Squaring her shoulders, she forced herself to continue walking towards the courtyard. The moonlight was kinder to Lord Faringdon than the ballroom chandelier would have been, but Celia’s heart sank, nonetheless. Milord was almost as wide as he was tall, his heavy-featured face marked with lines of dissolution. And the look of appraisal he bestowed upon Celia chilled her blood.
“My dear Miss Eversleigh!” Lord Faringdon boomed at her in attempted geniality. “I had hoped to find you here. Your dear mama had told me you were fond of gardens.”
So Lord Faringdon hadn’t been in the ballroom, because all this time, he had been lying in wait for her here. Aided, no doubt, by Mama...
“I had also hoped,” Lord Faringdon continued, “that your mother had spoken to you of…other matters, as well.” The leer accompanying his words made their meaning unmistakable.
Celia tried to ignore the ice forming in her stomach and concentrate on the problem at hand. Screams and flight would be pointless, Mama would override any refusal as long as Celia was a minor. I could be wedded and bedded before ever attaining my majority…unless HE changes his mind!
Her eyes widened in sudden inspiration, then, recollecting the man standing before her, she gazed meltingly up at him through her lashes. “Oh, Lord Faringdon!” she twittered. “I should like it above all things!”
“Should you?” His lordship looked slightly taken aback by her enthusiasm.
Celia suspected that very few ladies reacted enthusiastically to Lord Faringdon’s proposals these days—no doubt the consequence of his having buried his first two wives. Stifling a giggle, she continued, with even greater ardor, “Why, only think of all the good we can accomplish together!” She thought she saw the faintest flicker of apprehension cross his lordship’s face. Nothing, her grandmother had told her once, alarms a wastrel and libertine more than talk of good works!
Taking the bit between her teeth, Celia launched into the performance of her life: she simpered and gushed, clasping her hands and gazing soulfully into Lord Faringdon’s bloodshot eyes. And through it all, she prattled ceaselessly of the hundreds of worthy causes to which she, as his wife, would devote her energies and his money. After the first five minutes, Lord Faringdon’s indulgent expression changed to one of alarm, and when she mentioned “the Sisterhood of Perpetual Abstinence,” he rose, spluttering and empurpled.
“Perpetual Ab—Ab—” He could hardly get the words out.
“But of course, my lord! You must know I would never bestow my hand on one devoted to fleshly pleasures! In you,” she gazed at him limpidly, “I see my soul-mate, a man who desires union of the spirit rather than the body, who will join with me in a true marriage of minds. Mama has assured me that, having already an heir, you would willingly embrace a life of celibacy!”
“Has she, b’gad?” His lordship was frowning ferociously.
“Dear Mama!” Celia sighed. “I should be quite lost without her. We must have her with us at Faringdon House!”
That, she suspected, was the last straw. Lord Faringdon’s ruddy face paled to the color of suet. “I—I—forgive me, Miss Eversleigh, for my intolerable presumption. You are so young, so lovely…I see now that I have made a grave error.”
“Error?” Celia echoed, eyes wide.
“In thinking we should suit—b’gad, I’m old enough to be your father! You’d be better matched with a young blade, nearer your own age and interests!”
Celia pouted, looking dubious. “Wellll…”
“‘Pon my soul, I speak only the truth,” his lordship averred hastily. “Be assured I shall ever hold you in the highest esteem.”
“But you’re such an eligible suitor!” Celia let the suggestion of a whine creep into her voice.
“Oh, as to that, I daresay I know a young sprig or two who’d be happy to make your acquaintance. Faversham’s nephew was to be here—damme if he wasn’t pestering me for an introduction to you last week! I’ll go and see if he’s arrived.”
“Oh, very well!” Celia tossed her head pettishly. “Though what Mama will say—”
“Your servant, ma’am,” Lord Faringdon interrupted, before she could elaborate on Mama’s likely utterances. Seizing his moment, he bowed deeply and all but ran for the well-lit ballroom behind them.
Celia waited until his lordship was out of earshot before sinking down on the bench and giving in to her mirth. But her laughter was cut short by a sudden violent rustling in a clump of nearby bushes.
“Who’s there?” she called sharply, leaping to her feet and glancing wildly around for something to use as a weapon.
“Ouch!” exclaimed the bushes in a very familiar voice. To Celia’s astonishment, the thrashing branches disgorged a rumpled but smiling Gareth Markham.
“How did you—?”
“Over the garden wall. It’s easy enough to scale, if you don’t care about your clothes. But going out through the gate should be even easier.”
Celia recollected her wits. “But what are you doing here? And how much,” she added, taking a firmer grip on her reticule, “did you overhear, just now?”
His smile became a grin. “Quite enough. You’ve sent Lord Faringdon about his business—well done! And I came to tell you Captain and the future Mrs. Dalton are safely on their way to the border.”
“Oh, splendid!” Celia clapped her hands. Whatever Mama did, she could never part Lucy and John once they were legally married. “Dear Lucy—did she look happy?”
“Very. Except for one thing and that’s also why I’m here. Your sister made me promise to help you in any way possible. She seemed rather worried about how your mother would react, when she found out about the elopement!”
“I…I suppose she’ll disown me,” said Celia. The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed—if not for putting off Lord Faringdon, then for helping Lucy elope!
The whole thing struck her as exquisitely funny—she dissolved into uncontrollable giggles.
Gareth studied her quizzically. “You don’t seem unduly distressed by the prospect.”
“I’m n-not,” Celia assured him, around a last gurgle of laughter. She sighed, feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted from her. “My grandmother lives in Northwood; can one of your carriages take me there?”
“One is waiting for you outside. Your sister’s packed your things—I think she suspected you’d want to leave.”
“Dearest Lucy.” Celia blinked back sudden tears. They were true sisters indeed.
“She explained to me about this…‘simulacrum’ you made for her—how long will it last?” Gareth asked, breaking into her reverie.
“Until dawn or until I break the spell, whichever comes first. I last saw Mama in deep conversation with Lady Blessingham. She’ll not come in search of me for hours yet. And Lord Faringdon certainly won’t come looking for her!” Celia glanced back over her shoulder towards the ballroom. This was your world, never mine or Lucy’s. Goodbye, Mama—may you find happiness on your own. She turned to Gareth with a radiant smile that made his breath falter slightly before he returned the smile and offered his arm.
The garden gate unlatched easily from the inside, as Gareth had foreseen, and at the end of a narrow lane stood a sturdy well-sprung carriage, its doors open to receive her. Climbing inside with Gareth’s assistance, Celia smiled at the sight of her spellbooks, bound together with cord, resting on the seat beside her.
Mr. Markham folded up the stairs and closed the door. “Your clothes and such are strapped to the roof. We should be in Northwood in three hours’ time.”
“We? Are you coming too, Mr. Markham?”
“Well, Miss Eversleigh, my uncle has a shipping business up in Northwood, and he’s invited me to come learn the trade.” He lingered by the window, gazing at her with a hopeful air that made her own pulse beat faster. “And since I’m to stay with him there, might I—call on you, sometime?”
“I should like it above all things!” Celia assured him.
And this t
ime she meant it, with all her heart.
Orb And Sceptre
THANKS to her scrying-glass, Lady Romillia knew of the traveler’s approach long before the heavily muffled figure straggled through her gates and was brought before her. Now, richly gowned in blue velvet, an ermine cloak draped about her shoulders, she gazed upon the sodden newcomer, his clothes streaming with melted snow, who knelt before her throne.
“Welcome, pilgrim; few of your kind pass this way, and in such bitter weather. Your errand must be important indeed.” Then, as he made no reply, she asked lightly, “Have the north winds frozen your tongue? I’ll have mulled wine brought directly.”
Her guest’s turbaned head swayed from side to side, while a gloved hand fumbled at the scarf concealing the lower half of the face. Romillia stifled a gasp at the features thus revealed to her, like and yet so unlike those she had once known well.
“I am Jancis of Maldreys, lady,” said the traveler, in a voice nearly as deep as a man’s. “I bring you news of my cousin, Laran the Thief.”
“He made it into Lady Ishandra’s citadel but he reckoned without her menagerie. One of her beasts mauled him badly, he barely escaped with his life.” Jancis paused, swallowing audibly, then resumed her tale, “I met him by chance in Cartheyn—on the way back from my pilgrimage. I found a healer, but she could do nothing for him.”
Now that the first shock had worn off, Romillia could see that the cousins were quite different. Jancis possessed neither Laran’s restless energy nor his quicksilver grace. Her manner was calm, even stoic, perhaps an indication of the pilgrimage to which she’d referred. Romillia had heard that few came back from distant Estmere unchanged. She glanced covertly at the age-worn medallion around Jancis’s neck, at the carved wooden staff she carried, engraved with protective runes. Clearly, both had served the woman well, to bring her such a distance without mishap.
“I am sorry to hear of your cousin’s death.” Romillia chose her words with care. “He was a man of great courage and daring.”
Jancis bowed her head. “My cousin entrusted me with his last errand.” She knelt again, fumbling in her pack, then drew out a knobbly, hide-wrapped bundle. “He bade me bring these to you.”
Romillia caught her breath. So he’d gotten it after all! She composed herself with an effort and accepted the proffered bundle with every appearance of calm. Her hands, she was pleased to note, hardly trembled at all as she unfastened the cords around the bundle and drew back the leathery folds surrounding its contents.
A ruby ring. A handful of coins, silver and gold. Magpie treasures Laran could not have resisted, even with a greater prize in the offing. Was this all? Romillia rummaged through the bundle, nearly cried out in triumph as her fingers brushed a smooth, curved surface. Hardly daring to breathe, she reached further in, closed her hand upon an ovoid shape, drew it out.
Yes! The Orb of Al-Karrah. She rolled it across her palm, marveling at its cool smoothness, the intricate streaks of red and gold, hardly daring to believe it was hers at last. Five hundred years since any sorcerer had held, much less owned, its like! She stole a glance at Jancis, but the pilgrim wasn’t watching her. Instead, she was shifting from foot to foot, glancing about Romillia’s hall in obvious disquiet.
Slipping the Orb covertly into her sleeve, Romillia inquired, “Are you quite well, Pilgrim Jancis? Perhaps my servants could attend you.”
“No, thank you, lady.” Jancis cleared her throat, running her fingers over the wooden sphere atop her staff, in the first nervous gesture Romillia had seen from her. “It’s only—I feel…as if I’m being watched.”
The scrying glass! Romillia silently berated herself for forgetting to cover it. But to the outward eye, it looked like an ordinary mirror, hanging behind her throne. Only another sorcerer would know it was much more. She gave a tinkling little laugh. “Your apprehension is groundless, I assure you. There are no prying eyes to see us. But you’re very vigilant, pilgrim. Were you a soldier, before you took your staff?”
“Yes.” Jancis did not elaborate. Instead, she fixed an earnest, troubled gaze upon the sorceress. “Forgive me, lady. A promise is sacred, I feel as if I’d failed my cousin—”
“Because you couldn’t save him? There’s no reason to feel that way—manticores are deadly creatures. I’m sure you did all you could for Laran!” Romillia smiled dazzlingly at Jancis. “Your loyalty in fulfilling his task will not go unrewarded!”
Jancis flushed unbecomingly. “That is not necessary, lady. I’ll just be on my way—”
“Nonsense! You must allow me to repay you.” Lady Romillia nodded to her nearest page, who bowed and left the hall, returning swiftly with a heavy purse, which he presented to Jancis. “Take it, good pilgrim. Your efforts have earned you such a prize.”
Jancis hesitated, then accepted the purse, tucking it within her cloak. “Thank you.”
Romillia smiled. “I shall not forget the service you have done me, Pilgrim Jancis.”
“I shall not forget you either, lady,” said Jancis. She bowed, then strode from the hall, her staff’s end striking the polished floor at every step.
Lady Romillia forgot her as soon as she passed through the gates. Removing the Orb from her sleeve, she hurried to her inner sanctum. In the far corner of the room, stood a tall cabinet, sealed with her strongest enchantments. Romillia murmured the counterspell rapidly, then darted forward and flung open the doors. The Sceptre of Al-Karrah seemed to leap into her hand—she drew it out, gloating. Runes glimmered on the polished cedar wood, richly inlaid with lapis lazuli and carnelian. To own the Sceptre or the Orb alone was an achievement any sorcerer would devote years of his life to attain. To own both was to lay claim to power undreamt of! Romillia smiled triumphantly; Ishandra was well-served for her attempt to steal the Sceptre two years ago! Fortunately, her thief had lacked Laran’s flair and persistence, though his end had been equally unfortunate.
At the thought of her dead lover, she paused, envisioning the thief as she’d last seen him in her glass, struggling beneath the claws of Ishandra’s manticore. So sad, to see such youth and courage mangled. But regrets were useless: even if she had been able to aid Laran from such a distance, the drain on her powers might have weakened her sorcery permanently. And Laran had worshipped her—she was sure he’d have understood. Not even her latest lover was as slavishly devoted. Romillia frowned. Had Laran’s cousin said it was the manticore who’d maimed him? She couldn’t recall.
Well, no matter. The pilgrim was a simple woman and had departed as quietly as she’d come, without reproaches or threats of blood-feud. And Romillia had several preparations to make before the full powers of Orb and Sceptre were hers.
The torches had almost burned out when she finished, though a single Word set them alight once more. The Sceptre of Al-Karrah stood upright in the center of a pentacle etched upon the marble floor. The Orb rested precariously atop the Sceptre, affixed by the simplest of her spells.
Quivering with excitement, Romillia raised her arms and recited the runes of protection and benediction inscribed upon the Sceptre. A more complicated incantation followed, which required every ounce of her concentration. But when she finished the last phrase of twisting syllables and lowered her arms, the lines of the pentacle gleamed gold and burst into flame. Fire swept in towards the Sceptre, licking eagerly at the now-glowing Orb. Romillia watched, lips parted in anticipation. Soon, very soon…
Suddenly, the flames subsided, their color changing from white gold to a sickly green. With a muffled pphhhttt! the Orb of Al-Karrah dissolved in a fountain of foul-smelling vapors. Yellow goo dribbled down the Sceptre, smearing the inlaid runes, and the stink of sulfur filled the sanctum.
Lady Romillia stared aghast at her failure, then shrieked aloud, the halls of her stronghold ringing with her rage and frustration. “A thousand curses on you, Ishandra! And damn you to the blackest hells!”
Tempting though it had been to fling the purse in Lady Romillia’s face, such a move woul
d not have been practical, and Jancis was a practical woman. There were still several days’ journey ahead of her before she caught up with her regiment and northern winters were not to be trifled with. The sorceress’s coin paid for a hot meal, a bath, and a private—though very small—room at the inn.
Now, perched on the edge of her bed, Jancis carefully unscrewed the wooden sphere from her pilgrim staff and spilled the Orb of Al-Karrah into her palm. In the firelight, its swirling patterns of red and gold gleamed with an added luster.
Jancis gazed pensively at her prize. Beautiful and, no doubt, powerful, though she had no idea of its purpose, any more than Laran had. But caution had prompted her to have the Orb duplicated by an artificer friend in Cartheyn, to carry as a decoy in her pack, while the real one was lodged in the safest place she could think of. Even the greediest robbers would think twice about making off with a pilgrim’s sacred staff and incurring the gods’ displeasure. She’d promised Laran she’d bring the Orb safely to his lady-love, a deathbed promise was sacrosanct. Only…standing in Lady Romillia’s hall, she’d been suddenly assailed by doubts. That mirror: the artificer had had one very similar, though not as fine. A scrying glass, Albarus had said proudly. She had seen nothing in its depths but Albarus had gazed into it long, then told her the safest route to the sorceress’s stronghold. Lady Romillia’s owning such a glass may have been mere coincidence…but not that slip about the manticore.
Jancis weighed the Orb in her hand and thought about her cousin’s mistress. For lovers they’d certainly been—Laran’s eyes had burned with a light even hotter than his fever when he mentioned her name. He’d spoken of Lady Romillia the way others spoke of the gods, raving of her beauty and wit, of his hopes that she might accept his suit and love only him. How would he have felt, to know his lady held his life so cheaply, as to offer him no aid in his greatest peril?
Awakened and Other Enchanted Tales Page 8
