The Herald of Day

by Nancy Northcott

  He and Miranda would never have met.

  The thought stabbed his soul. What would be, would be, but if he could hold her just once more ... He drew in a sharp, painful breath and set his jaw. First things first.

  To change anything, he had to reach the living world, which meant someone anchored to it had to come and free him. The shadowland was the last place he wanted Miranda to see, but she was the only person he might be able to reach. Could he let her risk coming here?

  This was what came of power assuming its rightful place. Standing at the window of what would once have been the king’s apartments in Whitehall Palace, Lord Protector Henry de Vere, formerly the mere Earl of Wyndon, savored the view.

  Moonlight shone on the river, a silvery path broken by the black shadows of ships riding at anchor. Under his heel, London lay at peace. The time plague outbreak was ebbing, and stern allocation of resources, backed by the power of Henry’s Gifted allies, had protected the capital from the food shortages the time changes had caused.

  Now that the time stream had settled, the weather had calmed. Agriculture should return to its usual production levels, as would trade.

  Seated at the table behind him, William said, “There’s an excellent cheese course, Father.”

  “Of course there is. The Lord Protector of England dines only upon the best.” Henry strolled back to the table and took the seat across from William’s.

  William raised his wine goblet, fine Venetian glass rimmed in gold, in salute. “No more skulking in the shadows and pretending to live ordinary, unGifted lives. We can be seen for what we truly are, masters of all we survey.”

  “Not quite.” Henry seated himself and selected a wedge of Stilton. “But very nearly. France appears likely to stop rattling her sword, and Spain cowers before us. As for the Low Countries, profitable trade will pacify them.”

  “Destroying the Ile de France would convince Louis to turn Charles Stuart over to you.”

  The French king still harbored the fugitive prince, proclaimed but not crowned as Charles II in the new reality. “Stuart has little money and fewer followers. Let’s not borrow trouble, William.”

  Now that Henry had averted the Restoration, proclaimed was as close to the throne as Stuart would come. “As for the French Gifted, if they prefer to remain hidden, that’s their choice. Stupid but theirs.”

  “And so typically French.” Smirking, William selected a piece of cheese. “We’ve a new crop of Gifted breeding wenches in custody. A couple of them required some persuasion but ultimately saw reason.”

  “They’ll see the benefits eventually.” Such as sturdy roofs over their heads and fine food. Their common lives couldn’t ensure that. They wouldn’t even have to raise the brats they whelped. The Gifted fathers would see to that.

  “Some of them love their husbands,” William pointed out. “Some have religious scruples about fornication and adultery, but in the end, they preferred breeding Gifted heirs for their betters to the deaths of their families and friends. When the Gifted lords come for Parliament, they’ll have a wide choice.”

  “They’ll welcome that choice after tomorrow’s decree.”

  It would order that all peerages descended to the eldest Gifted son, legitimate or not, or else lapsed. Any titles not currently held by a Gifted peer would also instantly lapse. The protectorate could then bestow them on its Gifted allies.

  Since the chance of producing a Gifted heir rose if both parents were Gifted, the lords would benefit from having breeders in addition to, or instead of, their unGifted wives. “Within a generation, Gifted nobles will wed only our own kind.”

  “Possibly sooner. I hear Lady Benton had an unfortunate accident. Or so Lord Benton says.” William sipped wine. “Ah, well. Benton can choose a breeder or else wed a Gifted lady.”

  Henry grunted. “Speaking of breeders, have you found the Hawkstowe wench?”

  “As you predicted, the reward offer bought information. She’s hiding in a Fleet Street tavern. The guards are on their way to seize her and her male companion, who could be Jeremy Winfield. He’s no threat, of course.” William shook his head. “What a fool, eschewing the full use of his power.”

  “He’s religious.” Henry shrugged. “I want that woman. If she’s with child, we must know. Our victory isn’t complete while that wretched line endures.”

  “I assume we’ll kill any brat she whelps.”

  “If it’s male.” Pausing, Henry eyed William. How far ahead could the boy think? “If it’s a daughter, what do you suggest?”

  After a moment, William’s eyes lit. “A de Vere heir out of the last Mainwaring would subjugate their line to ours forever.”

  “Very good.” He was a bright lad. A worthy successor but too ambitious to be allowed to know that. “I want Hawkstowe’s widow. Breaking her will be a pleasure, and if she bears a girl, you can have the child.”

  William smiled. “Think of Hawkstowe’s ghost watching her moan and thrash under you when you ride her. Or seeing her bear your son.”

  “I will enjoy that. Unless she holds dangerous knowledge.”

  Such as how to travel the afterworld, which Hawkstowe and the Winfield brothers, at least, had done. She must be aware of its existence, but she might not know how to enter it. Admiralty records of the new history showed Cabot Winfield killed in the abortive rebellion of 1669. Hawkstowe’s other close friend, the Earl of Havelock, had also died in the new timeline.

  “If she does have dangerous knowledge?” William asked.

  “We’ll kill her, of course. And Winfield for certain.”

  Richard, Miranda thought. If you’re there, give me some sign. Anything. I can’t believe you’re dead. I won’t.

  She could almost feel him near. Almost. What a wretched word.

  Believing he lived grew harder with each passing hour. Had he become trapped in the afterworld, or had her horrible vision of him under attack there come true?

  At last, her body’s weariness overcame her fear. She fell into an uneasy doze ....

  And met Richard on a hillside bright with summer flowers. He smiled at the swaddled infant in his arms. “He has your eyes.”

  She took the baby, its small, bundled frame a sweet weight in her arms. Eyes the same light blue as her own stared back at her. “He’s so tiny.”

  Richard put his arm around her. “I’m glad he was born at Hawkstowe. I’ve always loved this place.”

  Smiling at him, she noticed the manor beyond him. Morning sunlight washed over the gray stone of the hall, tower, and crenellated walls and gave the half-timbered upper stories of the great hall and the gatehouse a faint glow. Smoke rose from the kitchen. With it came a faint scent of roasting mutton.

  What a beautiful day.

  “I love Hawkstowe, but I love you more,” he said, his voice low and soft.

  She turned to him. The blue of his eyes warmed as he cupped her cheek. Beyond him, the manor and the hillside and the forest wavered. This was a dream. “No—Richard!”

  She clutched at his fading shape. As her hand went through him, the baby disappeared. Everything turned gray. Tears welled in her eyes, and Miranda fell to her knees.

  “Richard—Richard, oh, pray, don’t go.”

  “I haven’t gone.”

  Mist swirled everywhere. Scrubbing at her eyes with the back of one hand, she said, “Richard?”

  “Here, beside you.” His voice came from over her right shoulder.

  Although she felt his presence, she saw nothing. “Where?”

  The mists faded into the secret room. “No—”

  “I’m in the afterworld, and you’re with Jeremy. Just don’t awaken.” He stood before her, looking real and solid despite sulphurous mists wafting around him.

  “Then—I’m dreaming?” Could this possibly be happening? Was he really there? Or a figment of desperate love?

  “You still sleep, but I’m no dream. I’m alive, love. Edmund saved me.”

  The words struck her like a ha
mmer in her chest. New hope constricted her lungs until she could scarcely breathe. She drew in a shuddering, gasping breath. Holding it, she fought to control herself.

  “Listen, sweet, because I don’t know how long I can hold this link. I’ve found out how Wyndon went back in time. I can fix the timeline if I can leave here. Unfortunately, I don’t have an anchor. He stole it.”

  “Then you’re trapped,” she said slowly as her heart plummeted. “Oh, Richard. Cabot already tried to come look for you. He couldn’t breach the barrier—he thought, because he hadn’t talked from this side to someone on the other side. Jeremy and I both tried today. And Richard—I’m so sorry, but now Cabot’s gone.”

  “I know. I overheard you earlier. That’s another reason to put all this right.”

  There just might be a way. “I’m talking to you, connected to you,” she realized. “Mayhap I could—”

  “Perhaps, but if you do, Miranda, I don’t want you coming here. If you and Jeremy can open a portal, let him come fetch me. This place is vile and dangerous.”

  “I don’t care. I told you, I would dare anything for you.”

  “I care,” he said, his face grim. “Besides, the transition requires channeling pure, raw power and sustaining it. You haven’t enough experience doing that. Jeremy has more training than you do, has even been here, and still couldn’t form a portal. Frankly, the odds that either of you can do it are slim, and even worse for the possibility that you can learn to do so quickly. But we must try.”

  “Tell me what to do.” She had to see him, touch him. Know he was no dream. “Whatever it’s like there, it can’t be worse than the England Wyndon has made. His soldiers set a woman on fire for refusing to serve one of his friends.”

  “Evil bastard.” His lips tightened.

  After a long moment, he said, “You’ll need an anchor, a stone or a fallen twig, not something anyone has broken or shaped. Something easy to carry.”

  “I’ve nothing like that, but I can find a stone in the street. And one for you as well.”

  “Jeremy and I can share one if we travel together.” He paused, frowning. “A bigger problem is that you can’t use your magic while you sleep. Edmund talked me through coming here while I was awake. When you awaken, mayhap I can reach you, now that you know I’m near.”

  “Oh, I hope so.” Despite his firm tones, she felt something in their connection. He seemed weary. “Richard, are you all right?”

  He smiled, and she could almost feel his hand on her cheek.

  Almost. That a horrid word again.

  “There’s a limit,” he said, “to the time I can sustain myself here, with no food or water, so haste is vital.”

  The words struck at her heart. “Richard—”

  “I love you, Miranda. I—”

  Something scraped nearby, yanking her from sleep. From him. No ...

  I’ll stay near you. Try to reach me, said Richard’s voice in her head, fading as she came fully awake.

  The scratching came again, and she awoke with a jolt.

  With a glance at Jeremy, who rubbed a hand through his rumpled hair, she pushed herself upright. Blue witchlight showed around the door.

  The bolt shot back magically. Vergil, the tavern owner, opened the hatch and poked his head inside. The blue glow gave his worried face a spectral cast. “You must go. We’ve had word from spies in the palace. Soldiers are coming for you.” He scrambled back down the ladder.

  Miranda and Jeremy gathered their things and climbed down the ladder. Across the dark common room, Vergil waited by the alley door. Expecting soldiers to burst in at any moment, she and Jeremy rushed across the room and out the door.

  The alley behind the tavern lay in deep shadow. A chill wind blew off the Thames, sending clouds scudding across the sliver of moon. She turned to Vergil, who stood silhouetted in the dark doorway. “Are you certain you won’t come with us?”

  “We’ll do well enough. We’ve plans laid. Hurry.” He shut the door, and a thunk signaled the bolt sliding home.

  She glanced at Jeremy, his features barely visible in the dimness, even to her Gifted eyes. “Do you have any idea where we should go?” Too many of the Gifted knew about the tunnels, so he’d said using them was dangerous. Above ground, at least they had room to run if they needed to.

  “Listen.” He tensed, his head cocked.

  Distant thumps, growing louder. Rhythmic. Marching men.

  “Not that way.” She hurried toward the alley’s other end. There, too, came the sound of marching feet.

  “This way,” he whispered. “We’ll circle behind them.”

  “What way? There’s no other alley.”

  He stepped into heavy shadow. “Yes, there is,” he said. His hand reached for her, ghostly pale in the moonlight. She took it, and he drew her into a low, cramped space. He stooped under its low overhang.

  “Magic will hide us from men’s sight and from scrying,” he said. “But anyone Gifted who’s nearby will feel it, and we know Wyndon has Gifted in his army. Your choice.”

  “Once they know we’ve left the tavern, they’ll hunt for us. Let’s hide magically. If you can do that.”

  “In the interest of protecting you, I can.”

  She invoked power, summoning an image of the alley empty. That should conceal her. Jeremy winked out of sight. He groped for her hand, then folded his warm, invisible one around it.

  The contact whispered over her senses like fine silk on flesh as his power brushed hers. Their glamours merged, and she could see him.

  “This passage is left from before the Great Fire,” he said softly. “It ends near Pudding Lane.”

  Where her father and brother had died. Please let that not be an omen.

  As they walked, she caught no hint of Richard’s presence. He must not be able to reach her when she was awake, and that meant he couldn’t teach her to open a portal. But she had to. If she couldn’t, he would starve to death. His soul would be trapped in the shadowland forever, and nothing could set history to rights.

  The sky was growing light when Jeremy stopped. “The alleys end here. We need help. The rector of All Hallows Barking, by the Tower, dislikes seeing people hunted. He sheltered Royalists during the Protectorate and Dissenters after. If he’s still alive in this new time, we can trust him.”

  Of course, he might not be alive, but if Jeremy had a better suggestion, he’d make it. Miranda had nothing to offer. “Lead on, then, Jeremy.”

  With their concealing glamours overlapping, they plodded onward. Weariness from sustaining the invisibility glamour dogged her. It drew more power than the old disguise she’d used in Dover.

  They crossed St. Botolph’s Lane, then swung north, away from the river, on a street she didn’t know, while the city slept around them.

  The buildings looked wrong, though. Wooden instead of the brick or stone used since the Great Fire. Old, with upper stories overhanging the street. As though the fire had never happened. Which might be the case.

  She mentioned her observation about the buildings to Jeremy. He glanced around. “You could be right. If so, there are all sorts of alleys where we could hide. Or our enemies could. If we meet trouble, Miranda, run. I’ll try to gain time for you, but I don’t fight magically.” He paused at a corner.

  “Even against such evil?”

  “I beat my sword into a ploughshare long ago, but I’ll do what I can to defend you.”

  “As I will you.” She couldn’t abandon him.

  “No. If it comes to that, run. You’re a greater threat to Wyndon than I am.”

  Across the street, a shopkeeper opened his shutters. His tired-looking wife swept the doorstep. The city was awakening.

  Jeremy pressed a finger to his lips for silence before he stepped into the street.

  Even though the sun was rising, she counted only three shops opening. Was London so dangerous now that folk waited until the morning arrived in full before unbolting their doors?

  They followed a
narrow lane past a churchyard, and Jeremy frowned. “Someone’s blocked up the alley I wanted to use,” he whispered. “We’ll have to go up to East Cheap and cut over.”

  As they passed a narrow alley, a voice within it cried, “Halt!”

  Her breath caught, then her heart roared to a furious beat. A score of men raced out of the alley, halberds at the ready. “You there!” The lead guardsman pointed directly at them. “Halt in the name of the Lord Protector.”

  But she and Jeremy were invisible. She glanced to the side. Jeremy had a shadow. So did she. How?

  “Run,” he snapped. He pushed her toward the river and charged, barehanded, toward the guardsmen.

  She couldn’t leave him. “Fire,” she shouted, and willed it. A wall of flame sprang up in front of the guardsmen. Through it, she saw them stop. “Jeremy!”

  Even as he backpedaled, the fire died. The guards’ leader strode forward. They followed.

  “Ice,” she cried, pouring her soul into the word. With a broad, sweeping gesture, she spread her power across the ground ahead of the whole troop. They lost their footing, but she couldn’t hope the wizard wouldn’t counter her. If only she had more training.

  “Fire,” she yelled again. Her heart was racing, her breath coming in gasps. This took so much power. She gestured to their breastplates and they heated to glowing orange. Struggling to doff them, the men shrieked and squirmed.

  Jeremy grabbed her hand. “Run,” he panted.

  They wheeled. Could she put the guards to sleep? Could she ... kill them?

  Searing pain struck her back and slammed her forward. She and Jeremy tumbled to the ground. Agony roared through her mind. Blackness danced across her vision. Breathing hurt.

  Beside her, Jeremy writhed. Sounds came toward them. Boots on cobblestones. She and Jeremy had to stand up, run. But she couldn’t.

  A man seized her arms. When he rolled her over, torment shot through her back. She cried out as it hit the cobblestones. Panting, she bit her lip against further protest.