by Darci Hannah
Unnerved and frightened, I knew what Julius was asking of me. He was asking the impossible. I looked at the young man—at this dark and beautiful stranger who had walked through hell with my brother and had brought him back to me. His stillness was heartbreaking, as was the glistening trail of a single teardrop that had slipped from the dark eyes. With my finger I gently traced the teardrop, feeling the wetness, feeling the warmth of the skin. It was then that I saw Rondo, my little puppy, vivid and alive in my mind. He was happy, wagging his tail. Dante was Julius’s Rondo. I closed my eyes, pushing my own tears aside, and nodded.
Gabriel, wrapped in his own silent mourning, had been watching us. There was a question in his eyes as they held me, a question that I longed to answer, but Julius was telling me no.
“Gabriel, you need to go and go quickly, brother!” Julius’s tone was demanding, and very reminiscent of our father’s. It was a tone no one disobeyed. He wanted Gabriel out of the room. And I knew why. “Help Hume get the bastard who did this! Go, brother! Leave Dante with us! There might be hope for him yet.”
With hardly a word, and with tears spilling from his eyes, Gabriel nodded. I took him in my arms, offering what little comfort I could. “Say a prayer for Dante, my love,” I uttered as his lips left mine. “And return to me safely.”
Then I let him go.
We were alone, we two children cursed with the burden of being semidivine, with two corpses, only one of which still had a chance to be saved. Julius, working quickly, took Dante’s knife, now covered with the blood of two souls, and cut the doublet and shirt up the middle, exposing the smooth expanse of unmoving chest. He set the knife down and took my hands, placing them over Dante’s heart. “Please, Isabeau,” he said, “you need to heal him. Cry for him. If you only knew what he suffered for me, you would cry for him. I cannot let him die like this. I’m responsible for this man just as you were responsible for Rondo. Find him in your mind. See his body and make it whole again. Make it once again a vibrant place for his soul to dwell.”
Moved beyond words, I did as Julius wished. We both sat on the bed, Julius across from me with hands placed beside mine on Dante’s body. His head was bent in prayer, and his tears fell silent on the lifeless form. It was the first time I had ever seen my brother cry, and the sight of them together—one silent and shaking, the other deathly still—unlocked something within me. My tears fell unchecked then; I was crying for them both. The droplets, fat like spring rain and filled with just as much hope, coursed down my cheeks, mingling with the tears of my brother. I rubbed them into the still-warm skin. And then I relaxed my mind and let it come—the tingling, the rush of warm, radiant energy. I called to Dante; I prayed for his soul. I saw his body healed, but it wasn’t enough. The young man was far away; like Seraphina, he had moved beyond the confines of flesh, blood, and bone, and I found only a frangible, tenuous connection with him. Feeling helpless, I spoke my brother’s name.
“Keep going,” his voice urged. “Keep going, Isa! Do not give up on him.”
I didn’t.
Following the thread of a connection, and latching on with my stronger energy, I suddenly felt a tug. I was still connected to Dante, but my consciousness pulled free. I was no longer in my own body; I was somewhere else, and I was being urged by the voice of Julius to follow wherever it led me. Like a vaporous wisp, I moved through Dante’s body and continued on, traveling down a dark and lonely path.
I was conscious of being in a murky, swirling mist, a place where dark clouds raced overhead and silence pulsed through the ears like haunted whispers. It was an empty place, achingly empty, and I was instantly afraid. I did not like this place. I did not want to be left here, and my fear began pulling me away. I began to retreat until I heard the voice of my brother calling to me, urging me to be brave, urging me to plunge ahead. Like the doting sister I once was, I listened to him.
“Follow him,” Julius said. “For love of me, Isabeau, follow him. Release your fear. I am with you. Follow him and bring him back to us.” Hearing Julius’s voice, and sensing that he was close, I turned around and headed into the darkness. I went deep into the swirling mist until I saw a glimmer of light far along on the path ahead of me. “Dante,” I called. “Dante, come back.” The light stopped moving. I called to it again. And then, suddenly, I could feel him. I could feel his presence. The light began to grow brighter.
“Come, Dante,” I said, reaching out to him. He wanted to, I believed that, but I felt his conflict. I felt his hesitation. I smiled on him then, letting him know how much we loved him, how much we wanted him to come home. I held out my hand and urged him to take it. Still, he hesitated. “Take my hand, Dante,” I said again, speaking to the lone and lost spark of pure energy that was him. “It’s all right. I want you to come with me.”
I felt a fear in him, a dark and terrible fear. But it wasn’t of me. It was something else. I was left with no choice. I was losing him; he was fading, and I knew that Julius would not allow that. I would have to be the one to take him. I would have to be the one to pull him back.
I grabbed him; I enveloped his spark in my own light and intended to carry him with me. But the moment we connected I understood why he was hesitant; I understood his fear. Everything he had suffered in his short life—every horror he had lived through—was relived again through me. I felt his pain, endured his suffering; I shared his habitual and complete degradation; I lived in his hell with him, and what I saw was destroying me, shattering me piece by piece. I knew I was not strong enough to fight this vast, soul-devouring evil.
We clung together, two lost specks of light in a swirling darkness. There was an urge to give in to the darkness, to just let it sweep me away; it would be a release; it would end the suffering. It was a tempting option. But Dante’s spirit was fighting me, trying to set me free. It was a selfless, terrifying thing, and I would not let him do it. I could not. I could not let him go here alone. I knew then why Julius sent me—to hazard the lonely darkness for one small speck of light. He couldn’t come here himself. Because his soul, like Dante’s, was possibly already forfeit.
My father was a warrior of Scotland. I may have been born with a spark of the divine in my blood—my mother may have even been an angel—but I was a warrior too. And my father, Lord William of Blythe, taught me that a warrior never gives up a fight he believes in. After living so many years in denial, I finally understood the truth of this; I finally understood the truth of what I was. And I was finally ready to embrace it. Julius had told me we were a condemned race; I was now ready to believe that we were something quite different. Through our veins ran the seed of hope, and I would not let that vanish with this young man, this lost soul whom Julius had cherished.
And then I thought of what I cherished; I thought of the love that anchored me to the world and made me believe I could do anything; I thought of Gabriel St. Clair.
I saw his beautiful, golden countenance; I heard his heartfelt prayers, and I held on to that. Then we heard the voice of my brother. He was with us, and he had the strength to pull us back.
The tingling, at times very painful, as if a limb had been left too long in ice water, slowly left my body, and I came awake, opening my eyes violently to the world. I was shaking and crying, and I could not help it, because I was utterly terrified of what I had just done. Julius, sitting across from me, was watching me intently. I saw that his eyes were as wide as my own. “Dear God,” he uttered. “What just happened?”
“I … I don’t know,” I replied through trembling lips. And then he came beside me and took me in his arms. “I was so scared,” I said with a hiccough. “I was so frightened. I thought I would never see this place again.”
“Oh, my dear lass,” he said, squeezing me tightly. “I’m so sorry … so sorry. I should have never made you do it. I should have never asked it of you! Dear God, Isabeau, I couldn’t live with myself if I had lost you too. I’m a selfish bastard to the end, and for what?”
“For what?”
I replied, and pushed away. Looking into his pained, self-chastising face, I then cried: “For Dante! We did it for Dante. You were right, Julius. We needed to bring him back. We could not let him go without redemption.”
I realized then that the chest beneath my hands had been rising and falling. The lungs had been filling with breath. I reached my hand up to Dante’s neck and felt the pulse. It was beating again, strong and steady. Still shaking, I turned to Julius and said: “Dear Lord, we … we did it.”
“Did what? What are you talking about?” At the sound of the familiar voice, we both whipped around, lighting on the still face, on the eyes that were now open and looking at us through glittering tears. “I’m right here,” Dante whispered. “There’s no need to shout. But would somebody mind telling me what just happened?” A wondrous look of befuddlement crossed his features. Julius was staring at me with the same look in his eyes.
“You … you did it?” he uttered. I saw that his hands were trembling too. It had never occurred to me until then that there had been any doubt in his mind. Speechless, terrified anew, I nodded.
Dante spoke again. “Dear God, where was I? I thought I was dying. I swear I saw an angel.”
“Angels? Dying? No, you were not dying, my wee fool,” said Julius with gruff affection, his eyes bloodshot and overly bright. He looked on Dante with a watery smile and tenderly brushed a lock of hair off the curious face. “Kilwylie, however, did a good job trying to kill you. But why did you disobey me? Why, Dante? No,” he said abruptly. “Don’t answer that. You’re going to be in a lot of pain, and it serves you bloody right. You deserve to feel pain for the hell you put both of us through! Look at my sister. And have a care for me, aye?”
“How do you feel?” I asked, as I sat on Dante’s other side. I began fussing over his hair as well. Whether he knew it or not, he was now much more to me than just my brother’s profligate friend.
“I’ll live,” he said, and honored me with a smile. “And I saw you,” he whispered softly, seriously. “You were there. You were there too, weren’t you?”
Thankfully, I never had the chance to reply, because at that moment Gabriel came bounding through the doorway, and in his hand he held the scroll. His face was flushed. “Isabeau, we caught him,” he said, his voice strained from the trials of the day. “We caught Kilwylie! He had this—the scroll Oliver gave you.” He handed me the velvet sack. “Dear Dante near crippled the bastard, and he couldn’t get far. He’ll hang now! He’ll hang for what he did to the lad.”
“What did he do? I can’t for the life of me remember.”
“DEAR HEAVEN ALMIGHTY!” Gabriel cried, his rich, resonant voice nearly shaking the room. He looked into Dante’s eyes. No shock on earth could have been greater to the poor man than seeing a dead man brought to life. Julius, unable to resist, smiled as Gabriel’s strong jaw momentarily dangled in utter disbelief. “How …? Holy Christ! I held you in my own arms! I know what I saw! Mother of God and all the saints in heaven! How are you sitting there?”
“Come here, darling,” I said, gently taking his trembling hand in my own. “We simply prayed for a miracle, and God answered our prayers. Madame Seraphina was taken from us today, but God did not have the heart to take Dante from us too. He will, of course, now have to mend his ways.” I cast the young man in question a pointed look—one that I knew he understood.
“Mend his ways?” And then, overcome, Gabriel began laughing and joined us on the bed. He had a lovely, rich, melodious sort of laugh, and it made us all smile to hear it. He looked at Dante, the young man who had tormented him so, and smiled. “Ha! Mend his ways. That, my lad, is going to take a bit more than a miracle.”
Chapter 23
ORDER FROM CHAOS
Edinburgh,
June 5, 1492
“YOU WISH TO SEE ME, YOUR HIGHNESS?” JAMES, THE young King of Scotland, had been looking placidly out the window of his private chamber, with hands crossed behind his back. At the sound of the voice, he turned. Sunlight streaming through the window like ribbons of soft, shimmering cream fell across the visitor, illuminating the striking blue of the eyes, giving luster and depth to the pale hair, and casting a glow across the handsome, symmetrical features that many an artist’s brush would kill to be able to duplicate. But no one, not even the finest Italian master, could ever capture the artful subtlety that moved the features to expression, the graceful control of every muscle, the blazing intellect and lively invention that brought to life the man named Julius Blythe. At the sight of the visitor standing serenely in the opulent room, the smooth, thoughtful face of James Stewart filled with color and ran through a gamut of emotions, finally settling on a warm, candid pleasure. The king walked forward to receive him.
“Alas, heaven and earth have moved, and an overly proud and stubborn boy was finally made to see what the error of four years of spiteful memory and wrongful accusation have done to this country … and to me. But mostly to you, dear Julius.” He embraced, for the first time in many years, the man he had once idolized to the point of self-destruction. It had been a bitter lesson learned that Julius Blythe was only human, and that he too had been vulnerable to the machinations of greedy men. James, stepping back, added with painful sincerity, “I’m afraid we can never repent enough for the injustices done you.”
The easy smile appeared. “You’ve made a good start of it, James. I never thought I would see this day. I came to thank you for clearing my name and for tearing up that damnable marriage contract between Isabeau and George Douglas. George Douglas? What the devil were you thinking when you signed that?” Julius, gently rebuking, grinned and sat in the proffered chair.
James replied with a self-chastising grimace. “I’ve been under the influence of powerful men my entire life. I was but a stargazing, brash child when I was encouraged to take the throne from my father, and I’ve put far too much faith in those men ever since.”
“That is the price of having royal blood in your veins,” Julius replied, his face turning somber. “And I will defend your actions by reminding you that you took the throne for the same reason many of the nobles sought to remove your father: fear for your own safety. He feared the power of the nobles who opposed him, but he was also afraid of you, James—of your intellect and influence over the men who despised him. And the prophecy of your birth always haunted him. My father, although loyal to his king, saw this, and it terrified him. When he realized that your father’s fear of you outweighed reason, he sent me to serve you, and wanting no part of what was to come, he left the country to pursue his own self-interests. Your father’s fear and distrust were a powder keg waiting for a spark. I had hoped we’d have been able to avoid it.”
“The secret meeting on Sir Andrew’s ship,” James replied, the shadow of the painful memory touching his strong features. “We never made it, did we?”
“No. We never did. And for that I’m deeply sorry. Things might have been different if we had. But sometimes, for reasons unknown to us, Fate pushes us in directions we fear to go. You led a revolt and became king; I was taken down by a man I thought to be my friend but who was in reality my bitterest enemy. It took me a long time to understand the implications of that day. The truth is, James, I knew of their plot all along. I knew that Douglas and the Earl of Angus had been approached by King Henry. They were playing their own hand in a larger game and sought to ensure a greater fortune, as powerful men often do. But I was young and very vain. I believed I possessed the ability to subvert their plot without bringing it to light and therefore save not only you and the kingdom but my friendship with George Douglas as well—by rendering the very premise for the plot useless. It never crossed my mind that Douglas, pulling me into his confidence and coercing me to sign my name to the implicating documents, had meant all along to get me hanged. Removing me, the heir to Blythe Hall, it left a strategic border stronghold wide open—an easy gateway for an invading army. And I made it even easier for them to implicate me by abducting you.
“
The truth is, James, powerful men will always vie for your favor, they will always whisper sweetly in your ear, promising love and loyalty in exchange for the baubles of your kingdom. It is what great men do for the chance to be greater. You have been lucky, however, in those you have chosen as your closest advisors. Lords Drummond, Oliphant, Gray, Hailies, Hepburn, and most especially Lord Hume, in my humble opinion, are good men. You need to put lions before your gates. But will you take some well-meaning advice from an old friend?”
James, hanging on his every word, nodded.
“The Earl of Angus was once like a father to you. I know that trying to placate the nobles and hand out favors to those who have helped you become king is difficult. It’s a complicated web of intricacies I would never presume to untangle. But you took the wardenship of the East Marches from Angus and gave it to Hume. His power at court has been slowly and steadily eroded, and yet he protested very little. Do you know why a man like Angus might not speak up?”
“I thought he understood? And then he took his son and left court abruptly.”
“Angus left because he is a prideful man and believes his loyalty and his love of you should be rewarded without his having to beg for favors. Hume and Angus, although both wholly committed to the cause of ’88, were always at odds. Hume and the Hepburns had your ear, and Angus knew it. His anger was allowed to stew until it became an unholy brew, and all the time he wanted to believe you would call him back to court and give him the power he deserved. When you didn’t, and the English knew it, why, it was an easy conversion, like giving a child his first pony in exchange for the key to his father’s house—a silly, dangerous bargain made out of a small oversight. The Earl of Angus is a powerful ally to have, James, and the English know it. If I were you, I’d keep him very close. Bring him and his son back to court. Offer him lands. Bequeath to him titles. Endear him to you so that he will never look to the south again for favors. Do not make enemies of those who love you.”
