Autumn Lord (2 page)

Her words were meant to flatter, but they left him wondering if his loveplay seemed like no more than

the rutting of a mindless animal to the woman. He set her gently aside. "Not tonight," he said. "I'm tired."

He picked up her cloak and settled it around her shoulders. "Go on, now."

She glared at him, her body stiff with sudden rage. "You are tired of me!" When he didn't answer, she

threw a goblet at him. "There's someone else!"

He stepped out of the goblet's path. "No."

"Who is she? I'll kill the bitch!"

Alys would have thrown something else, but Simon grabbed her around the waist before she could

snatch up another weapon. She screamed at him in fury, but within moments he had her securely

wrapped in her heavy cloak. Then he scooped her up and deposited her unceremoniously on the landing

outside his door.

"Calm down," he told her as she stared up at him in the light thrown by a wall sconce. "We'll talk

tomorrow," he added, before he stepped back and slammed the thick door behind him.

Once he was alone he wasn't sure whether to sigh wearily or to laugh faintly at Alys's little scene. All

he did know was that his reaction to both of their behavior was not a strong one. Pity. He almost missed

the time when he was capable of feeling things deeply. Almost. He had learned that indifference was a

better way to deal with the world than to rage against its inevitable injustice.

He decided on a faint laugh at his and the woman's farcical behavior, and went to settle in his chair. He

considered drinking more wine, but ended up staring into the fire, conjuring up fanciful images in the

dancing light.

It was peaceful. Restful. Until the explosion shattered the night.

Simon lifted his head in alarm as the sound roared through the castle. It left him stunned, shaken to his

bones.

"Jacques!" he said as he stumbled to his feet, unable to hear the sound of his voice for the ringing in his

ears.

Fear raced through him. So certain was he that his wizard friend was in danger, that he shed his

indifference, grabbed a sword, and raced out of his quarters. Guards and servants were already gathered

outside his door. He pushed his way through the press of bodies and raced up the stairs that led to

Jacques's tower workroom.

******************

"I'm afraid I did. Are you hurt?"

The voice was masculine, cracked with age. Diane had never heard it before. She didn't want to open

her eyes. She was afraid of what she'd find when she did. She was lying down, and she hurt all over.

And the man had said he'd hit her.

"Actually, I didn't hit you." He almost sounded like he'd read her mind. "It was the spell I sent to fetch

you that might have injured you."

Spell. Magical spell? Right.

She opened her eyes and got unsteadily to her feet. The bearded old guy on the other side of the room

looked more like George Carlin than he did Merlin. The room had stone walls. The stone room was

round, like a tower. It was lit by torches stuck into metal brackets. The floor seemed to be covered in

straw. There was no glass in the narrow window, and the howling roar of the storm was blowing in along

with the rain. The room was full of tables and chests, all of them piled high with mysterious beakers and

pots, leatherbound books, parchment scrolls, bunches of dried herbs, and unrecognizable lumps of stuff.

Diane closed her eyes again. Spell. Fetch. Injured. This was crazy. She refused to be calm about it.

She looked at the old guy. "Who are you? Where am I?"

"Jacques of Pelliel. And you are?"

He sounded remarkably calm and polite. Diane was feeling less calm by the moment, and she hadn't

been too calm to begin with. "Diane Teal," she told Jacques. "Where am I?" she repeated.

"I've never seen anyone like you before."

"I've never seen anyone like you, either. What is this place?"

"My workroom, of course."

It looked like the set of a medieval movie. "What happened to my apartment? How did I get here?"

"I told you. I brought you here. With magic. You have very pretty eyes."

He acted as though he'd never seen anyone with Asian features. "Yeah, sure. What's really going on?

What am I doing here?" Her voice rose with growing hysteria. "Where is here? What happened? What

—"

The wizard pointed at her and mumbled something. The words froze in her throat a moment before the

man with the sword burst into the room.

The tip of the sword was pressed to her throat before she could draw another breath. It was cold

against her skin, cold and sharp, but so was the expression in the swordsman's eyes. She wanted to

scream, but no sound would come out. Even if she'd been able to make a sound, she thought the look in

the man's eyes might have terrified her into silence. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with an

arrogant, angular, hawk-nosed face, set in hard, angry lines.

"Are you all right, Jacques?" Simon asked.

"Of course, my friend," the old man answered. "Put your sword up, man. You're frightening the girl."

Girl? Was that what this stranger was? He flicked his gaze over her form. The creature had a woman's

body, all right, outlined enticingly by the softly clinging pale fabric of her dress. A female, then, but many

a demon had a woman's form. Simon backed the strange woman against the wall, directly beneath one of

the torches, so he could study her in the light.

She stared back at him with dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her hair was thick and heavy, blacker than

night. The shape of her face was wrong, the cheekbones too high, the color of her skin pale, but tinted

with gold rather than a healthy rose. She was not like anyone he'd ever seen. He didn't know whether to

be repelled, frightened, or intrigued. For, despite her strangeness, she wasn't exactly ugly. But, he

reminded himself forcefully, the devil could show a pleasant face.

He kept the point of his sword poised against her long, slender throat as he asked, "What sort of

creature is this? Did a demon come to you out of the storm?"

"No, I don't think so," Jacques answered in his inevitably calm way. "Her name's Diane."

"Did she cause the noise?"

"No, I did that."

"Where did she come from?"

"Excellent question."

"Jacques!"

Simon was more than a little annoyed to have rushed to his friend's rescue only to find that Jacques

seemed to be perfectly all right. He might have rounded on the old man and demanded a full explanation,

but he didn't dare turn from the creature he held at bay. For all that she looked soft and female and

terrified, he was still warrior enough not to take any chances.

Jacques crossed the room and put a hand on Simon's shoulder. "She's harmless. Leave her alone. Go

to bed. I'll explain all about her in the morning."

"Explain now."

The old man hesitated, then sighed. "She's a great storyteller. The finest storyteller ever born, this I

swear," Jacques answered smoothly. "I sent for her from— Brittany. To entertain you. She arrived earlier

today. She's exhausted, so I let her sleep in my quarters."

Simon had no doubt that the old man was lying, but he also knew that this tale was all he'd get until

Jacques felt good and ready to speak the truth. "She doesn't look like she's from Brittany." Unless, of

course, she had sprung out of one of the circles of fairy stones said to litter the landscape there.

"I never said she was Breton. I said she came from there." Jacques moved his hand from Simon's

shoulder to press down on his sword arm. "Don't harm her. Stop frightening her. Go away."

Simon finally took his gaze off the girl and looked at his friend. He slowly lowered the sword. Out of

the corner of his eye he saw the girl slump to her knees on the rushes. She was shaking with fear. He

stepped back, not liking the sensation of having a woman cower at his feet.

He glanced down at her as he moved away, and noticed the design on the bluish-green cloth that had

slipped down around her shoulders. Despite her fear, she looked at him with angry eyes when he

snatched the cloth from her. He put his sword down on one of Jacques's littered tables, then shook out

the length of heavy silk. He held it up near the torch to study the exquisitely worked design repeated

three-across and three-down on the square cloth. The shape of the heraldic beast stitched in metallic

thread was of a more elongated shape than he was used to, but familiar and recognizable nonetheless.

"The silver dragons of Marbeau."

Jacques squinted over his shoulder at the embroidery work. "And a finer working of your device I've

never seen."

"Nor I," Simon conceded. He glared down at the girl. She was glaring back. "What is the meaning of

this?"

"I commissioned it," Jacques answered, in the usual smooth-as-honey tone he used when he lied.

"Diane brings you a new banner for your house."

"From Brittany?"

Jacques ignored his skepticism as he nodded. "From Brittany."

"Of course."

From Hong Kong,
Diane thought.
It's from Hong Kong!

But the words wouldn't come out of her mouth. No sound would come out, though she longed to tell

these strange men that the scarf had been sent to her by her grandmother. That she distinctly

remembered leaving it on the couch when she went to look out the window. That it was her property,

and that she wanted it back. She also wanted to get out of there, but was shaking too hard to climb to

her feet and run for it. She hated being a coward, but the situation, and the blond man with the sword,

had her too shaken up to react in any other way.

The worst part was that she suddenly couldn't talk. They were talking about her, but she couldn't

respond. She couldn't speak up for herself, couldn't refute a word the old man said, couldn't make the

swordsman acknowledge her as a person rather than treat her like a thing he might decide to dispose of

at any moment. She hated that. She hated him. She just couldn't tell him so.

Simon looked down at the woman once more as he folded the banner over his arm. "Thank you for

the gift, then, Diane of Brittany." Her eyes flashed hatred at him for all that she was still trembling with

fear. He wasn't sure what to do about either emotion, or why he should even want to do anything.

Jacques had made it clear that the woman was not his concern. Good. He didn't want anything to be his

concern.

So he retrieved his sword and walked to the door. The hour grew late. The storm still raged. Jacques

was being enigmatic. He'd already had to deal with Alys. The excitement of coming to an unnecessary

rescue was wearing off. Jacques would explain when he chose to. Besides, if the old man wanted to

keep an unusual looking woman in his room, what business was it of his, just because he was master of

the castle?

When Simon reached the doorway he said, "Since you're so eager for privacy I'll leave you alone to

have your way with the creature." He slammed the door hard behind him as he left.

"Oh, dear."

Diane wanted to ask the old man what he meant, but words still wouldn't come. She kept trying to

speak, but she couldn't make a sound. She couldn't even scream. If there was one thing she really

wanted to do, it was scream. Instead, she banged her fist on the arm of a thick wooden chair, hoping to

get the distracted wizard's attention.

Jacques had helped her to a chair before he began looking though a pile of books. She'd sat and

watched him with her hands held to her throat as minutes dragged slowly by. She was more afraid of

having lost her voice than of having been wounded by the swordsman. She knew she hadn't been

wounded. The sword had lain cold and heavy against her throat, but the man who threatened her hadn't

let the delicately poised tip cut her skin the whole time he'd discussed her with the old man.

She tried not to think about the swordsman, but she couldn't help wondering who he was. She

wondered why he'd threatened her. Why he'd insulted her. Why he'd stolen her shawl. She had

questions. She had many concerns. Why was she mute? Where was she? How had she gotten here—w

herever here was? Jacques said he'd brought her here by magic. Odd as it seemed, she believed that he

was a wizard. She wanted to ask about what sort of magical world this was. Most importantly, she

wanted to ask when was she going to be allowed to go home? She couldn't ask. All she could do was

wait.

Patience was not one of her virtues, but getting up and kicking Jacques to get his attention probably

wouldn't do her any good. It might bring the swordsman back, and she wasn't ready to face him again.