The Time Weaver Page 8

  But there were no people. Not human, not drákon, no sounds or scents or stirring of them. Squinting up at the walls, I noticed that quite a few of the windows had been shattered. Some even had curtains tugging at their edges with the wind, their fabric faded and tattered.

  Scorchmarks scarred the upper frames of the upper windows. Marks from a fire.

  I approached the huge double doors of the entrance, holding a hand to my eyes to shield my vision. I smelled the ruin before I saw it. The doors were of iron and oak, very ancient oak, and they had been forced apart into splinters. The bolts and hinges that had been their solid spine hung twisted from the wood. When I passed them they did not sing. They whimpered.

  Zaharen Yce had been raped and gutted. I stepped around the broken glass in wonder, hardly feeling it when I cut my heel. The beautiful paintings were gone, the vases and chandeliers and marble statues, gone. The chunks of diamonds in the walls were gone. A few smashed chairs and what was left of a marqueterie firescreen tipped drunkenly on its side were all that remained of the main-floor furnishings.

  Dust blanketed every inch in thick, gritty layers, undisturbed. The air was ghostly with the perfume of stale cinders and panic. Whatever had happened here had happened a long time ago.

  I lifted a hand to push back a cobweb dangling from a doorway and felt the eyes of the spider high above me, diminutive life crouched back in the pitted mortar of a corner.

  No one answered my calls. Outside I heard a falcon scream, but that was all.

  I couldn’t imagine what time this was. Where Alexandru or his people might be.

  When I stepped out again into the glaring light of the courtyard, I was home, in my bedchamber. I was never able to return to that bleak, burnt castle.

  I sank down to the rug on my floor. Wrapped once more in the heat of that Spanish afternoon, I’d hoped it had been just a dream. But the gash on my foot was real and deep.

  He would not go to her.

  The mere thought of it was absurd. He could not leave his people and his territory for any extended period of time, not even for the time it would take to fly to Spain and back.

  Just to see her. Just that.

  No. He’d traveled well over the years, but those had been steadier days. He’d enjoyed touring the cities of man, enjoyed their crowded opulence and astonishing innovations. He had a favorite restaurant in Bucharest, a favorite park in Potsdam. There were few sweeter small pleasures than a cup of steaming coffee in the Café Suleiman overlooking the banks of the Danube, but he’d been younger then, more convinced with the certainty of youth of his place. The threat of the English had been little more than a gnawing at the back of his thoughts.

  Aye. Times had changed.

  It would require days to fly to Barcelona. Taking a carriage was, of course, out of the question. Human travel barely crawled along the surface of the ground. That would consume weeks.

  But days in flight, some of it over open waters. And then to hunt her, to find her, that river-girl who’d haunted him so long now …

  He remembered her face from that night in the library. The dark bruised eyes holding his. The rosebud lips, never smiling. She was more lissome than she used to be, he thought; lissome yet still lush, any childish contours melted away to reveal the bones and angles of one of his own kind. A beast of beauty beneath pastel skin and copper-rose hair. He’d craved her from the moment she’d slid into the light.

  Married, she’d announced, as easily as if it were already fact. It was insane.

  Yet he could not wipe her face from his memory, any more than he could wipe away the true words of her note. The second one. Words describing the things he would do to her, what she wanted, what she craved of him. Positions, taste, scent. Words in English and Catalan and he barely knew what, so thick was his red haze of desire, and Sandu knew that he was doomed, because he would go to her, after all.

  Amants. Lovers.

  He’d see.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  H.,

  Tonight is the night. Be at the Palau de la Diputació on Carrer de Sant Sever at nine for the king’s Revelry. Listen for the bells.

  —H.

  Barcelona was on fire.

  Even though he arrived after sunfall, Alexandru realized from leagues away he’d have to navigate a celebration of some sort. He let the soft sea winds lift him as he studied the grid of the city below, every lane, every little passageway, it seemed, aglow with pinpoints of golden light. What appeared to be a parade was winding through the larger streets, brilliant with torches, trailing carousers in a long, bobbing tail. When the winds shifted he heard snatches of music as well, clanging bells and drumbeats striking off the hard, flat waters, soaring to heaven—sweeping through one lone black dragon first.

  He was not entirely black. That was a significant portion of his dilemma. He was also silver at his edges, with bands of amethyst and deep azure scoring his flanks in diminishing lines. Nighttime was usually a most excellent cover for him. He’d traversed half of Europe in such a way, landing in tucked-away places, emerging from alleys or parks or empty warehouses as an ordinary man. He’d not expected to have to return to earth tonight amid a festival; the silver tipping of his wings and talons would gleam like the sun in all that firelight.

  He could go somewhere else. He could come back another night, when it was done.

  But she was down there, somewhere, and he knew he wouldn’t.

  So Alexandru hovered awhile in silence with his satchel in his claws, eyes closed, miles above, and listened to the musicians and the merrymakers and smelled their food and sweat and torchsmoke. He let it wash up and around him until his hunger drove him downward, down, scattering a flock of wild-eyed gulls, sending an albatross into looping shrieks, past the docks … inland, to an elaborately Gothic stone belfry on a massive stone building, near the very heart of the chaos. It was a risk, he supposed. But then, there were no hidden spots in the city center, where he needed to be. Not tonight.

  Belfries tended to be unoccupied and unilluminated. Good enough.

  Sandu went to smoke, just another plume in a very smoky sky. Should any of those revelers jostling below bothered to have cast their eyes skyward, however, they might have wondered at this particular plume descending instead of rising.

  Emanations of alcohol, of cava and ale shimmered through him with a near-physical force. Sandu doubted very much anyone was looking up.

  He’d already dropped the satchel to the roof, managing to land it damned near the belfry, too. Lucky shot. After Turning back inside the stone shelter—nearly smacking his head on the bell first—it was a simple matter to crawl out and quickly retrieve it.

  He descended the tightly wound wooden stairs of the belfry dressed as a gentleman, if not a prince, and stepped into a sea of perfumed, glittering chaos.

  Inside the building it was somehow even more crowded than without. It was truly impressive, the decorations and furnishings far more extravagant than the plain brown façade that faced the streets would imply. In fact, it seemed to be an actual palace, with stonework carved into delicate filigree arches, and intricately inlaid walls, and vaulted ceilings so high and tall he could scarcely make out the frescoes in their curves. Chandeliers dripped with strands of cut crystal, blazing with light. What he glimpsed of the floor was pink and blue marble edged in black, geometric patterns repeated over and over.

  A palace, yes, yet it was little like his own home. Underneath its thinly sophisticated veneer, Zaharen Yce had been built as a fortress, designed and created by creatures with claws, anchored to its harsh mountain by the will of long-dead monsters. But this lavish and sensual place had never been used for defense, it was clear. This place was purely about wealth. And there must have been plenty of it.

  Crushed flower petals stained the marble. Petals rained from the fingertips of the younger children, who carried them in baskets and laughed as they tossed them into the air, at each other. Dabs of falling color clung to wigs and hooped skirts, skimm
ed the sheer lace veils covering the faces of the women, snared in their combs. Diamonds twinkled behind the lace, a million little rainbowed stars; the men wore pearls and powder and dark satin jackets and spilled their drinks over their cuffs. Somewhere nearby an orchestra labored against the noise, a sudden rising of strings and horns that pierced the highest rafters, overcoming even the hectic human clamor for a few bars.

  It was hot and reeking and he could hardly breathe. To his left was a door that would eventually lead him outside; he could taste the fresher air wafting in, getting there was the trouble.

  A woman—a girl—laughed in his ear, took his arm and looped a chain of tiny round bells about his wrist. He caught the flash of her teeth, a few whispered words, and then she was gone and a new girl was beside him, handing him roses, yellow roses, their wilted fragrance a sudden assault on his senses, and then his other wrist was captured and Alexandru received more bells, and then the next shadowed girl who moved before him handed him an orange, and as his fingers brushed hers through her gloves he felt the razor-sharp ache of his own kind, and he realized that it was she.

  It was Honor.

  Behind the netting of her veil, her eyes met his. Her lips curved. She took his hand and led him away.

  He was taller than I recalled. He was taller than nearly every man there in the Grand Salon of the palace. If I hadn’t recognized him by that tail of indigo hair pulled back with a velvet ribbon, then certainly I would have found him by the bells.

  They were small, tin, strung along cheap bracelets like charms for the celebration. Rich or poor, most of the men were wearing them, laughing and gesturing with their hands in that flowing, Catalan way so that they’d chime. But only on Alexandru did the bells sing.

  And they did sing, beautifully. Even the less valued metals adored us; on him the bells rose into a sound like raindrops striking a cool, alpine lake. Every note pure and sweet.

  When my hand touched his, they swelled from raindrops into a storm. And then I looked into his eyes, and they ceased to matter.

  I’d been to the king’s residence only once before, but I’d memorized my path for tonight. Carlos himself wasn’t here, but two royal cousins were on hand, puffed proud in splendid bronze uniforms to represent him, and on this evening all the people of the province clamored for entrance.

  Naturally, most of them were kept out. Only the most rarefied of Spanish society was allowed to step foot in the inner sanctum of the palau.

  The rarefied … and I. But I, of course, had stolen in. I was, after all, drákon.

  I’d chosen a veil of net, because it was easier to see through than lace. It was tradition for the ladies on this night to shield their faces, just as it was tradition for us to dress as courtiers from nearly a century past, with wide fan hoops at our hips, and stomachers of embroidered satin, and short trains that swished behind us and caught beneath the soles of the unwary. I wore black, not an uncommon color for formal Spain, not even for a festive gala such as this. I’d powdered my hair and skin and liked the effect: a snow-white face with crimson lips, chocolate kohl about my eyes that made them seem darker and even more blue than they were, pink-hued locks held in place with lacquered combs.

  I seldom wore jewelry, mainly because I never wished to lose it in a Weave. But tonight I’d borrowed something of Lia’s, a simple choker of rose quartz drops, barely more rose than my cheeks and hair. Beneath all the noise of the gemstones surrounding us, they offered a ballad, a gentle rhythm to match the pulse in my throat.

  I hadn’t wanted diamonds tonight. I hadn’t wanted to distract myself from any single detail of him.

  He kept the orange I’d handed him but passed off the yellow roses to a maiden of about twelve, with limp curls and sallow skin and a French-beaded gown that must have cost a ransom, presenting them to her with a smile and a nod of his head.

  The child watched Alexandru walk away with startled, adoring eyes.

  She could have been me. It was far too easy to see myself there in her, skinny and alone, clutching sagging flowers to her chest.

  We reached the palace chapel, sealed off from the rest of the celebració with a scrolled iron gate that fit snugly from floor to ceiling. The pair of liveried guards stationed beside it did nothing to acknowledge either me or the prince, but when we neared the one by the lock, a guard turned about swiftly, fit his key into the socket and pushed the gate open for us. It shut behind us just as quickly.

  I guided the prince into the shadows. He followed with agile deliberation, the heels of his shoes hardly clipping the floor. His fingers curved warm, very warm, in mine.

  There were always candles lit above the altar, I’d heard, although their radiance was muted, shaded red and gold by the colors around us. I released his hand and turned to face him, taking a long, leisurely look at him for the first time tonight. For the first time in two years.

  Pale and chiseled, deep blue and ivory and an ice-clear gaze. Still a head taller than I, still a world I’d never guessed at shining from his eyes, even though at last our ages were closely matched.

  “How much did that cost?” Alexandru inquired in English, his words low and amused.

  We could speak nearly without sound; in closed spaces such as this, even with the cacophony beyond us, our hearing was acute.

  “Less than a single topaz from your mantel,” I answered, just as hushed. “And yet more than a year’s salary each.” I took a step back, lifted a hand to the softly glimmering room. “I thought it’d be worth it. Do you agree?”

  “I do.”

  He turned to take in the perimeters of the chamber, making certain he remained beyond the timid glow cast from the row of candles; the bells at his wrists subsided back into rainfall.

  The chapel was truly gorgeous, alive with buzzing gilt and old dark murals, tapestries of kings and saints draped along the walls. A reliquary of solid gold rested on the table before us, throbbing with song.

  There was only a single way in and out. Past the iron gate the party continued its rhythm of surge and ebb, framed now by bars and the silhouettes of the guards in their old-fashioned costumes and wigs. A woman nearby stumbled into one of them and erupted into peals of laughter; the man steadied her without moving his feet.

  My gaze was angled downward. Through my lashes and the netting I was admiring Sandu, the jade green hue of his velvet coat and breeches, the shape of his calves in cream stockings and the silver buckles on his shoes. He paused by a draped corner of the altar; I heard the song of the reliquary soar into bliss with the stroke of his finger, and I thought, Oh, I know.

  “Are you shocked?” I asked, mostly to cover that song. “That I’d resort to bribery?”

  “Not at all. I admire a woman of practicality. A few more minutes out there in that mess and I might have had to Turn and eaten my way out.”

  I glanced up at his face. He fixed me with that light, strange gaze; the corners of his lips lifted into something like a smile.

  My heart began a tattooing skip. He’s here, it beat, finally here, here, here.

  “Ah,” I managed. “Not a good idea, I’m afraid. Look up, my lord.”

  He did, and then I did, both of us taking in the elaborately carved arches of the wooden ceiling, the impressive round medallion centered above us that depicted a knight on his horse. The dying dragon at their feet.

  “Tonight is the Festes de la Mercè.” I lifted my veil with both hands, flipping it over my hair. “Some say it’s to honor the Virgin. Others say it’s for him.”

  “St. George,” discerned the prince, his head tipped back. “Lovely.”

  “And the unlucky dragon, whoever it was. No doubt right now someone somewhere nearby has partaken of too much wine and brandishes a rather wicked lance. Probably several someones—they’re quite fond of Sant Jordi here, I fear. Better tonight to be just a prince, I think.”

  “Yes,” said Alexandru, in his untroubled tone. “No doubt.”

  We paused, both of us; my gaze dipped down
ward again. The shadows shifted, and Sandu took a step closer to me.

  “And you knew to bribe the guards …?”

  “Because I knew you were coming tonight.”

  “You saw it. From the future.”

  “Actually, I left myself a note.” I shrugged. “I tend to do that.”

  I watched him slowly shake his head.

  “It’s true,” I insisted.

  “I know. It must be. As mad as it is, it’s the only explanation. You travel through time. Yet it’s so …”

  “Bizarre?” I offered, feeling a knot begin to clench in my stomach. “Off-putting?”

  “Astonishing.” He grinned at me then, a genuine grin, one I’d never seen before; it transformed him into someone I didn’t know, someone young and heartbreakingly handsome. He looked me in the eyes and the knot inside me began to melt like sugar stirred into hot tea. “The most astonishing Gift ever. You are … remarkably fortunate, Mademoiselle Carlisle.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. “I’m pleased you think so. You’re very kind, my lord.”

  “No,” he said, and took another step closer to me. “I’m actually not.”

  I don’t think he realized he’d spoken Romanian to me then. It barely registered even with me, but I’d spent the past two years disciplining myself into fluency—as fluent as one could become without an actual tutor. I’d not dared to inform Lia or Zane of my intent. No doubt I was better at reading Romanian than speaking it; his accent was unfamiliar to me, but the words were clear … as was his tone.

  His voice had darkened. His eyes had darkened. It was a reaction I was beginning to receive more and more from human men as I aged, but coming from another of my kind, from an Alpha prince … my physical response ripped through me like lightning. Yearning. Excitement. Every nerve ending in my body began to jangle.

  One more step—

  “Do you know what’s before us?” I asked in English, breaking the moment. I motioned toward the reliquary.