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 himroutinelyworth 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 softwhoosh.
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.
