The Herald of Day

by Nancy Northcott

  “We must somehow stop that bastard,” Cabot said. “Begging your pardon, Miranda. The sooner, the better.”

  “I think I know how.” Richard’s eyes looked bleak, like a stormy winter night. “Edmund once told me the afterworld touches all times. If I go there, perhaps I can figure out how Wyndon gained the ability to travel time, to make these changes, and then undo it.”

  “I’ll help you,” Cabot and Miranda said together. They glanced at each other, startled, then smiled.

  “No,” Richard said. “Tripling our risk makes no sense. Three can’t move faster than one at this, and opening a portal for three is vastly more difficult than doing it for one.”

  Miranda frowned. “You shouldn’t go there alone.”

  “I won’t be alone. I’ll have Edmund.”

  “A ghost doesn’t seem like much aid,” she replied.

  “All will be well, love.” Before she or the brothers could protest further, he continued, “We’ve something else to do first.”

  Putting his arm around her, he said, “Jeremy, tell us the fastest way to marry.”

  Jeremy and Cabot grinned at each other. “First,” Jeremy said, “congratulations. As to the legalities, under the old law, if a betrothed couple anticipates the wedding, so to speak, they’re as good as wed, but the Church officially disapproves of relying on that. You should have a formal ceremony. I don’t suppose you would wait long enough to post the banns?”

  Richard and Miranda smiled sadly at each other, then at him. Time was the thing they had least.

  Jeremy nodded. “I’ll help you obtain a special license, then. We’ve a busy day tomorrow.”

  Staring at the images in his parlor fire, Henry frowned. A wedding. Quite a step up, from serving wench to countess.

  Hawkstowe looked besotted as they left the church, but would his new bride keep him occupied until the time changes overtook the present? Or would he use the shadow realm to track, and possibly undo in the real world, those changes? Did he even know he could? If he knew how, why hadn’t he already done so?

  A wise man would have, and Hawkstowe had to have traversed the shadowland to reach Croyland so quickly. But had he taken the time to explore it? Learning its ways had taken Henry weeks of travel there and a month of study at Pendragon.

  In a rush to save his intended, Hawkstowe likely hadn’t taken that time, so he couldn’t have learned much about the place. Such as how to hide there. Or how to command the wraiths without actually speaking. Or how to use the magic there to become an immensely more powerful being.

  Henry rubbed his chin. If Hawkstowe entered the afterworld again, he couldn’t be allowed to leave it.

  A scant hour after their wedding, Miranda sat in Richard’s chamber—their chamber now, for a little while—and watched him button his leather jerkin. “I wish you would let me come,” she said. “Or Cabot. I hate to think of you in that place alone.”

  He shook his head. “The afterworld is woven into my destiny, love, not yours.” He shoved his foot into a boot and grabbed its mate. “Somewhere there, I’ve kinsmen, and Edmund will help me. He knows how its magic works.”

  She ran her left thumb over her gold and emerald wedding band. Arabella’s—Grandmère’s, it had been. Miranda would cherish it all the more for that reason.

  Glancing at her hand, he smiled. “She would be glad to have you wear it.”

  “I hope so. I feel a little disloyal, wearing it so soon.” Perhaps it was fitting, though. She had chosen his grandmother’s path, embracing a doomed man’s cause rather than blaming him.

  “She had grown fond of you. I know she would want you to have it.” His smile faded. “If we can restore the timeline, perhaps she can dance at our next wedding.”

  “I hope so.” If they were still together when the timeline was restored. “Remember that vision I had of you in trouble in a mist-shrouded place. I’m terrified that it could come true.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  He had his boots on now. His gloves lay on the bed beside her. He tucked them into his belt, then drew her to her feet, his eyes intent. “I love you, my lady wife.”

  Cupping her cheek in his hand, he paused. His eyes searched hers, willing her to believe him. “Even if I succeed, sweeting, the correction may take time, as the changes did. I’m selfish enough to hope it does. I promise I’ll return for our wedding supper.”

  “You’d better.” Sudden fear threatened to choke her. “Richard, be wary.”

  “I will be. I have too much to live for.”

  Their lips met with soul-searing intensity. Too soon, he raised his head.

  “Hold that thought.” He brushed her hair back from her face. “You’re the lady of the house now. The servants will mind you, and gladly, since they’re so pleased about our marriage. Cabot and Jeremy will stay with you, and Jeremy will help you pass the time with more lessons in basic healing. With time travel, I can likely return an instant after I leave.”

  She nodded. “Do you have your anchor?” He had explained about needing one to return to reality.

  “In my pocket, a stone from the garden. I’ll be back before you have time to miss me.”

  “I already do, and I love you. Godspeed.”

  “I love you.” He kissed her quickly, then turned his back, took three quick strides toward the suddenly glowing doorway, and disappeared.

  Richard stepped through the barrier, magical shields up, and the shrieking wraiths whirled around him. Their cries sent ice rolling down his spine, but he couldn’t do anything about that.

  He started walking. Calling for Edmund in this not-place didn’t feel wise. Perhaps thinking of him would summon him.

  Richard hadn’t told Miranda everything. Putting history right had to come first, but he would also kill Wyndon for what he had done to her and to Grandmère. If he had to, he’d find a way to prove he acted within the rules of engagement.

  One by one, the wraiths seemed to tire of their futile assault and dropped away. Still no sign of Edmund, though. Richard walked alone in the stinking fog.

  Suddenly, the wraiths rushed back, surrounding him. The nape of his neck twitched, as though from a presence. Miranda’s warning flashed back to him. He wheeled, too late. Someone’s fist struck with enough magical force to pierce his shield and slam into his temple.

  Head spinning, he staggered and caught a glancing blow from something hard. His vision turned black at the edges. His shield dropped, and wraiths dived at him. Desperately, he clung to consciousness. Had to focus—shield.

  Something ripped down his back, piercing his jerkin and scraping his skin. Icicles of pain jabbed into his brain. Blind, he fell to his knees. Shields—couldn’t—

  Something yanked at his side. Ripped into his garments. Cold, fetid air rushed over him.

  Battling the throbbing pain and cold, he gathered himself. Felt the power. Shields. Almost there.

  The icicles lanced through his head, destroying his focus. Frigid, stinging hands grabbed his arms. Pinned them behind his back. Icy talons jabbed into his ballocks, and he choked on the pain.

  When he pressed his thighs together, the talons tore open his back. Sharp, chilling claws flayed stripes across his chest, back, legs, and arms. Agony ripped a cry from him as hot, wet blood dripped from the wounds and stung his nose with its coppery scent. Pain flashed through him in a searing wave that stopped his breath as oblivion claimed him.

  Chapter 27

  An ugly death, being torn to bits by wraiths, but suitable for one of Hawkstowe’s cursed destiny.

  Re-emerging in his parlor doorway, Henry smiled. He’d done it. By lurking in the afterworld near Hawkstowe House, he’d seen the young fool enter the afterworld, then lain in wait in the mists. When the wraiths attacked, he’d used them for cover to strike his foe in the head. Once Hawkstowe lost focus, and thus dropped his shields, he was doomed.

  Stumbling to a chair, Henry opened his fist and glanced at the pebble he held. Such an ordinary thing, yet so
important. He tossed it into the basket by the hearth. Perhaps Hawkstowe’s trapped, frustrated ghost would see him do it.

  Too bad he hadn’t been able to stay until the idealistic fool’s last tortured breath, but he couldn’t risk being out of reality when the time changes hit. He didn’t know what would happen if he were, and he’d dared too much to jeopardize his chance at the protectorate.

  Remembering the jagged, bloody wounds all over Hawkstowe’s body, Henry smiled. The de Veres had beaten the Mainwarings at last. Soon, he would rule all England.

  “Something has gone wrong.” Pacing in front of the library hearth, Miranda glanced at the mantel clock. “Richard should have returned by now.”

  Seated at the table, Cabot and Jeremy exchanged a glance. “I’ll see if I can figure out how to breach the barrier,” Cabot said, “but I can concentrate better if no one’s watching me.”

  “Use Richard’s—our—chamber,” Miranda suggested. “I believe you know where it is.”

  Cabot nodded, rising. On the way to the door, he squeezed her arm. “I’m sure he’s all right.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Miranda resumed pacing. “I’d just like to do something. Anything.” Sewing wasn’t nearly active enough, and she’d reached the limits of practicing the simple healing skills she’d learned.

  “I pray for his success and safety.” Jeremy looked down at his hands. “At times like this, I rue forswearing my powers.”

  Forswearing? “You healed my throat.”

  He shrugged. “Healing is the only one I use, as it serves others. The rest too easily become selfish. In the afterworld, Richard and Cabot had to shield me.”

  “Can you or Cabot teach me to do that? Shield, I mean.”

  “He can’t manage it here. The shield seems to need something in the afterworld. Cabot and Richard both tried, in case they ever needed to travel there again.”

  Footsteps approached in the hallway, loud and fast. Cabot burst into the room. “We must go. Hurry.”

  “Go where?” Miranda demanded. “Did you find Richard?”

  “No time. The protector’s men—Wyndon’s—are at the gate. With that scurvy rat, George. Morton refused to open up, so they’re breaking down the gate. One of your footmen came running up the stairs to warn us.”

  “The time changes have caught us, then.” Suddenly cold with fear, she hurried to the door. “If we’re leaving, I’ll need less conspicuous clothes. Wait here.”

  The Countess of Hawkstowe would stand out. The serving maid would not.

  Morton hadn’t opened the gate. Was Morton waiting for an order from her, Richard’s wife? Were they even wed in the new reality? Or did Morton simply not like George? Whatever his reason, the gatekeeper had bought them valuable time.

  Miranda ran down to her bedchamber and threw open the chest that held her old clothes. Even a small chest would be too much to carry, but she could bundle a few things in her spare cloak. She grabbed it and chose an old gown. Despite her new wardrobe, she’d kept her old garments as a hedge against whatever the future brought.

  Miranda ran back to the library. As she entered it, shots sounded in the courtyard. She threw a startled glance at Cabot.

  He sprang to the window to look. “The protector’s men are through the gate. Miranda, Richard has a secret stair.”

  “I know. This way.” Holding her skirts up, she ran for the library. She was Richard’s wife, but would the stair open for her? Or only for him?

  They raced into the room and to the hearth. Where had Richard tapped? She ran her finger along the edge of the carving. One spot tingled. She stopped. Tapped. Pressed.

  The bookcase swung back, and she blew out a relieved breath. “I’ll go first,” she said. If the wall opened for her, surely the traps would stay their power. At least, she hoped so. “But I can’t make witchlight.”

  Blue light flared around Cabot’s hand, casting a ghostly glow downward, as Jeremy tugged the library door shut. They followed the winding stair to the bottom without incident. She slammed her palm against the wall, and it, too, fell back.

  The magic had accepted her, so she was a Mainwaring now for certain. But for how long?

  “The way out is there, by the water.” Miranda hurried to it. That door, too, opened at her touch.

  “There are no traps past the first turn,” Cabot said. “Once we’re there, let me lead. Richard and I used to play in the secret tunnels.”

  “If you know them, does Wyndon?”

  “I doubt the Mainwarings shared the information, but that doesn’t ensure anything when magic is involved.”

  Regardless, they were committed now. She touched the door, and it closed behind them. With Cabot’s light revealing the way, they stepped into the narrow, low passage.

  They wandered in darkness, sometimes splashing in puddles, sometimes stumbling over loose stones.

  “Who built these tunnels?” Miranda asked, her voice low to avoid echoes.

  “Each family built its own escape route.” Cabot’s soft tone didn’t carry far. He glanced at his brother. “Our house is only half a mile away, and our tunnels connect with these. We should veer into ours in case Wyndon somehow discovered Richard’s secret.”

  “If he discovered Richard’s,” Miranda asked quietly, “could he have discovered yours?”

  “We don’t know he learned of either. I recommend the change as a precaution, but it’s up to you. We’ve a passage that emerges in a tavern cellar.”

  The idea made sense. “Lead on,” she said.

  They picked their way through the semi-darkness for another long interval. The uneven footing slowed their progress, and time seemed to drag. As they trudged through the tunnel, Miranda listened for sounds of pursuit.

  At last, Cabot stopped. He touched a section of wall, and it swung inward. He ducked through the low opening. Miranda and Jeremy followed him up a narrow wooden staircase.

  He paused at the top. “Let me see what’s out there.” His eyes lost focus. He must be extending his senses.

  One day, she would have to refine her use of that trick. Except that she’d lost her teachers. And her love.

  Her throat closed. She swallowed hard. Surely she would know if he died. Surely she would.

  “All clear,” Cabot whispered. He quenched his witchlight and tapped the wall. It swung inward to reveal a dim cellar. “Let me look around first.” He slipped through the opening.

  Cabot vanished. The world twisted around itself.

  Richard opened his eyes. He lay on a pallet in a tent of some blue fabric with Edmund seated on the ground at his side. The pain was gone.

  Of course, dead men probably didn’t feel pain.

  The realization stabbed through him. Gone. All hope for England, for him and Miranda, was gone. There was no one other than Wyndon who could travel this realm now.

  “How do you feel?” Edmund asked.

  “Tired. For a dead man, I suppose,” he said bitterly.

  “You’re not dead, no thanks to your folly.”

  “Not dead?” Truly? Was there still a chance to put everything right?

  “Not,” Edmund confirmed.

  Richard laughed in relief, and Edmund added, scowling, “The next time you mean to try such a thing, let me know. I’ll stand guard while you enter. At least my healing powers haven’t grown rusty. Repaired your garments, too. Your clothes were in shreds.”

  The memory roared back, and Richard flinched. “My thanks. How long have I been here?”

  “A couple of days, as time passes in the living world.”

  Days! Miranda would be frantic.

  Richard sat up and felt for his pocket. It was gone, torn completely away. “My anchor, a stone—it was in this pocket. Did you take it?”

  “No.” Edmund’s expression turned grim. “I heard a cry, came toward it, and saw wraiths assailing you. Mayhap they took it.”

  “I can’t imagine why. Someone attacked me.” Someone who’d used the wraiths for
cover. “It must’ve been Wyndon. He must’ve taken the stone.”

  “You can’t return to the living world unless someone anchored to it comes for you.” Edmund paused. “I’ve seen them scry for you without success. They may think you’re dead.”

  “I must let Miranda know I live.” Richard pushed himself upright. Still no pain. Good.

  Edmund rose, too. “You can reach only your blood kin—descendants, not that fool, George. Your friend Cabot tried to come for you, but he couldn’t. Now he’s disappeared, probably in a time shift.”

  Richard swallowed against a rush of grief. “Perhaps there’s another way. Miranda and I have a unique bond.”

  “We’ll see whether that can serve. Meanwhile, we’ve a more immediate problem. I’ve no food for you, nor water. I’ve sustained you by drawing power from the fog and transferring it to you, as with a healing spell. Now that you’re recovering, you can draw power for yourself, but no magic can sustain you indefinitely. You’ve few days more—not even a sennight, I’d guess, before you become ill.”

  So he’d gained only a reprieve. He’d better not waste it, then.

  “I must find Miranda. Then I need to learn how to set history right. Once I manage to escape from here.”

  Edmund looked gravely at him. “When we step outside, draw power to protect yourself, as you did before. I’ll help if you need it.”

  They walked out of the tent and into the gray, foggy twilight. The wraiths dived at them. Richard ducked, reaching for power. It came in such a rush that his skin crawled with it and his gut churned. Hell’s feet, why couldn’t he have fought through the pain and shielded that way earlier?

  The wraiths shrieked, clawing at him.

  “Oh, begone.” A wave of Edmund’s hand banished them.

  “Nice trick.”

  Edmund shrugged. “Think of your wife, and you’ll find her.”