Lennox, Mary - Heart of Fire.txt

by Heart of Fire. txt (lit)

  men. But Nicholas had heard that rough burr, almost a cur’s

  growl once before, at a time so deeply etched in his memory

  that he would have recognized that particular voice anywhere.

  Dawson! His blood froze in his veins.

  “Open the door,” he said to the soldier nearest him.

  Dawson pulled a pistol and shouted a warning. The other

  two drew their own weapons. Dawson aimed and pulled the

  trigger. A soldier’s arm shoved Nicholas to the side. The shot

  whizzed past Nicholas’s head, just as a knife sailed through the

  air and sliced through Dawson’s throat. Dawson, gagging,

  clutched at the knife and dropped to the ground. Nicholas’s pistol

  smoked in his hand, as did Andre’s. The other two men lay

  dead at Dawson’s side.

  Nicholas looked to his left for the man who had saved his

  life. Carlsohnn’s hand, the one that had shoved him and then

  thrown the knife, was shaking, but his mouth was curved in a

  beatific grin.

  “It’s all right,” Carlsohnn said. “It’s all right.” The lieutenant

  let out a gusty sigh of relief.

  Nicholas’s heart was going like a trip hammer. He

  dismounted at a run and flung open the carriage door. He tore

  the blanket from the small, limp bundle on the floor.

  “Sera,” he said. His hands were clammy, and his stomach

  clenched. But she was breathing, and even as he pulled her

  against his chest, her eyelids began to flutter.

  “Ooh,” she moaned.

  “Sweetheart, hold still,” he said, working at the ropes tying

  her hands and feet. “I’ll have you up in a moment.”

  “I think I am going to be sick.”

  “Hold on just a moment. There. Lean on me and let it go.”

  He held her head until the nausea passed and then wiped

  her face with a handkerchief. “Be a good girl and lie down for a

  moment, here, up on the seat.”

  She curled up and moaned again, her head on his lap. A

  soldier came with water, and Nicholas gave her a sip.

  “Better? Good. That must have been nasty stuff they

  drugged you with.”

  ”Awful. Nicholas.” She tugged his sleeve, pressing against

  him. “I didn’t run away. There was a young soldier who rode

  with me. He has a mother and ten brothers and sisters. They

  shot him. You have to help him.”

  He signaled two of the men, and they galloped ahead to

  look for the soldier. “Of course you didn’t run away. You gave

  me your word. No, give it a few moments until you get your

  head on straight. Then I want to hear what happened. You can

  tell me on the way home. We’ll travel in the coach, together.”

  Sera was still so pale. It made him sick with worry. Had

  Dawson—but no, he couldn’t think about that, or he’d go mad.

  But had they given her too much of the drug? People died from

  chloroform in the hospital.

  “I want to get out of here,” she said. “It’s awful. It smells of

  that stuff.”

  “All right. Tell me when you can stand, and I’ll take you up

  before me on the horse.”

  “Now.”

  “Slowly. That’s right, down to the ground. I’ll mount first.

  No, let Andre lift you up to me. Captain! Another cloak. There,

  nice and snug.” He tucked it around her, pulled her back against

  him, and gave the signal. As they moved forward on the road

  home, he found he was shaking all over.

  ***

  “It is well. He has found her!” To the shock and

  consternation of the guests seated around a small room in the

  Mage’s palace, Jacob Augustus threw open the doors with a

  crash. The sound echoed off the entryway and down the broad

  halls of marble. He stopped, ashamed of his outburst. In his

  relief, he’d raced downstairs from the watchtower wherein lay

  the scrying glass and burst into a feast his grandfather gave in

  honor of the festival of Hermes. Even a child of ten knew one

  did not dishonor the god with such a careless loss of dignity.

  “How good of you to come, Jacob,” his grandfather said

  smoothly, indicating the couch beside him. “My grandson had

  pressing personal business elsewhere,” he told the notables in

  the dining chamber, “but we shall not pause from our discussion

  to talk about it.” A servant appeared from nowhere. Reaching

  up, he carefully placed a myrtle wreath on Jacob’s hair.

  Emmanuel’s face was serene, but Jacob, looking closely,

  saw joy light it, like a lamp in early evening before the sun has

  set. “Please, dine with us and tell us what you think. Myron has

  suggested that we add Euripides to the program of plays for the

  Dionysia this Spring.”

  Jacob composed himself and reclined against the pillows

  at the head of the couch. A servant silently poured a cup of

  wine mixed with water and handed it to him. Another

  unobtrusively placed a plate of roasted lamb and a bowl of

  yogurt and honey on the small enameled table by the couch. He

  sipped the wine and took that instant to calm himself.

  “My apologies, sir,” he said to his grandfather, “and to all

  our guests. In this year of Outlander turmoil, I should think The

  Trojan Women most instructive. Long ago, the fate of those

  women brought tears to the eyes of hardened soldiers. Today,”

  he added with a meaningful look at Emmanuel, “it will remind

  us of why we were sent to Arkadia, why we were instructed to

  remain separate, and what we have learned since.”

  Emmanuel took the dig with a forbearance that made Jacob

  ashamed of himself. Who was he to instruct his grandfather?

  The talk of the festival went on around the room. “Jacob,

  give us the tale of the Delian Twins,” his grandfather said. Jacob

  wondered if Emmanuel could see into his mind and knew his

  failing, or that he simply wished to make Jacob happier and,

  therefore, calm within himself. He rose and took the harp from

  the bard sitting in the corner of the banquet room. After a few

  moments of tuning, he began the old song of the twins coming

  into their strength, Artemis the Huntress, and Phoebus Apollo,

  golden, far-shooting lord of the bow, all truth and light.

  He loved this story. First, because he was dedicated to

  Apollo and never tired of stories about the god. Secondly,

  because the music was sweeter than most of the bard songs that

  tradition allowed, and thus, he could raise his voice and revel

  in the lyrical beauty of the notes.

  It confused and humbled him that this secret temptation

  should so overwhelm him. He would be Mage someday and

  responsible for carrying out all the laws of Arkadia. They, of

  course, included the ban on music that only aroused the senses

  without uplifting the soul. Indeed, he’d so lost himself in the

  hunger for music that he had learned to read the classical scores

  of the Outlanders, turning to them with a desperation like that

  of a man enslaved to drink or women. He’d felt an undeniable

  longing to hear their instruments. In secret, he memorized their

  notes and their harmo
nies.

  Worse yet, when alone on the practice field with javelin or

  discus, he would silently imagine himself singing the notes of

  their composers and throw to the rhythm. It seemed that in this

  temptation only, his soul was capable of duplicity and evil. Even

  now, lost in the spell of the old music that he was permitted to

  sing and play, he held the last notes too long, surely a sin of

  pride. In spite of the appreciative murmurs from the diners, he

  could look at no one as he gave the lyre back to the bard.

  As he returned to his couch, the talk turned to the Dionysia,

  the games and the plays, and the hope that this year’s prizes

  would go to playwrights worthy of the old masters.

  Drusus Antiocus, making a small motion to Jacob, spoke

  quietly from the couch to his left. “It has come to my attention

  that Thalia, the daughter of Leonides Palos, has come of age.

  My son Lysander is in need of a bride. He had been set to ask

  for your sister Seraphina some time back, before this regrettable

  business regarding the Heart of Fire. It would have been a good

  match—the Aestron Gift combined with our skill at mathematics

  and telepathy.”

  He gave Jacob a questioning look. “Shall I speak to

  Leonides or shall I wait?”

  Jacob nodded, signaling his understanding. He’d grown up

  with Lysander Antiocus, respected his friend for the strong, kind

  man he’d become, and admired Lysander’s calm demeanor and

  good sense. The women considered him handsome, as well. He

  would make a worthy bridegroom for Sera. He wondered if

  Drusus came to him because he sensed that Jacob wanted his

  sister back now. Whereas Grandfather would insist that she

  remain in that hellhole they called the rest of the world.

  It would not go on much longer. Jacob would see to that.

  “Sera will return soon. My sister would bring honor to your

  family, Drusus. And I would be honored to give her to my friend

  Lysander. I shall tell him so, myself.”

  ***

  After meeting with his council, Nicholas sent word to

  Katherine that he wished to see her before luncheon.

  She took one look at his face and said, “Do quit fretting.

  Sera’s fine. And no, Dawson didn’t touch her other than to hold

  her still while the others drugged her. She has a headache, of

  course, but the doctor promises she’ll be fine by tomorrow.

  When Wind Rider came back to the stables alone, I think we all

  went a bit mad with worry. Thank the good God that you came

  home early enough to catch them.”

  “We have to discuss something else, Katherine.” He threw

  the miniature of Galerien down on a small table before her. She

  grew white as a ghost and turned toward the window.

  “Is this to be my husband?” she asked.

  “No. I would sooner marry you to a stoat. But Katherine, I

  need time to rid Laurentia of the Brotherhood’s threat. I won’t

  bother you with all the details, but for the meantime, please,

  accept this betrothal, knowing that I shall break it as soon as I

  can.”

  She looked at him, her smile tremulous. “Am I to send a

  shy but pleasing letter to Galerien, thanking him for this honor?”

  He nodded, feeling like the lowest worm on the face of the

  earth. “Just for a little while, Katya. If you could play him,

  t’would make a difference, I think.”

  “I shall compose something fitting by this evening. Do you

  not think that he will be satisfied to receive it by return

  messenger?”

  “I do. I should like to propose a meeting between you and

  Galerien here, for a month or two from now. That will keep him

  quiet, I believe.” He couldn’t look at her.

  “Nikki. The British—will they help us against Napoleon?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Nicholas didn’t even hear Katherine’s approach. Her

  footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet. It was only when he

  felt her take his hand that he raised his head.

  She gave him such a look. He wanted to shout to her to hit

  him, or to run away, but not to fix her dark eyes on him with

  such love and trust when he couldn’t give her any comfort or

  reassurance.

  “You have done all you can do, Nikki. Don’t waste this

  time in guilt. Take what you can from it. I certainly plan to do

  so. And if the angels are with us—who knows? Maybe both of

  us will be happy for the rest of our lives, no?”

  When had his little sister grown up? She was right, Nicholas

  thought. His troops, posted now at the border with Beaureve,

  would repel Galerien’s army. Plans to attack the Brotherhood

  base were well under way. There was nothing left to do but

  wait, and hope.

  He felt an odd lightening of spirit. For the first time, he was

  no longer fighting shadows. He might be dead this time next

  year, but in the interim, he would take what he wanted and give

  back as much of himself as he could.

  Nicholas left his sister and strolled the long hallway to his

  chamber. A footman’s normally impassive gaze whipped to

  Nicholas’s face. It was only then that Nicholas realized he was

  whistling a rather bawdy tune he had learned at a tavern on the

  docks of London when he was a student.

  ***

  In the few days since he had rescued her from Dawson,

  Sera found herself once again totally confused by Nicholas’s

  behavior toward her. On the first morning, he appeared at her

  chamber door several times, inquiring after her health to the

  most minute details—how much of her breakfast she’d eaten,

  how well rested she was, if she’d risen from her bed.

  Not completely satisfied with the answers, he’d come into

  the room to see for himself, bringing Katherine and Andre along.

  “An unfortunate necessity, for propriety’s sake,” he’d told

  her with a charmingly wicked grin—the reprobate. She’d steeled

  herself then and managed a cool, impersonal mien. He hadn’t

  seemed to notice. Instead, he’d questioned her closely about

  the headache, a lingering result of the drug, insisted that she

  not get up again that day, and checked what food Cook prepared

  for her. A few days ago, she would have melted at his fussing,

  but she was on her guard with him now, too. Perhaps guilt

  motivated his actions.

  She waited for the announcement of his betrothal to the

  false princess, but it did not come. And she wondered what

  unfortunate young woman Galerien had placed in that role.

  Today, fully recovered from the effects of her abduction,

  Sera faced the trial of her final ball gown fittings. She realized

  immediately that Madame Sophie’s propensity for outrageous

  gossip remained the same, and Sera took advantage of it. “Tell

  me, Madame Sophie, what do you know about the princess

  Catherine Elizabeth Galerien?”

  “Oh, my dear child, you have nothing to fear. She is very

  sick—some say she is a little fou, you understand. Her uncle

  has sequestered her for so many years that th
ere must be

  something very grave about her problems. No, you will not be

  usurped by that poor little thing.”

  “Where is she? Does anyone visit her? Do some of the lords

  of Laurentia carry messages from the king to this princess?”

  “No, no. She never receives anyone.”

  Perhaps there isn’t a sham princess, at all, Sera thought

  as the modiste prattled on.

  “Once the marriage is consummated, and the heir assured,

  I believe the king will return to you with the eagerness of a new

  lover.”

  “Kindly say no more.” Sera went hot with indignation at

  Madame Sophie’s insinuation.

  “Ah, my dear, you are such an innocent.” The modiste shook

  her head and patted Sera’s shoulder. “You must look at your

  situation as the way of the world. Mistresses have a power over

  men that wives only rarely possess. And you already have that

  power over the king. All the people watched you return to town,

  myself among them. We worried, you see. You were half-

  conscious at the time and so pale.

  “But it was the king who surprised us, nay, shocked us that

  day. For he rode with you in his arms, my dear. And he held

  you as though he would never let you go. Did you not realize?”

  she asked.

  Sera grew hot with confusion and a thrill that sent her

  perfidious heart soaring. “That day is rather blank in most

  places.”

  “Ah. Understandable. But so it was. You have nothing to

  worry about from the little sickly princess. You will have no

  rivals for this king’s love.”

  Sera felt worse, really, than she had when Dawson drugged

  her. The tawdriness of it all—a mistress waiting alone while the

  man she loved bedded his wife for a child! And then, apparently,

  they all expected that she would take him back to her bed, as

  though nothing had happened.

  Annette knocked at the door and entered holding a blue

  gown across her forearm. “I hope you are almost done, here,

  Madame. I have orders to ready Lady Sera for the afternoon.”

  “Ah oui, I am finished.” The modiste dropped a curtsey to

  Sera. “My dear lady, it is always a pleasure to serve you. Be

  aware that we Laurentians have a great fondness for you.”

  “You must hurry, my lady.” Annette laid the dress across