He and Steffan and Steffan’s men had just arrived at the place outside the earl of Llew’s estate where Ffinian and his sons and men had set up a camp of sorts. The storm had diminished into a light, though steady, drizzle, and the tent where the men had gathered to discuss their plan was more than sufficient to protect them from the elements.
“At least let me go with you,” Kian said.
“He’d never let you pass through the gates,” Niclas replied. “I must go alone.”
“He’ll harm you,” Steffan said, his face pale and his countenance shaken. “I can sense it. He’s going to hurt you badly, Niclas. You must have someone to lend you aid.”
“I hope that I shall,” he said, finishing the last of the wine and setting the cup aside with finality. “Malachi will come once he senses I’m in danger.”
“But that will take time, lad,” Ffinian said. “What if he’s delayed half an hour?”
“Then I shall be extremely put out with him,” Niclas said with a grim smile. “Though I don’t expect to be here to do anything about it.”
In the corner where he stood, Steffan groaned out loud. “Don’t speak of death,” he pleaded. “I feel a great dread for what’s to come. Don’t tempt fate by making light of such matters, cfender, I pray you.”
Niclas moved to set a comforting hand on his arm.
“Don’t fear for me, Steffan. None of you,” he said, looking at each of them, “must think of me, but keep your minds fixed on getting Julia safely away. If you bear me any love at all, promise me that. No matter what may happen, the end of this day must see her delivered. Give me your hands on it.”
He set his hand in the middle of the circle they made and each laid his own upon it.
“Take every care, lad,” Ffinian said. “Cadmaran’s as dark and shifty as a demon. He cares only for himself and no other.”
“I’ll be careful,” Niclas vowed. “And it’s the earl of Llew’s self-love that I’m counting on. It’s the only thing, I believe, that can send all his caution fleeing.”
Eighteen
It hadn’t occurred to Niclas just how difficult it would be to get inside Castle Llew. He wasn’t quite certain what it was he’d expected when he rode Enoch up to the massive front gates, but it wasn’t to be informed that the earl of Llew had given strict instructions not to admit Niclas, or any Seymours, for any reason.
“Wonderful,” he muttered, standing in the softly falling rain with Enoch’s reins in his hand. “Now what?”
It made perfect sense, of course. Why should Lord Llew bid him enter when keeping him out might force Niclas to gather all his relatives about him for an attack? Cadmaran had nothing to lose by sitting safely behind his walls, and much to gain should an army of Seymours make the first move.
“Tell your master,” Niclas said to the gatekeeper, “that I have come alone and unarmed. I have only brought with me something to bargain in exchange for Miss Linley’s return.”
“What is it?” asked the gatekeeper.
“I’ll not speak of it to you,” Niclas replied solemnly. “Tell your master that it is ancient, from before memory, and that the lord of the Seymours would as soon see me dead as part with it.”
Twenty minutes later, the gates opened, and Niclas, sending Enoch back to the camp, walked in alone.
The earl of Llew’s estate was vast and beautiful, made grand by Cadmaran’s wealth. Niclas thought it a bit pretentious, but, then, he couldn’t help but compare it to Glain Tarran, the seat of the earl of Graymar. Malachi left it to grow as wild and natural as he possibly could without letting the land overrun the dwellings. Castle Llew, on the other hand, was so ruthlessly kept that not even the trees or bushes showed a hint of softness. Knowing Cadmaran, they were probably afraid to.
The castle was filled with people—fighting men and servants—and yet there was a strange, stark quiet in the place. Everyone was silent as they went about their work, so that all Niclas heard as he made his way from the outer bailey to the massive inner bailey and through the great castle doors that opened for him as he approached were footsteps, or the infrequent clatter of bowls and cups, or the scraping of a broom against a bare floor. No one looked at him as he passed, no one spoke to him, and their emotions were so shuttered that Niclas could feel very little emanating from them. The entire castle had clearly been cast beneath a deep and powerful spell. Did they even know what they did, these inhabitants of Llew? Did they know where they were, or how long they’d been there?
The castle itself had been maintained in a kind of medieval splendor, and Niclas could discern little in the way of modern furnishings or comforts. Torches, rather than lamps, lit the halls with their bright flames, and if the floors weren’t covered with rushes, as they had been in times long past, the exquisite but faded carpets that lined them looked as if they hailed from a date no later than the Renaissance. As he walked toward two grand, tall wooden doors that surely led into the great hall, Niclas could imagine himself being transported back to the days of his ancestors, whose names and adventures he had learned of in his youth. Seymours had fought battles and sought peace in this same castle long, long ago. Now it was his turn to face their ancient enemy.
He stopped before the doors and drew in a deep breath, praying that the spirits of those long-past relatives would be with him in this moment.
The doors were heavy, but their hinges were well oiled. As Niclas pushed they slowly swung open without making a sound.
The great hall of Castle Llew was both enormous and dark. Tall windows on either side of the long room were covered by heavy red curtains, and the only sources of light were provided by the several large fireplaces set at intervals in the stone walls and more of those torches that Cadmaran clearly preferred. At the far end of the room was a dais, and upon the dais a chair that looked very much like a medieval throne. Cadmaran sat upon it, seeming to be very relaxed, with one leg stretched out.
Julia was before the lord of the castle, kneeling with her head bowed, silent, motionless, her hands folded in her lap. She looked as if she might be praying to him, though Niclas knew that was only how Cadmaran wanted it to appear. She was barefooted and dressed in a thin, white nightgown, a coat and a pair of shoes having been tossed on the floor not far away, and she looked very small and helpless compared to Cadmaran’s large, dark person.
Slowly, Niclas began to walk toward the dais, not surprised when the doors closed unaided behind him. Though he was taller than most men, the size of the hall made him feel inconsequential, like a fly about to be swatted by an extremely large hand.
He tried not to think of the earl of Llew’s powers; indeed, he tried not to think of anything other than the task at hand, but it was impossible. Memories of a particular day in his youth flooded all other thoughts away . . . memories of the very first time he’d met Morcar Cadmaran.
They had been boys, though Cadmaran had been closer to Malachi’s age, and therefore a couple of years older. It had been at one of the large, important gatherings of the Families—a meeting of such scale that it only took place once every five years, and lasted a full week, during which time the various clans discussed all their concerns and made wide-ranging agreements.
Malachi had been twelve and already declared the heir to the earldom—which wasn’t surprising, as his father was at that time the head of the Seymours. Unfortunately, he wasn’t above being a bit cocky about it. He and Morcar, who was likewise aware that he would one day assume leadership of the Cadmarans, couldn’t seem to help trying to best each other in displays of magic and skill.
Niclas, only ten, had tried to talk some sense into them, but as each day of the gathering passed the boys’ dares had grown more dangerous. Finally, Morcar had challenged Malachi to accompany him to a nearby village, where they would see who could perform the greatest magic without being caught by mere mortals. Niclas, filled with foreboding, had tagged along at Malachi’s insistence.
It had started innocently enough, with Morcar sendi
ng little rocks scooting in front of villagers as they walked and Malachi blowing breezes to make windows rattle and business doors fly open.
But it had escalated rapidly, until Malachi was making cats fly and Morcar was sending barrels rolling through the village center, careless of the people walking there.
And then, Morcar had decided to turn his magic on the villagers themselves.
First it had been making girls’ skirts fly, then sending a stray dog barking after a group of boys, then pelting two men with acorns from a nearby tree, and then . . . with a suddenness that had taken both Niclas and Malachi by surprise, Morcar had begun lifting people into the air and sending them flying, having very little concern for where they landed or if they were hurt. He’d sent one luckless man straight into the side of a building, and the poor fellow had fallen senseless to the ground. Niclas, to his shame, had begun to babble incoherently until Malachi put a hand over his mouth and forced him to run away.
The sound of Morcar’s laughter followed them for what seemed like an eternity, until they finally hid in a gathering of rocks and struggled to catch their breath.
Niclas had trembled like a foolish infant despite his cousin’s comforting arm about him, and for long minutes all Malachi could say, over and over, guilt heavy in his voice, was, “I could have stopped him,” for even then his powers had been superior.
Morcar Cadmaran escaped punishment that day, probably because of his youth, but he had never again gotten the better of the present earl of Graymar.
“You’re more foolhardy than I suspected,” Lord Llew said now as Niclas approached. “You came without your cousin to defend you. How noble.” The last two words were uttered so derisively that there was no doubt as to their meaning.
“You have never loved as I have,” Niclas replied. “A man who has waited his entire life for such a miracle doesn’t treat it lightly. I’ve come to get Julia back.”
Cadmaran smiled. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but she doesn’t want to go. She is here to take the place of the wife I was promised, though I don’t intend to wed her. Shall I tell you what I do intend?”
“No,” Niclas said flatly, glancing to where Julia was kneeling. She hadn’t moved an inch, not even having heard his voice.
“Miss Linley,” the earl of Llew said, smiling, “wishes to become my mistress. Is that not so, my love?”
A long moment passed before she replied, without emotion, “Yes, my lord.”
“Any man would be fortunate to possess so lovely a woman for his own pleasure, would he not?” he asked. “And it has occurred to me that it would be wrong to keep sweet Julia here at Llew for my eyes alone. In order to be entirely fair, I must share her with society.” Cadmaran sat forward. “And that means taking her to London.”
Yes, that was just the sort of thing Cadmaran would do, Niclas thought. He would parade Julia about in public, showing her plainly as his possession, forcing her through magic to behave with perfect obedience, perhaps even dressing her in a manner that would openly declare her new, lowered status as his mistress. Nothing would be more degrading to Julia, or more painful to him. As far as vengeance went, it was perfect.
But it wasn’t going to come to that. Niclas was going to make certain of it.
“Her family might have something to say about that,” he murmured, taking special note of his surroundings. The earl of Llew had filled his castle with grand and valuable ornaments, probably to caress his massive ego. Some of those ornaments were tied to magic, some were simply impressive. Niclas made a mental map of where things stood, what to avoid and what to aim for, particularly good spots that might provide momentary shelter in the coming onslaught. There were, thankfully, a number of tables and chairs and, interestingly, empty suits of medieval armor. “It’s unlikely that the Linleys would sit by in silence while one of their own is publicly humiliated.”
“I don’t care in the least what either the Linleys or anyone else thinks, says, or does. They may object all they wish, or act against me at their peril. I have no fear of them. What I care about,” Cadmaran said, looking very directly at Niclas, “is what you think. Does my plan meet with your approval?”
Niclas came to a halt at the bottom of the dais. Three tall steps led up to the throne where Cadmaran sat, and to where Julia knelt.
Her face was turned away from him, and her long, shining brown hair hung loose down the length of her back, falling to her waist.
“You know it doesn’t,” Niclas replied, his gaze held fast on Julia’s still form. “Which is precisely why you propose it. You mean to make me suffer for the loss of Ceridwen. I understand that well enough. But I’ve not come to exchange thoughts and ideas with you. I’ve come to gain Julia’s freedom.”
The earl of Llew chuckled. “Then you’ve come in vain, Mister Seymour. Julia doesn’t wish to leave me, do you, my love?”
Her reply, like the last, only came after a moment of silence.
“No, my lord.”
“But he doesn’t believe you, pet,” Cadmaran told her, and reached out one long, elegant finger to turn her chin. “You must look at him quite directly and convince him of your sincerity.”
A tingle of shock coursed through Niclas at the sight of her face; one of her eyes and most of her cheek were heavily bruised and swollen.
“Julia,” he murmured, and took an involuntary step forward before stopping himself. He had to maintain complete control of his thoughts and actions, or he’d be giving Cadmaran a great advantage.
“Go on, my sweet,” Cadmaran ordered, holding Julia’s face toward Niclas. “Tell him.”
Another short silence, but it was enough to confirm the hope that had taken root in Niclas’s heart. She was fighting Cadmaran this time.
“I wish to remain here with my lord, Earl Llew,” she said tonelessly, but Niclas saw the spark of something else behind her eyes.
“Nonetheless,” Niclas said, and reluctantly turned his gaze to Cadmaran. “I’m going to take her out of here.”
The earl of Llew sat back in his chair and indolently crossed his long legs. He regarded Niclas from his imperial height with unveiled disdain.
“You can’t,” he said. “You haven’t the means, certainly not the power. Lord Graymar might attempt it, but then he should have to challenge me, and if he challenges me and uses magic, I can kill him, and no one, not even the guardians, can hold it against me.”
“The laws of England would,” Niclas reminded him, but Cadmaran only laughed.
“We don’t live by the laws of England, or, rather, we shouldn’t. But even if Seymours are so foolish that they do, that has nothing to do with me. If Malachi Seymour challenges me, I will kill him.”
“Then, if your mind is set, it will do you no harm to consider my proposal.”
“I suppose I might find it amusing to hear what you have to say,” Cadmaran admitted. He gave a wave of one elegant hand. “Proceed, Mister Seymour.”
“I’ve brought something of value,” he began, but the earl of Llew uttered a snort and said, “What could you possibly have that would be of interest to me? You don’t even possess proper magic.”
“No, I don’t,” Niclas confessed. “But I do have this.” He reached up to untie the sodden cloth about his neck and cast it aside. With careful fingers he pulled the chain out from beneath his shirt, all the while watching Cadmaran’s reaction. The moment the glowing medallion appeared he saw what he had hoped for: recognition, then a fleeting moment of shock, followed by an even briefer flash of unbridled lust. By the time the Tarian slid to lie openly upon Niclas’s chest, the earl of Llew had mastered himself, though Niclas thought he detected a slight rise in the other man’s breathing.
“I’m sure you know what this is, Earl Llew.”
“It’s a fake,” Cadmaran said curtly. “Malachi would never let it leave Mervaille, let alone put it in your keeping. And he’d certainly never exchange it for the sake of a mere female, not even if she was his love, rather than yours. He’s
not that great a fool.”
“It’s not a fake,” Niclas said softly. “You can feel its power.”
The only sign that this was true was the way Cadmaran’s fingers clutched the arms of his grand chair. His face, however, was admirably schooled into nonchalance.
“You wish to trade the Tarian for Miss Linley? Very well, it’s agreed.” He sat forward and held out a hand. “Let me have it and you can both go in peace.”
Niclas shook his head. “I can’t part with it that easily. The Tarian is far too valuable. I brought it because I knew you’d never fight me for Miss Linley otherwise. But you’ll fight for the Tarian.”
Cadmaran managed to drag his gaze away from the necklace. He looked at Niclas with amazement, and then he laughed.
“You wish to fight me? You?” He eyed Niclas up and down and clearly found him lacking. “For the Tarian? Oh, come now. You must think me a dunce to fall for such a jest.”
“For the Tarian, aye,” Niclas said, “but Julia is to be the prize. If I win, I keep the Tarian and Julia comes away with me, completely free of your spell, but if you win—”
“I understand,” the earl of Llew said rather breathlessly, slowly standing. It seemed to take forever for him to gain full height, and when he did, he was even more imposing. Niclas swallowed and wondered why he could never remember just how tall the man was. “If I win, I get the Tarian.” He began to descend the steps one by one, ignoring Julia completely as he passed her, his eyes fixed intently on the glowing necklace. “The Tarian,” he whispered. “I shall possess its power, as will my heirs to come. The Seymours shall bemoan its loss for generations, and your name will be cursed as the feckless fool who lost it simply because you were so weak as to put a woman above your family. And not even a woman worth thinking of, but a common mortal.” As he came closer he lifted a hand, reaching his fingers toward the Tarian, as if to touch it. “A mortal of middling beauty and ordinary character, with nothing in the least superior to recommend her to our kind. For this,” he said as Niclas stepped back to avoid his touch, “you would lose so valuable an object?”
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