Laura Navarre - [The Magick Trilogy 02] Read online

Wordless, he shook his head, black hair sliding against his shoulders, and raised his face to Heaven. “I’d rather burn in Hell, do you hear me? I’d rather burn!”

  Linnet exclaimed in dismay and groped for support to rise. Morgause slipped a slim shoulder beneath her arm and lifted her, surprisingly strong for such a slight creature. The dry odor of spices drifted from her patchwork cloak.

  “Leave it,” Morgause whispered at her ear. “He knows well what he is, this beautiful paradox you clasp to your heart. Your love can save him, Linnet Norwood, but only if you see the truth. Will you look with your eyes and your heart?”

  Somehow, this knowledge of the family name Linnet hadn’t given came as no surprise. She’d grown convinced the girl was more than the itinerant peddler of spells and visions she appeared.

  Morgause knew too much about them. Her very presence, a slip of a girl alone and undefended in these woods, could be no mere happenstance.

  Well, Linnet had prayed for guidance, had she not? And God worked in mysterious ways.

  Standing on her own feet, several inches taller than the girl who aided her, Linnet raised her chin. “Aye, I’ll look. What must I do? Drink a sleeping draught? Dream dreams?”

  Morgause’s breath hissed through her lips. “You must look in the mirror, nothing more. Come into the wagon—and you as well, Zamiel of Briah, if you can bear to see.”

  He stood riveted in place, his face desperate. “This is unnecessary—a theatrical distraction, nothing more. She’s determined to find her mother if the woman still walks this earth. Nothing you show her in some mirror is going to dissuade her.”

  “I don’t seek to dissuade her, Severity. Nothing could be farther from my purpose. Indeed, I seek to aid her.” The girl’s face shadowed. “If she returns to Elizabeth’s court, she is a dead woman. You know that better than most.”

  A chill crawled across Linnet’s scalp.

  “So then,” Linnet said bleakly. “Danger before and danger ahead, aye? If I can see the threat, I’d prefer that to walking blind. Zamiel, ye needn’t come—”

  “Show more wit than that,” he said crossly. “Where you go, I go. And there’s an end to it.”

  She gazed at him across the dancing flames, heart brimming with gratitude for his stalwart presence. How much more difficult and terrifying would her quest become without his unwavering protection?

  He might be a wastrel and a rogue, but he was hers. The only man with the courage and commitment to stand beside her, against William Cecil, her detractors, the assassins who stalked her—against the whole world.

  And she loved him for it.

  The knowledge struck her like a blow to the chest. She loved his dark blazing beauty and his irreverent wit, loved his madcap gaiety and his brooding silence, loved the mystery and the miracle that was Zamiel. She loved the hungry flame of his mouth on hers, the way her body pulsed with heat at his touch, the sweet ache of desire for him that suffused her.

  The knowledge transformed her, lifted her on a rising tide of euphoria. Here in the darkness with danger pressing close, an unlikely bubble of joy swelled in her chest until she laughed aloud for sheer delight.

  Of course, she could never share with him this secret of her heart. Her love changed nothing she’d set herself to do. Glencross still needed a proper laird, and for that she needed to know her father. The truth of Catriona Norwood, her mother, still waited in distant Cornwall. And danger still followed them, close at their heels.

  But God had led them to this witch and her mirror. Wherever her path went, she would no longer travel blind.

  “Zamiel, ye beautiful, impossible, glorious creature.” She shook her head in wonder. “Let’s have a wee peek in this enchanted mirror.”

  Chapter Eleven

  By the diffuse glow of a single candle, an incomprehensible assortment of shrouded and sinister objects loomed in the darkness of the covered wagon. When Morgause lit clusters of candles in each corner, constellations of light bloomed, revealing the comfortable commonplace items of daily life.

  On the well-scoured floorboards, a neat straw pallet lay covered with patched blankets, faded but clean. Propped open at its foot, a small chest contained nothing more sinister than a woman’s clothing. Bundles of herbs and vegetables, strung on cords, swung from the ridgepole, along with battered cooking implements and odd bits of harness.

  Indeed, the scene would be utterly ordinary—if not for the tall flat object looming like an obelisk at the rear, shrouded in a pall of rich black velvet. Just looking at the mysterious relic, towering over the pallet like a boulder poised to fall, gave Linnet the cold grue.

  Morgause bustled about until islands of light blazed in every corner. Linnet stood stiffly, a sliver of cold night air slipping through the canvas seam at her back, and waited with every nerve prickling for Morgause to unveil the polished plate.

  “Art thou prepared at last to part the Veil, and see what lies beyond?” the witch had asked. That snippet of antiquated speech tolled the bell of memory. If only Linnet could remember, could blow away the maddening mist that shrouded those lost years.

  If only the mirror would show her the truth of what she’d been, and what she would become.

  Yet Morgause seemed in no hurry to unveil it. When she’d finished with the candles, she said simply, “’Tis a private affair, whatever truth you seek, whatever hidden thing the mirror chooses to reveal. I’ll be outside.”

  Before Linnet could voice the questions clamoring in her mind, the girl slipped past and vanished.

  Zamiel was lounging on the pallet, the very picture of indolence. The moment they were alone, he uncoiled to his feet.

  “You needn’t do this thing,” he said, pale and intent. “Nay, I’ll go further—don’t do it. There’s nothing this mirror can show you that will change anything, no illusion you can possibly trust. Who is this witch to tell you it shows only truth?”

  Every word he spoke made sense. Yet none of it would stop her.

  “Your love can save him, Linnet Norwood, but only if you see the truth. Will you look with your eyes and your heart?”

  The moment she heard those words, Linnet’s choice became a foregone conclusion. Peering into the mirror now felt as inevitable as fate.

  She was a coracle caught in a powerful current, sweeping her out to sea. Perhaps she was already enchanted. Perhaps eating the witch’s food and sharing her fire had placed her under Morgause’s power.

  Already smoke twined through the wagon and swirled against the canvas roof. A smell like burnt cinnamon filled her nostrils—an incense of some kind, burning with the candles? Already dizzy, she shook her head to clear it.

  “Tell me,” she murmured, “why does she call ye Severity?”

  Zamiel’s slender frame tightened, gauntlets curling into fists beside him.

  “Linnet, for the love of Heaven, don’t ask. It’s not too late to forget this entire bloody business—”

  “Ye’re afraid,” she said softly. “Afraid of what I’ll see. Are ye afraid I won’t...trust ye when I’ve seen it?”

  Afraid I won’t love you? she wanted to say. But that, she could never tell him. No love between them could ever be possible, so telling him would be pointless, a selfish indulgence on her part.

  “By the Seventh Angel, you shouldn’t trust me now! Don’t look.”

  “I am looking,” she said firmly. Impossible even to imagine not looking. As if caught in a dream, she drifted toward the shrouded mirror. “Don’t fash, Zamiel. Ye needn’t look yerself.”

  Seeing her intention, he sprang toward her. “Linnet, wait!”

  “I’m through waiting.” Gently she gripped the heavy velvet and tugged. It slid free with a whisper, a cloud of aromatic dust floating from the folds.

  The mirror stood before her, a tall oval of polished steel framed in blackwood. At first, she saw nothing in its smooth expanse but an inferno of light from the blazing candles. Accustomed to the blurred reflections cast by polished steel and silver, sh
e peered closer.

  Against the light, a gowned figure coalesced, emerging from a sea of silver mist. Was it Elizabeth, the Tudor Queen? For the woman could only be a queen, gowned in dazzling brocade of crimson blazoned with the golden lion of England. A crown floated above the rippling, fire-streaked banner of a maiden’s hair.

  The pale oval of her features was blurred, shining with the pure white fire of magick. Her long, tapered fingers—Elizabeth’s elegant hand—rose in benediction.

  A Tudor Queen...but wait.

  The mantle flowing from her shoulders was quartered—three English lions and the French fleur de lis, interspersed with the rampant red lion of the Stuarts of Scotland. A pure fantasy then, for no woman living had the right to bear the royal arms of both England and Scotland. If she did, such a woman would rule both kingdoms—

  Linnet gasped. As if her breath blew away the swirling mist, the image clarified. The queen’s features sharpened.

  Linnet was gazing at her own reflection, floating above the arms of two kingdoms.

  She was staring at a woman whom, if she existed, Elizabeth Tudor would move Heaven and Earth to destroy. A woman whose very existence would make two kingdoms rise in civil war, Catholic against Protestant, until streets and rivers ran red with blood.

  A woman Sir William Cecil would hire battalions of assassins to murder, whether she was innocent as a babe or guilty as Judas.

  For this half Scottish, half English queen could only take the throne over the dead body of her Tudor sister, Elizabeth.

  Linnet’s brain reeled. The world swayed like a Sunday bell around her. Nay, it was impossible!

  Catriona Norwood was James of Scotland’s by-blow. Linnet had always known she could claim the King of Scotland as her grandsire.

  What if Catriona’s lover during that charmed summer had been the greatest man in the realm—King Henry Tudor, the Great Harry himself?

  Dimly, from a great distance, she heard herself babbling, “My God, my God, may God have mercy on my soul...”

  The room was spinning around her, the very floor of the wagon tilting, tipping her inexorably toward the sorcerous mirror, which now seemed thin and insubstantial as tissue. She staggered and flung out an arm. Gentle Mother, she was falling into it.

  Then Zamiel was there, looming behind her, gripping her shoulders, hauling her back. Mesmerized, still staring into the mirror, Linnet saw him materialize through the mist.

  But it was not he, not Zamiel. It was more than he—a colossal figure armored in scales of shining silver, wings of ebony and emerald streaming behind him. A banner of jet-black hair swirled in the celestial wind, framing a face as flawless and coldly beautiful as a diamond. Above his brow writhed a crown of black flames.

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, could scarcely even think. Somehow, through the dust and ashes that coated her throat, the word rasped out.

  “Lucifer.”

  The winged figure lifted his head and saw her. Blinding eyes of silver light transfixed her. She cried out and covered her stricken gaze.

  “Not Lucifer,” he rumbled, so deep it made her bones vibrate. “I am Sammael, the Severity of God, the Angel of Death, Chief Ruler of the Fifth Heaven.

  “Lucifer, Son of the Morning, gave life to a single Son. And I am He.”

  * * *

  As the words rolled through him, a sharp, sweet pain transfixed Zamiel like a lance. To speak his true name at last—to stand revealed in all his divine glory, to shrug off the disguise of the common wastrel who’d earned her contempt. He felt as though he’d shrugged off a too-tight garment.

  He arched his back and spread his arms. In the mirror, the image of his true self unfurled the magnificent ebony wings he’d lost.

  Despair rushed into his aching heart. No polished plate could end his exile, lift the interdict the Court of Heaven had levied against him. Only now, beholding himself in all his divine power, could Zamiel admit to himself that he wanted it back.

  May the Prince of Devils curse me for a stubborn fool! Aye, I want it back, all of it, the Fifth Heaven and the Music of the Spheres. But I know the price of claiming it. I must reclaim the detachment of Death, withdraw my protection from Linnet, abandon her to fight her enemies alone.

  Every particle of his being roared in denial.

  Never!

  As the killing rage poured through him, his eyes brightened. White fire spilled through them to obliterate the mirror’s fragile image in a holocaust of brightness. Before him, Linnet covered her face with her hands and cried out. No earthly creature could withstand a Dominion’s rage.

  Lucifer had been the fairest of all Jehovah’s angels, and he’d fashioned Zamiel in his likeness. Unveiled, his deadly beauty alone could blind her.

  Linnet crumpled to her knees, her slender frame hunched in agony. Alarm spiraled through him. Again he cursed himself for a vain, self-absorbed peacock. Swiftly, he swept up the heavy velvet and flung it over the mirror.

  As the thick folds settled, they blotted out the painful light.

  Zamiel realized his own mortal eyes were burning, white spots dancing in his vision, hot tears streaking his face. Groping like a blind man, he dropped to his knees and gathered Linnet’s huddled form against him. Through the protective leather of his gauntlets, he could feel her trembling. Tenderly he cupped her head and rested his chin on her crown.

  “Hush,” he whispered. Stripped of its divine resonance, his voice was no more than mortal. “Your precious eyes. Can you see?”

  In his arms, he sensed her gathering her wits, making a deliberate effort to control the maelstrom of emotions swirling through her. At last, she drew a shuddering breath and raised her head.

  Her face too was tear-streaked, pale and haunted, her pupils mere pinpricks in her light-blasted eyes. Yet, to his infinite relief, her golden-brown irises fixed upon him.

  “You are...mortal again,” she husked, her voice a mere scrap. “How?”

  How is this possible—all of it? He heard the true question in her voice.

  Gently he smoothed back a fiery curl that clung to her damp face. “I’m exiled from Heaven, confined to a mortal body as punishment for a legion of so-called sins. I’m Heaven’s rebel, an angel in disgrace. Given the current discord brewing among the celestial ranks, the forces of divine order can’t afford to tolerate an anarchist like me, a rabble-rouser and troublemaker, in their midst.”

  She shook her head in disbelief, but he could see her struggling to absorb his words. Her hand rose to brush the medallion at his throat.

  “Sammael,” she whispered. “A fallen angel! I should have made time to find ye in the Hebrew texts.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “Even my God-given name, I rebelled against. Zamiel is a corruption of my angelic name. I still prefer it, if you don’t mind.”

  A furrow appeared between her brows. “Angel of Death, is it? Should I be frightened of ye?”

  “Never!” he swore, arms tightening around her fiercely. “Linnet, I—”

  I’m in love with you. He’d known it forever, somehow, loved her since the day he discovered her, fighting so fiercely for her life in that abandoned inn.

  But what would she want with such knowledge? He was death in love with life, darkness yearning hopelessly for the light. She’d suffered enough devastating blows this night without having the unwelcome burden of his hopeless love forced upon her.

  She was still gazing up at him, face as open and undefended as a broken heart. He confined himself to saying less than he wanted.

  “I’ve lost my divine abilities. These gauntlets I wear from an eternity of habit, nothing more. My celestial judges left me only such music as a mortal can make. My skill at arms I suppose they couldn’t strip away, or they’d leave me utterly defenseless on this plane, which would be tantamount to murder. We couldn’t have that.”

  “Yer skill at arms, forsooth.” Her lips curved in a small, bemused smile. “Do ye need such skill in Heaven then?”

&n
bsp; “I’m a Dominion.” He shrugged. “We’re the warrior Choir in the hierarchy. Call us Heaven’s mercenaries, if you like. The Archangels lead us when we go to war. We battled the rebel angels and cast them down, and we keep the Fallen Ones confined to Hell.”

  “Dominions and Archangels,” she murmured, sounding dazed—as well she might. “I suppose there are Thrones and Seraphim and Cherubim too?”

  “You know your Scripture.” Knowing she needed the simple comfort of touch, he rubbed her back gently. “But the description of Heaven in the Bible is muddled and incomplete. All told, there are nine Choirs of angels in the celestial court. Think of the Choirs as mortal titles, each with its own powers and prerogatives, akin to the dukes and counts and marquesses of a mortal court—and rife with all the political intrigue and bickering of any court.”

  She looked intrigued, at least enough to stop trembling in his arms. That blessing alone was sufficient encouragement to continue.

  “In the highest echelon reside the Seraphim with their flaming swords and the Thrones with their fiery chariots. Together they guard the gates to the Seventh Heaven where Jehovah dwells, along with the many-eyed Cherubim, who watch always for evil. The second echelon contains the rank-and-file of the warrior Choirs—the Dominions and Powers. Think of us like the infantry and cavalry of a mortal army. Like any army, the factions are wary of one another. This is why we rely on the Archangels to lead us.”

  In his arms she was silent, head bent to absorb his words. Fearing she would rise up at any moment, blazing with indignation, to repudiate him for a liar or a madman, he steeled himself and forged ahead.

  “We share the second echelon with the Virtues—the shining ones, from whose light miracles and blessings flow. And the angels of the third echelon, the lowest in rank, dwell closest to the mortal realm. Here we find the Principalities who watch over mortal rulers, and the ministering Angels who guard the souls of everyday men.”

  “What of the Archangels?” She lifted her head to reveal amber eyes bright with curiosity. Or else she merely humored him. “Like Michael and...Uriel?”