Time Trap

by Deborah Chester

  Pressed against the door of his cell, his shoes soaking up squalid mud, the snores of his cellmates rattling the air, Leon watched through the grille as Noel slipped away to freedom. Leon battled the urge to sound the alarm. It was almost more than he could bear to see Noel escape, but he pushed down the hatred surging through him. If Noel was caught now, they would likely maim or kill him.

  Unconsciously Leon rubbed his right side where his ribs felt bruised and sore. Noel might have the injuries, but Leon felt them. Not strongly, not enough to incapacitate him, but he feared what might happen to him if Noel died. Just how closely were they linked?

  He hated the thought of being dependent upon Noel. The fact of Noel’s existence was enough to pour rivers of anger and hatred through him. When they first came upon each other tonight, it had been all he could do not to seize his twin by the throat and choke the life from him.

  He could not bear the fact that Noel was the original and he the copy. Copy…something less than whole…something imperfect…something that could never stand alone as long as the original existed for comparison.

  He tipped back his head and shut his eyes a moment, trying to slow his breathing. Even now, emotions boiled raw and furious within him. His legs were unsteady at the knees, quivery, as though he had been running for miles. His heart jerked too fast. He rubbed the right side of his chest to slow it down. Although he had known he must soon meet Noel, he had been filled with a mixture of dread and excitement. Nothing, however, had prepared him for that actual moment of standing face-to-face with him. Because while gazing into Noel’s gray eyes, so steady and keen, like tempered steel, he had been filled with the dreadful certainty that he should not exist at all.

  Then Noel had actually said the same thing.

  “Wrong!” said Leon through gritted teeth. His fingers dug at the coarse, mildewed grain of the door as though to claw his way to freedom. “I belong.”

  But in his heart he knew better, and that made him all the more determined to get rid of Noel. For if there could only be one of them in existence, then Leon intended to be the one who survived. He had to figure out how to do it, how to put an end to Noel that would not kill him as well. There had to be a way to cut the link between them.

  Was it the LOC that made Noel special? Leon had listened to him consulting it. He knew the LOC had made it possible for Noel to escape.

  Leon frowned at the copper bracelet on his own wrist and rubbed it angrily. Why couldn’t he have an operable LOC? Why did he have only this fake copy?

  Because you are an anomaly, a freak, an accident.

  He shoved the thought away with fresh resentment. Very well. He might not have a LOC of his own. He might have come into this world with a purse of fused, unusable coins. He might have other flaws—other differences—but he could make a place for himself here. He liked Mistra, liked Sir Magnin and the events that were happening around him. He liked shaping history, feeling it flow and re-form under his influence like modeling clay.

  The key to success lay in possessing Noel’s LOC. The knowledge it contained would give him almost limitless power. And because he was Noel’s duplicate, the isomorphic properties should work for him. The LOC would protect him, and Noel could be eliminated.

  It was indeed poor jail design to have the hinges set on the inside of the door, but Leon was unable to remove them anyway. They had long since rusted into a solid mass with the hinge, and even prying and scraping with the thin edge of his bracelet could not budge them.

  Gasping and fatigued, he finally gave up. Thirsty, he went to the water pail and scooped some of the water into his mouth. It was probably stale, but it had no taste to him. Earlier in the day he had drunk wine for the first time, and it had had no taste either. Cold and wet, going down his throat; that was all. He had eaten with Sir Magnin’s men. They proclaimed the steamed grape leaves stuffed with seasoned rice to be delicious. Leon could feel the textures upon his tongue, but there was no taste for him, no enjoyment.

  It seemed there were other flaws besides the lump of fused, unusable coins in his purse and the inoperable LOC on his wrist. Flaws in him.

  He felt panic unraveling the edges of his mind and shoved it away hastily. Not flaws, he told himself with all the force he could muster. Differences.

  A trickle of sound caught his attention. Cat-quick, Leon went to the door and listened. It was the turnkey, yawning and shuffling, his torch flaming high in the cross drafts of air. No more than half awake, he made his rounds slowly. At random he inserted a long staff through the door grilles and poked an occupant. Curses, moans, or dead silence responded to this ploy. He twisted the iron maiden about on its chain, then let it spin free, chuckling softly to himself as the occupant sobbed in agony. Then he came over to the last cell block.

  By now, Leon had his plan worked out. He reached his hand through the grille. “Turnkey!” he called softly. “You there, listen. He’s gone.”

  The turnkey stared at him and scratched his head. “Eh?”

  “He’s gone. My double is gone.”

  “Be it so?” The turnkey peered at Noel’s door, half ajar, and scratched his head again.

  Sweat broke out upon Leon as he pressed with all his might. But this man’s mind was too simple to be affected. “He’s a sorcerer,” said Leon urgently. “I heard him calling on his demon, and it answered him plain as plain. It opened the door for him. He’s free. Don’t you understand?”

  “Got loose, eh?” The turnkey finally seemed to comprehend. He touched the door with wonder, then backed away. “Jailer!” he shouted. “Jailer!”

  He ran for the jailer’s quarters, crying out loudly.

  In moments both of them returned. The jailer took one look at the empty cell, and his craggy face turned grim. “Roust the guards,” he said to the turnkey. “Hurry, man! Don’t stand there gawking.”

  The turnkey shuffled off, and the jailer stared at the empty cell with his torch held aloft. He crossed himself.

  “Aye,” said Leon eagerly, pressing hard. He could affect this man’s wits. He’d already done it once, and that made new persuasion easier. “Sorcery. I heard him at it. I heard the demon talking to him. It tore the hinges off the door for him, and none of you heard.”

  The jailer was sweating. He bent and picked up one of the bolts from the floor, turned it over in his thick fingers, then dropped it. “Witchcraft!” he whispered.

  Leon had been experimenting all day. Already he had found that when he willed it he could walk past people without them able to remember seeing him. He could also persuade them to do what he wanted, regardless of where their own best interests lay.

  “Witchcraft,” he echoed now, feeding on the jailer’s fear as though it were ambrosia, taking small sips, drawing out the moment to its fullest. “He’s called his demons down upon Mistra. Sir Magnin must be warned. Only I can protect him from the sorcerer.”

  “You!” The jailer blinked and came over to stare very hard at Leon through the grille. He put the flaming torch close to the grille, and the heat drove Leon back. “You are his double. If he is a sorcerer, then so are you.”

  “I command no demons,” said Leon sharply, displeased by this argument. “Unlike him, I possess no special powers. But because I am his—”

  “What is all this?” demanded Sir Magnin’s voice, booming loudly enough to awaken all the inmates. He strode in, a long, billowing cloak draped over his bare shoulders. Guards with drawn weapons trotted behind him. “Jailer, an explanation. Your minion has broken my sleep with the babblings of a madman. Who has escaped and how?”

  The jailer bowed low. “My liege, forgive me for failing my duty. I do not know how this man—”

  “Who, blast your eyes? Who?”

  “Noel of Kedran,” said Leon.

  Sir Magnin’s black eyes narrowed. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, and the expression on his face boded no good for Noel. In his heart Leon laughed.

  “Did you drop your keys in his hand? Are these cells not
secure? How was this accomplished? Did he bribe you to help him, jailer?”

  “No, my lord,” said the jailer with a frightened gasp. “I swear to God, my lord. I had no part in it. Look for yourself. The hinges have been taken apart by no means that I understand. The bolt is still fastened.”

  Scowling, Sir Magnin took the torch from his hand and entered Noel’s cell. When he finally emerged, he held all the bolts in his hand and hefted them absently. “Where is Leon?”

  “Here, my lord,” said Leon eagerly. He pressed his face to the grille where Sir Magnin could see him. “It was sorcery. Noel is evil in heart; his soul belongs to Satan.”

  “God help us!” cried the jailer.

  “Rubbish,” said Sir Magnin. “I want solid answers from you, my lad, not superstitious twaddle.”

  “I heard him call upon a demon,” said Leon, pressing although he dared do little tampering with Sir Magnin’s mind. The knight’s thoughts were like steel traps. He was quick, with an agile intelligence, and suspicious. “I heard the voices. You must take care, my lord. He means to do you great harm.”

  “And what do you intend?” asked Sir Magnin. “You are his twin—”

  “Do they not say twins are two sides of the same coin?” cried Leon hastily. “One good, the other evil? Has he not shown he is against you? Have I not sworn my loyalty and allegiance to you? I can protect you from him. I know his ways. I know what he intends. He stands on Lord Theodore’s side. That has already been proven.”

  “You talk in circles,” said Sir Magnin, but he was listening. “Why did you not cry out while he was escaping? Why did you wait?”

  Leon frowned, but he had a lie ready. “I could not. There seemed to be a pressure upon my throat, paralyzing my speech, until he was well gone. I spoke the warning as soon as I was able. The turnkey himself can testify that I told him what happened before he discovered it himself.”

  “This the turnkey has said, my lord,” said the jailer quietly.

  Sir Magnin nodded. “And what assurance do I have that you can be trusted?”

  “My word, my oath—”

  “If the devil commands your heart, you can lie,” said Sir Magnin harshly.

  “Then bring a priest and let me swear before the cross,” said Leon. “I do not fear the sacred relics of God.”

  Sir Magnin snapped his fingers, and a minion ran to fetch the priest. He came at last, sneezing, yawning, and looking frightened. His cassock sat crooked on his shoulders, and his tonsure needed clipping.

  “Yes, my lord?” he said in a quavery voice, puffing hard.

  Sir Magnin gestured at the jailer. “Bring Leon forth.”

  The jailer looked at the turnkey, who fumbled his keys with such shaking fingers that the jailer finally snatched the ring from him and unlocked the door himself.

  Leon emerged, taking care not to look smug. He knelt before the priest and kissed the cross extended to him. The priest led him through a recital of his vows to God, and nothing struck him dead. His lips were examined to see if they had been burned by contact with the cross. They were not. He was given communion, and the wafer and wine did not poison him.

  “I see no fault in this man or in his soul,” said the priest at last.

  “It seems we have misjudged you, Leon,” said Sir Magnin. He smiled and threw his arm across Leon’s shoulders, leading him from the dungeons. “Tell me of your twin’s plan and what he intends against me.”

  “He must not escape the castle,” said Leon swiftly. “A thorough search must begin now.”

  “It is underway. Sir Geoffrey has charge of that.”

  “When he is caught, he must be stripped,” said Leon. “There is a bracelet that he wears, similar to mine.” He held up his right arm.

  Sir Magnin frowned. “Of what significance is this cheap jewelry?”

  “None, save that it is a mark of our family. I would have it, to be sent home. That is all.”

  “Yes, yes, no matter. About the precautions to protect my men…if he can call on demons to serve him, how do we fight him?”

  “The dark powers do not always obey him. You know they are treacherous and love to betray those whom they serve. He must be stripped, then thrown into anointed water to see if the possessing spirits can be driven from him. If not, then he must—he must be burned.”

  Leon’s head rang with the word. He felt as though his throat was scorched, as though he had swallowed the very fire he called for.

  Sir Magnin’s hand tightened upon his arm. “You still care for this brother, do you not?”

  Leon lifted his head with an effort. “I am afraid,” he said honestly. If the LOC was not the link that bound them, then he would perish with Noel. It was an awful risk. But he felt driven to take it.

  “There is nothing to fear,” said Sir Magnin softly, kindly, “as long as you serve me true. Never lie to me again.”

  The threat in those black eyes struck to Leon’s heart. He bowed. “I swear I shall not, my lord.”

  “Good. I had a brother once whom I loved with all my heart. He died when we were boys. I wept upon his grave. Thanks to God I was never faced with your choice, but you have done well to put a stop to Noel’s evil.” He smiled. “You will have your reward when this is done.”

  “Thank you,” whispered Leon. He still felt cold. Now that he had set this in motion, he wondered if he had gone too far. But when he thought of a lifetime linked to Noel, of watching him from afar, never a true part of life, he knew he could never escape the conviction that there should be only one of them.

  I shall be the one, Leon thought with fresh determination. He looked up. “Lady Sophia must be well guarded. She betrayed him tonight. He may seek revenge there.”

  Sir Magnin’s face darkened. “My own hand will guard her. Go, Leon, and join the search.”

  “Wait,” said Leon, remembering something he had overlooked. “I do not want to be mistaken for him by your guards.” He glanced back at the priest. “Is there some badge I can wear, to mark me as different?”

  “Give him your cross,” said Sir Magnin.

  The priest’s palsied hands lowered the cross by its chain over Leon’s head. It hung upon his chest, its silver shape cold and heavy.

  He put his hand around it and smiled. “That will do perfectly,” he said.

  Outside, running across the courtyard through the crisp night air, Leon threw back his head in triumph, wanting to howl aloud. It was so easy to manipulate these people, so easy to find their weaknesses, their superstitions, and twist them into whatever he wanted. Within a short time it would be he, Leon of Nardek, who ruled Mistra, and not Sir Magnin the Black.

  He ran because the others were running. Guards had sleepy, frightened servants rousted from their beds and lined up shivering in the night air. Sir Geoffrey, dressed in full mail and surcoat, his spurs jingling with every step, strode about directing a systematic search.

  Leon watched, but he knew too much time had passed since Noel had escaped. It was doubtful he had managed to get past the guards at the main gates, but he was clever, resourceful, and he had the LOC. Leon worried, and moved into the shadows to search ferret-like in the small crannies and dark corners. With his mind he swept out, hoping to find Noel in that way, although so far Noel’s mind had been completely blank to him.

  Concentrating, he found instead a scurry of thought somewhere ahead of him. Someone, not Noel, was concealed behind the ovens where the bread for the castle and town was baked. Leon could feel the warmth still radiating from the round stone sides of the huge ovens, although their fires had long since died to embers.

  A rickety shed projected from one side as a wooden appendage where loaves were cooled and business was conducted. Leon’s quarry hid inside it, hardly breathing, frightened, all thoughts banked down like a fire covered with ashes for the night.

  He made his way to the shed on silent feet, drawing the dagger one of the guards had returned to him. He eased open the half door, and it groaned upon its leather
hinges.

  There came a swift furtive rustle from the back, a whispered, “No.”

  His nostrils widened. He sniffed the air and detected the delicate scent of…woman. Yes, he was certain. This one smelled of the forest, of pine, of innocence. He licked his lips and went forward.

  When he got close, she came at him in a rush, striking him with her shoulder, and nearly overbalancing him. He caught her by the hair, yanking her around so roughly she cried out.

  Swiftly he clamped her against him, and she struggled and kicked like a wild creature until he pressed the point of his dagger between her breasts. She went absolutely still; only the sharp jerks of her breathing betrayed her.

  “Nom de Dieu,” she said, using a French oath although he knew at once she was Greek. “Do not hurt me with that. Please do not—”

  “Silence.”

  There was cunning in her voice beneath the pleading. He hurt her just a little to get her attention. “You are the girl from the mountains?”

  “Yes. I—I am Elena Milengus.”

  “Very good. And what are you doing hiding out here in the darkness, Elena? Are you waiting for your lover?”

  She choked and began to weep.

  He squeezed her. “None of that! I do not want you. Pay attention to me. Everyone is looking for the man called Noel.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “That was why I have been hiding. We tricked Sir Magnin because we thought he would cheat us of our share of the ransom money, and now he is angry.”

  “What do you expect, you stupid fool?” said Leon. “No, listen to what I have to say. There is a way for you to redeem yourself.”

  “I won’t—”

  “Listen! Noel has probably escaped the castle by now. He will seek your help tomorrow or the next day. He will want you to help Theodore recover Mistra.”

  “The Milengi do not serve Byzantine puppets!”

  “But your alliance with Sir Magnin has been broken. Isn’t it better to change horses before the one you have falls beneath you?”

  She remained silent, but he knew she was listening. This girl was shrewd. He liked her.