The Herald of Day

by Nancy Northcott

  She gritted her teeth in frustration. The troubling wind had died away after a day, but the strange visions and dreams continued to plague her. For the past three nights, she’d been unable to sleep because of them.

  “I beg pardon, Master Warren. I’ll fetch it at once.”

  “See that you do. You’ve been half asleep these past days, and you’d best awaken to your duties right now.”

  “Aye. I know, sir.” The implied threat turned her insides to ice, for she had nowhere else to go.

  Warren turned away, and Miranda rushed down the narrow, dark corridor to the kitchen. Plague take that dream! Having it torment her sleep was bad enough without it ruining her work or making her draw scrutiny.

  She’d first created her glamours shortly before Father died, when men began looking at her in ways that made her skin crawl. She’d gradually made more changes before coming here. She knew what a serving maid’s life was like, and she had no desire to draw attention from lecherous customers. As time passed, she’d realized the glamours also prevented anyone from looking closely enough to notice anything odd about her.

  Until now.

  In the hot, busy kitchen, Flora, the cook, and her two helpers sliced bread and meat and stirred kettles. A scrawny lad by the hearth turned the meat jack with one hand while wiping sweat from his brow with the other. Tiny, red-haired Sarah, one of other maids, waited by the long table in the room’s center, tapping one foot impatiently while a cook sliced venison for her.

  For once, Owen, the cheerful scullery lad, stood at his post near the door, so Miranda didn’t have to wait. He dished up the hot stew and handed it to her on a tray.

  She spun toward the door, but the opening was closer than she thought. Her shoulder banged into the door frame. Stew sloshed over her thumb, and scalding pain flashed up her arm. She choked back a cry but managed to stagger sideways, bracing the tray against the wall lest she drop it. Another mistake, and Warren might dismiss her.

  Owen grabbed the tray. “I’ll clean and refill it. Good thing only a bit spilled.”

  “Aye. My thanks.” She blinked against the sting of tears. Spilling as much as half would’ve sent her to bed without supper tonight to make up the cost of the spilled food, even if she didn’t lose her job. She wiped her throbbing hand on her apron.

  The burn wasn’t as bad as she’d feared but raw enough to hurt. She sucked the spot to ease it. If she weren’t so weary, she wouldn’t have made the mistake. Somehow, she had to manage a full night of uninterrupted sleep.

  Owen brought the tray to her, and she hurried back to the common room.

  She set the platter of stew and bread in front of her customer, a heavyset man whose suit of fine, green wool with simple lace at his wrists and throat marked him as gentry or a prosperous merchant. He thanked her with a grunt.

  Turning, she almost collided with Lucy, who caught her arm to steady her. “Flora told me what happened. Are you hurt?”

  “Not much.” Miranda forced a shaky smile, shifting her gaze aside. A framed linen square over the hearth caught her eye. “Where did that sampler come from?”

  It looked ordinary enough, a man and woman flanking a tree with a meticulously embroidered alphabet below them, but it hadn’t been there yesterday. Or this morning.

  Lucy’s round face twisted in a frown. “You’re lost more sleep than I thought. That’s been here longer’n we have, made by Master Warren’s wife before she died.”

  A chill ran down Miranda’s spine. “Died when?”

  Lucy frowned. “Seven years or so ago, I think. Miranda—”

  “I was merely confused. I’ve customers, Lucy.” She broke free and hurried between the tables. But she wasn’t confused. Despite its weathered colors, that sampler was new, and Master Warren had never married.

  What was happening? Was she going mad? Lucy had no reason to lie, so she must believe what she said. But how could that be true? Miranda scrubbed her hand over her bleary eyes.

  Dire events will occur, Mother had warned. Was this the sort of thing she’d meant?

  Summon the knight, the dream voice had ordered. If she did as the voice commanded, perhaps the visions would end.

  Before dawn the next day, Miranda crept into the woods behind the inn. Her heart beat fast, and her hands felt chilly, but not from the cold. She hadn’t tried a major working in years. Despite the risk, excitement over the challenge hummed through her.

  Shadows concealed the hollows in the landscape. The cold autumn air bit through her clothes and turned her breath to fog, but she had left her cloak in the garret. Anyone who saw her return to the inn mustn’t suspect she had been out long enough to need it.

  She had to hurry. Starting her duties late would anger Master Warren. But she also had to take care that no one saw her.

  She reached a wide, level clearing as the stars began to fade. Half a mile into the woods, it was her favorite place for spending time alone. Dropping her protective glamours, she opened her senses. Birds and small animals stirred in the forest. An owl returned to its nest after a night’s hunt.

  Despite all the movement around her, the back of Miranda’s neck remained free of the tingle of awareness that signaled a human presence.

  Good. She hurried to the center of the clearing. The hard ground lay under a colorful blanket of frost-tinged autumn leaves. On her knees, she scraped away leaves and twigs to bare a circle of earth about six feet across.

  She took a slow breath to calm herself. Summoning required creating an illusion creature to go and find the one she needed, then deliver her message or else lead the one summoned to her. This time, sending a message seemed better. The creature might have to travel far away before it found the knight. If so, the magic sustaining it might fade away before it led him here.

  She had never tried to form anything larger than a bird. A bird would do for this, but would a knight pay attention to something so small?

  A dragon would be much harder to ignore, and the evil one in the vision hadn’t changed her fondness for them.

  Her hands shook as she untied the small bag at her waist and dumped its contents into her lap. The needle shone in its scrap of green felt as she pulled it free.

  Drawing on her power, she pricked her left fourth finger. A droplet of blood fell into the center of the bare patch. Atop it, she placed a dried, green poplar leaf, a robin’s feather, and the paring from one of her fingernails.

  She held her left hand out so more blood dripped onto the little pile. “Nail for scaling, earth for might, leaf for color and feather for flight.”

  Before the blood could dry, she struck flint to catch a sliver of tinder, then laid it on the bloody spot with an oak twig. The twig smoldered, then caught.

  Quickly, she chanted, “Oak for endurance, day and night, fire and blood to give vision life. Go, my dragon, and find the knight.” She closed her eyes, the better to channel will into words and the vision into being, and slid backward.

  Magic flowed through her like liquid sunlight, warming and strengthening her. Behind her eyelids, she could almost see her small fire become a looming, indistinct shadow. Rustling movements nearby told of birds and small creatures scurrying for cover. Then came sudden silence as they found it.

  Her creation took on form and substance. Sprouted wings and a snout. Became a dragon. The woodland creatures’ fear of it brushed over her skin like a cold breeze.

  The air heated. Something flapped with a leathery sound. A great gust of wind pressed her clothes against her body.

  The flow of power within her ebbed. Died.

  With a sigh, she opened her eyes. The small fire had gone out, and no sign of her workings remained.

  But the center of the clearing bore two sets of three deep slashes as long as her forearm, like the marks of giant talons.

  A grin tugged at her mouth. She lifted her head.

  High above, a dragon’s graceful silhouette glinted emerald in the faint pre-dawn light. Great wings pushed downward against th
e air, and she could almost feel the movement in her shoulders. Her spirit soared with the dragon. For one moment, she felt its freedom and strength.

  Then it wheeled westward and vanished. Because of its limited substance, it wouldn’t become visible to anyone else until—unless—it found the one it sought.

  Her smile faded. Summoning had always come easily to her, but there were so many other skills she’d never had the chance to learn.

  If only she could safely find a Gifted teacher. She wouldn’t have to conceal herself all the time, and simply being with someone who also had Gifts would be a joy.

  But there was no use wishing for the impossible. People like her didn’t announce their skills, not with the gallows waiting for them. Nor could she go seeking such a one.

  Rising, she brushed off her skirt. She’d enjoyed more luck than many people did. After her parents’ deaths, a cousin had helped her find this position at the inn so she wouldn’t starve. Or have to marry out of desperation. She managed to make time now and again to earn extra money with her needlework. Even embroidered mythical beasts like dragons for customers once in a while.

  A wise woman would count her blessings, not long for more. Part of counting her blessings was keeping her job. Perhaps now she could do it in peace. Miranda hurried toward the inn.

  She was halfway there when a sulfur reek stung her nose. Fog obliterated her sight, then rolled back to reveal the knight sitting upright in the saddle, blocking the red dragon’s path to the wounded boar and a bloody stag. He still bore his shield, now marred by black scorch marks, and his sword gleamed silver in his steel-gloved fist.

  Stretching its neck, the dragon roared, the sound frustrated and impotent now.

  Your time is done. The knight’s deep voice rang in her mind with the clarion power of unearthly trumpets. The untruths and evils you nurtured shall not prevail but pass away. They are but the shades of night, and I am the herald of day.

  The vision faded, leaving her standing in the wood. Blast it, she’d hoped her summons would banish the visions. Would buy her peace.

  Did this new twist, the knight’s speech, portend that she’d done what was needed to solve whatever problem triggered the vision?

  Or that she hadn’t?

  Chapter 2

  Ordinary folk would see no cause for concern in today’s dreary weather. But Richard Mainwaring was not ordinary, and the day was not merely dreary.

  Cold, muddy water stood in the road’s deep ruts. Brisk gusts caught red and gold leaves sodden from the day’s rain, snapping them from their stems. All that was normal for late September. The taint on the wind, however, was not.

  It grated on Richard’s Gifted senses. The worst of the ill wind had died five days ago, but an almost imperceptible wrongness lingered in the air and roiled in the gusts.

  “Shoot him and have done,” Richard’s companion, Captain Cabot Winfield of the Royal Navy, advised.

  “What?” Richard blinked at his friend. They and their mounts were alone on the muddy road.

  Cabot grinned at him, gray eyes alight in his square, tanned face. “When you’re preoccupied, there are only two explanations. I guessed you were considering the George problem.”

  Richard grimaced. “If shooting him would straighten out his wayward wits, I might do it.” He could always heal his wastrel cousin, who unfortunately was also his heir, afterward. So long as the wound wasn’t instantly mortal.

  Unfortunately, he and George shared only the Mainwaring blue eyes. The height, the black hair, and the steadying traits had missed George.

  “That wasn’t what I was thinking, though,” Richard added. “I don’t like that wrongness in the air.”

  Cabot frowned up at the leaden sky. “If I were at sea, I’d set my course away from it with all speed. I wonder how far that ill wind blew.”

  “Reports are probably coming into London.” The city was the headquarters of the realm’s Gifted, known as the Conclave, and their governing Council. “The Council will likely need to meet sooner than we’d planned because of it.”

  “What a joyous event that will be.” Cabot shook his head. “Better you than me, wrangling with that lot. You’ll be lucky if you can make the rest of them decide anything.”

  “They do love to argue.” After two years on the Council, Richard knew any issue would be chewed into rags before the group made a decision.

  A sudden gust blew a lock of sun-streaked, brown hair into Cabot’s face. Frowning, he shoved it back.

  The cool air brushed Richard’s neck with an unearthly chill. He turned up the collar of his cloak. Occasional drizzles might recur, but his wide-brimmed beaver hat and oiled leather cloak shed them well enough.

  “There’s another solution to your problem with George. Besides murder.” Cabot kept his gaze on the road ahead.

  With good reason. That solution, marriage and the heir it could produce, had too many drawbacks, ones Richard hated discussing. He raised an eyebrow at Cabot. “Impressment into the navy?”

  “God help any ship cursed with him as a sailor.” Scowling, Cabot added, “You know what I meant.”

  “Yes. Leave it.”

  Zeus pranced through the muddy ruts with no hesitation. Richard tugged the reins to avoid a puddle that was probably deeper than it looked.

  The roads needed work, but the king had little interest in harassing the parishes about upkeep. After Oliver Cromwell deposed and killed King Charles I, Charles II had spent years in hiding, poverty-stricken and dependent on the charity of European royalty. Upon his restoration to the throne in 1660, he’d thrown off the puritanical shackles imposed by Cromwell’s protectorate. The king had led the nation in seeking pleasure ever since. Road repairs, unfortunately, were not a pleasure.

  Cabot said, “Thanks for going to Portsmouth with me to oversee the Rose’s refit. It was good to have the company even though we’re done and headed home sooner than I expected.”

  Richard grinned. “I’d had enough of court, so I was glad to go.” Especially with Cabot, who was rarely in England because he spent most of the year patrolling the West Indies.

  “I’d rather face a pirate fleet—or even the bloody-minded, encroaching Dutch—alone than endure an evening at court.” Cabot steered Neptune around a wide puddle. Staring into the distance, he added, “George’s choices are not your fault.”

  “Leave it, I said—”

  They rounded a bend, and a flash of green dropped from the clouds. Arrowing toward them, a dragon glittered in the weak light. Huge wings spanned the road as the creature landed.

  “Cabot,” Richard snapped in warning. That couldn’t be a real dragon, but some illusions could harm. He drew rein.

  The horses reared, hooves pawing at the air, and whinnied. What the—?

  Horses usually couldn’t see illusions. Perhaps they felt the magic crackling like invisible flame in the air around this one. Shifting his balance forward, he sent a tendril of power into Zeus’s mind to restore both calm and control.

  The stallion trembled but obeyed the commands Richard gave him through reins and knees. Cabot also had Neptune under control again.

  “Where in Hell’s fields did that come from?” Richard demanded.

  “I was about to ask you.” Cabot’s face reflected Richard’s shock.

  The dragon settled onto its haunches. A yard taller than they were on horseback, it blocked the road even with its wings folded. Its scales glowed deep emerald, and its eyes glinted a fiery gold.

  Another tendril of power, this time directed at the apparition, revealed its limited substance. Richard could dispel it, but only a fool would do so without learning why it sought them out.

  Folding his hands over the pommel of his saddle, he eyed the creature coolly. “There are no dragons in England anymore.”

  The beast’s voice rasped in his mind. I seek the boar’s knight, and I have found you.

  Richard straightened. “Why do you seek this knight?”

  If you would righ
t a wrong, Sir Knight, see the serving maid at the Golden Swan Inn on the Folkestone road, outside Dover. Tell her a dragon called you the herald of day.

  “I’ve no trust in riddles,” Richard replied. Nor did he trust apparitions, but his pulse quickened. Had this creature sought him out because of his family curse? Or for some less obvious reason?

  Stretching its glistening wings out and up, above the hedgerows, the creature leaped skyward. He could have sworn it vanished before it reached the heavy clouds. Only then did he realize any inn near a busy port like Dover would have several maids. How could he know the right one?

  After a moment, he smiled. One Gifted person, as any maid sending such a summons must be, would stand out soon enough in a crowd of ordinary folk. If she had the power to create such an illusion, she should know him on sight.

  “’Od’s fish,” Cabot said. “To create a beast out of myth, someone must badly want to see you.”

  “So you heard it, too.” Richard stared at the spot where the dragon had stood. “But why go to such lengths?” The power required for such summoning had led most people to abandon the art long ago.

  He kneed Zeus to a walk. “Strange, that the dragon should carry a message so well suited to me.”

  Of course, no one else had as much reason as he did to care about the dead king who’d used a white boar as his emblem, Richard III. Perhaps this was, at last, a chance to lift the family curse.

  Unless it was a trap.

  He set his jaw against a rush of hope. Grasping at straws, such as this likely was, could distract him from learning what the summons truly portended.

  On Neptune, Cabot kept pace with him. “Coming on the heels of that wind, the dragon’s summons must be related, and that means danger.”

  “Regardless, I’m going to Dover.”

  Richard’s ancestor Edmund Mainwaring had unwittingly helped his liege lord murder the late King Edward IV’s sons, who’d become known as the Princes in the Tower. Horrified by what he had done, Edmund had thrown himself on the mercy of King Richard III.