Marissa Day (28 page)

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 ...

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.

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.

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.

Through it all Miranda drank. Now Summerfields screamed and in front of her dazzled eyes, his form began to dwindle and darken. The handsome golden man was gone. His hand slipped from hers, as he toppled to the stones. Now there was only a tiny pale thing with twiglike limbs huddled on the floor at her feet.

Then there was nothing at all.

The power shut off so abruptly Miranda staggered and nearly fell, but Darius’s strong arms caught her. He held her so close she could feel the rapid drumming of his heart. In her chair by the fire, Mother blinked, shook her head, looked around her and began to scream.

Miranda broke from Darius’s embrace and ran forward.

“It’s all right!” she cried, wrapping her arms around her mother’s shoulders, blocking her line of sight with her body. “It’s over. It’s all right.”

As if her words had been some kind of signal, Miranda heard the pounding of boots from the hallway outside. Corwin lurched to his feet from his position beside the collapsed Lord Thayer and opened the door.

A crowd of people charged into the room, led by a small, rotund, bald man in a black coat and white stockings and trailed, improbably, by Louise.

The black-coated man drew himself up and raised a hand. The crowd with him halted, panting and staring about themselves.

“Mr. Rathe?” the man said in a stately, educated voice. “Mr. Marlowe? Would you care to explain why you no longer seem to be in need of rescue?”