Thirteen
Dominic felt a keen sense of disappointment when he entered his empty apartments. He'd thought of his wife all day and had anticipated the sight of her lovely face. Now he would have to wait to see her at the theater and be doubly cautious in guarding his reaction. But he'd had to stay late with his men, for his distraction had caused several of them to deliver some lucky blows in hand-to-hand combat, and he'd been honor bound to trounce them to prove his ability to lead.
And then it had taken some time to change the guard assigned to protect the tower holding Breden's half-breed. Mor'ded did not know the men the way his general did, would not recognize that only the most bumbling of his fighters had been chosen for the task. It would just make freeing the girl tonight that much easier for Dominic.
Then he'd had to secure some extra mounts and make sure they were stabled in the farthest paddock away from the palace. And while he'd gone about it, the stable boy had told Dominic that he'd finally discovered who had ordered the black stallion be given to Cassandra on the day they'd ridden to fetch the king.
Dominic entered his bedchamber and sat in the sturdy oak chair next to the hearth, pulling off his dusty boots while glancing about the room. Cassandra's feminine touch now permeated the very walls, and to his surprise, he found himself most comfortable among the frippery. It made him feel even more masculine by comparison.
His court clothes had been laid out neatly on the bed, and a cold bath awaited him with a bucket of hot water over the fire to warm it. He grudgingly admitted to himself that servants could be useful in preparing for the constant amusements one had to endure in the palace. While he quickly cleaned and changed, he wondered who had suggested Romeo and Juliet. It bored him to tears. He much preferred Hamlet.
Although tonight it really didn't matter what amusement the court had planned, for his sole purpose in joining them would be the opportunity to see his wife.
He took the stairs two at a time, grateful that his position as general allowed him the freedom of boots instead of heeled shoes. Gwen had a flair for fashion though, and he had no doubt the girl had chosen his coat of elaborately embroidered red birds with wings of flame and the matching dark red breeches. But his black shirt of ruffles at the throat and sleeves toned down the color, and it suited his fiery mood, and damn if he didn't care what he wore, as the only thing that concerned him was his desire to see…
A woman stood in the doorway to the antechamber of the theater. Dominic's heart sank while his face stiffened, and he bowed with fierce precision. He supposed it would be best to get it over with. "Lady Agnes."
She looked flamboyant in a gown that matched the color of her eyes. "La, my champion. I have missed you." She glided to his side and linked her arm with his. "I would ask where you've been, but rumor has already told me."
They entered the antechamber, with its pastelpainted murals of fairies and fauns covering the walls and ceiling. Gilt molding surrounded the artwork and crystal chandeliers exploding with yellow fire made the gold gleam with molten color. Linen-covered tables lined the room, a riot of food overflowing silver platters and china bowls.
"Rumors are often untrue, Aggie," he said, leading her to a private corner of the room. "Beware what you believe."
She went willingly, her eyes shining as she assumed the wrong reason for his want of privacy. "Oh come now, General! Surely you can't deny this rumor, when it would only lead to your… satisfaction again."
Dominic tried very hard to keep his attention centered on Lady Agnes, but his eyes kept sweeping over the top of her coiffed head for a glimpse of dark brown hair and a smile that could make his chest ache.
"What are you talking about, Aggie?"
"You. In my bed."
The very subject he'd been meaning to talk to her about, although in a more oblique manner. With a sigh of impatience, he folded his arms across his chest, leaned back against a faun making indecent advances upon a fairy. "I succumb to your skill at provoking my curiosity. What is the gossip?"
His position made his groin jut a bit away from his body. Agnes leaned her skirts up against him, but she didn't stir him in the least. Indeed, he found it most annoying.
She lowered her voice, for they had managed to acquire a few onlookers. "That you have managed to get your bride with child. And now that you have accomplished the formidable goal you shall be free to return to my bed."
Ah. So the hastily uttered words of Viscount Althorp had managed to circulate among the court. Cassandra's supposed headache had accomplished more than he had planned. He almost smiled when an unsettling thought occurred to him. Could it be true?
No. Cassandra would have told him.
"I had an interesting conversation with a stable boy this evening."
The sudden change of subject set her aback for a moment, but she quickly recovered with her usual aplomb. "La, General, why would that interest me, when we were having such a… promising tête-à-tête?"
"Because the conversation concerned you, my pet. Regarding a certain black stallion you insisted the lad give to my wife as a mount."
Aggie waved her silk-gloved hand in a dismissive gesture. "What of it?"
Dominic pushed his shoulders off the wall, grabbed those slender fingers in a painful grip. "Lady Cassandra could have been killed, or at the very least, injured."
Her eyes widened as she stared from his black eyes to his tightened hand. "For which you would have been grateful."
"She belongs to me. You should have respected that."
"Fiddle!"
Dominic dropped her hand, afraid he'd crush her fingers. People had started inching their way toward the shadowed corner, their ears pricked to the discussion. He kept his face very calm, his voice smoothly composed. "If you ever threaten to harm her in any way again, you shall regret it."
She sniffed, tossing her blonde curls, completely unruffled by his threat. "I knew it. After all the years I've invested in you, you… bastard. You've fallen in love with your wife."
"I'm incapable—"
"So I thought—"
"Shut up, Aggie." And he could think of only one way to do that. One way to silence her accusations that he'd fallen in love with Cassandra. He kissed her. Hard. Without passion or consideration for her bruised lips. If Dominic hadn't had such iron control over his facial expression his mouth would have twisted with disgust.
She melted against him, throwing her arms eagerly about his shoulders. He heard a few startled gasps from their onlookers at such a public display, and then a few titters of amusement. When he broke the kiss, he looked up and stared at the few brave souls who'd dared to venture so close. They hastily backed away.
When Dominic looked back down at Aggie, her eyes told him she saw through the lie of his kiss. And when he glanced over her head, he spied Cassandra.
Her face flushed a bright red and she appeared to stumble, throwing out an arm to the man who stood by her side. Viscount Thomas Althorp smoothly caught her and turned her away from Dominic and his mistress, leading her to a table sparkling with decanters of brandy and port.
"He dares," hissed the general. "I told Althorp to stay away from her."
Lady Agnes looked over her shoulder, turned back to him with more expression on her features than he'd ever seen before. Such an ugly look on so beautiful a face. "Go ahead. Call him out. It will only confirm what I've told your father."
The fury of seeing his wife in the arms of another man faded at her words. He focused his complete attention back on Aggie, and she blanched.
"What, exactly, have you told Mor'ded?"
She shrugged but refused to meet his gaze. "I told him the truth. That you haven't shared my bed since you married."
"And why would you tell him that?" His voice dropped dangerously low. She took a step back from him. He followed. But she didn't need to answer, for he knew her ambition. "Did you succeed in getting into his bed?"
She shrugged.
"Listen to me, Aggie. You're playing with fire. Literally." He placed his hands on her narrow shoulders. "Stay away from my father. He's more dangerous than you guess. You would have a better chance with the king."
He'd spoken figuratively, but when she looked up a wicked gleam appeared in her eyes. "Do you think so?"
If he could have indulged in humor he might have laughed. "That's something you'll have to find out for yourself, now isn't it?"
Aggie gave him a tentative smile. Dominic had always thought Lady Agnes only pretended to be unfeeling, just as he did. But he now realized her shallowness might be a true part of her character. Had he so easily distracted her then? He could only hope, for the antechamber began to empty as the orchestra's opening song filtered into the room. He saw Althorp disappear into the king's box with his wife and quickly followed, Lady Agnes right on his heels. But when he entered the box Althorp had disappeared, and Dominic decided the man wasn't as witless as he'd thought.
The theater had been added to the palace years ago, when the baroque style had been the rage. Grand columns of marble circled the room and enclosed the boxes, a fresco of the sun's rays amid a sky of clouds adorned the ceiling, and the walls had been painted with trompe l'oeils of the English countryside, making the entire room appear to be open to fields of rolling hills and flowered meadows. A glamourist from the sovereignty of Dreamhame must have been a part of the theater troupe for the paintings moved, trees and grass swaying in the wind, the sun's rays shifting and sparkling, completing the illusion.
Only the elven lord's box, crawling with yellow flame, shattered the deception.
But it appeared that Mor'ded had decided to grace the king's court with his presence this evening, for he sat in the king's box on the older man's right. Walpole, as usual, sat at the king's left, and he rose and bowed to Lady Agnes, who quickly took a seat in front of the king, laying her arm on the back of the velvet chair and turning to bat her eyes at him. The rest of the court goggled at her. Dominic saw only his wife, who sat alone, just behind the king—the court shunning her as usual—her eyes rooted to the empty stage.
When he took the seat next to her a becoming blush heightened her cheeks. Cassandra snapped open her fan and placed it as a barrier between her face and his.
King George turned his head and nodded over his shoulder at Dominic. "Ah good, you have come. And this time I meet your wife. I see now why she wears the black, to complement the scarlet of your jacket."
Dominic raised a brow as he appraised his wife's understated gown, and shrugged. "Her servants are clever."
Mor'ded turned then, although he couldn't quite meet Dominic's eye, as the man sat directly in front of him, and instead settled his black gaze on Cassandra, who responded by fanning her cheeks. "It seems that congratulations are in order," he said as the house lights lowered with magical precision.
"Indeed," replied Dominic in a carefully neutral voice.
"It appears you have proven your virility."
Cassandra fanned herself even harder but did not waver from her concentration on the stage. Dominic did not respond either. Let the elven lord assume what he would.
"Your… dedication to your wife is commendable. Or so I have heard."
The curtain rose. Aggie quickly ceased her efforts in trying to gain the king's attention and turned to the stage. Mor'ded also turned and settled deeper into his chair, Cassandra letting loose a breath of relief. But the king continued to face Dominic, ignoring the actors as they entered onto the platform.
"I must demand the name of your tailor," blurted King George.
The opening music rose in a crescendo and Dominic leaned forward to catch the other man's words, brushing his leg against Cassandra's. She slid away, smashing her skirts into the opposite arm of her chair. A trickle of annoyance made the general lean forward and sideways even more, trapping her leg beside his.
"I beg your pardon," said Dominic, giving his wife a quick glance. He could see the color on her cheeks even in the dim light, but she pretended to ignore his presence.
"Your tailor," repeated King George. "I must have his name."
Dominic could not believe the man's obsession with clothing… although, since it appeared to be the only power he had, he supposed it was understandable. "I'm afraid it's not someone you would recognize, Your Majesty."
The lights on the stage lit with a brilliance that suggested magical fire, and he heard his wife gasp at the scene they revealed on the stage. The troupe must have more than one half-breed possessing the power of Dreamhame, for the set looked remarkably real. Italian towers eclipsed one another as they faded into the background; the river snaking its way across the right flowed with a sparkle atop its waves and birds winged their way across a gray sky that threatened rain. When blades clashed between the Montagues and Capulets, the blood that flowed not only looked real, but Dominic could swear he smelled the iron tang of it from his seat.
Mor'ded suddenly straightened in his chair and leaned forward. Did he fear that the power of the illusion might come from one too-powerful half-breed instead of the combined efforts of the smaller skills of many?
"Bah," said the king, "you just do not wish to tell me who the tailor is."
If Dominic didn't have the distraction of Cassandra at his side, he felt sure the man's obsession would have driven him mad. She held her fan with one hand, but the other lay loose upon her lap. He laid his hand lightly over the silk of her glove. The stubborn girl didn't even twitch.
"Nay, Your Majesty. I just fear you will be disappointed when I name her."
"Ah. A woman. She does not have a shop in London, then?"
"I'm afraid not."
Dominic curled his fingers between the top of the glove and his wife's warm skin, slowly peeling down the silk. She trembled. Sir Robert suddenly glanced back at them, his sharp eyes taking in their postures. He gave the general a smile laden with meaning before focusing back on the stage.
So then. Dominic had been right about Walpole's intelligence. Within the other man's expression lay an interest in Cassandra that surpassed the norm. And Dominic didn't think Walpole had revealed that without careful intent. Could he be a part of the Rebellion? There had been a certain smugness in that look, and Dominic felt sure he would be finding out soon.
The Rebellion would never have snared him if it hadn't been for his wife. He didn't think it had been a part of the plan; indeed, he felt sure they hoped to strike a lucky blow against his father using his innocentseeming wife. But the impossible had happened, and he'd fallen under Cassandra's spell.
"You must stop this torture, General Raikes! If you do not wish to name your tailor, tell me so this instant."
Dominic frowned at the king. "I had no intention of keeping it from you, Your Majesty." He'd just been too preoccupied with his wife. He'd completely removed her glove and now encased her small hand within his. "My tailor is no one more than a talented kitchen maid."
"Devil a bit! A slave?"
Dominic traced a finger over the rose gold ring he'd given his wife. The petals had uncurled just a bit. "She's a prisoner of war from Verdanthame. Imperial Lord Mi'cal's half-breeds possess extraordinary powers in weaving the plants that his magic has introduced to England."
The king's face brightened. "I have never been captured by that sovereignty. I hope—ah well. You must send this person to me, General."
Dominic unconsciously tightened his grasp on Cassandra's hand. Perhaps the king had misheard him. "She is a slave, Your Majesty." As he had been. A person with no one to care enough to pay their ransom. A person like him, without consequence— until he'd proven his worth to the elven lord. Because his mother had been nothing more than a kitchen maid, taken in war from another sovereignty. He could only guess that her incredible beauty had caused Mor'ded to bed her.
His wife gave his hand a small squeeze before going back to ignoring him.
"I still wish you to send me this slave, General."
Dominic nodded, hoping he would be doing the girl more good than harm. "As you wish."
The king finally turned back around to the performance and Dominic had no further excuse to lean forward. He settled back into his seat, missing the heat of his wife's leg against his own. He now couldn't bear being near her and unable to touch her. She had shattered his control with the confession of her love for him, and as he focused on the play he realized that in some ways it echoed the relationship he had with Cassandra. Love entwined with death and sacrifice.
Dominic slowly picked up the black silk glove that lay discarded on his wife's lap. He faced her profile, her eyes still riveted to the stage, but he felt sure she was aware of his every movement. He brought the glove to his mouth and kissed it, breathing in the scent of her skin. Never would he have thought he'd act the dandy in this way. But he took the slip of silk and put it in his inside coat pocket, so it lay against his heart.
The general hoped she would understand the gesture, for he felt… badly about kissing Aggie. The look on his wife's face when she'd witnessed it had twisted something inside of him. He could not abide bringing her pain, even in such a small way.
The rush of pleasure that swept through him when he saw the slight curl of her lips made up for the thought that he'd acted like some silly court fop. If it managed to make her happy, he felt determined to learn every gesture of romanticism with which humans displayed their affection.
The curtain fell with the end of the opening scene and Dominic stood to stretch his legs, his hand twitching to assist his wife when she started to rise to her feet. But the sudden glow from the magically created sun's rays above them would reveal his actions, and he stilled his body to indifference once again.
They milled about the box, the intermission too short to return to the antechamber for refreshments, although a liveried footman brought round a tray of wine and sweetmeats.
Halting the performance after each scene made the short play interminably drawn-out.
Sir Robert engaged the Imperial Lord in whispered conversation, leading Mor'ded to the far side of the box, both of them focused on the stage. Perhaps he sought to ease his father's fears over the magical powers of the troupe, or to incite them. Dominic could only feel glad his father's attentions were otherwise engaged.
Lady Agnes immediately jostled the king's mistress out of her way, capturing the older man's arm within her own. The king gave her a look of mingled surprise and speculation, and his wife watched the two of them with a puzzled frown.
Dominic bent over to reach Cassandra's ear. "It seems Agnes has set her sights on a nobler conquest," he murmured.
She fluttered her hands, flushed at the sight of one of them ungloved, and quickly removed the remaining silk, stuffing it in the slit of her skirt along with her fan. "She's a fool," his wife replied with enough heat in her voice to please her husband.
"You aren't satisfied that my mistress has publicly declared that our affair is over?"
"Certainly not." She shifted from one foot to another, her hands still aflutter at her sides. "Now you will only have to find another one."
He didn't need to see her glance at Mor'ded for him to understand her meaning. Without the shield of a mistress, his attentions to his wife would become suspect. But an idea had occurred to Dominic and he wished he could speak of it to her. Regretfully it would have to wait until they were alone.
His wife continued to fidget. Dominic accepted the glass of brandy handed to him by the footman and downed it in one swallow, then studied Cassandra with a frown. He had seen her so nervous only once before, when they had stood together at the altar on their wedding day. The ring on her finger had tightened into a stiff bud once more, and he wondered if his gallant gesture had completely erased her hurt over seeing him kiss Lady Agnes. Or perhaps she truly feared the loss of his mistress would set Mor'ded's sights upon her.
And with that thought flowed another. Did her feet move to some silent music in her head? Did she prepare her magic for a death dance, hoping to catch Mor'ded unawares when the lights lowered? Perhaps that's why she'd chosen to sit behind him. Dominic glanced at her waist. She wore a thin black girdle of sturdy-looking cloth. He glanced over at his father. "Do not even think it. Do you realize how many will die if you attempt such a thing?"
She followed his gaze and quickly shook her head. "No, Dominic. I wouldn't… I know you're right about…" Then she clutched her head and swayed on her feet.
It took every ounce of his self-control not to reach out and sweep her up into his arms. "What is it?"
She rubbed her temples. "I fear I have a dreadful headache."
Lady Verney, who stood near the rail of the box with a gaggle of ladies, noticed his wife's actions and approached. "Are you well, Lady Cassandra?"
"I… I don't know what's come over me. My head just started to pound like a drum."
The taller woman smiled with maternal indulgence, the feather boa wrapped about her thin neck fluttering with the sigh of her breath. "My dear, that's to be expected in your condition."
"Oh, but I'm not—"
"Now, now. I know how strong you are, but even the best of us can be weakened by the changes in one's body. You will need to take better care of yourself, my dear." And she punctuated her words with a sharp glance at Dominic.
He could only study Cassandra in bewilderment. They both knew she wasn't with child and that her first "sudden" headache had been nothing more than a charade. She felt fine but a moment ago, and other than her continued skittishness and a crease in her brow, looked exceptionally well. He called blue fire to his fingertips, ready to ease her head with his magic. But she hastily stepped away from him.
"Do not trouble yourself, my lord. I prefer to seek a more… natural remedy." She glanced between the two of them, seemingly annoyed by their concern. "It's naught but a head pain after all. I'm certain I'll be fine after I rest for a while."
"Shall I accompany you to your rooms?" said Lady Verney, again giving the general a pointed look.
But Dominic did not think his wife wanted him to escort her. Devil a bit, he suspected she had no headache at all. That it was just a ruse to escape from him. Despite his attempt to make it up to her, she must still be angry with him for kissing his mistress. His wife had revealed her love for him and it had changed everything. He must take more care of her feelings.
"No, please. I would feel worse if I thought I'd deprived anyone of the joy in seeing the rest of the play. I can manage to make it to my rooms with nary a worry."
"If you are sure—"
"Faith, Sophia, it makes me feel worse to have anyone fuss over me." And with those parting words, his wife swept up her skirts and left the box.
"Sometimes I think she is too independent for her own good," grumbled the taller woman, her final parting shot at Dominic before returning to her cluster of court ladies.
He supposed Lady Verney suggested that he take his wife to hand, but the general had little desire to do so. Despite his fear for her safety, he liked Cassandra just the way she was. Self-sufficient nature and all.
But Dominic decided that it would seem an eternity sitting through the entire performance before he could he join his wife in their rooms. Before he could prove he had no further interest in Aggie or even acquiring another mistress to replace her. That he might no longer need such a shield.
He watched Lady Verney and her bevy of court ladies continue to whisper and glance his way while they took their seats for the next scene. His wife's false headache this eve would only solidify the rumor of her pregnancy among the entire court, and he did not regret it. Indeed, he vowed to make the rumor true within a fortnight.
Dominic made it through the performance by envisioning his wife's face lit with golden fire. He had never shared his magic in that way with another woman… had never had the desire to. But he had wanted to bring her pleasure in a way she'd never experienced before. In a way no other man could give her. And judging by her tremors, he'd managed to do so with startling success.
Before his marriage, he would never have guessed the serene little woman to whom he'd been affianced would possess such a fire for passion within her.
His thoughts flew in ever-creative ways as he considered the benefits his magic could bring her. Perhaps he could endeavor to experiment tonight, assuming he could manage to make her forgive him.
His thoughts made the time pass so quickly that he started with surprise when the performance finally came to an end. It took all the general's composure to slowly rise, to exchange pleasantries with debutants and dandies, to appear serenely oblivious to his wife's absence. His father spoke with Walpole again, and Dominic felt gratitude for the way the prime minister engaged Mor'ded. Clever man. Despite Walpole's all-too-human features, he must have inherited more than his fair share of elven charm from somewhere in his family line.
Dominic had just managed to extricate himself from another boring conversation, this time purposefully heading toward the exit of the box, when one of his lieutenants stepped through the open door.
"Sir."
"What is it?" The general's men rarely bothered him with trivial matters.
"The girl has escaped, sir."
Dominic didn't need his man to specify which girl. He'd given special orders to his men regarding only one prisoner. And with those few words, the general suddenly knew. He knew why his wife had looked so nervous this evening. Why she'd pretended a headache and excused herself without escort. Knew who had helped Breden's half-breed escape. He quickly positioned his body between his lieutenant and Mor'ded's line of sight.
"You have dispatched men in pursuit?"
"Aye, sir."
"Then they won't get far." Dominic knew he lied. With Cassandra to aid them, they had a betterthan-average chance of escaping his men, especially with the fools he'd set as guards. Or so he hoped. But he didn't want to alert the lieutenant to the fact that he knew Breden's bastard had help in her escape. "Report directly to me when you've returned her to the tower."
"Aye, sir."
The man dallied and Dominic knew his lieutenant expected him to join the pursuit. Indeed, he would have, if only to find a way to protect his wife from exposure. But although he had some faith his wife would find a way to outwit his men, he knew she wouldn't stand a chance against his father. And despite his attempt to shield the lieutenant from Mor'ded's line of sight, he could feel his father's eyes boring into his back.
"Dismissed," he snapped, no longer capable of suppressing his fury. Cassandra had acted without confiding in him, had risked herself for no reason, since he'd had every intention of rescuing the girl tonight… without alerting half the palace guards. And his father.
The lieutenant practically leaped out the door, and Dominic slowly turned. Walpole waved his hands, trying to keep Mor'ded engaged in their conversation, but his father stood facing Dominic, curiosity flickering in those cold black eyes.
The general suppressed his fury. Snapped his spine rigid and forced a calm indifference on his face while his mind spun with some way he could protect Cassandra. He could reassure his father he had the situation well in hand, that he had complete confidence in his men to return the half-breed to Firehame. But if his father sought some amusement this evening, chasing a frightened child through the streets of London would certainly appeal to him.
Dominic strode toward Mor'ded and Walpole, and the short distance seemed incredibly long… and far too short. He could think of only one way to protect Cassandra. Only one way he knew for a surety that would distract Mor'ded's attention from the missing girl.
The memory of black fire sang through his mind, made his muscles twitch with just the memory of the pain.
Father had never tested him in public before. He preferred to keep the torture private, as he kept so many of his amusements private. The elven lords preferred to foster the facade of a benevolent overlord not only among the court, but more importantly, for any visiting dignitaries from the world outside the barrier surrounding England. Dominic had to find a way to goad him into it.
He tossed his head with arrogant pride, the last few of his steps turning into a strut.
A mocking smile broke across Mor'ded's mouth. "What news did your lackey bring, champion?"
Dominic bowed to him, a short bob lacking the full sweep with which he usually honored the Imperial Lord. He sent a pointed look in Walpole's direction. "A prisoner has escaped the tower."
They held all the prisoners of war in the old tower, far from the delicate sensibilities of the court, until the inmates were either ransomed or had fully accepted their new lowly status in the world. Mor'ded had decided not to keep the girl with the other children awaiting the trials, since he didn't want the court gossiping about why he felt it necessary to surround them with a contingent of guards. Dominic had followed his father's orders without question as usual but felt relieved at the new location. It would have made it easier for him to rescue the girl. If his impulsive wife hadn't made the attempt first.
Mor'ded knew exactly to which prisoner Dominic referred. His midnight eyes sparkled with anticipation. "Perhaps I should assist in this matter."
Dominic raised a brow, his head still tilted with smug arrogance. "But why trouble yourself over something so minor? My men will track her down soon enough."
Mor'ded's face fell with disappointment.
"Is there something special about this particular prisoner that interests you?" interjected Walpole.
"Nay, of course not," replied his father.
Dominic again felt gratitude for Sir Robert's presence, for his father could not reveal the reason for his interest. And the very question that Walpole had offered made Dominic suspect the man knew more about the prisoner than he pretended. Knew about his wife's involvement. His earlier impression that Walpole might be a part of the Rebellion solidified. How priceless to consider the possibility of the king's prime minister directly involved with the Rebellion.
But the general had to put aside speculations about Walpole for the nonce, for he knew his father might excuse himself at any moment, get involved with the girl's recovery just to relieve his boredom.
How he hated the arrogance of elven boredom.
Dominic had never felt as if he looked into a mirror of his future more so than he did at this moment, as he faced his father with the sole intention of provoking the man. Mor'ded's face held the same contemptuous superiority that he felt on his own.
"I have felt a change, Father." A pure lie. If Dominic held the greater power of black magic inside of him as Ador had revealed, he'd felt not a hint of it. The general knew without doubt that he would fail to withstand the test. He ignored the whisper of the memory of pain.
Mor'ded ceased glancing at the exit of the box and focused his full attention on his son. "What are you talking about?"
"My powers. Tonight I felt as if something has grown inside of me." He took a step toward his father, every nuance of his body language taut with challenge.
"Ah, Walpole. The young pup thinks that just because he managed to impregnate his wife it makes him a man." He kept his voice low.
Sir Robert replied by taking a step backward, and Dominic's estimation of the man's intelligence reached a new height.
"Not a man. But an elven lord. Isn't that what you fear, Father? That I hold enough power to challenge an Imperial Lord himself?"
Mor'ded's face twisted. "You dare."
"Yes. Here and now." And with those words, Dominic called his magic. Not the orange nor the red, but the insidious power of the black. The sound of the chattering court faded from his ears; the smell of mingled perfume and human body odor cleared from his nose; the sight of marble columns and painted frescoes blurred as he focused all his senses on the magic within him.
And he felt it.
A shadow of black fire. A mere suggestion of the flame.
But he could not call it forth.
Still, it was enough. Enough for Mor'ded to forget his surroundings, for his fear to launch an attack at his son in front of the entire court.
Dominic staggered backward from the force of the black blaze. He felt his clothes melt into his skin, his skin crackle and flake to the floor. Then the force of it slowed, as if his father sought to prolong the torture. To punish Dominic for arrogantly challenging him in public. Black flame lazily curled into his lungs, sizzled along his nerves, bringing an agony that surpassed any pain he might have experienced before.
Blackness covered his eyes and Dominic forced himself not to claw at them as they began to burn. To fry like an egg in a pan, the outer edges bubbling, the yolk hardening as the heat reached the core.
Ah, faith, it went on for a very long time.
Twice he felt himself almost collapse. But the thought of Cassandra kept him upright. His feelings for his wife could not make him strong enough to defeat his father, but this time he did not fall to his knees.
"Stop it, man," cried a voice. Walpole? Dominic couldn't be sure, for the flame crackled in his ears and muted all sound.
"Don't you see he hasn't the power to defend himself? You're killing him!"
And like a candle snuffed by a breeze, the burning stopped. Dominic tried to stand upright. He had hunched over from the pain. But his muscles screamed in protest, and he gritted his teeth as he straightened his back. He could not stop the tremors that racked him, the harsh gasp of his breath in the silence. He blinked his eyes as his sight returned, although they still throbbed in time to the memory of pain that still sang through his body.
Mor'ded gave him a look of triumph mingled with disgust as he pushed past his son and out of the box. A collective gasp followed his departure, and Dominic became aware of the court staring at him with open mouths. Indeed, even the lesser nobles in the seats below had turned to stare upward at the king's box, quizzing glasses held up to shocked eyes.
Walpole strode forward, grasped his arm. But his skin felt so sensitive he shook off the touch with a grunt of misery.
"Let me help you, man," he murmured in Dominic's ear.
"Get away from me." Ah, his voice croaked from his throat, the smooth elven richness of it burned away by fire. "I am used to this."
Another gasp went round the box and Dominic looked up in fury, straggles of dull white hair creating a curtain over his face. He would not suffer the court's contempt. Not when his every nerve felt seared with heightened awareness.
But the eyes he met did not hold the indifference he'd expected. Shocked horror, yes. And pity. Mingled with an anger that, oddly enough, he did not feel directed toward him. But toward his father. Yet they could not have seen the burning of his skin, the conflagration of his very bones, for the fire had blazed only in his own mind. Perhaps they had seen the black magic as it had enveloped him and guessed at what had happened.
Dominic did not care. He only hoped the drain on his father's power from the assault would be enough to keep him from pursuing the escaped child and Cassandra. Or that he had already bought them enough time to gain freedom.
He thought to take a step, the exit door of the box seeming ridiculously far away, but the moment his clothing slid against his skin a grunt of agony escaped his parched throat. Walpole made a strangled sound and again reached out to steady him, but Dominic ignored the gesture. He curled his hands into fists. Called forth every ounce of his elven blood to combat his human weakness. And strode forward, the silence in the theater near-deafening in the complete absence of sound.
And made his way toward Ador's tower, to lick his wounds as he always did after a trial.
The dragon turned his head when Dominic entered his domain, those red eyes narrowing with something akin to the human pity he'd seen on the court's faces below.
"Don't," he croaked. "I will not stand for any more."
Ador blinked, then gave a mighty yawn, the force of it stirring Dominic's hair against his cheeks, creating a new type of pain for him to disseminate.
"Did she escape?" whispered the general.
"I do not know."
Dominic sighed, slowly began to peel off his clothing, until he finally stood in nothing but his breeches. Better. But he wished the wind would stop blowing, for even that gentle breeze felt like small knives etching his skin.
He felt like railing against the dragon, whose knowledge always seemed sketchy at best. But tremors of fatigue still shook him, and only the thought of his wife's danger kept him on his feet. Ador could fly faster than the swiftest horse, could scent better than the huntsman's most skilled hound. He would not beg the dragon for his own life, but for Cassandra's… "Help me save her."
"I cannot."
"Or will not."
The dragon swished his tail, scale screeching on stone. "They are one and the same to me, bastard. Only an elven of great power can wield the scepter, and the scepter cannot move directly against him, for it is bound by the wielder's desires. I am already walking a fine line, revealing so much to you."
Dominic clenched his fists in frustration. "I must break the bond between this scepter and my magic."
"You cannot."
"Then do it for me."
If the dragon had a brow, it would have risen high above his pointed head. "Your estimation of my abilities flatters me. But have I not made it clear I am but a tool of the scepter? And the relic has motives beyond the comprehension of man, dragon, or elvenkind. But I do know it will not reveal your magic until you have enough power to destroy the mad elf."
"By then it may be too late."
"Then we will have failed. And it will be long and long before we see our homeland again." Ador sighed, gazing up at the starry sky, those brilliant eyes dulling to a red sheen, as if he saw a different sky above him, dreamed of a different world that held the comfort of home.
Dominic hung his head. Ah, faith, he felt tired unto death. One last tremor shook him, the memory of pain fading to nothing more than a dull ache. He gathered up his clothes and for the first time in his life, did not stay until his mind had healed from one of Mor'ded's trials. Instead he returned to his apartments to wait for the return of his wife. Or the summons from his men that they had captured her… or that his father had killed her.
And then he would make sure Mor'ded destroyed him.