Time Trap

by Deborah Chester

  Sir Magnin drew off his helmet and flung it upon the ground. His mail-coifed head whipped back as Noel made a feeble move.

  “I wait for no one,” he said arrogantly. “I have won the right to dispatch this man. His life is forfeit to me.”

  Leon stumbled and skidded on his knees the final short distance to Noel. He held up beseeching hands, while Noel could only lie there on his back, struck incredulous at this unexpected intercession.

  A squire came up with Sir Magnin’s sword. He exchanged his dagger for it, wielding the broadsword awkwardly in his left hand. His eyes were dark with pain and battle lust. They held not one scrap of mercy.

  As he swung up the sword, Leon snatched the helmet from Noel’s head.

  “Look at him!” he cried. “This is not Theodore of Albania, but an impostor. The contest is invalid.”

  Sir Magnin never swung. He stared openmouthed at Noel, and for once he had nothing to say. Others came up, circling them, and Sir Magnin’s foot came off Noel’s wrist. He backed away in sudden distaste, looking almost fearful.

  “What magic is this, that a lowly varlet without name or training could fight me with such valor and skill?” he whispered hoarsely. “What sorcery has been cast here?”

  Lord Harlan, the thin old councilor with the black hood tied beneath his bony chin, pointed an accusing finger. “It is said that twins are the sons of Satan. Burn them both before their evil falls over us all.”

  Noel managed to reach up and grab Leon’s tunic in his fist. “The bracelet,” he gasped. “You—”

  “Let it be done,” said Sir Magnin. “Burn them.”

  His voice was harsh and final. Guards shouldered their way through the crowd to surround Noel and Leon, still crouched together. Without a glance back, Sir Magnin left the tournament field.

  Chapter 16

  Sir Geoffrey, his thin face set grimly, took charge of the guards who conducted Noel and Leon back to the dungeons. Although he was weak with exhaustion and had to be supported by Leon to even walk, Noel looked around in search of Frederick. He could not find the boy’s face among the crowd, which hissed and made signs warding off the evil eye.

  Others ran ahead, gathering firewood, sticks, and dung—anything that would burn. By the time Noel and Leon made their slow, painful way to the town square, the bonfire was ready for them.

  “Let us light it!” implored the crowd. “Sir Geoffrey, rid us of these evil ones now.”

  An old woman crept up and spat upon Leon. He flinched and wiped off the spittle. Noel stared at him, wondering what had made him change.

  “The bracelet,” he said beneath the noise of the crowd. “What have you done with it? Where is the LOC?”

  Leon glared at him, still wild-eyed and frantic. “It doesn’t work, any more than mine works. It’s no good to us.”

  “It’s isomorphic,” said Noel grimly. “It works for me.”

  “Mine doesn’t work.” Leon was almost sobbing. “They’re going to kill us. We have to—”

  “Where is it? Damn you!”

  The guards shook them. “Shut up. Attempt to weave a spell on us and we’ll cut out your—”

  “Hush there!” called Sir Geoffrey. “You men, line the prisoners by the fountain. Bind them. Sir Magnin is coming back from the palace to witness this. We shall await his pleasure.”

  The crowd shoved a priest forward. The man’s cassock was rumpled as though he had been manhandled. He clutched his rosary beads, and sweat shone upon his brow. His reluctance to approach Noel and Leon was obvious.

  The guards did as Sir Geoffrey ordered. With his hands bound behind him, Noel hunched over to ease the torment in his shoulder.

  “It’s your fault this is happening to us,” said Leon savagely beneath his breath. “You caused this. You stirred them up with your boasts and your challenges.”

  Noel looked at him in distaste. “Why didn’t you let him kill me? You hypnotized Elena so she would shoot me, didn’t you? Why not let Sir Magnin finish the job?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “No,” said Noel blankly.

  Leon glared at him in plain hatred. “Because I feel your pain. Because if you die, I shall die. Try as I might, I cannot be rid of you.”

  Noel blinked, and found himself with nothing to say. It made sense. They were more than twins. Leon, however repulsive and twisted he might be, was somehow a part of Noel. The reverse must also be true. It was a disquieting thought.

  He frowned. “I was hurt before. If you’re telling the truth, you felt that.”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Then why program Elena like a little killer droid to get me?”

  Leon shut his eyes a moment. “I thought if I had your LOC it would protect me. But it doesn’t. Nothing does. Why can’t I be free? That’s all I want, to be free of you.”

  “You must return the bracelet,” said Noel. The expectant rustle of the crowd wore on his nerves. It was all he could do to keep his voice low and calm. The varlets still stacking wood on the bonfire were going at the job with an eagerness he could not admire.

  The tournament was over. Were the people already so hungry for the next amusement they had to stage a public execution? He stifled his black thoughts about their lack of gratitude. The citizens of Mistra did not understand what he had tried to do for them, would never understand, even if he could explain.

  “It’s almost the end of the time loop,” said Noel. He squinted at Mt. Taygetus, where the sun had already sunk, casting the craggy peak into dark silhouette against a golden blaze of coral and pink. “I am implanted with a command to keep the LOC on me at all times. It’s a feature that keeps a traveler from going rogue and staying in the past. That way history is protected—”

  “I know what it is,” snapped Leon.

  “Then you know that by nightfall, one of us will go back.” Noel stared into those silver-gray eyes so like his own, yet unlike them. “One of us has to.”

  “Neither of us is going. It doesn’t work.”

  “It does! Unless you’ve tampered with it—”

  “I didn’t. But you failed today, remember? The LOC won’t send you back because there’s nothing to go back to.”

  Noel felt sick. “And you’re proud of that, aren’t you? You fool!”

  They glared hotly at each other while more townspeople crowded into the square and came out onto balconies on the buildings surrounding the space.

  “He’s coming anon,” said someone eagerly. “Sir Magnin is coming.”

  Trumpets sounded from the palace gates higher up the hill. Noel turned his head to watch as the procession rode down the narrow, winding road, glimpsed in flashes through the trees and bushes.

  The priest lifted his hand and started a nervous drone, “In nomine patris…”

  “Give it back,” said Noel urgently. “You must give it back.”

  Leon hunched his shoulders. “It will do you no good to have it now. We’re going to be cooked. It doesn’t matter who has it.”

  “It does matter,” insisted Noel. “It—”

  The blare of a horn, an insistent warning, cut across his sentence. A messenger galloped over the bridge and past the church, coming into the square just as Sir Magnin’s slow-­moving party reached it. People scattered.

  “Sir Magnin!” shouted the man breathlessly. “An armed party of horsemen approaches from the southeast.”

  Noel held his breath, certain the Turkish invasion force had arrived at last. All his efforts had been for nothing. He could not stop the tragedy that would happen. Leon’s meddling with history was about to have disastrous results.

  Sir Magnin—changed back into his resplendent cloth-of-­gold tunic and feathered cap, his broken arm bound in a sling, and his handsome face drawn into a tight, pain-filled mask—spoke briefly to the messenger in a voice too low to be overheard.

  Sir Geoffrey spurred his horse away and dispatched someone to summon the garrison force. “Man the walls! Close the city gates!” he
shouted.

  People scattered, screaming and shoving in a mad rush for safety. But the guards around Noel and Leon remained in place, and the priest, gathering his courage momentarily, called out, “Appease God, good people, and burn these sons of the devil.”

  Sir Magnin nodded, his black eyes hooded and unreadable.

  Noel shot Leon an exasperated look. “Can’t you hypnotize these guards and—”

  “It’s not hypnosis,” said Leon angrily. “I push upon their minds with—”

  “Telepathy, then. Whatever,” said Noel. “Don’t be so damned pedantic. Just do it.”

  Leon closed his eyes a moment, then opened them with a gasp. “I can’t.” His voice was shrill with fear. “I can’t!”

  “Concentrate. You can’t focus if you’re—”

  “Shut up,” said a guard, shoving them forward. “Climb on the wood.”

  They hadn’t even bothered to erect a pole for their victims to be tied to. Noel struggled up the shifting, unstable stack of wood and branches, wondering if they expected him to sit there tamely like a nineteenth-century widow in India and be burned on the pyre.

  The priest darted forward and snatched the silver cross from around Leon’s neck. “Blasphemer.”

  Leon said nothing. His face was chalky, and great drops of sweat rolled off his forehead.

  Cleope appeared on the fringes of the remaining crowd. She was crying. She called out something, but Noel couldn’t hear her over the noise.

  A roar went up in the distance. He heard the sounds of fighting, and hope lifted him.

  “Light the wood,” said Sir Magnin.

  Noel’s gaze whipped around. He met those implacable black eyes for a long moment, then Sir Magnin’s lips curved in a faint, cruel smile.

  “I would have helped him achieve everything,” said Leon almost in a sob. “My knowledge could have handed him the known world. He could have carved out an empire with me at his side. Why wouldn’t he listen to me?”

  “Prophets are never heeded,” said Noel. “Shut up about it.”

  “At least you’ve lived for more than a few days.”

  “And that makes this better?” broke in Noel derisively.

  “You might be grateful for my help.”

  “Yeah, instead of my head cut off I get burned to death. Big difference,” said Noel. “You know this is going to be horrible. We’ll smell ourselves burning—”

  “Shut up,” said Leon.

  A torch was thrown at the base of the bonfire. The dry sticks caught fire almost at once. Flames and smoke burst upward. Noel struggled to his knees in spite of his attempt to appear calm. His heart was thudding hard against his rib cage. He looked at the crossbows the guards held trained on them and wondered if an arrow wouldn’t be the quickest way to go. It had to be better than this.

  He crawled over the top of the woodpile, moving away from the flames. Leon followed in spite of the angry shouts hurled at them by the crowd.

  An arrow whizzed past Noel’s ear, missing him by inches. He froze involuntarily, but the heat was escalating. He couldn’t breathe. The urgent need for survival clawed at his throat, threatening to conquer his powers of reason.

  He leaned over and shouted in Leon’s ear, “We have to jump off together!”

  “No! It will make us a bigger target. Jump in opposite directions.”

  Horses and riders came galloping into the square, closely pursued by their attackers. At once all became confusion, with horses trampling, women screaming, people running in all directions, swords clanging upon armor and shields. Through the hazy orange of the flames, Noel could see the pennons of d’Angelier and Byzantium flying boldly.

  “Come on!” he shouted to Leon. “Jump!”

  “We can’t,” said Leon. “It’s too late. The fire has ringed us. God, I’m burning!”

  Noel kicked him. “Jump, damn you!”

  Eyes shut and head ducked to protect himself as much as possible from the flames, Noel leapt through them and felt the horrifying heat consume him. He landed on the ground and fell, rolling himself over and over to extinguish the fire in his clothing. The stench of singed wool and hair stung his nostrils. Coughing and half-blinded, he staggered out of the way of a plunging horse and saw Sir Magnin rein his mount around to flee.

  Men in the d’Angelier colors of brown and crimson hemmed him in, and Sir Magnin reluctantly faced a rider in black mail and a surcoat of resplendent purple. By now the fighting was nearly over. Wounded men lay upon the cobblestones, and blood stained the water in the fountain. Riderless horses darted here and there in a panic.

  Lord Theodore took off his helmet and the fading sunlight struck glints of red from his chestnut hair. Ablaze with triumph, his blue eyes swept the scene, then returned to Sir Magnin.

  For a moment nothing was uttered between them, then Lord Theodore spoke: “Where is my seal of office?”

  Sir Magnin’s face twisted with defeat and bitterness, but he replied clearly enough, “It lies in my chamber within the palace.”

  Lord Theodore turned to one of his men. “Go straight and fetch it.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The man rode away at a gallop.

  Lord Theodore returned his attention to Sir Magnin. “Your rule is over. Mistra is once again within the empire. Frederick, strike that flag and see that the imperial eagle rises in its place.”

  Frederick stepped forward, bloody over one eye, but alight with eagerness. “Yes, my lord.” He grinned at Noel as he ran to do Theodore’s bidding.

  “These men here, my lord,” said a knight. “They are bound up and about to be burned. What is to be done with them?”

  “They are witches,” said Sir Magnin. “Be careful of them.”

  Lord Theodore raised his hand swiftly. “Cut them loose.”

  “But, my lord—”

  “Cut them loose! They are not witches, but rather my agents sent here to cause what mayhem and confusion they could.”

  Lord Theodore’s gaze met Noel’s as the ropes were cut away. He nodded, and although nothing more was said, Noel knew he had the man’s thanks.

  As soon as he was freed, Leon tried to dart away, but Noel caught him by the sleeve. “Not so fast. We have a bracelet to discuss.”

  They moved from the square, and people parted to let them pass. Behind him, Noel heard the orders being given to disperse the townspeople, to round up the survivors of Sir Magnin’s force, to take care of the myriad details necessary in a change of power.

  “And me?” said Sir Magnin’s deep voice. “Am I executed in the morning?”

  “Your life depends upon the will of the emperor,” said Lord Theodore.

  Noel glanced back. He had many questions. In whose keeping had they left the injured Lady Sophia? Had Frederick’s message caused them to ride on with their fighting force? Would Theodore remember not to surrender to the Turks when they came up the river in a few days? Would the Milengi tribe be punished more than it had already suffered at Sir Magnin’s hands? Would the rebellious part of the province swear fealty to Theodore?

  His questions would never be answered completely. He could only consult the history texts to learn what had become of these people.

  “We’ve got to find a hiding place,” he said to Leon, shoving him along the steep streets. “Quickly. It’s growing twilight.”

  Leon shifted irritably in his grip. “Let me go. I don’t care what becomes of you.”

  “You’ve proven that’s a lie,” said Noel grimly. “I’m not going to miss my only chance to get back because of you. Hurry!”

  He quickened his pace, peering into doorways or down steps leading to shops lower than the street, searching for somewhere private. The keening wail of a grief-stricken woman rose upon the air, joined by others. There would be no merriment tonight in the streets of Mistra.

  He saw a girl huddled in the crossroads of two streets. Her tangled auburn hair identified her. Startled, Noel dropped his hold on Leon’s arm and went to her.
>
  “Elena,” he said.

  He touched her shoulder, only then realizing she was weeping. She straightened on her knees to glance up at him, and he saw Sir Geoffrey lying dead there with her. The young knight’s blood had stained her gown where she knelt. Her wild, vital face looked aged, and Noel regretted the loss of that untamed innocence that had marked her before. Her eyes were old too, and he did not think they would lighten again.

  “I thought it was Sir Magnin you loved,” he said, unable to put into words what really needed to be said.

  “He never saw me,” she whispered. “I know now that Sir Geoffrey always did. But it is too late.”

  He gave in to the impulse to touch her head, to dig his fingers gently through the thick texture of her hair. She wept against his leg.

  “I killed you. God forgive me now, and you forgive me too, ghost of Noel. I did not want to kill you.”

  The lost note in her voice made tears sting his eyes. He looked at Leon, standing a short, wary distance away. “Make her whole again,” Noel said urgently, anger filtering through his voice. “You did this to her. Put her back the way she was.”

  Leon shook his head. “I can’t. I don’t know how.”

  “Try.”

  “I have tried.” Leon threw out his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Things don’t always work for me. Don’t you understand? I can’t—”

  “Then for God’s sake stop meddling,” said Noel, and his voice cut. “Leave people alone. They aren’t toys.”

  He looked down at the girl and stroked her rough hair. She reached up blindly in her grief, and he saw the copper bracelet shining upon her wrist.

  He gasped and snatched it from her, holding it up to examine it, afraid it might not be his LOC. But the metal warmed beneath the touch of his fingers.

  “LOC,” he said, relief and gladness filling his voice. “LOC, activate!”

  The device hummed softly and shimmered into its true, transparent form. The glow from its internal circuits shone dimly upon his face and hands as the shadows deepened around him.

  Elena looked up at him with a gasp and scuttled back. “Have mercy upon me!”

  “It’s all right,” he said soothingly, unable to hold back his smile. He fitted the LOC around his left wrist, wincing at the sore stiffness along his entire arm. An entire catalog of bruises and aches were making themselves felt, but he didn’t care. He was going home.