Read The Lord of Illusion - 3 for Free Online Page B

Pembridge’s frozen body. “I cannot allow my subjects to hide any of their powers from me.” He turned to the courtiers, who still crouched behind whatever barrier they managed to find. “Get up, the lot of you. From this moment forward, you will report anyone who shows the slightest increase in their powers. If you do not…”
    The dragon hissed, his nose inches from Lady Pembridge’s face. The sound finally broke the spell of terror that held her frozen, and she looked up, up into those cruel red eyes.
    “No,” growled Camille.
    “No,” said her mistress at the same time. But that maw opened, wicked sharp teeth glittering in the firelight, and engulfed the old woman’s head so swiftly Camille barely had time to blink.
    “It cannot truly harm you,” insisted Camille. “It is only an illusion.” But she knew that unless one possessed enough elven blood to see through it, it held more reality than the stool she sat upon. And her mistress held little elven blood within her veins. Yet, surely the lady could use whatever power she managed to conjure today to fight the elven lord’s own?
    But the duchess’s dragon lost the battle, had he not?
    A grinding sound followed as the dragon worried at his prey. Then the loud snap of bone.
    Lord Roden waved his scepter and his illusion disappeared to reveal Lady Pembridge’s head tilted at an odd angle, only Camille’s grip on her arm keeping the old woman upright in her chair.
    “This will be your fate,” pronounced Roden. “Now, I will take your petitions for testing at dinner this eve. I cannot seem to bear your faces for another moment. Such surprise! Did you think you would not suffer the same doom as my champion if you overstepped yourselves? I had thought to make an example of him, but it appears you needed more proof of my intentions. Do any of you still doubt your peril?”
    A whisper of denial rushed about the room.
    Roden smiled. “Excellent. Oh, and send that damn slave back to the kitchens where she belongs. Those mottled eyes are disgusting to look at.”
    ***
    The kitchens looked exactly as Camille had left them two years ago, from the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling to the enormous oak table where most of the staff took their meals. No magical illusions had been wasted on this part of the palace. The reality of soot-stained fireplace, worn stone floor, and blackened walls stayed the same.
    In many ways, Camille preferred the battered decor to the illusions of upstairs. At least she knew her surroundings would not change from one moment to the next.
    “Sent ye back, eh?” said Cook, glancing up from the mound of dough he’d been folding. “Can’t say as I didn’t warn ye.”
    Camille nodded. Cook told her she could not fight fate, yet she had stubbornly refused to listen, using every opportunity she could to find another way out of slavery. She thought she’d found a home with Lady Pembridge…
    “Go on with ye, now. The slave master is waitin’ for ye.”
    He sounded almost… sorry for her.
    A few soldiers already sat at table, drinking their nightly ration of gin, and they all turned to stare at her. Camille glared back at them, feeling as if they stripped her naked with their stares. Damn this slave clothing. It marked her as a nobody, lacking even the rights that servants were entitled to.
    She turned her head away and pretended to ignore them as she walked carefully to the cellars, wincing at the sharp cracks in the stone floor. After two years of wearing shoes her feet had grown tender, and it would take some time for them to toughen up again. She did not miss the trappings that came with the rest of her servant’s uniform: the hoops and tight stays. But she did miss her shoes, and the feel of softly brushed wool against her skin.
    And she already missed Lady Pembridge. Her kindness and humor and even her absentminded ways.
    Camille’s eyes burned although they did not water. She couldn’t remember the last time she actually