the Prussian general’s mistress. He’d been too damn green to realize she was a mage.

  They caught the French column at Villers-en-Cauchies early in the morning. The bitch had been insatiable the night before, and he’d still been abed with her when the trumpets sounded the alert.

  Would he ever forget how her long fingers shackled his wrist when he tried to leap out of bed? How her nails dug into his skin, drawing blood? How she’d laughed at his objections that he needed to ride into battle with his regiment?

  Instead, she’d informed him he’d been sent to her bed by his general, as a potential mage. He still loathed army officers for having prostituted him.

  She’d announced he’d provide the magick for the spell, since he’d inherited his mother’s magick as her heir.

  He’d sworn he would fight; she could grab her damn magick from some other fool. He did, too, resisting every wheedling reminder of the joys they’d shared together, every spell tearing into his brains and guts like a hussar’s saber. She ripped him apart, fighting to reach the magick in his every fiber, shredding him until he rolled on the ground, howling in agony and bleeding from every orifice.

  She took all of it from him in the end and threw his magick into her spell.

  Villers-en-Cauchies was a glorious victory, where over thirty thousand French troops fled in terror from cavalry—an incredible feat of arms, one to be retold for decades to come.

  Owen had been carried unconscious to mage school, never to serve in the army again. He’d used his studies there to ensure a similar experience would never happen to him again.

  Now he turned his head very cautiously to see the woman beside him.

  The raven-haired beauty slept in an armchair beside his bed, an intricate paisley shawl covering her shoulders and much of her simple white dress. Velvety lashes curved over her cheeks, and soft curls tumbled down her neck from under her lace-trimmed cap. A stray beam of firelight touched the bed curtains beside her, highlighting her features—the high forehead, the straight little nose, the graceful swan’s neck, the very stubborn chin…

  She stirred, and her elegant fingers clasped his wrist more closely, half-slipping under his sleeve. Energy flowed into him, golden and sweet as a summer day.

  His legs stretched, able to move without stiffness for the first time.

  Dammit, she definitely was a chalice!

  He growled softly, disliking his need for her. He’d come this far in life without any attachments; surely he could heal without help.

  Tsk, tsk.

  Owen swung his head back and glared at the gryphon.

  It clacked its beak at him again, Tsk, tsk. Its immense golden eyes were visibly amused above its crossed paws. How much time do you have to waste, foolish boy? Can you send for help yet?

  No. He glared, too angry to add that the simple healing spell had left him so weak he couldn’t even sit up.

  The message shifted in his skull, its protective spell briefly glinting gold and green—and reminding him of the people who’d died to give it to him. He had the only copy of this spell, the one that would stop Bonaparte from finding the key to Britain’s harbors. Britain, the only country with the resources and the will to fight Bonaparte to the death.

  He closed his mouth, unwilling to admit he’d been about to argue with a gryphon. Reluctantly, fighting the habits of a lifetime every inch of the way, he curled his fingers around the woman’s—strengthening their contact.

  There was a soft rush of wings before the gryphon stood beside them on his bed, now barely the size of his fist but no less deadly than before. It sniffed delicately at her hand, rubbed its head against her wrist, and stepped neatly back into Owen’s signet.

  Owen angrily threw his head back against the pillows. If a gryphon enjoyed her company, then he could trust her to the death. At least with his life.

  He could not possibly be interested in anything else, let alone gentler pursuits.

  But how much time would the French grant him to regain his strength?

  CHARLES Trevelyan swung back to face the silver scrying bowl, his banyan’s crimson silk skirts slapping against his breeches. “I already gave you the storm, and it destroyed the mages’ sloop, something no other land-based mage has accomplished in almost two decades. The King’s Mage aboard must also be dead; no one could have survived.”

  The water lapped against the bowl’s edges, but the image remained clear. The French officer there glared at Trevelyan, his blue uniform laden with decorations which marked him as having served since the Reign of Terror.

  “M’sieu, the British spy was in my milieu, the water. Do me the courtesy, please, of acknowledging my expertise and agreeing I would have known if he was dead. The British spy is still alive and must therefore be killed.”

  Trevelyan made a rude gesture and knocked back the rest of his cognac, furious at his unwelcome caller. The Frenchman’s brilliant eyes, smooth skin, and easy gestures showed no signs of strain from powering the gale of two days ago, which had ripped apart the Royal Navy sloop. He must be traveling with a coterie of other mages to power his magick. He probably hadn’t needed to spend the intervening time sleeping, as Trevelyan had done to regain his strength.

  Thank God he’d warded the roads against messengers while he slept, to keep any King’s Mages from coming to investigate. Otherwise, he’d have been arrested for a reckless expenditure of the local land’s magickal resources. And quite possibly hauled off to the White Tower for questioning, since he’d been schooled in France and had never registered himself as a mage in Britain.

  Trevelyan forebore to spit, which would have disturbed the scrying and possibly betrayed his hidden chamber.

  Above him, Whitmore Hall slept in these last few hours before the servants would rise again, to polish his estate and build his reputation in the county. Four generations of his family had owned this property—yet the damned locals still couldn’t forget that his money came from the sugar trade.

  He conceded the obvious. “Very well, the British spy still breathes—but changing that situation is in your hands.”

  The Frenchman leaned forward, determination marking his face like a hatchet. “He must be in Cornwall, close to you. It will be very simple for you to find and kill him, espe
cially since my curse still stops him from sending for help. You, too, have reason to see him buried here, before he helps his masters to solve the mystery of who caused the storm.”

  Trevelyan tensed, his mind racing through scenarios he hadn’t previously considered. A King’s Mage loose in London, seeking vengeance for his lost shipmates? Even if he wasn’t a seagoing mage, it would take very little time for him to meet with experts and piece together enough of the attack to trace it back to Trevelyan.

  If that happened, Trevelyan would have to run for France, if he were to have any hope of surviving. And completely abandon Whitmore Hall, all of the warehouses and ships that had made him and his family the wealthiest sugar importers in England, together with any chance at obtaining Emma Sinclair, the greatest prize of all.

  “If I kill a King’s Mage, here on British soil, the magnum concilium would know immediately,” he protested instinctively, trying not to openly cringe at being discovered by Britain’s greatest council of mages. “Every King’s Mage would be after my head, and I’d need to depart immediately. Your First Consul would lose his most loyal mage inside Britain—at exactly the moment when he’s planning an invasion.”

  The French officer hesitated, those ancient eyes in his young face turning thoughtful for the first time.

  Trevelyan hid his sigh of relief; he might not need to immediately hunt for that missing courier.

  “Ten thousand of your gold guineas,” the Frenchman said finally.

  Trevelyan blinked. So much? Good Lord, what message was that courier carrying? “Thirty thousand,” he countered automatically.

  “Twenty thousand, ten thousand now and another ten thousand when he’s dead.” The other mage lifted a quelling hand, a fiery lizard lifting from his palm. “And don’t speak to me of any hardship from abruptly starting a new life.”

  The lizard hissed at Trevelyan, its heat touching him through the scrying bowl.

  Trevelyan flinched, startled at the casual display of national powers. Good Lord, he hadn’t thought that a mage serving Republican France—that his master, Bonaparte, the First Consul!—could claim so much of the old monarchical French strength so soon. An invasion would indeed be very possible.

  The French officer chuckled dryly and tossed a mocking salute. “I look forward to hearing from you very soon, my dear English friend.”

  He waved his hand, and the water turned blank, instantly returning to clear liquid.

  Trevelyan shuddered slightly, more relieved than he’d care to admit by the other’s departure.

  No matter what the Frenchman said, the storm must have almost killed the King’s Mage. He’d have to find him quickly before the fellow died of injuries, losing Trevelyan any chance of claiming the full twenty thousand guineas. He’d do it after he recovered from this session.

  He stood up to pace, kicking his chair out of the way.

  He’d also have to redouble his efforts to court Emma and gain the use of her magick. It was a pity she’d used her grandfather’s illness to excuse herself from attending the fair at Whitmore Hall on the day of the storm. He’d had such strong trap spells set to catch her the moment she crossed his threshold.

  Of course, if she wouldn’t willingly become his partner, he could always frighten her into doing so. Or simply kidnap her and sell her for the highest price in France. Bonaparte would undoubtedly pay very, very well for her.

  Trevelyan began to chuckle, his teeth sharp-edged against his lips.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Emma eased Mr. Bentham carefully into the big armchair in his bedroom. It was only his second time sitting up out of the bed since his arrival. She couldn’t imagine why he should be healing so fast, given his nasty injuries.

  He tossed the skirts of his sapphire blue banyan around his knees and leaned his head back, white lines around his mouth. Seen close-up like this, he was a remarkably handsome man, despite his features’ rather Roman arrogance.

  His face was most notable perhaps for that arrogant nose. Yet she couldn’t help looking at the high cheekbones and the wide mouth held so firmly, and his lower lip was undoubtedly intended for more sensual pursuits. They were features meant to be carved onto a knight’s bier, betokening a life spent serving duty. Or into the memory of the lucky woman who enjoyed his affections.

  A frisson teased her, whispering of passion to be enjoyed again in a man’s arms.

  She busied herself with the tea tray, firmly ignoring her guest’s attractions. The sea whispered from outside, quiet on a clear day.

  Mr. Bentham shifted in his chair.

  “You’ve seen the gryphon, correct?”

  “Oh yes—Grandfather, Nurse, Keverne, and I all did. But nobody else.” She handed him a cup of tea and sat down facing him, fascinated by his broaching of usually unmentionable topics.

  “Can you work any magick, Mrs. Sinclair?”

  “I can lighten a pail of berries or a basket of apples. Sometimes Nurse and I have shoved a recalcitrant gate back into place. But that’s all.”

  “And you alone, completely unaided, brought me out of the ocean and up the cliffs. I will always thank you for that.”

  She blushed and kept doggedly to the conversation’s main tack. “I don’t know why I could rescue you. I knew some useful old charms, but they’d never worked before on anything as heavy as you are.”

  He steepled his fingers, contemplating her. A decision passed through his eyes and something warmer, something masculine and hungry.

  Her lungs caught, and her breasts stirred.

  “Do you know why you could do so little magick in Mrs. Keverne’s presence but so much in mine?”

  “No. Can you speak so openly of magick to me?”

  “The gryphon has vouched for your trustworthiness. Besides, I’ve warded this room to keep our conversation private.”

  “Oh.” She’d heard of magick like that, but to hear it mentioned so casually, as she’d say she’d locked the door! She shivered with delight, feeling ancient stories coming to life.

  He chuckled dryly, stirring milk into his tea.

  “You’re a chalice, Mrs. Sinclair, someone who can collect and hold magickal power for mages to draw upon.”

  “You mean I have magick of my own?” Her head was spinning.

  “A very great deal, else you couldn’t have plucked me from the tides which were determined to kill me.” His expression was deadly serious.

  “How can I have magick and not work spells?” she demanded.

  “You can work spells but only very small spells on your own. Otherwise, you must link with a mage: He creates the spell’s intent and form, while you provide its impact.”

  “Two of us, acting together? The mage needs me, as much as I need him?”

  “Correct.” A shadow flitted across his face, gone before she could name it. “Your strength is apparent in proportion to the mage’s ability to provide channels to use it.”

  She turned that over in her head.

  “Nurse can’t use it very well, so I’m very insignificant around her. But you’re a King’s Mage, which makes me…”

  “Much more powerful, yes—since you’re an incredibly deep chalice.” His sapphire eyes approved of her. “Your participation would likely guarantee victory in a naval battle.”

  She smiled and straightened, tilting her chin up. A magick worker, by God, and a rare one at that. Sister Lydia would be both jealous and hopeful her infant would inherit the talent.

  “One caution.”

  She looked her question.

  “We know there’s a villain in the neighborhood who’s a mage. Any mage who works magick near you will know immediately by its increased strength you’re a chalice—and will do anything to gain possession of you, since you’re not bound to any one magickal source.”

  “That’s nonsense. I’d never agree to being grabbed like a cow.” She sniffed and took a sip of her tea.

  “You’re lucky. Chalices are so fragile that links can only be formed with your full
consent. So enemies will court you first.”

  “And I tell you again, I’ll refuse.” She set her cup down. “Any other warnings?”

  “Like any other magick worker, if you try to go beyond your capacity, you risk death. Unlike most, because your strength is so great but your ability to form spells is so small.” He hesitated.

  “If I try to work a great spell on my own, I could be greatly weakened. Or die.” Her skin chilled. “Correct?”

  He caught her hands, rubbing them with his thumbs. “Please don’t worry. It’s highly unlikely it will ever happen, dear Mrs. Sinclair.”

  She produced a smile, and he kissed her fingers, startling both of them.

  He rose and paced to the window, moving much more easily than he had an hour ago. She eyed him, considering—for only the purest purposes!—his supple grace, his long stride, his erect carriage…

  “Does my presence help you heal?”

  He turned, a careless lock of hair tumbling over his forehead. How she longed to comb it back with her finger…

  “Yes, very much so. You help me with every spell I cast.”

  “What if I aided you to send a message? Shouldn’t the two of us together be able to send one to London?”

  His eyes came alight before shuttering.

  “I cannot ask it of you. You would have to open your magick fully to me, since I would not be opening my channels to you. We might have to use physical affection to form a strong enough link.”

  “Affection?” Why did her pulses leap at the thought and the look in his eyes?

  “I only know a few techniques. But one of the most reliable is standing together with the mage’s arms around the chalice, so they are pressed together at all points.”

  It sounded delightful.

  “In these circumstances, we must do whatever is necessary,” Emma said briskly, reminding herself that he was a stranger. And a King’s Mage at that, sworn to travel wherever duty took him. He was not someone to find a home and children with. “What do we need?”

  “Mrs. Keverne has already provided everything.”