Free The Lord of Illusion - 3 by Kathryne Kennedy

surrounded by people who did not consider him mad, or cursed by the devil—who treated him as a normal person. As soon as he had started on his journey the dreams ceased, and he no longer feared a fit would overtake him.
    He turned back to Camille and saw the fire leave her eyes as she shuddered and swayed on her feet. He cursed himself for not seeing past her belligerence. The night had turned frigid and even if the frock she wore had not been sliced open in several places, it still would have done nothing to protect her from the cold. Drystan quickly removed his fur-trimmed cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. She did not protest until he enfolded her in his arms as well, flinching at his touch.
    What had they done to her, to make her detest the touch of a man, when he intended only to warm her?
    “Let me g-go,” she whispered.
    “I fear that if I do, you will fall.”
    “I do not f-faint, my lord. But my back—” Her eyes closed and she proceeded to do the very thing she had just denied. Drystan swept her up in his arms. She weighed next to nothing. And he realized she wore no shoes, that her toes looked blue with cold—and what had she meant about her back? The injuries from the wraiths looked superficial, scratches that tore cloth and drew blood but should not cause her such pain, illusion or no.
    His instincts told him something might be seriously wrong with her. “Edward, get me another cloak. And a fur to wrap about her feet.”
    His captain followed orders, and as soon as they had Camille wrapped to Drystan’s satisfaction, they entered the palace by the back way, passing a group of drunken soldiers, and surprising a grumpy kitchen boy into summoning the palace steward.
    Drystan found the woman’s small hand within the folds of her wrappings and clasped it gently. He spoke as soon as the old man came down the stairs. “I need a physician.”
    The steward looked down his nose at the bundle in Drystan’s arms and sniffed. “Slaves are treated by the soldiers’ physician, who is rather deep in his cups at the moment.”
    “I don’t want a damn surgeon! I want the palace healer.”
    The steward took a step backward. “My most humble apologies, my lord. But even if I summon him, he will not treat a slave. His magic is limited, you see, and he saves it for the gentlemen and ladies of the palace who can—”
    Drystan cut him off with a growl. “Take me to Viscount Hawkes’s— my rooms, and then find someone who can heal her or I swear I will have your head, man.”
    The steward appeared quite used to receiving threats and odd requests from the aristocracy he served, for his face took on the patronizing look of a man well trained in patience. “But, my lord, the girl. She belongs in the slave quarters.”
    Drystan’s temper flared. The most important person in the world to him lay still as death within his arms, and this insufferable little man had the audacity to stand here and argue with him. He suddenly felt his magic, his unpredictable uncontrollable magic, well up from deep within him. When he had practiced his illusions aboard ship, his magic always felt weak… and scattered. As if it lay fractured inside of him, not knowing how to coalesce to his commands.
    But at the moment it gathered like a storm cloud, building within him until it burst with a flash like that of lightning. A queer smell permeated the air, similar to the stifling aroma of sulfur.
    Brimstone?
    Drystan felt his body change. He had filled out quite nicely, yes, but the shoulders in his arms suddenly appeared twice as large; his height grew beyond his six foot to over seven.
    Drystan did not know what illusion came over his features, but he glanced at Edward, and realized his spell had overtaken Captain Talbot as well, and had a feeling his face reflected the same changes. Edward’s skin had turned a bright crimson; horns sprouted from his forehead, and pointed fangs hung from the corners of his mouth.
    Ah. When Drystan