Chapter 14
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Fourteen
Neil Fairfax’s mind raced as he walked through the twilit shadows under the ancient, sprawling trees.
He was facing yet another plunge into danger, this time in the form of an expedition to a legendary forest in the company of a band of revolutionaries.
All of that would have been quite enough to keep him from sleep, but a different worry had carried him outside.
He had found his way to one of the maharaja’s many gardens, the quiet pathways swathed with the gloom of evening. Here and there, light filtered through the leaves from the softly glowing windows of the palace wings that framed the secluded space.
The lamp Neil carried spilled a golden pool of illumination over the walkway in front of him. In his other hand, he held a long bundle wrapped in an old towel.
The air smelled of frangipani. Artificial waterfalls splashed softly into trickling streams that fed the abundant flowerbeds. The many trunks of an enormous banyan tree whispered with the quick movements of night birds while smaller animals scurried through the ground cover.
Neil froze at the sound of a strange, nasal squawk—then breathed a sigh of relief as a peacock waddled onto the path in front of him.
Kalb burst from a wall of fragrant lantana, treating the bird to an excited bark. The peacock startled with a raucous squawk, tail feathers flaring out in a threatening display.
Kalb scrabbled back with a whine.
The peacock charged at the dog, which whirled into a retreat. Both animals plunged back into the lantana in an explosion of pink petals.
Neil watched them pass with a blink of surprise. The garden settled back into quiet chirps and rustles.
Those ordinary sounds of the night mingled with something unexpected as Neil continued along the path. He was arrested by the twang of a sitar, the delicate flow of notes cascading through the air in a melody edged with longing.
Unaccountably stirred, Neil looked for the source of the sound—only for it to suddenly stop.
He found himself gazing out over a broad, square pool of water illuminated by a sliver of moonlight.
A structure stood in the center of the pond, cleverly built to appear as though it floated on the mirror-still surface.
It was anchored to the shore by a slender walkway.
The walls were made of delicate wooden screens that had seen better days.
Two sides had fallen in, which afforded Neil a view of the interior.
The building was abandoned, and the music had gone. Neil wondered if perhaps the notes had traveled to him from somewhere else, like one of the distant palace windows he glimpsed now and then through the interlacing branches of the jackfruit trees.
A soft, uncanny chill shivered down his spine. Neil shook it off and moved on.
Beyond another bend in the path stood a small pavilion. The domed roof was held up by airy columns linked by waist-high balustrades. Marigolds clustered around the foundation. Another frangipani stood to one side of the building, bursting with pale white blooms.
Slivers of light from another section of the palace were just barely visible through the leaves, marking the place as sufficiently secluded for Neil’s purposes.
His boots were silent on the thick, soft grass as he stepped off the path. Climbing the low steps, he set the slender bundle he’d been carrying down on one of the stone rails. The folds of the cloth fell aside, revealing what lay within.
Neil stared down at the sword Dyrnwyn as though it were a snake poised to rise up and strike him.
He hadn’t really handled the arcanum since Constance had shoved it at him after his near-death encounter with Julian Forster-Mowbray on a ridge beyond the Amarna plain.
He knew that it was ridiculous for him to keep lugging it around the world wrapped in an old towel in his trunk—but a substantial part of him would have been perfectly content to keep doing exactly that.
The other part, both uneasy and impossible to dismiss, had been driven out to the garden by the echo of his sister’s words.
Have you considered possibly using it?
Neil had not. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to. But he knew he owed the sword more than he’d been giving it.
He gave the arcanum a closer inspection where it lay on the rail, mentally cataloging its features.
The sword was both humble and beautiful.
The blade was iron with a naturally duller hue than modern steel would have.
In the light of Neil’s lantern, subtle variegations rippled through the metal in elegant waves.
The shapes were evidence of the twist-welding technique that some ancient Anglo-Saxon blacksmith had used to craft the weapon.
The hilt was carved bone wrapped in gold filigree.
Neil wasn’t certain what type of bone. That thought occurred to him frequently and uncomfortably when he had cause to touch it.
The material was softly yellowed with age and smooth from centuries of handling, ending at the crossed iron bar of the hand guard.
They were all the same features that he had cataloged the last time he’d studied Dyrnwyn, back in Egypt.
Which left only the least comfortable part of his examination to complete.
Drawing in a deep, uneasy breath, Neil lifted the sword from the railing.
Silent tongues of pale flame whirled up the dark gray length of the blade.
Neil stared at the uncanny fire with dismay.
Dyrnwyn was only supposed to react magically when held by someone ‘well born or worthy.’ Admittedly, it had burst alight once before when Neil had snatched it up to defend himself and Constance from his murderous ex-employer—but part of him had dared to hope that might have just been the sword reacting to the extremity of his circumstances.
Surely Dyrnwyn didn’t think him routinely worth its magic.
The softly flickering light in his hand begged otherwise.
“Bugger,” Neil cursed aloud.
A voice called from beyond the curve of the path. “Is that you, Stuffy?”
Footsteps crunched along the gravel. Neil fumbled his grip on the sword, then quickly slammed it down onto the balustrade and released the hilt.
The flames snuffed out with a soft whoosh.
He threw the old towel over the mythical weapon, then whirled as Constance poked her head around the trunk of the frangipani.
“I thought I heard you just then,” she commented cheerfully.
Neil didn’t answer. He was too busy staring at her.
Constance had changed since dinner. Gone was her fashionable skirt and striped blouse.
Instead, she was draped in elegant folds of purple and gold.
The featherlight silk wrapped around her waist, crossing her shoulder to fall down her back.
A closely-fitted choli with cropped sleeves left the soft curves of her arms exposed.
Constance preened, doing a turn. “Do you like it? It’s Auntie Parvati’s. She said this was the Santali drape. I must admit, it’s a sight more comfortable in this heat than buttoning into a waistcoat.”
The soft glow of the lamp cast notes of gold over the thick black length of her hair, loosely braided and tossed over her shoulder. The pale flowers of the frangipani shone like stars behind her.
Neil’s voice came out in a croak. “It’s… nice.”
Constance set her hands on her hips, unimpressed. “Nice?”
“Very nice,” Neil quickly corrected himself.
He was glad that in the gloom of the garden, Constance couldn’t see the tips of his ears turning pink—because he could feel them burning.
His response obviously fell somewhat short of her expectations. He struggled for something better. “It suits you.”
Constance twisted as though trying to get a better look at herself. “Do you really think so? I still don’t know that I feel entirely Indian.”
“But you aren’t entirely Indian,” Neil replied a little stupidly.
Constance cocked an eyebrow at him.
Neil swallowed thickly. “I mean that you’re both. British and Indian.” He suppressed the urge to wince. “Which is nice.”
“I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment. What are you doing out here, anyway?”
Neil was uncomfortably conscious of what was hidden under the old towel on the railing behind him. “Just needed a little air?” he offered weakly.
Constance climbed the steps to join him inside the pavilion.
She gave the space a thoughtful study. “This garden’s meant to be haunted, you know.
Supposedly a princess here had to be married off to an evil Mughal lord, but she was in love with someone else and used to sneak away to meet him in the Floating Hall. ”
“Floating Hall?” Neil echoed.
Constance studied the high arch of the dome. “That building on the lake. Her lover was an itinerant musician who had stolen her heart with his playing.”
Neil’s thoughts tumbled back to the delicate notes that he had heard as he passed the ruined structure earlier. “Sitar,” he burst out.
Constance looked surprised. “Did someone already tell you the story?”
Neil felt dizzy. “I’m sure I… read it somewhere.”
He hadn’t read it somewhere. It had been his bloody power acting up again—right when he didn’t need it to, just like always.
Those inconvenient outbursts seemed to be happening more often. Perhaps Sayyid had flung open a door in Neil’s mind when he had mercilessly thrust the uncomfortable truth about Neil’s leaps of historical intuition into his awareness.
Or maybe it was just India. He was traveling through a land with an exceptionally rich history. But then, London was rich with history too, and Neil didn’t run about seeing men with togas wandering the streets.
Well—there had been that one time in Colchester. But those toga-clad fellows outside the market had clearly been fraternity pledges.
Except that Neil didn’t know of any fraternities in Colchester.
The blood drained from his head. They might not have been fraternity pledges. Just like the fellow in Renaissance dress drinking a mug of ale in a smoke-stained Blackfriars pub might not have been a rogue actor.