Free The Lord of Illusion - 3 by Kathryne Kennedy Page B

equally fanciful creatures, and they had been spelled to move just as lifelike as the statues… but they acted out hideous roles. A mermaid sang a sailor to his death, embracing him while he struggled to regain the surface of the sea. A griffin pounced upon a maiden and proceeded to tear her apart with his jagged beak. Several harpies teased and tortured a man in turn, until they finally feasted on his remains, fighting each other for the choicest morsels.
    Other creatures Drystan could not name performed even worse acts of torture and degradation, presumably repeating the scenes again and again.
    Drystan averted his eyes and focused on the shiny bald spot on the back of the steward’s head. The elven lord of Dreamhame had an effective method of warning his guests that his magic could be fearsome as well as beautiful.
    The steward stopped before double doors gilt in an odd sort of reddish-gold, and swept them open with a flourish.
    Drystan stepped into the room, quickly took stock of his surroundings, trying to discern illusion from reality. Again, his magic responded to an astonishing degree. The golden tables had actually been crafted of oak, the marble floors of plain flagstone, the velvet settees of sturdy wool. The walls held moving tapestries, but unlike the ones in the hallway, they depicted soothing landscapes of waving heather and rippling waters, and with a bit of concentration, Drystan saw the real embroidery beneath.
    “Your chambermaid,” said the steward, indicating a woman standing across the room. “Augusta. If you should require another…”
    “No. Just fetch me the healer.”
    Moving nimbly for such an old man, he quit the apartments, while the maid stepped forward, smiling coyly at Drystan. When his eyes passed over her, she quickly turned her attention to Talbot, and a saucy smile lit her mouth. She obviously had no elven blood gracing her features, but a lovely girl nonetheless.
    Drystan brushed past her to the open door across the room, skirting tea tables and potted palms and overstuffed chairs. He laid Camille on the enormous bed and began to unwrap her from the furs.
    Edward appeared at his elbow.
    “Tell the maid to build up the fire,” said Drystan. “And fetch a bucket of water—make that two. And soap. And cloths. As many as she can gather.”
    Captain Talbot repeated the orders to Augusta, omitting the part about the fire, for he proceeded to take care of it himself. In a short time the maid returned, panting and weighted down with buckets and cloth.
    Drystan wrinkled his nose as the full force of Camille’s smell hit him. “What the hell did she do, bathe in rancid pig suet?”
    “Sheep, I think,” answered Edward.
    “But why?” He did not receive an answer, and did not expect one. He had his own guesses… which would have to wait until Camille recovered.
    Drystan soaped a cloth and began to gently clean away the crusted blood from the cuts of the wraiths. As he suspected, the wounds were superficial. He took a deep breath, and gently, gently, rolled Camille to her side and unbuttoned the ugly black gown. Bandages covered her back, and she groaned as he peeled them away; fury welled within him at the sight of the bloody mess.
    “Lash,” hissed Edward through his teeth.
    “I shall kill the man who did this to her.” Drystan spun and glared at the maid, anger making his voice sharper than he intended. He did not want anyone else touching Camille, but he would not subject a lady to the embarrassment that may come from tending her personally. He knew Camille. She knew nothing of him. “Cut the gown off of her to avoid her any further pain. Clean her from head to toe. Gently. I will stand just outside the door, and if I hear a breath of pain from her…”
    Augusta’s gaze went from him to Camille, confusion crinkling her smooth brow. “But my lord. She is a slave. She should not be here.”
    Talbot stepped forward before Drystan throttled the maid. “His lordship saved the