Adrian

by Heather Grothaus

  The cabin was as they had left it, Maisie’s curtain pulled wide, her berth in disarray from when she had gathered her belonging upon their arrival at Wyldonna. The provisions trunk stood open beyond the overturned table and chairs. Adrian gained his feet and staggered toward it.

  It was empty.

  He turned toward the hatch and mounted the ladder, wondering if the door would slide easily or balk at his attempt. He waited for the panic the thought of being trapped inside the crawler alone would bring, but nothing happened. His breathing remained steady, even if his heart was leaden. He pulled at the bolt and the door slid free.

  Bright, warm sunlight blasted Adrian’s face so that he threw an arm up to shield his eyes. He emerged onto the deck, feeling the spring air on the skin of his still bare chest. He squinted and saw a river, its opposite bank somehow familiar. Then he turned around.

  Melk rose above him over the Danube, its towers and walls so formidable and fortresslike after the elegance of Wyldonna Castle. His eyes stung.

  Adrian stumbled from the crawler onto the shore, falling onto his hands and knees in the soft muck. He was so weak.

  Splashing sounds drew his attention, and he turned his head back toward the river in time to see the oars on the side of the crawler facing him raise in unison. The vessel drifted away from the shore and then the long wooden arms cut into the murky water, pulling itself rhythmically into the middle of the river. It seemed to shimmer, as if consumed with a sudden, violent heat, and then the crawler simply vanished, its oars in midstroke.

  Adrian gained his feet and stood staring at the spot in the river where the crawler had disappeared for what seemed like hours. The sun warmed his skin even as the stiff spring breeze raised gooseflesh intermittently. He didn’t know why he still stood there, staring. It wasn’t that he expected it to return. But he knew it was the last place he would see a connection to his time on Wyldonna, his time with Maisie. And that idea rendered him unable to move.

  Sometime later, a voice called out behind him. It was a familiar voice, but in his present state Adrian could not place it.

  “Hello, there! Hello? My friend?” The accent was not English but something else. A hint of warmer climes, of reckless humor. “You seem as though you, ah, could use some assistance, yes?”

  Adrian turned slowly and saw a man with dark hair and long brown monk’s robes walking toward him. A woman in a plain gown, obviously with child, stood on the path behind him, her delicate forehead creased with apprehension.

  “I do no know if you are aware,” the man continued as he drew near, “but you are missing most of your clothes, and I believe the villagers would find your . . . ah, highly decorative appearance distressing.”

  “Valentine,” Adrian tried to say, but his words came out as a rusty creak.

  Valentine Alesander stopped, his easy smile freezing on his swarthy face. “Adrian?” he asked cautiously. “Ah, dios mío!” Then he rushed toward the river, his tooled boots sinking into the mud, his hands out and just taking hold of Adrian’s arms as Adrian fell to his knees on the riverbank.

  “Valentine,” Adrian sobbed. He grasped at his friend’s robes, burying his face in the coarse brown wool as he squeezed his eyes shut, his loss overtaking him at last.

  “Maria,” Valentine said over his shoulder, “fetch Stan. Tell him to bring a robe with him. As quickly as you can, mi amor.” He turned his attention back to the man weeping before him. “It is all right, Adrian. You have returned. Whatever has happened, we will all face it together.”

  “Forgive me, Valentine,” Adrian choked. “Forgive me, I beg of you. You are a good man.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, I am certain,” Valentine said easily, gently. “Once we are safely inside the abbey we shall figure everything out. Do no torture yourself so.”

  “She’s dead,” Adrian wheezed. “I loved her and now she is dead.”

  Chapter 23

  Adrian stared out the window of the little library, his senses filled with the quiet, the smell of the manuscripts, the creamy sheen of the candles that would be lit at the end of the day. A book was open on his lap, but he hadn’t truly looked at it since opening it more than a pair of hours ago. His cup of wine sat on the stone sill, likewise unattended to. He seemed to have lost his taste for the grape.

  He’d been returned to the abbey for two months. In that time, he had slowly shaken the catatonia and unreasonable hysterics that had taken hold of him after encountering Valentine on the shore of the Danube. In many ways, his life was largely returned to the state in which it had been before his ill-fated journey to the magical Scots island. He spent much of his time in this chair once again, reading, studying, thinking. When he was obligated to venture out, he participated in the responsibilities required of him in return for his asylum. His limp was gone, and so he took his turn in the rotation serving meals, and worked in the fields and industries of the abbey as needed. He slept in his same chamber.

  The only differences between then and now were that he found himself attending the scheduled prayers of the brethren in addition to the other activities. He didn’t know to what or to whom he was praying—or what for, for that matter—but the repetitiveness of it was a balm for his fevered mind.

  The other difference was what he studied when he was alone in the library. Whereas before he had concentrated on pure mathematics, languages, philosophy, now he almost exclusively explored the intricacies of and the correlation between ancient mythology, astrology, time, the relationship between matter and force. Energy. The human will.

  Life after death.

  Adrian could now quote verses from the holy books in regular use at the abbey. Not only that, he could cite correlating stories from other philosophies. Theories of creation and deity that paralleled the culture in which Melk was founded and steeped.

  He still didn’t have any answers. But he was learning.

  It was all very normal, save that Brother Song was no longer in residence. Indeed, it had been assumed that the Chinese monk had illicitly accompanied Adrian on his mission. But the man who had painted Adrian with the mysterious signs that had protected him while on Wyldonna—and cast him as the Painted Man, for good or ill—had then vanished without a trace.

  Perhaps, Adrian thought, if he’d looked more closely at the ships arriving with the dawn on the equinox, he would have seen a familiar face.

  His snideness had largely left him. His anger with the past. His fear. If anything, his love and appreciation for the men he called his brothers had grown, and even Mary Beckham held a place of esteem and respect in his eyes. She had sacrificed her comfortable life to become Valentine’s wife.

  At the idea of such a noble act, the bruised, aching heart that resided in Adrian’s chest clenched.

  He’d never told Maisie that he loved her. Foolish pride! He had refrained, thinking that she only wanted to use him to be free of the island. But what would that have mattered? Even if it had been true, why should that have prevented Adrian from admitting his feelings for her? She had declared her love for him before all—twice.

  And then she had died saving his life.

  Adrian swallowed and took a breath before reaching for his chalice. But the cup seemed to scoot away from his fingers as they drew near.

  Adrian frowned and reached again. Again the cup skittered over the stones, but he was quicker this time and seized it.

  “Blasted thing,” he muttered. “Be still.” He raised the cup to his lips and sipped. But he quickly spat the liquid back into the cup and held it from his lips, looking down into its flashing surface and then sniffing.

  “Water?” he muttered crossly.

  “It was supposed to be mead,” a voice called from the room behind him.

  Adrian’s head whipped around, and the cup fell from his hand, spilling its water onto the floor. The manuscript in his lap fell to the same fate as the ghostly vision spoke again.

  “I fear I’m nae longer as good at some things as I used t
o be.”

  Maisie brought her hand to her mouth as she caught her first sight of Adrian sitting alone in the small, quiet library to which Constantine had led her. The secret shelves clicked shut behind her, giving them privacy, but Adrian hadn’t noticed the little sound, so absorbed was he in the view through the narrow window.

  To her dismay, his fine physique was disguised by the same brown wool worn by all the men here, but his hair still curled over his shoulder, even longer than when last she’d seen him. His jaw was smooth now, and Maisie found she rather enjoyed the sight of him clean-shaven. She couldn’t wait to run her fingers over the invisible stubble she knew she would feel just beneath his skin.

  He sighed and brought up his hand to reach for the cup on the windowsill, and so Maisie, too, raised her hand.

  The cup went out of his reach the first time but not the second, and she smiled at his curse. Then she swirled her finger toward him and waited.

  “Water?” he growled and she winced.

  “It was supposed to be mead,” she said, and he turned to look at her at last. She wasn’t surprised at the shock she saw on his face, the way his cup fell to the floor, his book tumbling away, forgotten. “I fear I’m nae longer as good at some things as I used to be.”

  Adrian’s handsome face took on a pained expression. “Are you real?” he asked in a whisper.

  She nodded, feeling her throat constrict. “Aye.”

  He stood slowly, as if any sudden move might cause her to vanish like the spirit he likely thought her. “Are you truly real? Not an imagining of my tortured mind? If you are, though, only an imagining, please stay until I reach you. Please . . .” He began walking toward her, his hand out, his eyes sparkling. “Please, stay. Until I—”

  He reached her then, grabbed her and pulled her quickly into his arms and held her so very tightly.

  “Maisie?” he breathed against the crown of her hair.

  She drew away from him only far enough to look into his eyes. “I lo—”

  But she couldn’t finish her declaration, for he brought his hand to her lips.

  “Shh.” He swept his thumb over her chin, then smoothed her hair back along the side of her face while his eyes searched hers. Then he grasped her face in his palms. “I love you, Maighread Lindsey. Whether you are real or not, I must tell you now because I failed so many times before to do so. I love you. I’ll love you forever. Please stay with me. Don’t go again,” he said in a choked voice. “Please.”

  Maisie raised up on her toes to press her lips to Adrian’s, and in a heartbeat he had crushed her to him, kissing her with such sweet passion that Maisie felt as if she would fly away if he let her go.

  He pulled away at last. “You are real.”

  “I am real,” she agreed.

  “But I saw you . . .” Adrian hesitated, swallowed. “On the rocks. You were dead. The sirens . . . they wrapped you, took you.”

  Maisie shook her head. “I wasna dead. The sirens saved me, Adrian. They kept me safe and nursed me while the war raged on Wyldonna.”

  Adrian stilled. “Malcolm?”

  She let her smile return. “He is well. Nary a scratch on him, thanks to the duties of your friends the afternhangers. Indeed, the king is returned to his throne.”

  “Thanks be to God,” Adrian breathed.

  Maisie’s eyes widened.

  He gave her a boyish grin. “I have come to acknowledge that there are things I have yet to understand or explain. Until I can do so, I feel it wisest to err on the side of caution.”

  Maisie smiled. “I am glad of that. But I must tell you, others on Wyldonna were nae so fortunate as my brother.”

  Adrian took her hand and led her to his chair, and Maisie could tell he was noticing her limp as she crossed the floor and sat down. He knelt before her, taking both her hands in his now.

  “Reid,” Maisie said. “He was surrounded by a group of Felsteppe’s mercenaries, out in the water, trying to help his tribe overturn the boats. They targeted him for his size, likely. Overpowered him. I suppose he wasna big enough after all,” she finished in a small voice.

  Adrian gave a tight nod. “Who else?”

  “Half of the trolls. All but four of the afternhangers. A large number of elves.”

  “Edel?” Adrian asked.

  Maisie hadn’t known Adrian was familiar with the little elf lad. “Edel is well. Hamish took him and his mother back to the Outland with him.”

  Adrian’s eyebrows rose. “How did Malcolm feel about that?”

  Maisie took a breath. “The war has changed Wyldonna. It will never be the same. Many of the folk left after we prevailed against Felsteppe’s army—and they went with my brother’s blessing.”

  “I don’t understand,” Adrian said. “Leaving Wyldonna is a betrayal.”

  Maisie shook her head. “Nae longer. There was a council of the tribes. It was determined that Dragon did, in fact, leave the island. When she did, she rent the veil, and that is what allowed Felsteppe to surprise us as he did. With the last dragon in the world gone from Wyldonna, it was a sign that the island could nae longer carry on as isolated as it has been these many years. In order for the magic to survive, the tribes must flourish. The island has been shrinking for years. Rather than the tribes vanishing, they must spread to the Outland.”

  “But what about the piece bloods?” Adrian asked. “It’s taboo for the folk to intermarry.”

  “Nae longer.” She gave him a smile. “Besides, everyone is magic, Man.”

  He pulled her face to his and kissed her lips firmly. Then he pulled away and stroked her cheek with his thumb.

  “That saddens me,” he said. “The thought of Wyldonna and its wonderful strangeness simply diffusing into the Outland like smoke.”

  Maisie gave him a genuine smile then. “I want to show you something. It’s in my bag there.” She motioned toward the satchel she’d left on the floor by the entry.

  Adrian brought it back to her, and Maisie produced the thick book of Wyldonna’s history. She handed it to him solemnly.

  “This is a gift to you from the king. He thought you would find it useful to study.” When Adrian took it, she added, “And he wanted me to tell you he is working on the library.”

  Adrian laughed and ran his hands over the black swirls of the cover.

  “Open it to the lineages,” Maisie directed. “The last one.”

  Adrian sat the book on Maisie’s lap and flipped through the pages. He stared at the drawing before him.

  “Do you see?” she asked.

  Where once Wyldonna Castle had taken up the whole of its page, complete with its six turrets, it was now only a small structure in the center, its roofline topped with only two towers.

  But all around the castle, in small outlines representing landmasses near Wyldonna as well as across the oceans, towers were sprouting. Near cities, on islands. Not only towers but shapes of trees, of creatures, outlines of beings with wings.

  “And look,” Maisie said, pointing to a long range of jagged peaks resembling mountains. Her rounded nail stopped next to a sketch of a creature with a long tail and neck, flames coming from its open mouth.

  Adrian looked up. “Dragon?”

  Maisie nodded. “We think it must be.”

  He studied the page for several moments before he asked. “What of Glayer Felsteppe?”

  “We doona know,” she admitted quietly. “His body was never found, and one ship did escape us. He could have been on it, dead or alive.”

  Adrian raised his eyes to hers. “I must find him.”

  “You will.” Maisie took his hands. “We will.”

  “I want to be married to you. Here, at the abbey, by Victor. I want the ceremony. The vows. The prayers.”

  Maisie nodded and smiled. “We need all the magic we can get.”

  “Tomorrow,” Adrian said. “No, today. Right now.” He set the book aside and then pulled her to her feet. “Let us go find him.”

  Maisie laughed and sta
yed him with her arms about his shoulders. “Can we nae wait an hour?”

  His hands slid around her waist. “Only an hour? Once I get you alone in my chamber, I may never let you leave. I’ve lost you once. I daren’t let you out of my sight again.”

  “Then take me there now,” she said, running her hands through his hair. “I long to once more see the Painted Man in my bed.”

  “This time he’s not trading anything for you.”

  “This time I’m nae the queen.” She smiled against his mouth.

  “No,” he agreed. “But you’re mine. And I’m keeping you forever.”

  Maisie and Adrian snuck out of the secret library and through the corridors of Melk, giggling like children. They disappeared behind Brother Adrian’s locked door.

  When Adrian was absent from the nightly meeting that evening, the rest of the Brotherhood, along with Victor, were not surprised.

  Roman picked up the thick, strangely decorated book left on the windowsill and returned to the table with it, studying the page that seemed to be a map of sorts. While the other men talked gravely about the next step in locating Glayer Felsteppe, Roman ran his finger along the shape of the landmass he thought represented where the abbey lay. Its fortifications and river beyond were clearly identifiable. As were the figures, which seemed to hover over the rendering of the holy house.

  A woman with a crown and what appeared to be a man whose skin was covered in swirling designs.

  Then Roman closed the book, stood, and walked to a shelf. He slid the thick manuscript into a snug spot and returned to his place at the table.

  Epilogue

  The torches burned dimly in the close chamber, the smoke swirling with the heady scent of incense that seemed to only heighten the air of danger for the naked woman as she stood at the earthen bowl, washing herself in preparation for the man lounging on the mat that was her bed.

  It would be the last time she did so, even if it meant her death.