The Herald of Day

by Nancy Northcott

  “So you never actually meet with them?”

  “Alas, no,” Edmund said. “Those whose lives overlapped, however, can find each other, though ’tis difficult.

  That was disappointing. Richard had always thought of his father as having all his kinsmen, at least, for company. He would likely have no one but Grandfather. And someday, Richard.

  “Yet you can come to this time and speak to me. How?”

  Edmund shrugged. “Perhaps because I started the curse. Whatever the reason, I’m drawn to the living Mainwaring heirs. The curse and shared blood both bind us. But I cannot travel backward in time, even to see my beloved Margery.”

  What a lonely existence. Not knowing what to say, Richard started, “Edmund, I—”

  The ghost talked over him, any pity obviously unwelcome. “As far as splicing time, though, if I read the old scrolls aright, it involves passing through here. This is the path of death, with life before and after—for most men.”

  Richard frowned. “I thought that place was merely a path to the portal of judgment.”

  “’Tis that, yes, but also much more. This nasty realm touches all the world. All times past, or so the lore claims.”

  “So you studied it.”

  “Aye, for the same reason I imagine you did, looking for clues to find the proof we need to clear the king’s name. From experience I know one can cross vast distances with great speed. Even breach walls as though they weren’t there, unless they’re warded. I can breach Mainwaring wards because they’re made by my kin, but only those.”

  Richard sat straighter.

  Had Wyndon gone there to change the past? To spy on Richard and Miranda? There’d been those freakish cold spots, that sense of being watched. But how could a living man cross into the shadowland to do such things?

  One thing Edmund said niggled at him. “Breach walls without being detected?” Richard asked.

  “Aye. Remember, this place lies around and alongside the world of the quick, like its ghost. That’s what ghosts are—folk here, talking to their descendants or, in rare cases of grave injustice, seeking redress or comfort.”

  “A cheery thought.” It explained, though, why people most often saw family spirits. “So someone living who managed to reach that place could go anywhere, to any time?”

  Even back to the Tower of London in 1483 to stop two murders that shouldn’t have happened?

  “If my guess is right, the living can do things here the dead cannot. Only if that were true could anyone splice time. The dead cannot, after all.”

  Richard nodded absently. What would be the consequences of saving the boys in the Tower? Could such a thing be done without wreaking the kind of chaos occurring now?

  He would worry about that later. If Wyndon or someone like him had learned to travel the afterworld, then someone on the side of right must master it as well.

  “If this is possible, I need to learn it,” Richard said. “Can you teach me?”

  Scowling, Edmund crossed his arms. “I’ve no idea and refuse to try. This place is dangerous. There’re wraiths all over, perpetually damned souls looking to prey on the newly dead. What they could do to a living body doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  Richard hated the idea of that shadowland, but he couldn’t spurn a skill that might hold the key to restoring whatever had been altered in the past. “Coming there could enable me to set everything right, Edmund.”

  “Or it could kill you, you young fool. Then where will all the rest of us be?”

  “No worse off than you are now,” Richard shot back.

  Edmund shook his head.

  “Those who can help,” Richard said, “have a duty to. You’ve tainted my life, Edmund. God’s feet, you owe me your help.”

  “To destroy yourself? To end the Mainwaring line and leave us all trapped here forever? No.”

  “To keep the world from destroying itself in all this upheaval. To see that matters are put right.”

  Edmund opened his mouth, then shut it abruptly. “Do those matters include the murder of the boys in the Tower?”

  “If that can be done without more upheaval, yes.” Unlikely though that seemed. But Richard needed Edmund’s help. If he had to stretch the truth to get it, he would. Too much was at stake for mincing around the hard choices.

  “I’m not certain I can teach you,” Edmund said slowly, “but I studied those old texts, too. I can make some guesses, though you must realize there are dangers aplenty here. First, though, I’ve news for you from Hawkstowe. I was concerned about this unnatural weather, so I drifted there to see how the folk fared.”

  “You still care?”

  Edmund raised an eyebrow in a gesture much like Richard’s habitual one. “I held the title and lands longer than you yet have. They’re my folk, too. Anyway, Richard, they’ve worse problems than the weather. The livestock are sickening, as though whatever’s making all these changes has affected their feed. The folk are much on edge.”

  “Yet people aren’t ill.”

  “Eventually, they may be. Animals are more sensitive to the natural world than men.”

  “My thanks, Edmund.” Richard blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ll send advice to my steward. At least he’s Gifted, which gives him better skills than most for coping with errant weather, magical or not.”

  They couldn’t just alter the weather, though. First, because change in one place usually created changes in others. Second, and more important, was the fact that the weather was the symptom of a bigger problem, not the cause. That might be why the Conclave’s weather wizards had thus far been unable to affect the unseasonable climate.

  “If you can learn to travel here,” Edmund said, “assuming that’s truly possible, you could arrive at Hawkstowe much faster than you could through the realm of the quick. With the roads so boggy, the journey would take far longer than usual. Roads will wash out if this keeps up.”

  Not a pretty picture, country folk starving and their lords unable to reach them. “We’d better set about it, then.”

  “The old lore says you need something to anchor you to the real world so you can return there from here. Something not shaped nor altered by human hands.”

  Richard frowned. He had nothing of the sort, at least not indoors. “I’ll find a pebble in the garden.” He grabbed his breeches, stepped into them, and hurried outside. The cold weather shocked him fully awake, but he had no difficulty finding a suitable stone. Gray and irregularly shaped, it was about the size of a robin’s egg.

  When he returned to his bedchamber, he found Edmund pacing. “I hope we won’t regret this, lad,” the ghost muttered.

  “Let’s get on with it, Edmund.”

  With a sigh, Edmund said, “Hold the stone in your hand. Now, think of how this feels, talking to me. Reach for me with your mind.”

  Richard tried.

  “Are you reaching?” Edmund stood beside the bed.

  “Aye. If you’ve never taught this before, how do you know what I should do?”

  “I’m guessing, mostly based on a scroll on necromancy I read once and on odd things one of my old Oxford dons, a fellow spectacularly Gifted but rather impractical, used to say. Reach for me and pour your power into a doorway. An open one is better. You’re making a ghost door, not going through the real one, but you don’t want to walk into the door if you fail.”

  Richard drew power from within him and let it flow toward the doorway to his dressing room. The frame turned silver. Its glow spread to fill the portal’s outline.

  With Edmund pacing beside him, Richard walked toward it. Kept walking. A cold current pushed against him.

  He passed through the doorway, out of the chill, and into the dark dressing room. “Stop,” Edmund said. “Are you keeping your mind on me?”

  “Reluctantly. I feel like a fool.” Richard glared at him.

  “Well, that can’t help.” Scowling in turn, Edmund demanded, “Did you feel anything else?”

  “Icy cold, but it
ended when I passed the threshold.”

  “According to the scroll I read all those years back, that’s a good sign. Try again.”

  Richard frowned at him. “I don’t remember a scroll about that at Pendragon. I looked at everything I could find.”

  “There was one. About the length of a man’s forearm, fist-thick. Very ornate ends and bindings. Bound with a red cord, as all those touching on dangerous matters are, with the dragon rampant seal on each end. Mayhap it crumbled, or mayhap it’s lost in the disorder at Pendragon. Try again.”

  They tried several times without success. At last, Edmund said, “I don’t think you want it badly enough, my boy.”

  Richard didn’t want it at all. He dreaded the shadowland, especially after Miranda’s vision of it, but he’d tried his best. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you know of anyone living who can do this? Have you ever seen Henry de Vere there?”

  Drifting back to the bed, Edmund said, “You mean, walking about? Egad, no. How would he learn?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. Any ideas?”

  Edmund pursed his lips. “He might have figured it out. Someone once did, or there’d have been no scrolls for me or anyone else to read.”

  Cheerful thought. “Do you know who?”

  “Only God is omniscient, boy.” Edmund hesitated for a moment. “You know, Richard ... I never meant—”

  “I know. Good night, Edmund.”

  The ghost vanished. Richard stared at the bed’s canopy. Someone must’ve learned how to travel the afterworld. And from there, learned to manipulate the past. No other explanation made sense. Therefore, Richard also could do these things. He would simply have to keep trying.

  Stifling a yawn, he glanced at the ornate, silver clock on the mantel. Six in the morning, so he’d best haul himself out of bed. He was to meet the king at seven to go fishing in St. James’s Park.

  Court gossip now seemed even more trivial compared to the pressing issue of time change, but he’d given his word to his sovereign. At least fishing didn’t involve much chatter and so would give him time to think.

  Miranda hoped the dread she felt didn’t show in her face when she greeted Arabella in the library after breakfast. Learning about magic had not been the joy she’d expected. She had what she’d always wanted, only to find that it made her dangerous in ways that were difficult to accept. Perhaps she should go back to the Golden Swan, where she knew what she was doing and couldn’t possibly hurt anyone.

  Or perhaps she should stop sniveling and learn to use her Gifts in a way that would help people. Miranda steeled her spine.

  “Yesterday,” the older woman said, “was painful for you. I salute you for being here and not trying to avoid this.”

  It had been difficult for Arabella, too, especially that horrible vision in the fire. The dowager countess’s face looked grave, and shadows lurked in her eyes. Yet her cool, composed manner did not invite comment.

  “Avoiding this will only make it worse,” Miranda said. “I realize that.”

  “Indeed.” Pouring tea into ceramic dishes, Arabella said, “The dragon, the incident at the hanging, the visions you’ve had, the dreams, and now a scrying you could neither direct nor break. You are very powerful, my dear.”

  “Yet I’ve never felt powerful.” Especially not now, when nothing she tried seemed to yield a useful result.

  “Sometimes one who’s very adept at some tasks may not have the same skill at others. Nonetheless, you created that dragon, which requires a great deal of power. The simple magics, such as basic scrying, extended senses, weather manipulation, or glamours, are easier, coupling power and will, but the combination of scrying with vision, as happened last night, takes prodigious magical strength.”

  “Then what I saw was real? Or could be?” When Arabella nodded, Miranda said, “I don’t want that to happen to Richard, but he won’t talk about it.”

  His grandmother shrugged. “He is a man. But even if your vision was a foretelling, Miranda, that does not mean it must come to pass. It may be only a possibility, especially now that events are so dreadfully in flux.”

  “I hope so.” Miranda hesitated, but she, too, worried for Richard. “I would hate to have that particular vision come to pass.”

  For an instant, Arabella’s fear for her grandson shone stark in her eyes. Then she drew a breath, straightened her shoulders, and composed her face. “Let us hope so.”

  Briskly, she added, “Now, let us see what you can do this morning. Look into the fire and summon an image, but think of something safe, perhaps your bedchamber.”

  Again, the older woman’s power joined with Miranda’s, nudging gently. Miranda tried, but nothing appeared in the flames.

  “Keep trying,” Arabella prompted.

  Miranda pushed her power at the fire and tried to think of the lovely, yellow chamber. But nothing happened.

  Long minutes slid past before Arabella gently touched her arm. “That’s enough for now. We’ll try again after you eat a bit.”

  She passed Miranda a plate piled with knot biscuits, palm-sized bread looped over itself as though in a knot. “Do you need to rest?”

  “No, thank you.” Miranda helped herself to a biscuit and savored the rich flavor. “This is wonderful.”

  “The recipe uses mace and aniseed, among others.” Arabella smiled. “Have another.”

  Miranda did. She would likely never stop noticing the glory spices could give ordinary food.

  They were about to begin again when Arabella’s head rose in a listening posture. “Wait.”

  A moment later, Miranda heard rapid footsteps approaching, muffled by the walls and door. The door swung open to admit a brown-haired man of middling height and amiable countenance.

  “Grandmère—oh. Ah. I beg pardon.”

  “I’m sure Enderby told you I was occupied,” the dowager countess said coolly. The glance she flicked at Miranda held a warning. “George, come and make your bow to your cousin Miranda Willoughby.”

  His brows rose. “Cousin?”

  Miranda fought the impulse to rise. A cousin would not, though she had no blood claim to being any such thing.

  “On Richard’s mother’s side,” Arabella replied. “Miranda, this is your cousin George Mainwaring.”

  “Richard’s heir,” the man added. Eyeing Miranda appraisingly, he sauntered into the room. “Grandmère, can you spare a cup of tea? The weather’s rotten.”

  “Not at the moment, George. We’re rather busy. Miranda and I have much to discuss about her stay with us.”

  “Do you indeed?” Speculation gleamed in his eyes.

  Miranda set her tea dish down carefully. If she didn’t handle it well, he’d know she didn’t belong here.

  “George, you must await Richard elsewhere.” Sternly, his grandmother stared at him. “Miranda and I have much to do.”

  “I came to see you, Grandmère, not Richard.” His smile didn’t warm his eyes. “Now that I’ve met our lovely cousin, I’d like to further our acquaintance.” He stopped before the low, red velvet sofa.

  “Another time,” Arabella insisted.

  “Oh, very well.” His petulant expression matched his voice. “Grandmère, cousin Miranda, good day to you.”

  “Good day, si—George,” Miranda said.

  “Yes, good day,” Arabella said.

  He strolled out of the room, leaving the door ajar. Miranda hurried to close it.

  “Thank you, Miranda.” Arabella waited for her to sit down again. “George is not Gifted, and he is sadly irresponsible. Should you encounter him again, you must take care what you say.”

  “I will. Thank you for warning me.”

  The older woman nodded. “I don’t wish to press you, but I fear time is not on our side, and I think your visions are very important. If you cannot control them, we must seek some other means to bring them to the fore.”

  “What other means?” Why did Arabella look so grave?

  “Magical means.
Which are not without risk. Come, let us try again.”

  Before they could, someone tapped on the door. A footman opened it a moment later and stepped in. “Your visitors are here, my lady. Enderby asked me not to show them up while Master Mainwaring was here.”

  “Quite right. Show them in, Colin.”

  Miranda rose. “I can practice in my chamber while your guests are here.”

  “You could, but you needn’t. They came to meet you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  The dowager countess smiled. “Your mother was a healer, and you wish to be one. Perhaps you have a gift in that area.”

  Three women of varying ages walked through the door Colin held open. The first was of medium height, with brown hair in fashionable clusters of curls and shot with gray. The smooth wool and minimal lace trim of her dark pink gown and the simple, silver locket at her throat marked her as from the merchant or gentry class.

  The other two were more simply clad, in homespun and with their hair in coiled braids at their napes. One was blonde and appeared to be a bit younger than Miranda, and the other looked to be past her first youth though her hair was still dark brown.

  Again a sense of recognition tingled at the nape of Miranda’s neck. She was growing accustomed to it now, to being among her own kind. She would never take that for granted.

  Colin bowed himself out.

  Arabella didn’t rise but said, “Cousins, let me make you known to each other. This is Miranda Willoughby, newly come from Kent to join our household.”

  Indicating the first woman, she added, “Miranda, this is Elspeth Taylor.”

  Miranda and Elspeth exchanged greetings, and Arabella nodded to the blonde woman. “Anne Wilfleet and her mother, Sarah. Elspeth is a mercer’s wife, and the Wilfleets are fishmongers.”

  As they greeted each other and the newcomers found seats, Arabella said, “Sarah is a healer, and Elspeth can sometimes help breach magical barriers. They’re part of my Gifted circle here in London. Anne came along because she wanted to meet you. She’s very good with defensive magic as well as the more aggressive sort.”