The rear guard, now reduced to Anne and one of the men, clambered over the wreckage. The group bolted toward the old palace and Westminster Abbey.
“We must be heading for Westminster Stairs,” Jeremy muttered.
With Jeremy at her side, she pounded after the leaders. Someone at the front of the group loosed a blast of magic, and then the leaders were racing through the gate.
Corsets weren’t made for running. Her breath came in short, harsh gasps, but she kept pace. Death would be better than captivity at the hands of Wyndon’s men.
“If we had a secure place to hide,” Jeremy panted as they cleared the gate, “Wyndon would make a good hostage.” He gulped air.
Miranda flinched as she passed the gate’s fallen guard.
A booming sound came from behind them, then a cry. Over her shoulder, she saw the man in the rear fall, writhing.
Their party raced along the road, passing darkened houses. Behind them, the lone survivor of the rear guard, Anne, blew out the gateway’s ceiling in a deafening blast of green light.
Rubble crashed down, its impact shaking the ground so they all staggered. The old palace of Westminster loomed ahead, most of its windows dark above its stone outer walls.
Miranda had lost sight of Wyndon. If he’d escaped, would she even know? She glanced back at Whitehall Palace. Men on horseback clambered cautiously over the ruined gate.
“Horses,” she screamed toward those at the front of their group. Moonlight glinted off an onyx amulet, and she spotted Wyndon before the men hauling him along blocked her view.
The horsemen would have to take care crossing the rubble, but once they cleared the pile, they’d overtake the fleeing group in no time.
Jeremy caught her arm. New strength flowed into her. Her steps gathered speed. Her breathing eased. He must’ve shared his power with her.
Running full out, they veered right, heading for the Collegiate Church of Saint Peter, better known as Westminster Abbey. Why were they not heading for the river stairs?
The group dashed for the massive, stone structure that gleamed in the moonlight. The smaller, paler shape of St. Margaret’s church stood nearer, but the leaders ran past it.
Miranda and Jeremy passed stragglers from their group.
“No,” Jeremy said. “They’re running into the Abbey.”
Blue light burst against his back. He staggered. Making a choked sound, he fell.
“Jeremy?” She ran back for him. His shirt and jerkin had been seared through, and red blisters covered his back.
“Go,” he choked.
“I won’t leave you.”
The stragglers, four men and Anne, slowed. Behind them, horsemen galloped, closing the distance much too fast.
“Take her,” Jeremy urged, his voice rough with pain.
“No.” She couldn’t leave him. He was her companion and Richard’s friend. The last one left alive, possibly.
“No choice,” one of the men said. He and Anne caught Miranda’s arms and carried her forward.
“He wouldn’t want you to die with him,” Anne panted.
Two other men grabbed Jeremy, hoisting him to his feet.
“Leave me,” he gasped.
“If we must,” one promised.
They ran headlong past St. Margaret’s, toward the double doors in the towering wall beyond it. The doors flew open ahead of them, and they raced into Westminster Abbey’s sheltering darkness. The men carrying Jeremy plunged through behind them.
Anne slammed the doors shut. She waved her hands. The doors glowed, the light slowly fading. As she sagged against the doorframe, the remaining wizards raced toward other doors.
The dim glow of witchlight lit the aisles. Miranda ran to Jeremy. He lay still, with his eyes closed, near the steps to the high altar. Someone’s cloak covered him. His breathing rasped. She touched his cheek gently.
He glanced up at her, his eyes dark with pain. “We are profaning ... this place,” he whispered.
“We have no choice,” she said gently. “Once I catch my breath, I’ll see if I can heal you.”
Such a positive use of her magic wouldn’t balance the destruction this night had seen, but at least she wouldn’t feel conflicted about it.
Jeremy shook his head. “Save ... your strength. You’ll need it.”
If the next part of their plan succeeded, he meant.
She glanced around and saw Lucius on the steps to the choir enclosure. He looked weary. Her own hands shook with reaction and fatigue. She clasped them together.
Their comrades, reduced to eight from the score who’d gone to Whitehall, stumbled wearily toward Lucius. To their right stretched the long nave, its roof supported by stone pillars, its walls towering above the floor. Without sunlight behind them, the stained glass windows looked like dark markers on the walls.
Far above, lost in gloom too high for their faint light to reach, was the arched, vaulted ceiling. Only Gifted eyes could have seen it at all.
Despite the darkness and the danger, the magnificence of the church took her breath away. Power hung in the air, strength accumulated through centuries of the faithful worshipping here. Jeremy was right. Their conflict profaned this place.
“The horsemen were closing too quickly,” Lucius said. “We couldn’t have held them off long enough for our barge to retrieve us. We’re all weary, I know, but before we rest, we must ward the sanctuary. Quickly.”
Then what? How could they escape if Wyndon’s men surrounded the church?
One of the men stayed with the prisoner. One walked over to kneel by Jeremy, and the rest of the group scattered for the walls, each placing their palms flat against the stone.
“Now,” Lucius said.
A rainbow of colors flowed out of the wizards’ hands. Slowly, irregularly, as though the weary Gifted struggled with the task, the colors inched up the walls, brought the stained glass windows to vibrant life in a dazzling kaleidoscope of emerald and scarlet and azure and gold, and spread across the ceiling. Every inch of the church sparkled with magical power that sent prickles down Miranda’s neck and along her arms.
The group, some swaying on their feet with fatigue, returned to Lucius’s side. “Why here?” a man who looked to be about forty asked.
Lucius said, “If we’d made for the river, we would’ve been trapped. At least this place has power we can draw to hold our wards.”
“And then what?” someone called out. “We can’t hold this indefinitely.”
“So we negotiate,” Lucius answered, but his gaze flicked to Miranda. If their admittedly desperate plan succeeded, the group would never have been here at all.
Wyndon’s lip curled. “There aren’t enough of you to hold the wards more than a day or so. You’re trapped. Beg for mercy, and I may spare you.”
“The abbey itself is a place of great power,” Lucius said. “Power we can tap in a righteous cause. A day is long enough for you to undo what you’ve done.”
Jeremy groaned softly. The sturdy, thirtyish man kneeling by him gripped his shoulder. “Easy, cousin. Give me a moment, and we’ll begin.”
Miranda squeezed Jeremy’s arm, the only comfort she had to offer, before she stood and walked toward the group around Wyndon. Their plan had called for Jeremy to help her with Wyndon. What if he couldn’t?
“I won’t undo anything,” Wyndon said flatly. “You fools, England is almost what she should have been, a land ruled by those with the power to hold what we have. A land where we needn’t hide. Where we enjoy the privileges our power deserves. You’d give that up to the unGifted?”
“There are more of them than of us,” Lucius said.
“More chickens, too,” Wyndon said, “but I don’t see you turning the realm over to them. Think of it, man. No one need ever hang for witchcraft again.”
Miranda clenched her fists. “You dare invoke that after what you did to me?”
He shrugged. “One uses the tools at hand. Most who hang for witchcraft are innocent, and thos
e few of the Gifted who hang rarely consort with the dark powers. If you care so much for the innocent, think on that.”
Miranda shook her head. “Pretty words count for little when backed by evil deeds.”
“You’ve tampered with time itself and broken nature’s law,” Lucius said, “and you will put it right.”
“Not even if you kill me for it,” Wyndon said quietly. “But you won’t, because that isn’t what you do.”
“Don’t be too sure of that.” Lucius beckoned to several of his men. They drew a little apart, leaving Miranda with Wyndon. Their low voices didn’t carry far enough to be understood. Others of the group were sitting or lying on the floor to let their magic recover from the running battle.
Wyndon quirked an eyebrow at her. “Reconsidering my offer? You should. You’re trapped like rats in a cage here.”
“Do you know what happened to Richard?” Her voice shook, but maybe that was all right. Wyndon had to believe she was worried.
“Your husband, you mean? You’ve risen far in the world, serving wench.”
She clenched her fists in her skirts. “Do you know where he is or not?”
Jeremy walked toward her. He was already recovered?
“Are you sure you should be up?” she asked.
“I’m the new guard.” He patted her shoulder. “After the healing energy I just received, I’m in better shape than anyone here, at least until the others have rested.”
“I’m surprised you’re considered a fit guard,” Wyndon said, “since you won’t fight magically.”
Jeremy’s lip curled in an uncharacteristic sneer. “I don’t need magic to knock you down.”
“Jeremy, please.” Lowering her voice, Miranda added, “Richard went into that place, the one where people go when they die, and didn’t return. He told me you know how to go there. So you’re the only one who can find him.”
Wyndon shrugged. “Perhaps he’s left you.”
Miranda flinched and hoped it looked genuine. “He wouldn’t.”
“If he lost his way there,” Wyndon said, “he’s dead unless he knew to shield himself from the wraiths, the damned souls who’re trapped there. Even if he could do so, he’ll starve to death eventually. If he doesn’t first let his shield lapse and fall prey to the wraiths. They’ll tear him apart.”
Jeremy snapped, “Stop it, Wyndon.”
“She asked,” Wyndon pointed out.
“Is there a way to save him?” Miranda asked. “Doing so would help your cause with the Conclave.”
Wyndon raised an eyebrow. “Come now, your common ladyship. You can’t expect me to believe that.”
Jeremy took a step nearer, his fists clenched. “Is there a way to free him?”
“I’ll tell her,” the prisoner said, jerking his head toward Miranda, “but not with you hovering. I make no promises, but it may not be too late to save him.”
Softly, her eyes begging him, Miranda said, “Please, Jeremy. Where can he go, anyway, without his magic?”
Scowling, Jeremy backed off about twenty feet.
“You said we could save Richard.” Keeping her voice low, Miranda let a pleading note creep into it. “How?”
“The answer for my freedom—and your services as my seer,” Wyndon replied, his voice soft so it wouldn’t carry.
With a loud, crackling noise, something struck the building. The floor trembled, and the rainbow warding flickered.
“I can’t let you go,” Miranda protested softly. She cast a nervous glance at the group around Lucius.
“Then your husband will certainly die.” Wyndon shrugged. “Horribly.”
Miranda gnawed her lip. “If I let you go—if ... would you drop your feud with Richard?”
“That was of his making more than mine. I’ll drop it if he does.”
The building shook again. The wards flickered and blurred. Gifted ran to reinforce them.
“If my men break through before you decide,” Wyndon said coolly, “I’ll have no reason to bargain.”
A voice from the group of men around Lucius said, “We should kill him. That would stop this.”
“Only for a moment,” someone else said. “Until someone takes his place.”
Jeremy stood with his arms crossed and his feet planted. His narrow-eyed stare at Wyndon didn’t waver.
“You’ll save Richard from the wraiths? You’ll protect us both?” Miranda asked.
“If he still lives, I will. If he doesn’t, you’ve no obligation to me.”
Except, of course, that the man lied as easily as he breathed.
Miranda frowned at him. “If you stop the wraiths from killing Richard,” she began, knowing that was already done, “and do nothing to harm him, I’ll serve as your seer for one year.”
“Two,” he said smoothly.
Of course, he had no intention of limiting her service, but she had no intention of making a promise that would bind her. Richard, you’d better be there.
“Done,” Miranda said. She snatched the amulet from around Wyndon’s neck. He magically burst the ropes at his wrists. She threw herself against him, knocking him sideways so the bolt he aimed at Jeremy flew wide.
As the other wizards shouted and rushed toward them, Wyndon grabbed her hair and dragged her a single step to her right. In a blast of freezing cold, the world wrenched out of being.
Chapter 30
Wyndon’s grip loosened. Miranda leaped to her left, away from him. Purple-gray fog surrounded her with the stench of rotten eggs. Gaunt, wasted faces rushed toward her. With a gasp, she ducked. Taloned hands ripped at her clothes. She fell to her knees.
Her skin tingled, power shrouding her in protection, and the hands no longer assailed her, though they still pushed against whatever shielded her. She raised her head, peering past the screaming, darting shapes.
Richard and Wyndon stood a few feet to her right, Wyndon stumbling backward as the skeletal shapes raged around them. The glow around the two men must be magical shielding.
Richard closed the distance and slammed a fist into Wyndon’s face. Wyndon lost his footing and fell.
A broadsword formed in Richard’s hand, its point at Wyndon’s throat.
“Don’t move,” Richard said in a voice that could’ve frozen the Thames in summer. Keeping his attention on Wyndon, he held out an arm to Miranda. “Are you hurt, love?”
She ran to him, and he drew her close. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how much she feared he’d died, that she’d imagined their conversation. She buried her face in his neck. He smelled the same, of bay leaves. Felt the same, sturdy and warm, though with fatigue dragging at him. This was real, not some desperate dream she’d conjured.
Whatever happened next, at least they were together.
I hated this plan while you were hatching it, he told her, but you’ve done well. Even if you did it by coming here.
Where he hadn’t wanted her. Richard—
“Good work, lad.” A man strode out of the fog. Not quite so tall as Richard, he had the same coloring, though silver streaked his shoulder-length, black hair. He was narrower of frame and squarer of jaw, but he had the same nose and eyes. He wore a green velvet tunic, matching hose, and low boots of dark leather. At his side dangled an empty scabbard.
Noting her glance, he said, “It belonged to the sword of Hawkstowe. Edmund Mainwaring, at your service, Lady Hawkstowe.”
“I’m honored to meet you, my lord.”
Wyndon snorted. “This isn’t the banqueting house at Whitehall.”
“Nor shall you ever see it again,” Richard said. “You attacked Miranda and murdered my grandmother. Now you’re going to pay for that. Stand up.”
Wyndon flung himself backward. His shielding aura flickered out. The wraiths swooped in, only to meet renewed shielding. Richard slashed at them, but his blade had no effect. The bastard was hiding behind them.
“Stay behind me,” he told Miranda. His magic still encased her in a protective aura. Feel what I’m
doing to shield you and do the same. Draw power around you from the fog.
With his mind guiding hers, she did as he said. Power crackled purple around her and sizzled through her with dizzying force.
“Steady.” He tightened his hold until the dizziness faded.
Now her own power protected her. She caressed his cheek and found it thin, the cheekbone sharp under his new, scruffy beard. In his arms, she could feel the weariness he fought. Richard?
One can’t live on magic forever, or so Edmund tells me. He smiled in her mind. I’ll be fine as soon as I have food and water, and some true rest. Pray, tell me you brought an anchor.
A pebble tucked into my bodice.
Excellent.
The wraiths wheeled away from Wyndon. He stood alone, magically shielded, clad in black armor, and holding a broadsword and a black shield.
“I suppose it’s useless trying to bargain with you,” he said, “but if you join me, I’ll lift your family curse.”
Richard smiled. “I already know how to do that.”
“You may think you do, but all you can manage is to create more time-related problems.” He stalked toward Richard and Miranda.
Backpedaling, Richard kept Miranda behind him. His magic drawing on the pervasive vapors raised goose bumps on her flesh. The fog swirled around his body, hardening until he, too, wore plate armor and held a shield. that matched the ones in Miranda’s visions.
As Edmund drew her aside, she said, “Richard, no. Don’t fight him.” Remember my dream. If he kills you, there’s no hope for fixing the timeline.
Richard raised his sword in a guard position. Your dream doesn’t fit these circumstances. If I kill him here, he can’t stop us from fixing history, and then none of this will have happened. If we take him back, Lucius will insist on a trial, and all the while, innocent people are dying.
Richard’s lips curved in a grim smile. “To the death. And may right prevail.” He dropped the face plate on his helm.
Wyndon laughed. “Morality has no power here, stripling. Lay on.” He dropped his own face plate and swung.
The Herald of Day Page 35
