“But why?” Sarah demanded in a low voice. “Surely he’d not wish to go out again tonight.”
“The magic will call to him, and he’ll have no choice but to respond. He’ll be drawn to the one who cast the spell. Irrevocably drawn, until she’s done with him.”
“She?” Sarah repeated, but he gave no further reply, for they’d gotten near enough for Philistia to overhear them.
With the help of one of the footmen, Lord Graymar assisted Julius out of his clothes, then remained long enough to see him tucked into bed.
Leaving the others to care for her brother, Sarah escorted His Lordship to the door.
“Where’s your father?” he asked as a footman handed him his hat and walking stick.
“At the Travellers Club, I think.”
“Fetch him home,” Lord Graymar said. “I don’t want your mother worrying alone. I quite like your mother.” He put his hat on. “I have a feeling she might be one of our sympathetics.”
“My mother?” Sarah said, her mind whirling. “A sympathetic? What?”
“Don’t worry so, sweet.” He touched her cheek briefly, a reassuring caress. “I’ll be back.” He looked over her head, then bent and, without warning, set his mouth lightly against her own. It was the briefest possible kiss but so stunned Sarah that when he lifted his head, she was speechless.
“Sorry,” he said, sounding somewhat stunned, himself, as he backed toward the entryway where the footman—out of view—waited. “No one was watching and I couldn’t resist.”
She lifted her fingers to touch her lips, staring at him.
Lord Graymar looked abashed. “I’ll strive to improve on the performance at another time. I hope you won’t mind if I make the attempt?”
Dropping her hand, she shook her head. “Not in the least.”
He smiled and Sarah could have sworn that his cheeks darkened with a bit of color.
“Then I’ll be certain to hurry back,” he said, and, making an elegant bow, departed.
Chapter Fifteen
She was asleep by the time Malachi returned to the Tamony home, though, fortunately enough, it was in a chair near the small fireplace in her brother’s room.
Malachi tended to Julius Tamony first, removing a small vial that he’d brought from Mervaille from an inner pocket and unstopping the cork. The younger man slept fitfully but made no struggle as Malachi spoke to him through his dreams in a low murmur, lifting his head and telling him to drink. The contents of the vial disappeared down the man’s throat, and in a few moments he was asleep again, except now it was fully and deeply. He’d suffer no dreams and would not wake until daylight.
Malachi wished he could do the same. Wearily he dropped into the chair opposite the one Sarah sat in and welcomed the warmth of the fire. He hated the thought of waking her, for he knew she was as tired as he was. She must have offered to stay with her brother through the night, sending the rest of the family to their beds. A book, still open, lay upon her lap, one hand lying lax upon it, while her head had drifted to one side, pushing her spectacles askew.
“Sarah.”
She stirred. Her eyes fluttered, then closed, until he spoke her name once more. Then she made a sound of aggravation—clearly realizing that she had to truly come awake and that he was the cause—and began to stretch, lifting the back of one hand to her lips to stifle a yawn. Her face pressed into the high back of the cushioned chair, pushing her glasses more fully from their moorings. With a movement of long practice she grasped and set them aright, at last sliding upward into a sitting position.
“My lord?” she murmured sleepily as the book slid off her lap to the floor. “You’ve come.”
“Yes,” he said simply, bending to retrieve the book and set it on a nearby table. “I’m sorry to wake you.”
“No, it’s fine,” she mumbled, rubbing her face with both hands so that the spectacles bobbed up and down. “I thought perhaps you’d come earlier, but this is—” She blinked at him. “What time is it?”
“Late,” he said. “I’m afraid we haven’t much time before we must go.”
She blinked a few more times, then swallowed and forced her eyes open wide. “Go?”
“I wish I could spare you, Sarah. Truly I do. But the spirits are pleased to carry out matters in ways that are difficult for lesser beings to understand. Like forcing us out into the night to discover something more about the cythraul. It doesn’t make any apparent sense to the rational mortal mind, but in time we’ll discover why it had to be.”
“But what about Julius?” She glanced to where her brother slept. “I can’t leave him without someone to guard over him. You told me not to.”
“I told you not to let him leave the house,” Malachi countered. “I’ve given him a potion that will cause him to sleep for hours. We’ll be back long before then. But to ease your mind, I’ll set a spell of protection over the dwelling. No one will be able to leave or enter until we return. It will be completely secure.”
She gazed at him, troubled, then stood and moved to sit on the bed beside her brother.
“What happened to Julius today?” she asked. Malachi watched as she gently touched her brother’s hair, pushing a few strands into place. “Were you able to find out?”
“He was enchanted by a sorceress who wishes to use him for her own purposes,” Malachi said. “Are you familiar with the name of Daray?”
She lifted her head and gazed at him. “Yes, of course. They’re among my research subjects. Stories about the Darays have long been told in … in Cornwall, if I remember correctly.” She rubbed her forehead and said, with exasperation, “I’m so weary that my mind isn’t working as it should. Please, my lord, tell me what’s happened without making me think.”
He understood what she was feeling. He longed to make this easier for her, too. But there was no simple way. She would be hurt, disgusted, very likely enraged, when the truth was told.
“You’ve remembered it correctly, Sarah. The Darays have long hailed from Cornwall. After the exile, the various Families went their separate ways, and the Darays chose that part of the earth as their home. They were not precisely like the other beings exiled, but were created to be servants to my kind. Their lowly status didn’t mean they were without powers, only that those powers were limited to pleasing their masters. But after the exile, they saw a way to become equal by mixing their blood with magic mortals until they at last produced a sorceress of great and cunning power. Serafina Daray.”
Sarah rose from the bed. “I had hoped to approach Miss Daray for one of my interviews,” she said, moving back toward him. “Are you saying that she’s responsible for what happened to Julius?”
He nodded, watching her closely. “She wants to possess the power of the cythraul, and discovered that the spirits had sent a message through your journal.”
“How? No one apart from you and Professor Seabolt knew.”
“I don’t have the answer to that yet,” he told her. “We all have spies, some more gifted than others. I was able to discern what happened to Julius because as Dewin Mawr I’ve been gifted with unique powers. One of these is the ability to disguise myself from my own kind. I made myself invisible and entered Serafina’s dwelling. In this manner—and by aiming a few simple spells at her servants—I discovered what transpired. Serafina knew about your journal and believes that your brother is the key to discovering more about the cythraul. To this end, she met him at Hookham’s and lured him back to her dwelling, where she placed him beneath an enchantment.”
“What kind of enchantment?” Sarah asked, her brows drawing together with suspicion.
Malachi sighed. “She’s made him her slave, invoking an ancient magic that even I cannot break. She’s stolen part of his life … how can I say this?” He cast about for the right words. “Serafina seduced him,” he said bluntly, looking at Sarah for understanding. “Not once, but several times. She … it’s why he’s so exhausted, you see … she stole that part of him that gives life
. His seed.” The words acted on Sarah just as he knew they would. Her mouth dropped open and her expression filled with shock.
Malachi hurried on to get it over with. “It’s a fearsomely binding magic. And as Julius went with her willingly and let desire rule his better senses, I can’t very well go before the Guardians and argue that he was a helpless victim. Serafina was particularly clever about that aspect, gaining his agreement at every step, even if he doesn’t recall it now. The result is that she controls his thoughts and memories, and has the power to call him to her side whenever she wishes. He’ll do whatever she asks, without regard for family or friendship.”
“Sweet merciful day,” Sarah murmured, casting her gaze about the room, anywhere but at him. “Julius will be so distressed if he should ever learn of it. It’s not that he’s ignorant of women—we’ve been through most of Europe after all, and he is nearly thirty. But he’s just so … circumspect about such things. A very correct and proper Englishman, despite our travels.”
“I understand,” Malachi said. “He need not know the full of what’s transpired once the magic has been broken. Unfortunately, unless I keep him drugged, we’ll be unable to keep him from going to her when he’s waked. Each time Serafina has him in her thrall, the more difficult it will be to free him.”
“But if you can’t break the spell, my lord,” she asked, “how can it be done?”
“Serafina alone can set him free,” he said. “And I doubt she’ll do that unless we can find a way to make her do so.”
She looked at him more closely. “Would she let him go if I give her my journal?”
“It’s the power of the cythraul she desires,” he replied. “She believes the journal may help her gain that power. If she should discover it contains no further clues—”
“I understand,” she murmured. “She’ll have no reason to release Julius.”
Malachi nodded. “We must on all accounts keep Serafina from learning that truth, and use her belief in the journal’s mysteries to keep her distracted and buy time to find the way to force her hand and gain your brother’s freedom.”
Her eyes lost their look of despair and instead lit with a new fire. “What must we do to discover the way, my lord?” she asked, sitting forward.
He sighed, feeling weary all over again. “First and foremost, we must keep her from gaining the power of the cythraul. And to that end, we must leave,” he told her. “Now, I’m afraid.”
“To where?”
“Consider it a surprise,” Malachi said, rising. “You’ll want to fetch your warmest cloak, Sarah. This manner of traveling isn’t as exposed as flying, but it will be cold when we arrive.”
* * *
Fast traveling, Sarah discovered, was just as thrilling as flying, only much quicker and more bewildering. Lord Graymar had folded her into his cloak as he’d done before and instructed her to hold on to him, and the next moment everything around them began to spin. Julius’s room whirled away in a flash of colors, and then, as Lord Graymar’s arms tightened, all color faded and they were standing in a swirling darkness. It was an odd sensation, for they didn’t move at all, only stood very still, warm against each other, while everything about them tumbled violently. It was like being caught up in the midst of a terrible storm yet left completely untouched by the elements. Not even Sarah’s hair lifted from the motion.
“We’re almost there,” she heard him murmur against her ear.
The motion slowed and color began to seep back into the whirlwind, though darkness yet remained. Coldness crept through the layers of cloth and a damp breeze touched her cheeks. Colors settled into distinguishable objects, becoming trees and large rocks and, beyond this, dimly visible beneath a dark and partly cloudy sky, a large, slow-moving river that filled the air with the sound of movement and the musky smells of water and fish.
“Are you all right?” Lord Graymar asked, looking down at her. “Steady on your feet?”
“Yes, completely,” she assured him, pushing her spectacles up so that she could peer about. “What a marvelous way to travel! Can you go anywhere in the world so quickly?”
“Regrettably not,” he said, unfolding his cloak so that she could step back. “One can only journey over land or small bodies of water. Large oceans cannot be crossed by fast traveling, although I’ve often crossed to Ireland with ease.”
“Where are we now?” she asked, shivering in the sudden cold. “Is this still England?”
“The English would like to think so,” he said. “But it is Wales. North Wales, I should say, and not too far from the border. That”—he nodded toward the river—“is the River Dee.”
“Beautiful,” she said, watching as the water shimmered even beneath such a dark sky. Its motion sent a sweet burbling music into the air, covered only by a sudden gust of cold wind rattling the trees. Shivering, Sarah pulled her cloak more tightly about her. “And why have we come here, to this particular spot in Wales, my lord?”
“To be given a sign,” he said. “Or, rather, for you to be given a sign, as the spirits evidently don’t wish to communicate with me directly. But come, Sarah. We’re fortunate that it hasn’t begun to rain yet.” He cast a glance toward the sky. “But it will,” he said, sighing. “And soon. We must hurry and finish our business.” Lifting one hand, he created a flame that illuminated their path. Reaching out with the other, he took her hand and began to lead her along the riverbank.
“Is it far?” she asked, careful not to trip on any rocks or fallen branches.
“No. We’ll be there shortly. In the course of your research, have you learned anything about the varieties of coloring among Seymours?”
“Do you mean the hair color?” she asked. “That blond Seymours tend to be powerful wizards while those with darker hair usually possess gifts more common to mere mortals.”
“Exactly,” Lord Graymar said with approval. “My cousin Niclas, as an example, is a skilled communicator, and his two sons, both dark-haired, are gifted musicians. There’s enough of a difference from what mere mortals are capable of to cause remark, perhaps to declare genius, but not so much that anyone becomes suspicious of magic. Are you familiar with the powers that redheaded Seymours generally possess?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
He slowed his stride as they neared a fire-lit clearing, where a number of men stood.
“You’re about to learn,” he told her.
“You make it sound ominous,” Sarah said.
“Not ominous, particularly,” he replied, pulling her out into the clearing. “They’re often born mystics, with powers both immense and rare, and mystics can be a damnable nuisance at times. The one you’re about to meet certainly is. But as he’s a Seymour, I’m sure that won’t surprise you.”
A Seymour? Sarah thought with disbelief as she surveyed the ragged collection of men standing before her. The Seymours were wealthy, highborn members of the ton. These fellows looked far more like dangerous highwaymen.
But if they were, at least some of them were possessed of magic, for Sarah could feel it. And one in particular was emanating the sort of strong sensations that only wizards with great powers had ever before engendered.
The one standing at the forefront moved toward them. He was tall and slender and, she saw as he came nearer, possessed of a mane of red hair so lengthy that it fell halfway down his back. He was also, Sarah noted, very handsome. In that respect he was certainly a true Seymour. And then, when he was quite close, she realized with something of a shock that he was blind. He moved with great certainty, as a seeing man would, but his gaze was fixed somewhere off to the left, toward the trees. The man cried in glad greeting, raising his arms to set them on Lord Graymar’s shoulders. Then he kissed the earl on both cheeks in the Continental manner and proceeded to speak rapidly in Welsh.
“Na, na, Steffan, you must use the English,” Lord Graymar reprimanded. “Our guest doesn’t understand Cymraeg.”
Steffan Seymour turned toward Sarah, smiling w
idely and reaching out both hands. “Are you quite certain, cfender? I thought I felt magic in her. And kinship. And the spirits named her the one who has understanding, so I assumed, of course, that she must be one of us.” Grasping Sarah’s hands, he bent to kiss each in turn. “But welcome to you, my lady. Welcome to our humble dwelling place. My men and I are honored that you’ve come.” To Lord Graymar he said, “Introduce us at once, Malachi. I perceive that she’s remarkably beautiful.”
“Watch your manners, Steffan,” Lord Graymar said in a dark voice. “And tell your men to behave themselves, as well, else they’ll be sorrier for it.”
“God’s mercy, you’ve no need to lecture us, cfender,” the other man said. “We see so few ladies that we find them precious as gold. Now an introduction, if it pleases you, my fine lord.”
Lord Graymar scowled, then looked at Sarah, who gazed back with intense interest. What a lovely surprise this was turning out to be—first the fast traveling and now meeting an actual mystic. She’d never have thought the evening could turn out so well, considering how ill it had started.
“Miss Sarah Tamony, this is my cousin Steffan Seymour, who is the sorriest excuse for a Seymour that ever was, excepting our great-great-uncle Cornelius, whose amorous exploits nearly destroyed the family entirely. Steffan and his men are scoundrels and thieves and live like animals in caves, robbing the rich to line their own pockets.”
“Oh, come,” Steffan interjected. “That’s hardly fair.”
“Very well, then,” Lord Graymar amended. “They rob the rich and line their pockets and give what’s left over to the impoverished. When they’re not otherwise employed in robbery, they go to the local villages and wreak havoc. Last year alone I was called upon to—”
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