“Oh, come, girl,” snapped Darius. “You know perfectly well gentlemen are capable of all sorts of crimes.”
Louise lifted her chin. “Maybe I do; maybe I don’t. It’s not your place to ask what I know.”
Darius straightened, his eyes flaring dangerously.
“Louise, we think they went down the servants’ stairs somewhere. Is there a back passage from this room, do you know?”
Louise’s gaze swept the room. “Could be. We were told by the housekeeper to look for the Hallowgate arms. The white rose would open most doors.”
“The white rose.” Corwin smiled grimly. “They were Yorkists once upon a time, then.”
Darius said nothing. He just strode over to the fireplace. A coat of arms had been worked into the center of the decorations on the front of the hearth, its paint now faded and chipped. He pushed the white rose in the lower-right corner of the shield.
Click.
Slowly, a panel beside the hearth slid open. Darius touched it, and winced.
“Cold iron. That’s why we couldn’t tell where they went.”
Louise was drawing breath to ask another question, but Miranda cut her off. “Thank you, Louise. You should go.”
For once, her maid failed to obey. “I’d rather not, miss.”
“Go. I am well looked after,” said Miranda with more certainty than she felt. “I promise I’ll tell you all when I get back.”
Louise didn’t budge. “We were warned not to go through any of the black doors, miss. We were told they were family business ...”
“I’m sure you were,” said Corwin. “Go, Louise. If we don’t have your ladies back by midnight, you may summon the police.”
For a moment Miranda thought Louise was going to refuse, but the mention of police seemed to convince her that Mr. Rathe took the matter seriously enough. “Yes, sir.” Louise curtsied and left them there.
“What will the police be able to do?” asked Miranda as Darius took two more candles from the mantel and lit them.
“Nothing.” Corwin took a candle from Darius. “But it will get her out of the house if things go badly for us.”
Miranda clamped her mind closed against the fear that boiled up from her heart. She took her candle, hiked up her skirts once more and followed Corwin and Darius through the black iron door.
Twenty-four
“There’s iron here too,” said Corwin, laying his hand on the rail that ran along the side of the descending stair. “I suppose it’s some small consolation that this must have been an extremely uncomfortable walk for our Mr. Summerfields.”
Miranda didn’t answer. She had no ability to make light of this. It was her fault they were all in this danger. She should have recognized that her sudden affinity for Mr. Summerfields was not right. She had seen and felt enough of magic by now. She knew the touch of it, inside and out.
She had been careless, and now others would pay for it.
Whatever Mother had done, whatever Miranda had felt about her treatment in the past, she did not deserve to be so enchanted and lured away.
The stair was narrow and splintered. The only light came from their flickering candles as they hurried down deeper. The walls were unfinished here, and the rail was furred with cobwebs and dust. Corwin went first, Darius followed after, and Miranda was caught between them, wishing desperately that they would go faster.
“We will find her, Miranda,” said Corwin. “With this much iron about, he cannot have spirited her away.”
“Why would a Fae bring his captive into an iron cage?” murmured Darius.
Corwin didn’t answer out loud, but Miranda felt him closing a kind of door between them, shutting his fear away from her.
The walls around them changed from splintered wood to stone. Miranda could tell by the damp weight of the air that they were descending into the Earth. She should have been glad. It meant she was that much closer to the source from which she drew the power she would need to meet any challenge, but instead her unease intensified. The walls seemed to draw close around her. The darkness gained weight and substance from the damp air and threatened to smother her puny candle.
“Careful. We’re at the end of the steps,” said Corwin.
He was right. The splintering staircase ended abruptly at a narrow corridor with a flagstone floor. Miranda lifted her candle. The walls were old, undressed stone, but there were narrow rectangles of newer brick set at regular intervals along the whole length of the cramped hall. The pale, flickering light also showed that the edges of the floor sloped toward the center where a narrow channel led to an ancient, rusted drain.
“Gods,” whispered Corwin.
“It was a dungeon,” muttered Darius, kicking at the channel.
“It still is.” Corwin nodded ahead of them. At the end of the hall waited a door. No inviting portal, it was old and scarred and heavily banded by black iron.
Miranda tried to breathe, but the cold air choked her.
“We need to get out of here,” said Darius. “It’s a trap.”
Miranda clung grimly to the end of the rail. “I will not leave my mother here.”
Corwin turned to face her. “Miranda, it’s what they want,” he said. “They took her to draw us down here, among all this iron. We cannot use our magic to any great effect here.”
“They took her, or she went with them,” muttered Darius.
“Stop it,” snapped Miranda. “My mother is many things, but a traitor to her own kind she is not.”
Darius just cocked his head and looked at her. The whole strange, sordid scene of Corwin’s holding out a bribe to her mother came rushing back.
Is that all you’re worried about? Mother’s loyalty? Or do you think I’m part of this as well?
Darius’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing, and Miranda drew herself up to her full height.
“I am going forward,” she told him quietly. “What you choose to do is your own affair.”
Gathering up the trailing skirts of her ball gown, Miranda Prosper started down the dungeon corridor.
Damnation. The curse came from both Corwin and Darius. She did not need to look back to know that they both followed her.
The corridor was ice-cold and suffocating. Even her dancing shoes made echoes ring against the walls. It was quite plain now that the bricks filled what had once been doorways. Doorways to cells. Nightmare flashes tugged at the edges of Miranda’s mind, of men and women slumped in the dark, too exhausted to even rattle their chains, all of them weeping as the last brick was pushed into place.
No, no. That is fancy only. Nightmare only.
It took forever to reach the end of the corridor. It took no time at all. The door was black and pitted with age and Miranda could see the bolts for the bar that had once been laid across it to prevent anyone from leaving the chamber beyond. Since then, a modern lock had been fitted to the ancient wood, and warm firelight gleamed through the keyhole.
Miranda’s nerve faltered and she stopped in front of the door. She was smothered, cut off, alone. Not even the awareness of Corwin and Darius at her back alleviated her sense of isolation. It was as if she had somehow been blinded.
“It’s the iron,” Corwin told her. “It’s affecting us the same way.”
“There is no time to stand here. We’ve come this far. We finish it.” Darius reached past her, grabbed the iron handle and heaved the door open.
Light and heat tumbled over her, blinding Miranda momentarily.
“Ah! Miranda, there you are!” cried a man’s voice happily. “I was wondering how much longer you’d keep us waiting.”
Miranda blinked hard to clear her eyes, and looked into a gaudily decorated Hell.
It was a large room, its low ceiling striped with beams of black oak. A fire blazed cheerily in the hearth. Mother, blessedly unharmed, sat in a comfortable wing-backed chair with Mr. Summerfields standing sentry on one side and Lord Sinjohn Thayer on the other.
But the rest of the place ... Miranda�
��s stomach turned over. It was obscene.
Every article of furniture was in the shape of a naked human being. But these were not beautiful nudes in bronze or marble. These were scenes of torture. The floor sconces were women and men with their hands bound cruelly behind their backs and their heads tipped back so candelabras could be thrust into their distended mouths. The low tea table was supported by a man thrusting hard into a woman on her knees, both of them weeping in anguish. The far wall was hidden by a carved screen, its frame made of men and women. They were all blindfolded with their hands chained, and their clothing in shreds. Things protruded from their anuses and vaginas while tears ran down their faces and their mouths were open to scream or to plead.
The screen itself held the implements of torture so vividly depicted in the vile statuary; chains and knives, cruel leather gags and blindfolds, rods of rough clay and iron, the sight of which filled Miranda with horror. But none of this was as bad as the bare bed-frame with its dangling chains and stained and splintered planks.
“Mr. Summerfields was growing quite impatient waiting for you,” Mother said, clearly and terribly oblivious to the sort of room she occupied. “Weren’t you, dear Mr. Summerfields?” She smiled up at the fair man, the Fae creature.
“That I was,” Mr. Summerfields replied. “I was hoping to beg one more dance from you, Miranda.”
His voice caressed her skin and Miranda shivered. Despite the horror around her, her mind flashed back to the dance floor, to the sensation of being borne aloft on the music, the pure, effortless freedom ...
Miranda!
Corwin’s voice rang in her mind as clear as a bell. The other memory shattered and Miranda could see again.
“Ah, the gallant Mr. Rathe.” Lord Thayer sauntered forward to one of the vile candleholders. Quite deliberately he reached out and stroked the carved breast. “I’ve so been looking forward to meeting you personally. You and your friend.” The glance Thayer cast at Darius was slow and so filled with unmistakable lascivious meaning that Miranda felt her skin crawl.
“How long have you been an agent for the Fae, Thayer?” inquired Corwin calmly.
“Ah, well that’s rather a long story.” Thayer folded his arms and leaned against the room’s central pillar. “My family served Their Glorious Majesties going back seven generations, right to Bastard Elizabeth’s time. But my father, well, he was the first in all that time to fail in his duty.”
“To remember he was human and owed his duty to humanity, you mean,” growled Darius.
Thayer ignored him. “So, it came to me to reestablish my family’s allegiances with Their Glorious Majesties. And now that you are here, I will have completed my task.”
“What task, Thayer?” said Corwin, keeping his voice mild. “How many Catalysts did she demand from you?”
“Thirteen,” he answered without hesitation. “For the amusement and glory of her court. Miss Prosper here is the last.”
“I will die before I go with you,” said Miranda grimly.
“Miranda!” cried her mother. “Such ingratitude!”
Miranda stared at her. Mother looked back, her posture the same queenly demeanor Miranda had known all her life. But there was something wrong with her eyes, something distracted, as if she were not looking at quite the same scene the rest of them were.
“It will not come to that, I think,” said Mr. Summerfields calmly. “Daphne, my dear, I have dropped my ring into the fire. Would you be so kind as to get it for me?”
“Of course, Mr. Summerfields.” Mother at once slipped to her knees and reached her hand, unhesitating, toward the flames.
“Stop!” screamed Miranda.
“Sorry, Daphne; here it is,” said Mr. Summerfields calmly.
“Oh.” Mother stood and brushed her skirts down. “I don’t wish to criticize, Mr. Summerfields, but you should be more careful.”
“You are quite right. In future I shall be.” Summerfields kissed Mother’s hand so that she beamed and settled back into her chair, gazing up at him as if he were the most splendid thing in the whole of the world.
Miranda felt as if she were going to be sick.
“You begin to understand, don’t you, Miranda?” Lord Thayer smiled. “Sir Robin here could command your mother to do anything. Anything at all.” He ran his hand over the statue’s unyielding breast again to emphasize his point. “And she will do it without hesitation, whether it is to lay herself down to be fucked by myself until I tire of her, or to take one of my knives and cut her own throat.”
Miranda held rigidly on to her composure. She could not let these vile creatures see any more of her fear or outrage. “What do you want?” she demanded coldly.
“I thought I had made that plain enough,” said Thayer. “I want the three of you. Your three lives for hers, Miranda.” He smiled. “Thirteen Catalysts and two great enemies. Their Majesties will reward me well.”
“You may depend on it.” Mr. Summerfields smiled.
“You’re taking the word of a Fae knight?” Darius shook his head. “Thayer, you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
“You understand nothing,” snapped Thayer. “What do you know of their glory, their purity? If you understood the least thing, you would know you are not fit to kiss the foot of the lowest of them, and yet you stand here defying ... !”
“Enough, Thayer,” said Summerfields coolly before he turned his green eyes on Miranda. “Well, Miss Prosper, which shall it be? Your life, or your mother’s? Choose carefully.” He laid his hand on Mother’s shoulder, and she patted him indulgently. “It need not be unpleasant, you know,” he went on. “I can make your submission very good for you, as you already know.”
She felt it again, that pure, freeing joy. It was stronger now, creating an ache of happiness inside her. This was not passion or lust, nothing she would have to dare or defy or regret. It was simple, innocent joy, as if all bad things had fallen away, and she was made new.
“Come to me, Miranda,” murmured Mr. Summerfields. “Take my hand.”
Miranda took two steps forward, wavered, and then took another.
“Yes, that’s right.” His voice sounded so sweet. “Closer, Miranda.”
A roar split the room. The light of magic flared high and hard. Miranda felt Darius’s and Corwin’s powers lash out. A sheet of blue-tinged flame leapt up around Lord Thayer and Mr. Summerfields.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Thayer.
And Miranda felt new power, straight from the Earth, straight from the air. It ran through Thayer and the flames were doused in an instant. Before Corwin or Darius could rally, Thayer sent out another bolt. It struck the Sorcerers like an iron bar so they flew backward, and slammed against the wall, sliding stunned to the floor.
All at once Miranda understood the truth about the terrible statues around her. She knew how Lord Thayer—doubtlessly helped by the power of Mr. Summerfields—had been able to conceal the Catalysts, and now was able to draw on them as they stood helpless all around him.
Thayer saw realization dawn on her, and smiled cold and cruel.
“The fate of the other Catalysts is not your concern, Miranda,” said Mr. Summerfields. “Her Glorious Majesty has other uses for your strength. Come here.”
Miranda stood alone. She stared at Corwin and Darius, collapsed doll-like and drained against the wall. She stared at Mother, made witless, sitting calmly beside Summerfields.
Miranda.
Corwin’s thought was so soft at first, Miranda assumed she imagined the touch of it.
Remember that first night. Remember all that happened. All of it.
“Silence!” barked Thayer. Power again shot through the room. Corwin’s whole body arched as the pain took him and he collapsed again. A thin thread of blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth. Darius gasped and lifted his arm, only to fall back a moment later.
“You can stop this anytime,” said Mr. Summerfields to Miranda. “Her Majesty does not need them. It’s you she wants.�
�� His voice grew soft. “It’s you I want.”
It felt so good, the touch of his voice. So close to the pure freedom she’d felt that first night, when she’d been filled with the power she’d unwittingly stolen from Corwin.
Remember that first night. Remember all that happened.
Mr. Summerfields held out his hand. “You can save them, and you can have all you want. Come now, Miranda.”
Miranda moved forward. One step. Two.
“Stop, Miranda!” cried Darius harshly. “Don’t!”
Three. She laid her hand in Mr. Summerfields’s.
“Good, Miranda,” he breathed. “Very good.”
The joy flooded her. Now, touching him, she recognized it for what it was. It was the pure vitality of magical power, such as she drew from the Earth. But this came from Mr. Summerfields himself, and he poured it freely into her, and without anywhere to channel it, it filled her with its potential and its terrible beauty.
I remember. I remember everything.
With all the strength she possessed, Miranda forced herself to open wide to the Fae knight, and to the Earth; the infinite, vital Earth from which her own power sprang, and to which this power could be made to return.
“What ...” began Summerfields. He began to pull away, but Miranda gripped his hand tightly. “What are you doing?”
Miranda was fully open to Summerfields now, drawing down the terrible, beautiful flood of his magic. She drank it down greedily, reveling in the power as it flowed into her, and through her, down into the stone, down into the Earth, which was not troubled at all. She stretched out her free hand, and her delirious mind and the power flowed also into Darius, and into Corwin.
Summerfields struggled against her, but he was a weak thing, a puny thing; a creature made of dreams and illusion. She was a sturdy human woman and he had opened himself to her. She had hold of him now and she could drink and drink the heady nectar of his power and never be full.
“Stop!” Miranda heard Thayer roar. Distantly, she saw him leap toward her.
But Darius was there, grappling with the smaller, older man. Power crackled and sang between them. She saw Corwin leap past them and snatch a set of chains from out of the terrible collection. He dove in, crying out in pain as he drove his hands into the glowing barrier of Thayer’s power, to wrap the iron around Thayer’s waist. The light vanished; the buffeting power vanished. Thayer’s head fell back as he howled.
Marissa Day Page 20
