Page 20 of The Magic of Pemberley (Fitzwilliam Darcy, Mage #2)

Chapter 20

T he Tuileries was enormous, a palace on a vast scale, with an interior designed to impress, every inch decorated with marble, sculptures, and larger-than-life paintings in gilded frames. If Darcy could have felt awe, he would have. But inside he was numb, his mind racing to the confrontation ahead of him, all the possible plans for distracting the guards. How could he prepare when he did not know where their audience with the emperor would take place? Would there be windows that the soldiers could be drawn to? If not, there was little he could do beyond sounds and mist. Did such an effort even have a chance of success, or would his sacrifice prove useless?The only person he might be able to ask was Velaudin, but the plan called for him to remain disdainful of Darcy until the end. Both of them needed to play their parts.

After showing his invitation and his papers, Darcy mounted the grand staircase between two lines of soldiers, and then followed a page through a series of elaborately adorned rooms before reaching a large hall filled with men in uniform. Dozens of them stood, and more sat in chairs along the walls. The ceiling bore a giant painting of Mars driving his chariot, looming over Darcy with the knowledge that there was no escape from this place.

His papers were checked yet again, and they patted him down, searching for weapons. Then he was directed into the next room, where exquisitely dressed men and women awaited their audiences. Darcy’s new clothes did not come close to meeting their sartorial standards. Velaudin was across the room, chatting with a several others and ignoring Darcy. If he was nervous, it did not show, but the young man beside him – presumably the cousin who was to help him – was pale and drawn.

Chatter rose around him, and there was hardly room to move. He received supercilious looks from those who deigned to notice his existence. His skin itched. It was a far cry from his beloved silent cottage in the woods. And there was no escape. The room had only two doors, one into the guardroom and one on the opposite side, leading to wherever the audiences were held.

The inner door opened, and three men walked out, looking pleased. A chamberlain called a name, and an attractive young woman and a much older gentleman went through. They were out again in less than five minutes. The parade continued, new petitioners entering the august presence as the previous ones emerged.

Darcy gave a tiny tug on his land Talent. The power of Pemberley rose to meet him. Good. He needed to be ready. And the dragon Artifact hung on his chest, safely invisible, ready for his touch. It would do him little good here in this crowd, where there was no clear path. But if a chance arose, he would be prepared to seize it.

The next time the chamberlain entered, he called out Velaudin’s name. Darcy made his way across to him and entered behind the would-be assassins. Into the imperial presence.

Every eye was on Napoleon, including Darcy’s. He felt like the needle in a compass, twirling to face true north. It was almost as if the other people in the room faded into the background, the courtiers and secretaries and soldiers.

Only the emperor stood out as an individual, despite standing off to one side of the salon in front of the fireplace instead of sitting in the great chair under a canopy – not a throne, but close to it. He was dark-haired and no more than average height, shorter than most of the guards around him, with features more suited to a merchant than an emperor. He should not have looked majestic, but he exuded an intense magnetism .

The sight of Velaudin making his bow shocked Darcy out of his strange fascination. He hurriedly followed suit, and as Darcy’s gaze moved away from Napoleon to the elaborate carpet underfoot, he realized his mistake. He should have been examining the room, not the man.

As he straightened, he tried to remedy his error. Two large windows to his left – thank heavens! A door in the middle of the opposite wall, presumably leading to Napoleon’s private apartments, given the two guards standing in front of it. And many people – they were outnumbered by far.

Velaudin was speaking, and Darcy dragged his attention to him. “This Englishman claims he has permission to try to contact my cousin’s daughter regarding an inheritance. He has a safe-conduct, but it may be forged. We cannot be too careful of our enemies.”

One of the secretaries handed Napoleon a paper which he glanced at. The emperor said, “It all seems in order.” His words were quick and businesslike, as if he found the matter uninteresting.

Then he turned to Darcy, his eyes fastening on him, studying him closely. “Have you anything to say for yourself, M. Harcourt?”

A frisson went down Darcy’s spine. Something was odd about this, but what? Perhaps it was just that the emperor’s face was so familiar from engravings and caricatures. “Your Imperial Majesty, my only interest in France is to fulfill my stepmother’s commission to find her long-lost daughter. I sent all the paperwork through the embassy several months ago.” Why had Velaudin not given him the signal to produce his illusions?

Napoleon was still studying him, with eyes that seemed almost like molten metal. “You interest me, M. Harcourt,” said the emperor. “I wish to know more of you. Step forward.”

Darcy’s heart pounded, but he obeyed. Two of the guards stood on either side of him, prepared to seize him if he should make an untoward move. “Your Imperial Majesty honors me.”

“You are a landed Talent, I am told.”

“Your Imperial Majesty is well informed.”

Napoleon’s nostrils flared. “Have you ever been tested for magery? ”

“No, Your Imperial Majesty.” It was even true. His mother had always known he had that ability. But how had Napoleon thought to ask that question? He was not a mage or even a Talent, or Darcy’s skin would be burning.

“What do you know of the fae?”

This was unexpected. Cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. Why did the duc not give the damned signal? “I am told by those with the Sight that there are lesser fae on my estate. And I have heard stories, of course.”

“And dragons?” Muffled gasps came from around the room.

“Dragons? I have read about the attacks in Austria, of course.” His heart thudded. Someone had betrayed him. How could Napoleon possibly know otherwise? Suddenly it was harder to breathe, as if the air itself had grown heavier, warm and full of a rich scent redolent of spices.

“You know more of dragons than that, Englishman. You wear their work around your neck.”

How could Napoleon see his pendant?

Then, inexplicably, he relaxed. It did not matter, did it? The emperor did not seem displeased, only curious, and who would not be? There was no reason to distrust him. He was so interested in what Darcy had to say. Perhaps he should simply tell him everything. How could he be emperor if he was not also wise? Relief filled him; yes, this was the answer.

Darcy was so tired, though. What had happened to all his energy? At least he had his bond to Pemberley to draw on. He pulled at it, sucking in all the energy he could, through his child in Elizabeth’s womb.

Elizabeth. Her presence was there in the power of Pemberley, yanking him back to himself. To the reality that Napoleon was his enemy – and had somehow taken control of his mind.

Which still wanted desperately to believe anything the French Emperor said.

He was the rope in a tug o’war, with Napoleon pulling one way and Elizabeth anchoring him at the other, swaying back and forth. His breath rasped in his throat as the room seemed to close in on him. The only thing he could see was the emperor’s eyes .

“You will answer my question.” It was the voice of trust, of honor, of every hope Darcy had ever held.

No. He was here for a reason. But those mysterious eyes drained his resolve. He had to get away from them, this very instant. Panic made his skin clammy.

Then old instinct took over, the instinct that had kept him out of trouble so often as a child. He retreated into invisibility.

“Seize him!” cried Napoleon.

Darcy ducked down as the guards reached for where he had been, scuttling backwards. He was free of the grip on his mind!

But there was no way out of the room. They would discover him in minutes simply by touch. He could not afford to wait for Velaudin’s signal to start the attack.

He had rehearsed it so often in his head that he could launch the illusions without effort, pulling on Pemberley’s strength and picturing Elizabeth’s face before him. And there they were, the sound of guns outside, created by his Talent. Smoke from gunfire that did not exist. Shouting, as if the palace was under attack. Almost effortless, after all his practice.

The guards ran to the windows.

“No, you fools! Block the doors! Find him with your hands.” Napoleon sounded furious, but Darcy dared not look in his direction. His eyes were dangerous.

Instead, he began the second part of the plan. Mist everywhere, especially around the guards, to confuse them.

Then the sound of gunfire disappeared. Desperate, Darcy cast it again, but nothing happened. What had gone wrong with his illusions? He tugged hard on the power of Pemberley – and found nothing.

It was gone. His link to Pemberley via Elizabeth had vanished, as if someone had cut it with a knife. Terror rose in him.

“There he is!” cried the emperor, pointing straight at Darcy. “Seize him!”

His invisibility had faded, too. Darcy broke into a cold sweat as he tried to grab the power in the air to plait it, but it slipped from his fingers .

Then he remembered the handkerchiefs Elizabeth had made him, the ones into which she had sewn her land Talent. He had tucked them inside his sleeves as she had told him to, though more because he had promised to do so than because he expected to need them, not when he had all of Pemberley to draw on. They were pressed against his arms. And yes, he could feel the magic in them!

He let Elizabeth’s power flow into his skin from the fabric she had labored over and tried again. Now his body faded from sight once again, and the gunfire sounds were back. But he had to be careful; the magic in the handkerchiefs was limited, and pulling energy from the air required a calmness of mind he had no hope of summoning.

A body pushed past him to the left. It was Velaudin, going to tackle Napoleon. At last! His cousin was there, too, winding the garrote around the emperor’s neck and squeezing.

Darcy thickened the mist until he could barely see them, hiding their attack from the guards. But something shifted, and the garrote was suddenly empty, the two assassins staring at each other in confusion. How could the emperor have vanished from their grasp? And he was not just invisible, as Darcy was, but completely gone.

And then another impossibility, as a falcon took wing, flying up towards the high ceiling, landing on the canopy above Napoleon’s throne.

A falcon?

There was no time to think. Darcy had to stop him, and quickly, with only the bit of magic he had left. He cast fire upwards, and the canopy exploded into flames.

Now the shouts became screams, as real smoke poured into the mist illusion. The fire spread to the painted walls, crackling fiercely. Thick smoke blanketed the room, blocking everything from view and making him cough.

There was nothing more he could do, and he would die if he stayed. He pushed his way into the crowd trying to escape from the room, people pressing against him on both sides as they tried to cram through the doorway. The sharp crack of glass shattering sounded behind him as he reached the doorway, coughing as the smoke filled his lungs.

Just as he went through, something bumped him in the back. Then a hand grabbed his coat, yanking him back. “Got him!” a soldier cried. He pushed down the woman in front of Darcy to make space to get a firmer grip. “Guards, over here!”

Desperately Darcy tried to pull away, but the soldier was determined, grappling to hold him. With the advantage of being able to see his opponent, Darcy lashed out with a punch to his chin that rocked him back and loosened his grip. But another man struck him from behind, making him stagger.

This was no time for fighting by the rules. Darcy kicked back at him, hitting with his elbows, his knees, whatever he could reach, throwing himself to first one side, then the another. But there was no place to go, and so much pressure from the escaping crowd. People screamed in terror.

A haughty aristocratic voice directly behind him snarled, “Out of my way this instant, damn you!”

The guards’ grip on Darcy slackened, as if by habit of obedience. He seized his moment and pulled away, ducking sideways into the mass of moving bodies. But they had caught him once already without being able to see him.

Then he realized that being invisible was no protection in this throng. That was how they had caught him, because it made him stand out as an apparently empty place in the otherwise solid swarm. He blew out through his lips to dismiss the spell, and his body popped back into view. In its place, he cast mist over the crowd, but it would not thicken.

He had exhausted the handkerchiefs. Now there was nothing but the crowd’s eagerness to escape to protect him from recognition.

He ducked his head as he forced his way through the chaotic rooms full of people yelling, down the grand stairway, pressed close with other bodies fleeing the flames. Out into the courtyard, where Napoleon’s triumphal arch gazed down at the shouting crowds as if in mockery .

People poured into the courtyard from every direction, drawn by the noise and the fire. Darcy had to elbow his way through them. This was a disaster. Once word got out that an English mage had been speaking to the emperor when the fire broke out, the mobs would be howling for English blood.

Finally he reached the Rue de Rivoli. As he crossed it, he glanced back at the palace. Fire was still pouring out the windows. A young man grabbed his arm, asking what had happened.

Of course. He must have looked like he was fleeing from the palace, and that was dangerous. “Fire in the palace! No one knows if the emperor is safe.” And he forced himself to chat for a minute with the Frenchman before setting off at a pace that he hoped looked relaxed.

But he might never relax again, not after this catastrophe.

Once he was a few streets away from the Tuileries, he increased his pace, following his carefully made escape plans in a daze. He went to the modest boarding house where he had taken a room the previous day for the sole purpose of leaving a change of clothes and an easily carried satchel of useful items. He struggled out of the tight formal coat he had worn for the emperor and into an outfit that would suit a common tradesman.

He hurried to the square from which the diligences departed, expecting to be stopped and seized at any moment. Using the new identity papers he had hidden away until now, he purchased a seat on the next coach to leave, one headed east. Not a helpful choice for him, since the Channel was to the northwest, but it might throw off any pursuit. At the first opportunity, he intended to switch to a less-trafficked line, where he would be less likely to encounter another Talent. His new passeport did not list him as a Talent, so running into anyone who experienced repulsion to him would risk immediate exposure.

He climbed into the open-air cabriolet section. The smell of smoke that still clung to his hair and skin would be too evident inside the closed carriage. At least the damp, chilly air meant he had it to himself. Over the tops of the nearby buildings, a wide plume of smoke rose from the Tuileries .

How much of the historic palace had he destroyed? How many people had died in the flames? And all of it for no reason. Had he only stopped to think of the significance of Napoleon changing into a falcon, he would have known better. But he had been desperate and disbelieving, so he had used the first tool that came to mind.

Fire was harmless to dragons. And unless there was some other unknown creature that could shift shapes to a falcon, Napoleon was a dragon.

His stomach lurched as the diligence swung into motion. And then there was nothing else he could do, no action he could take to make himself safe. All he could do was to sit there until the coach came to a halt.

No. There was one thing he could do. He could test his connection to Pemberley, the one that Napoleon had somehow broken. Could he have destroyed it permanently? The horror of the very idea roiled his stomach. How had Napoleon managed to cut off Darcy’s blood tie? Dear God, had he somehow harmed Elizabeth when he did it?

He was almost afraid to try. Closing his eyes, he reached out to the land he loved.

And it answered. The oak grove, the clearing with the Dragon Stones, the moors and streams, all the power was there. And that meant Elizabeth and their child were safe, too.

But his relief was tempered by the full horror of the day. His mission had failed. Napoleon had escaped – and it was a worse disaster than any the War Office had ever imagined.