The Time Weaver Page 6

  I picked my way over to her. I also wore a chemise dress—no awkward hoops or fat polonaise; she made certain we kept up with the Parisian fashions, even all the way out here—and had on slippers instead of heels, but it was still a long, daunting distance down to the street below. I could feel the grinding of the tiles with my every step.

  “Here, filla. Take my hand.”

  Filla meant daughter. When she’d first started calling me that after we’d moved here, it felt strange, a concept as foreign as the word itself. Over the years I’d become accustomed to it, though. I’d never told her so, but secretly it pleased me. I was pleased to be a Catalan daughter.

  I found her hand without looking up, unwilling to tear my gaze from my feet. Her fingers clasped mine, warm, certain. She held me steady until I was near enough that my own skirts slapped against hers.

  “Look,” said my second mother, very soft. “Look up, Honor.”

  I had thought the night veiled. But I saw now that the sea mist was just an illusion of the horizon, something to cloud the eyes of all the Others on the streets below. Above us was a well of pure, sharp black, with stars that burned silver like just-minted pieces of eight flung to the heavens.

  I made a sound, something wordless. Lia’s hand remained firm around mine.

  “Have you ever wondered what it’s like to Turn?” I felt her glance to me. “Smoke, and then dragon?”

  Of course I had. Every girl of the shire wondered … at least, every girl I’d ever known. Of all the Gifts that blessed us, it was the Turn that most defined who we were. Nearly all of the menfolk still had that Gift, but for us—for the females born to the tribe—it remained nothing more than an impassioned wish, one that ultimately faded as we grew older. Fifteen or sixteen was the usual age for the Gifts to emerge. Perhaps as old as eighteen. Male or female, by the time you were twenty, if the Turn had not come, it never would.

  Once upon a time, the village schoolmaster used to tell us, every drákon, no matter their sex, was Gifted. Everyone knew the joys of scales and vapor; everyone flew. But Darkfrith was so safe and green, and we settled there so comfortably. Time began to change us. Perhaps it grew easier not to Turn, to grow more lazy in our human skins. Or perhaps we were just cursed. No one really knew why, but in the past two hundred years or so only four females of Darkfrith had managed the Turn.

  One of them was standing beside me now, waiting for my response.

  Just like everyone else, I’d wanted that Gift. I’d wanted it very, very badly.

  “I’ve heard it hurts,” I said, trying to sound indifferent.

  “Yes. I’d heard that, as well.”

  I curled my toes in my slippers. “Does it?”

  “Perhaps at first. I’m not really the best person to ask that. When it first happened to me, the circumstances were slightly … extraordinary. But there’s no pain now. Now, when it happens, it’s like … I melt. In the most fantastic way, I melt and become nearly nothing. A nothing so light, so thin, I’m swept up and up. The stars serenade me. The moon smiles. With a single breath I become material again, but I’m aloft. I have wings. I soar. It’s simply the most …”

  She faded off, staring skyward. Silver light painted her profile.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I asked, pained.

  Her eyes closed; her lips smiled. “Because I want you to understand it. I want you to feel it too. Even without the Gift of the Turn, you are a dragon, Honor. It is your blood. Perhaps you’ll never Turn to dragon, but the animal lives in your heart anyway. It is everything ferocious and strong inside you. It’s what lets you hear the same music I hear, from the stones and metals. It’s what hones our sense of smell, of taste and color. It’s what makes us a tribe, even separated as we are. It’s what makes us so beautiful.”

  “I’m not beautiful.” I pulled my hand free. “Nor ferocious. Nor strong.”

  “Oh, my dear.” She leaned in, pressed a quick kiss to my cheek. “One day you’re going to look into a mirror and see someone you won’t even recognize. I do hope I’m there for that. Just to catch the expression on your face.”

  “You’re about to Turn,” I said. “Right here. Aren’t you?”

  Her smile returned.

  “But it’s bright out,” I protested, instantly nervous. “All those stars. And there are Others. Right there, just down there! Packs of them. What if they look up?”

  “They will see a pretty young woman alone on a rooftop, watching the heavens. This is Spain. I’m sure they’ll think you’re terribly romantic.”

  “But I’m not! And you can’t!”

  “Watch,” she said. “Remember. Everything I do is connected to you, and you to me. I’ll be the dragon in the sky, and you’ll be the dragon on the roof. Either way, we’re both …”

  She did it, she went to smoke, still smiling at me, dissolving into wisps. Her gown fell in a slow, sideways drift—and then the wind took it, flipping it about, a gentle blue ripple floating down to the street.

  I watched the smoke. I watched it rise and rise until I couldn’t see it any longer. I rubbed my eyes and when I searched again, I saw the dragon high above me, whipping her way from star to star.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Castle of Zaharen Yce, Carpathian Alps

  Early Autumn, 1788

  The prince sat back in his chair, frowning, stroking the stiff paper folds of the letter in his hand. The single page was stained and somewhat weathered, but no more so than might be expected of a missive sent halfway across the Continent. Stamps gummed with glue, crimson wax seal, a wide smudge near the bottom redolent of coffee and dirt. With a tilt of his fingers he was able to glimpse the watermark imprinted in the center, faint by the slanted sunlight that cut through his library window, but still one he recognized very well.

  A scrolled D. The suggestion of a winged beast entwined around the curve.

  It was the crest of Darkfrith. Of England.

  Yet the letter had been posted from Spain.

  The ink from her quill was deeply blue, nearly purple. He’d already memorized the few English words penned there so carefully.

  Dear Prince Sandu of the Zaharen,

  No doubt this letter will come as something of a surprise to you. We have not yet formally met, although I’ve seen you a few times before.

  I will not trouble you long. I wanted only to say I look forward, very much, to seeing you again soon.

  Yours humbly,

  Mlle. Honor Carlisle

  (of the English drákon)

  That was what had been written, and it was what anyone else in the world who was not him would read. But it wasn’t what the letter actually said. Because whether or not Sandu left the paper on the polished gleam of his desk or let it fall to rest on his thigh, the true message inscribed there burned between those purple-blue letters, brighter than the sinking sun. The true message shone clear, no matter what angle he tried: I love you. I will always love you. I’m going to be with you again. I will discover a way.

  He raked a hand through his hair, sighing, then placed the letter back upon his desk. He reached now for the other one, the one he’d hidden in the back secret drawer that no one else knew about, folded small and much more worn.

  Alexandru smoothed out the page, bending over the thin, spidery writing that had always been his sister Maricara’s distinctive hand. It was the last communication he’d received from her, over four years past.

  A.,

  Ill news. English restless, eager for you/clan/invasion. Putting them off long as I can. Langford’s younger brother recovered after Sanf Inimicus kidnapping. Returned to the shire with strange news of an Englishwoman who is also a young girl: Honor Carlisle. She is Drákon and Sanf Inimicus. Know her? He said she knows you.

  Idea that you are aligning with the Sanf sending the English into a frenzy, no matter how I placate.

  What are you about?

  —M.

  What, indeed?

  Although Maricara was no longer o
ne of his tribe, she’d always communicated with him in the language of the mountains. Every missive she’d sent had been stamped from England.

  He missed her sometimes still. He missed her sharp-edged clarity. She had decided to wed the Darkfrith Alpha, Kimber Langford, for love or just love of rule, Sandu never knew. She had been leader here for a while, a pseudo-Alpha herself; her loyalties tended to vacillate with the whistling of the wind. Yet she was his blood, his last living family member. It could not be an easy thing, he supposed, to realize your husband planned a war against your brother.

  For unfathomable riches, which the Zaharen no longer had.

  For miraculous power, which the Zaharen no longer had.

  For glory—which, Sandu had to admit, was the one thing that still thrived up here in the thin, frost-riven air of his home. The glory of the drákon past. The potential glory of enslaving any drákon present.

  Four years ago he’d answered his sister’s letter with a single, pointed sentence: My oath that I do not know her.

  But now … by the heavens, he was very much afraid that he did.

  The English drákon were allies once, or he thought they had been. It wasn’t so very long ago that he’d hunted the sanf inimicus with one of their own in Paris, helped free the very Langford brother Mari mentioned from a certain death by the sanf. He’d been sixteen then, feverish with adolescent passions and the need to prove himself. He’d believed in those weeks abroad he’d forged a bond between the tribes; now he knew better.

  The English were never interested in alliances. They desired one thing only, and that was control.

  He’d helped rescue the English lordling, departed Paris warm with the knowledge that he’d made friends, saved a life, made a difference.

  He’d truly known nothing about this Honor Carlisle. He’d known nothing of what had come after he himself had left France, save his sister’s wedding, which he was wise enough not to attend.

  Prince Alexandru had instead sent Maricara and her mate a pear tree and a cloisonné box of diamonds he’d pried from the walls of the castle in honor of their union, accompanied by a note of particularly florid wishes for their good health and long lives.

  Maricara’s equally florid written response expressing their gratitude had arrived a scant three months after.

  Her secret missives, however, had reached the castle more sporadically than that. He presumed she’d taken the precaution of writing in Romanian just in case her new English family discovered she was smuggling him news, but Mari was the only one who might have ever guessed the truth about his unique talent. She could have just as easily written, Sunny day, fine place, do wish you were here, in the King’s most proper English and the hidden message of her words would have shone the same: Beware. Beware. Beware.

  Because that was what Maricara’s final note to him actually said.

  It was a peculiar Gift, this ability to read between lettering. In all the bound books of his kind he’d pulled from the castle libraries and cellars, in all the spoken folklore, he’d never discovered any mention of anyone else with this skill. Perhaps it had seemed too inconsequential to mention, compared to all the other amazing feats the drákon could commit. Perhaps it had surfaced once or twice in generations past, but only among the peasants—who couldn’t read anyway.

  So he’d had nothing and no one to guide him when it first began. He’d been just a boy, no more than eleven, and it was even thought for a time that he’d required spectacles to help him see.

  They hadn’t helped.

  As the years passed, Sandu had come to realize that his vision blurred only when he was looking at words. Language didn’t matter; ink didn’t matter; paper or vellum or tapestry—none of that mattered. If he stared hard enough, if he concentrated, the blurring cleared and he could see the new words squeezed through the old ones. Indeed, if he studied it long enough, the old message disappeared entirely, leaving only the true one. The one perhaps the author had never meant to be read.

  Oh, he’d learned reams about his people through their hidden words.

  Most of it was fine. Most of it was exactly what he would expect of a tribe of bare-handed farmers and shepherds: minor disputes and jealousies, love affairs, petty thefts. They were more human than not, these scattered drákon of the mountains. He wondered if that was why their squabbles seemed so slight.

  The royals surrounding him, however … they were more worrisome.

  By the right of their blood, they dwelled in the Tears of Ice with their prince. They were counts and sons of counts, lords and ladies, and nearly all the males could Turn. It was through the luck of his sister, the former princess, that Sandu now ruled.

  Since his maturity he’d made certain that he remained ruler by anything but luck.

  He’d been graced with exceptional Gifts. Only a fool would have failed to use them.

  He required his nobles to submit any request to him, no matter how inconsequential, in writing. It was how he knew Lord Oreste despised him; that Lady Lucia’s beloved son was not of her husband; that the brothers Bazna were dense but trustworthy and their cousin Count Radu of Sinaia anything but. So many secrets, just waiting to be spilled with a stroke of ink.

  Until he’d been brought up to the castle at the age of seven, Alexandru knew nothing about any of these particular kin except that they were the white-wigged, glistening aristocracy of his tribe, those who neither sweated nor toiled, yet lived off the fat of the land.

  Now he rather imagined he knew them better than they did themselves. He knew their hearts, at least. What they desired. What they most feared.

  That was the key to power. Understanding another’s true heart.

  He leaned forward in his chair, pushed the two foreign-stamped letters side by side until their edges touched, until the very different words shone in their very different colors, spoke to him again in their genuine words: I love you. Beware.

  His fingers drummed atop the pages. True hearts never lied.

  He’d remained in the library. He’d taken his evening meal there because it had seemed the most expedient thing to do, and because he knew it would set his supper guest more at ease. Count Radu would be smugly pleased to see Alexandru eating goulash from a tray like a common servant.

  He kept most of the chamber sparsely lit, the corners all in shadow, the ceiling high above them a mask of dusk. As the twilight descended he allowed the fire in the hearth a sullen smoldering, but the thirteen beeswax candles of the candelabra just behind him burned much brighter than those last few flames. He knew the candles cast a halo about his unpowdered hair—worn long and loose, just as the old princes of the realm used to do—and effectively shaded his face and hands. His gaze. The single most telling aspect about him, in fact, would be the silver spoon in his grip.

  The former Alphas stared down from their portraits on the walls, severe in their silence. Sandu kept them clustered in here, in this private domain, where he could stare back at them openly whenever he wished.

  He’d never had his own painted. Probably because he never thought he’d last here as long as he had.

  Radu’s chair had been placed to face his prince, and so Alexandru had a very good view of him: the aquiline nose, the opaque black eyes, the deep, permanent line engraved between his eyebrows. His wig was iron gray, a plain queue, no curls. The ruffled lace along his bib glowed with the candlelight, distinct down to the last intricate knot. The count’s lips kept a constant, derisive smile. Sandu sometimes wondered if it was still a willful effort for him, or if his mouth had finally frozen into its sneer.

  “More wine?” he inquired, leaning forward to offer the carafe.

  “No, my lord.”

  They were a dozen years and a universe apart. Radu was older, an animal nearly beyond his prime, and beneath his poise and his half-lidded gaze, he remained utterly hostile. Unlike Alexandru, he’d been born a courtier, and was in fact a cousin by marriage to the former prince. Had he a fraction more of the Gifts, there was no
doubt he would be sitting with the light behind him in this library right now.

  Praise the stars he could not Turn.

  Alexandru knew the count hated him with a passion that even his letters could scarcely contain.

  “A calm night,” Sandu said, resting the rim of his spoon on the ceramic bowl before him. “No winds, good moonlight. I thought perhaps I’d visit your holding.”

  “I’d be honored, of course.”

  “Your sheep are well?”

  The smile grew more acerbic. “So I’ve heard.”

  “Excellent.”

  Sandu lifted another bite of goulash, savoring the fragrance of seared beef and onions, sharp paprika. The silver spoon moaned an eldritch song against his lips.

  “Are you certain you wouldn’t like a bowl?” He returned the count’s smile from over the spoon. “It’s an old family recipe.”

  And it was … somewhat. When he’d helped his mother make it as a boy—back when his mother was still alive, on those cold, cold winter nights—there’d been onions and potatoes for the pot but no beef. Beef was an extravagance young Sandu had only ever heard about.

  For an instant emotion flared behind the other man’s eyes, something a step beyond smugness; beef or no, gulyás was the fodder of peasants. “I fear I’ve already supped.” He gave a small nod of his head. “Noble One.”

  “Very well.”

  Sandu kept him there in the growing hush, the night beyond the windows thickening to sapphire. He allowed his gaze to rest upon the embers of the fire and devoured every bite of his meal. Radu didn’t stir.

  “I’d like you to draw me a map,” Sandu said at last. He leaned back, touched his napkin to the corners of his mouth. “It’s been so long since I’ve flown as far as Sinaia. I’ve no desire to lose my way.”

  “Of course,” said Radu again. He rose without bowing, approached the desk and began a swift sketch with the quill and ink Sandu had already set out.

  “My friend,” Alexandru said, watching him, “you have your ear to the ground, so to speak. Have you heard anything new about the sanf inimicus? Gossip? Whispers?”