Jérôme stepped aside to give her entry to the tunnel. “Your companions await. I must leave by the other door, but I’ll see you at the canal shortly.”
He bowed deeply when Ember brushed pass him, but she didn’t bother to acknowledge the gesture. Her patience with the arrogant knight had worn too thin, and she didn’t trust her tongue to be anything other than venomous.
When Ember reached the subterranean stables, the horses were saddled, bridled, and once again blindfolded.
Lukasz led their ascent, carrying the white-flamed torch that had burned ceaselessly since the commander had taken it up. When he reached the top of the staircase, the stone slab groaned its way open. They led the horses out into a city filled with the lavender-gray light that warned of dawn’s approach.
Returning the torch to its sconce, Lukasz spoke quiet words and swept his hand through the white fire. Ember blinked and the flames had returned to their normal colors. The Templar seal that hid their sanctuary closed, restoring the appearance of a solid wall.
“Jérôme awaits us at the canal on the other side of Saint-Sauveur,” Lukasz told them.
They retraced their steps along the narrow side passage, entering the streets of La Rochelle. A thin veil of mist hung over the canal. The other knights mounted, but Ember struggled to find a way to get her foot into the stirrup without pulling her skirts up to her waist.
“Let me help.” Barrow had swung out of his saddle and now was behind her. He grabbed her around the waist and lifted her up, allowing her to slip her leg over the saddle with ease.
“Thank you,” she said, rearranging the bothersome skirts so they fell properly over her legs as she sat astride Caber.
Barrow smiled at her. “Of course, my lady.” His hand slid beneath her skirt. For a moment, he seemed to be making sure her foot was secure in the stirrup, but then his fingers were on her bare calf.
“I find it troubling,” he said in a low voice only for her, “to be so close and yet so rarely be able to touch you.”
“Yes.” Ember gripped the reins as Barrow’s hand moved slowly up her leg. “It is troubling…”
“Lady Morrow, are you ready?” Lukasz called to them.
Barrow laughed quietly, leaving Ember’s leg tingling when he returned to his horse.
Jérôme waited for them between the church and the waterway, holding the reins for not one but two mounts.
The first, a dark brown steed, stood quietly but cast annoyed glances at its equine companion, a filly who couldn’t seem to keep still. The filly whinnied when she saw other horses approaching and tossed her head so that Jérôme had to take a firmer hold of her reins.
“You’re not alone?” Kael asked Jérôme.
The Frenchman shook his head. “I’ve simply brought the last of the provisions you need for your journey. Lord Hess, could I trouble you to leave your saddle?”
Barrow dismounted and came forward, leading his roan.
Jérôme nodded at the filly. “Her name is Tempête.”
“The storm.” Barrow looked the filly over. “Appropriate for a silver dapple.”
“Her coat is less cause for the name than her spirit,” Jérôme told him. “How do you like her?”
“She’s a beautiful filly,” Barrow answered. “Lithe. I imagine she’s a runner.”
“Her speed rivals the wind.” Jérôme glanced at Lukasz. “I was told you lost a fine stallion.”
Barrow’s shoulders tensed, but he nodded.
“Please accept this filly as a gift,” Jérôme said to Barrow. “A symbol of our alliance.”
Taking the reins of Barrow’s roan, Jérôme offered those of the high-spirited filly. Ember found it hard to take her eyes off the young horse. Though the sun had yet to rise, each time Tempête moved, her coat rippled like lightning flashing within the depths of a thunderhead.
“Your mount is serviceable,” Jérôme said to Barrow. “But a knight of Conatus needs a warrior’s steed. A companion. Though I must warn you, Tempête is as much a challenge as an offering. Perhaps you’re not up to the task?”
Barrow watched the skittish filly dance on the path. He accepted Tempête’s reins from Jérôme, and the silver steed eyed him as he approached. Her nostrils flared, and she gave a shrill whinny, warning the knight off.
“Lukasz regards your horsemanship to be the best he’s ever seen.” Jérôme observed Barrow’s slow movements as he drew nearer to the filly. “None of my Guard can master Tempête. She favors her own will over her rider’s wishes. Your commander suggested that you might succeed where others have failed.”
“That they tried to master her was likely the problem,” Barrow answered, though his eyes never left the horse.
Ember leaned over to Lukasz, whispering, “Is now the best time to give Barrow such an unpredictable mount?”
“He needs this,” Lukasz answered. “Our friend suffers greatly from the loss of Toshach. And despite Jérôme’s narrow mind toward those of your sex, I would prefer that he be in Barrow’s favor. Jérôme may be careless with his speech, but he is matchless with his sword.”
Tempête snorted and stamped the ground. Though Ember couldn’t make out his words, she could tell Barrow was quietly speaking to the filly. When he was standing close enough to touch her, he paused, standing completely still but murmuring all the while. Tempête reared, giving a shrill whinny. Her hooves trampled the ground a hair breadth from Barrow’s feet, but he didn’t move. She reared again, her neck snaking through the air.
Tempête pawed at the earth, but her squeal died in a low whinny of confusion as all her antics failed to provoke the tall knight standing before her. Bowing her head, she stretched her nose toward him. He remained still as Tempête blew into his face, shoulders, and chest. Her ears flicked in curiosity.
As she took in his scent, Barrow slowly reached up and laid his hand on Tempête’s neck.
“I think he’s the first man she hasn’t taken a bite out of,” Jérôme said to Lukasz.
The commander smiled. “When I told you of his skill, I wasn’t exaggerating.”
“I can see that,” Jérôme replied.
Tempête was bobbing her head with delight as Barrow scratched between her ears.
“A fine gift,” Barrow said without turning away from the horse. “I’m honored to accept.”
Lukasz clapped Jérôme on the shoulder. “Thank you for offering shelter and supplies. We were in dire need.”
“I wish you well on your journey,” Jérôme said, handing Lukasz a sealed letter. “Send word through my sister of your whereabouts. I will keep you informed as I continue to draw allies to our cause.”
The knights mounted their horses, with the exception of Barrow, who was still speaking quietly to Tempête.
“I would leave you with one last thought,” Jérôme said to Barrow. “You won’t like my words, Lord Hess. But I mean no offense.”
“Say on,” Barrow told him as he moved from standing in front of Tempête to her side, rubbing her neck and shoulders all the while.
“You should leave the lady with her sister.” Jérôme glanced at Ember. “In what’s to come, there’s no place for a maid who plays at swords because her father offered Conatus enough coin to take her. I know well how such arrangements work.”
“Thank you for the horse,” Barrow said, swinging into Tempête’s saddle. The filly reared, but Barrow kept his seat with ease. “As for the lady, she does not wield swords, and she’s saved my life twice. When you see her take the field—as one day you shall—you will beg her forgiveness for your hastily spoken words.”
Turning to Ember, Jérôme said, “I hope his faith in you is not misplaced.”
Biting back some choice words, Ember instead put her heels to Caber, and the stallion trotted away.
ALISTAIR KNEW HE wasn’t as happy as he should be. He’d done everything that had been asked of him. Young as he was, Lord Mar and Lady Eira looked to Alistair for advice over that of any other member of the Circle.
Not even Cian was treated with the esteem Alistair enjoyed.
His swift ascension had been noticed by his fellows in the Guard. Battle-seasoned knights bowed when he passed. They came to him in private, asking for his help in gaining favor from Lady Eira.
All around him, servants, scholars, craftsmen, and warriors acknowledged Alistair’s place of honor in the new order at Tearmunn.
But he took little joy in any of it.
He’d woken this morning covered in sweat. The result of another night where dreams held him captive, tormenting him. No matter what had taken place in his waking hours, when Alistair gave himself over to sleep, he became a player, acting out an impossible scene.
It was the night that he’d visited Ember’s room and found her gone. But in this dream, Ember hadn’t fled with Barrow. When Alistair entered her cell, she sat on her pallet, waiting for him. Her plain sleep shirt had been traded for a sheer chemise.
As he watched, she rose, and the delicate garment slipped from her body. Ember stepped out of the chemise and lay on the bed. Her arms reached out to him, her face full of yearning.
Alistair approached slowly, savoring the moment for which he’d waited so long and suffered so much. Her skin was so pale in the shadows, but held an inner gleam, a promise subtle and alluring as moonlight.
His skin was hot with anticipation as he knelt over her. Though he had fleeting thoughts that he should treat her gently, be patient, he couldn’t wait any longer.
But as he reached for her skin, his fingers found no flesh to caress. His hand passed through Ember’s body, meeting with the rough fibers of the blanket beneath. He could still see her. She lay before Alistair, waiting, wanting him. Her lips parted, breaths short and shallow.
Grasping for her shoulders, Alistair collapsed against the bed. Ember was there, but she was not. He couldn’t hold her. Couldn’t touch her. Longing wrenched his limbs as though he were being stretched on a torturer’s rack.
He flung the length of his body on top of hers, but he pressed into an empty pallet. Alistair writhed and sobbed, unable to quell the desperation of his heart or the terrible hunger of his body.
It wasn’t the sort of nightmare from which he woke suddenly, sitting up on his pallet in a moment that cleanly severed the dream world from the real. This dream lingered, clinging to his skin like a foul odor. Ember’s face, the cream of her skin, the fullness of her lips—every detail followed him long after he’d left his bed. Each time reigniting the slow burn of unquenched desire in his body.
He moved through his days with methodic precision. All his tasks were accomplished without flaw. But each night the dream returned, and the next day he felt more like the husk of a soul than a man of muscle and bone.
On this morning, Alistair made his way to the great hall. Eira had summoned him to gauge the fealty of craftsmen, who would be next to take their oaths. It had gone well with the clerics. Of the forty men and women who devoted their lives to studying esoteric tomes, devising spells, or improving their practice of healing arts, most had been allured by Eira’s promises for the future. A few had declined, but Thomas had carefully noted their names, and appropriate steps had been taken.
If anyone had noticed the disappearance of three or four of their companions, none found courage enough to speak of it. As power shifted, Alistair observed, the residents of Tearmunn proved more likely to let the new current carry them rather than fight against it.
When the guard posted at the doors to the hall let Alistair pass, he wasn’t surprised to find Lord Mar waiting within. Lady Eira’s absence, however, was a surprise.
“Good day, Lord Hart.” Bosque stood beside the sacred tree. Though Alistair had assumed the dead tree would begin to rot, the huge trunk, along with its sprawling branches and roots, hadn’t deteriorated at all. Instead the sacred tree had ossified in its new form, as though a life-size ivory sculpture of a cedar of Lebanon had been commissioned to occupy this room.
Alistair nodded a greeting to Bosque, but looked over his shoulder, expecting Eira to appear in the doorway at any time.
“Lady Eira contends with an unforeseen dilemma,” Bosque said. “She’ll be delayed.”
Alistair abandoned his watch of the door, walking toward the tall man. “What’s wrong?”
“The way you travel”—Bosque stroked the bone-white trunk of the tree like it was a favorite pet—“has been disrupted.”
Frowning as he tried to discern Bosque’s meaning, Alistair said, “I haven’t heard of any trouble at the stables.”
With a quiet laugh, Bosque told him, “The problem is not your horses. It’s your clerics.”
“Do you mean the portal weavers?” Alistair’s eyes widened. “What’s happened to them?”
“They can no longer, as you put it, weave.” Bosque showed little concern over what Alistair considered grave news.
“Your scholars and magicians are distraught,” Bosque continued. “But as I assured Eira, they will soon know much greater power than the simple act of opening a door.”
“Those doors take us all over the world—” Alistair began to argue, but taking in Bosque’s placid smile, he instead asked, “Did you know this would happen?”
Bosque left the tree to stand face-to-face with the knight. “I knew there would be consequences. The power I give is drawn from the nether, not the earth, whence Conatus called forth magic. Where there is one, the other cannot be, as oil remains separate from water.”
“None of the old magics will work?” Alistair asked. His eyes found the black abyss that maimed the sacred tree. “Because the rift is open?”
“You have new power.” Bosque shrugged. “Greater power that doesn’t require concessions to this world.”
Alistair didn’t fully understand. As a knight, he had limited experience with the arcane practices of the clerics and would never claim to understand the intricacies of their spellcraft. Yet the loss of portals and, with them, the ability to travel great distances in an instant troubled Alistair.
Sensing Alistair’s agitation, Bosque folded his arms across his broad chest. Alistair was uncomfortably aware of how tall and imposing Bosque was. He took a step back.
“What do you want, Lord Hart?” Bosque asked, his silver eyes intent.
Alistair tried to answer, but stumbled over his words. What did he want? Ember’s body flashed across his mind, leaving bitterness in its wake. Only what’s been denied me.
“I believe your talents haven’t been put to as much use as they could be,” Bosque said. “I’d like that to change, but I would prefer that you choose the task that fully demonstrates your worth.”
“My lord?” Alistair shook off the frustration that built from thoughts of Ember.
Bosque walked in a slow circle around Alistair. “You are often distracted, Alistair. And something clearly pains you.”
Alistair nodded and heat crept into his neck. Lord Mar displayed no weakness, no vulnerability. Shame at how easily he could be provoked by unrequited love churned beneath Alistair’s ribs.
“Passion is a great force,” Bosque told him. “Harness yours, set it to good purpose, and I believe the results would be astonishing.”
Grinding his teeth out of impatience with himself, Alistair asked sullenly, “How can I do that when my passion is wasted on—” He stopped himself, choking on the rage he felt toward Ember.
“It is only a waste if you let it be,” Bosque said. “As for the woman—I can’t help you until she reappears.”
“If she’s alive,” Alistair muttered, his anger spiraling into a hollow sadness. It was always like this when he thought of Ember: he loved, hated, and mourned her within the space of a heartbeat. It was agony.
Bosque ignored Alistair’s comment. “There have been moments of triumph. Your triumph. That is what you must build your legacy upon.”
Alistair stared at him. “A legacy?”
“You will have a great legacy, Alistair,” Bosque said quietly. “But it must begin with a demo
nstration of your cunning.”
As Alistair mulled over Bosque’s words, Bosque continued. “Can you tell me when you felt strongest since you joined Eira? The most powerful?”
“When I rode the shadow horse and ran with the Lyulf,” Alistair answered without pause. The memory of rushing through time on a river of darkness, of seeing the fire wolves put Ember and Barrow at his mercy, made Alistair’s pulse spike.
Bosque nodded. “Consider this: I’ve told you that the Lyulf are beyond human mastery.”
The feverish light in Alistair’s blue eyes diminished. “I remember.”
“But there are many beasts in my dominion that are not,” Bosque said.
Meeting Bosque’s searching gaze with a furrowed brow, Alistair said, “You would have me command other creatures of the nether?”
“I have given you pieces to a puzzle, Lord Hart,” Bosque answered. “That is all. Even I don’t know what picture will emerge when you put them together.”
Bosque returned to the tree. He dipped his hand into the rift and drew forth shadow that ran from his cupped palm like water.
“What I have is yours for the taking,” Bosque said without turning away from the tree. “Tell me what you will do with this gift.”
A rush of images filled Alistair’s mind. Shadow and fire. The howl of wolves. A village in chaos. A forest of bone.
And Bosque. Summoned by blood. Yet with his own blood, drawing Cian’s broken body back from the edge of death.
What I have is yours for the taking.
I’ve been acting the child, Alistair thought. When one as powerful as Bosque sees the man I should be.
Then he smiled, knowing his dreams would be different that night.
The man I shall be.
ONCE THE CITY WAS behind them, Lukasz set their pace at a swift gallop. Ember was surprised at how glad she was to be free of La Rochelle. The walled city and its fortified harbor were impressive and beautiful, but what she’d learned there had left a chill in her bones.
The horses appeared delighted to be out of the cavelike stable in which they’d spent the night. Whether it was the appearance of the sun or the warm winds full of lush green scents, their hooves pounded the road east tirelessly. Despite the fast pace at which the commander led them, Caber remained restless. Grabbing for the bit, so that Ember had to take extra care in handling him, he made it obvious that he wanted to run faster yet.