The eyes had smiled. Leave that to me, m’lord. Your time will come. Just be certain that you are ready when it does. And m’lord?
Yes?
You will think about what I said, hmmm?
Tristan remembered nodding numbly. He had been true to his word; the voice had repeated itself endlessly in his mind, in his dreams, whenever he was alone or in silence.
They could not refuse the king.
Tristan took another blind swig, wiping the spillage off with the back of his greatcloak’s coarse sleeve.
In the distance a woman laughed; Tristan looked up dully from his inebriated reverie. He could see across the courtyard a pair of lovers running from pillar to post, hiding, laughing softly, crazily, shushing each other in tipsy merriment. The woman’s blond hair gleamed in the lamplight for a moment, then disappeared with them into the shadows.
Like a fever breaking, the voice fell silent as Tristan’s thoughts turned to his other obsession. He had been bitterly disappointed when Stephen told him that none of the invited guests from the Bolglands had come. The one respite from the torturous reality of having to spend the festival with Madeleine had been the knowledge that Rhapsody would be there, too. Heat flushed through him, tightening in his groin and spreading to his sweating palms, as he thought about her, leaving him almost sick with disappointment that he had been misinformed.
Whenever his thoughts turned to her, the voice fell silent. It was almost as if she had claimed his mind first, had set her imprint into his brain, staking it as her own. Whatever later spell had been cast upon him, forcing him to constantly consider the softly spoken words, had not been powerful enough to overturn his longings for her.
Slowly Tristan rose from the stone bench and stepped unsteadily out of the portico. Dawn would come soon, and with it the early festivities of the carnival’s second day. He left the empty bottle on the bench and hurried out of the chill night air into the smoky warmth of Stephen’s keep to his sleeping chambers.
The wind howled around him as he left.
Deep past the part of the night when any reveler still stood, two robed figures separately slipped out to the fields. Hooded, the elder waited at the edge of the huge shadows cast by the waning bonfires. Also hooded, the other man was forced into a vigorous walk, drawn to the meeting, a meeting of two holy men on a holy night for an unholy purpose.
Clouds flickered overhead, doubling the darkness where neither moon nor firelight shone. At the edge of Stephen Navarne’s territory the light from the distant fires cast long shadows over the snowy field, illuminating the woods. The eyes of the first cleric, the man who had stood waiting, reflected a similar light, with a hint of red at the rims. He waited patiently while the other man caught his breath.
“My words resonated with you, I see. Thank you for meeting me, Your Grace.”
The other man nodded.
“Until now you have not understood what you have been asked to do. You have merely followed the compulsion, hmm?”
The second man’s whisper was hoarse. “Yes.”
“But now, now you are ready to understand, aren’t you, Your Grace? Ready to participate in your own destiny? I am so pleased that you have decided to accept my offer. And you are doing so of your own free will? You understand what I am asking, and what I offer?”
“I believe I do, Your Grace.” The words were thick.
“Now, now, Your Grace, I meant no offense. I merely mean to ensure that you are aware of the power that awaits you, in this world and the Afterlife.”
“Yes.” His voice had dropped to a whisper.
The reply was a whisper as well. “Unquestioned authority. Invulnerability. And Life unending.”
“Yes.”
“Good, good.” In the darkness the tiny blade glittered.
The second man swallowed heavily and pulled back the sleeve of his robe, his eyes shining as brightly as the blade.
“Just a drop to seal the bargain; then your position at the head of your order is secured.”
The second man nodded, trembling, but not from the cold. The thin, needle-like blade punctured the skin of his forearm swiftly, causing no pain. A crimson drop appeared, tiny at first, then welled to the size of a bead of rain.
A gray head bent over his arm, and he shuddered as the first man placed his lips, warm and eager, against the flesh of his forearm, then greedily inhaled the drop of blood. He felt a surge, a flash of fire that rolled through him like a sexual climax, something that he was forbidden by the rules of the order.
The pit of his stomach had been boiling all night. The burning acid in his stomach abated miraculously, leaving him dizzy and light-headed with relief. The sensation that had been twisting his stomach dissipated out through his skull, leaving him feeling excited and strangely alive.
The first holy man smiled warmly.
“Welcome, my son. Welcome to the true faith. Once we have removed any impediments, you may do with it as you will.”
14
The slaughter began just at the moment when the prizes for the sledge races were being awarded.
One of the most prestigious and hotly contested events of the winter carnival, the sledge races pitted the sheer brute strength and speed of four-man teams against each other for the coveted prizes of a full-cask of reserve Canderian whiskey, a salted roast ox, a hammered gold medallion, and bragging rights throughout Roland.
Teams for the event were usually comprised of family members, and were awarded their booty personally by Lord Stephen in a humorous ceremony full of pomp and pageantry, capped with a grandiose procession around the festival grounds. The winning contestants sat in the place of honor atop their heavy sledge, which was pulled by the members of the losing teams, to the triumphant strains of a ceremonial march, amid tremendous fanfare, up to the base of the reviewing stand, where the winners received their prizes.
The sledge races had long been one of Stephen Navarne’s favorite events, and he stood now, whistling and cheering along with the masses, as the winners tormented their opponents by hurling snow and hay from their lofty perch at the losers as they dragged the sledge around the festival grounds. A good-natured snow fight had broken out at the turn, and Stephen laughed uproariously as the losing teams began rocking the sledge back and forth, toppling the winners into the snowdrifts.
There was something immensely freeing to be watching an event outside of his new ramparts for the first and only time during the carnival, Stephen decided. The wall had hampered the festival, had ensured that the snow within the sheltered lands had become packed and tramped under the thousands of boots that had trod upon it. The sledge races had required more room, and fresh snow, so the attendees had ventured outside the wall through the eastern gate, and now stood in a wide, loose oval, encircling the pristine snow of the back lands, the area past the wall. The freshness of the place was the perfect venue for this last event. Once the prizes had been awarded the crowd would return inside the ramparts and the feast would begin, culminating in what would surely be the best of his famous bonfires.
As he listened to the merry laughter of his children blending into the delayed roar of the crowd’s mirth, Stephen looked down for a moment at the medallion in his hand. The gold caught the light of the winter sun and sent it reflecting around the vast open arena, coming to rest for a moment on Melisande’s hair, making her tresses gleam brightly. His eye was drawn to the medal once again, and then to the roasted ox, wrapped in heavy burlap, smelling of rich spice and hickory smoke. A minor wave of surprise rippled through him. The full-cask of whiskey was missing.
The duke cast a glance around for Cedric Canderre and spotted him, laughing, his arm draped loosely around the waist of a local tavern wench. He shook his head and searched for Canderre’s son instead.
“Andrew!” Stephen shouted to the Ale Count. Sir Andrew heard and turned from watching the revelry. “The full-cask—it’s not here.”
Sir Andrew glanced up to the reviewing stand from his place nearb
y where he had been watching the games, then nodded his understanding. He turned back to summon one of his manservants to fetch the cask, but saw they were shouting encouragement to the snow-fight participants, whistling and hooting with glee as the sledge capsized, tossing the head of the winning clan face-first into the snow. Unwilling to interrupt their revelry, Andrew smiled and started toward the front gate of Haguefort to the east-west thoroughfare, where the alewagon had been left.
Satisfied that the prize was on its way, Stephen turned his attentions back to the snow war unfolding between the winners and losers of the sledge-race competition and their extended families. He rested his hand on Melly’s shoulder, winding his fingers through her bright curls, unknowingly savoring the last few moments of her innocence.
“Hie, Jrew! Wait!”
Andrew sighed. Dunstin’s voice was heavy with the sound of drink—ale, from the high tone of it, calling to him from across Haguefort’s inner courtyard.
Keenly mindful that the festival’s host was about to award a prize that he didn’t have in his possession, Sir Andrew kept up the trot he had been maintaining, and waved to the younger Baldasarre brother.
“Can’t, cousin,” he shouted in return. “I have to get Stephen’s prize for the sledge race.”
“The full-cask?” Dustin called back as he struggled in vain to keep up, sliding on the slippery courtyard. “Wait up! I’ll help you! You can’t lift it alone.”
Sir Andrew smiled to himself but didn’t slow his pace. Despite his slight build he was strong and hearty, fit from the heavy lifting work he routinely did in his own stables and cellars. He could hear Dunstin, more used to a life of leisure as the wastrel brother of a duke, puffing behind him as he hurried on.
“Wait, you sod!” the younger Baldasarre bellowed, causing Andrew to slow to a walk as he came to the central gate, exhaling with irritation. “What’s the matter—you’re worried I’m going to liberate your prize whiskey? You blackguard! Do I look like a highwayman to you?”
“No, Dunstin, you look like a petulant, drunken brat,” Andrew replied, knocking the snow off that had wedged about the heels of his boots. “It grieves me to know how much of my fine ale is sloshing around in your fat belly at this moment.”
Dunstin’s red face showed no sign of being stricken by the soft-spoken count’s unusually harsh words as he came to a halt beside him in the gateway.
“I am not petulant,” he said, resting his hands on his knees and bending over slightly to catch his breath. “And it is fine ale, I’ll grant you, too fine to be wasted on the likes of that.” He inclined his head behind them to the east where the once-boundless vista of Navarne’s fields was black with the thousands of festivalgoers and grinned. “Let them drink Navarne’s bilgewater, or perhaps Bethany’s. You should be saving the Canderian liquor for the nobility anyway.”
“Only if that nobility is the winner of the sledge race, which I believe actually went to a family of smiths from Yarim,” Andrew retorted, starting down the long, wide set of stairs that led down to the thoroughfare beyond. He nodded to the guards as he passed through the gate. The keep and its surrounding battlements were all but empty, with the entire population of the duke’s holdings in the back lands, watching the races with much of the rest of Roland. “And by the way, Dunstin, if another of my stablehands complains that you have been fornicating his adolescent daughter I will give him my blessing to skewer you with the burning end of his branding iron. I may even hold you down while he does it. Family loyalty can only tolerate so much, and you are a far ways past the limit.”
“Ah, I understand now,” said Dunstin, trotting down the stone stairs behind the count. “Lady Jecelyn is still keeping you at bay, is she? Well, don’t fret, old boy. The wedding isn’t too far off—in fact, aren’t you planning it for just before Tristan’s, a month or so hence?”
“Yes,” said Andrew shortly. He came to a halt at the bottom of the steps and stared off to the south, then shook his head and continued to cross the wide field that was the threshold of Stephen’s keep.
“What is it?” Dunstin asked, finally beside him now, keeping pace.
They had reached the alewagon, unguarded except for the solitary driver. Andrew shrugged.
“I thought I saw something at the southern horizon, but it must have just been the sun.” He nodded to the guard and pulled back the canvas covering, revealing the full-cask, gilded with gold paint and sealed with a matching signet. He shouldered the cask and turned to go back to the fields, now distant, when the gleam he had seen caught his eye again.
Dunstin had seen it, too; he was staring off to the south, his florid face suddenly pale.
“What is that?” he murmured, more to himself than to Andrew.
The bright sun glinted at the horizon’s blue rim, flashing for a moment, reflecting a thousand times over against a swirl of rising snow. A moment later that horizon darkened with the presence of a full mounted column of Sorbold soldiers, cavalry, heavy lance infantry, and crossbowmen, galloping and marching over the hill at the meadow’s edge, dragging five wagons with steaming catapults.
The snow shattered below the pounding hoofs, flying up into the sky and cloaking the advancing army in swirls of white gauze. The earth beneath the alewagon began to tremble, causing the horses to dance fearfully.
“Sweet All-God,” Andrew whispered as the second line of the contingent crested the horizon. There could be no mistaking the intent of the soldiers, nor their intended destination.
They were heading, full-tilt, for the festival fields outside of Stephen’s protective wall.
The full-cask of whiskey shattered against the ground, splattering the back wheel of the alewagon. In unison Andrew and Dunstin looked behind them at the distant keep, where but a handful of guards stood watch, then back to the approaching column, where a third battle line, then a fourth, was now over the hillside and descending toward the back lands. Stephen’s wall would not hold them, nor would it fend off the assault from the burning vats that rested on the levers of the catapults. It would merely serve to mask the attack until the column was upon them.
Caught between the Sorbolds and the keep, Andrew and Dunstin stared off to the south simultaneously. Ahead of them a considerable distance away were the two bell towers of Haguefort, largely decorative carillons draped in fluttering banners. The towers had been part of a larger rampart in the days of the Cymrian War. With peace came the dismantling of the outer rampart and the conversion of the towers from guard posts into slim, freestanding aesthetic spires hung with bells that rang the hours and played occasional musical pieces.
The towers stood between them and the approaching army.
The two young noblemen exchanged a glance, a nod that carried with it a grim hint of a shared smile, then split, Dunstin taking the left, Andrew the right. They dashed forward across the thoroughfare through the brown snow trodden into muck by the feet, hooves, and wagon and carriage wheels of thousands of guests, into the jaws of the conflict, Sir Andrew shouting to the alewagon’s driver.
“To the gate! Warn the guards!”
They were each a thousand paces from their destinations when the Sorbolds saw them. The left flank of the column’s third line peeled off, now charging the keep and its bell towers while the rest of the contingent hastened to the back lands and the festival fields.
Dunstin heard the tail end of the crossbow bolt’s screaming whistle before it shattered his shoulder, sending him spinning to the ground. The impact knocked him backward; he struggled to his feet and staggered forward, fighting the shock of the injury and the panic that blazed through him from the shaking ground beneath his feet as the horizon darkened and swam before his eyes with galloping movement.
He clutched his shoulder as he ran, his fingers warm from the oozing blood. The tower was in his view, its ancient stones shining in the morning sun beneath the flapping banners. He could feel his breath grow ragged as the pain began to radiate through his chest; his exhalations formed icy
clouds that shimmered against his face as he ran through them.
The horsemen were closer now. Dunstin cut right and ran at an angle across their field of vision, his boyhood training coming back to him as death loomed. Bolts from the approaching line shrieked through the air around him. He stumbled and lurched forward, catching himself before he fell, praying that Andrew was faster, more surefooted, that his own proximity to the advancing soldiers would buy his cousin enough time. It seemed little enough to ask in return for what he knew he was about to pay.
Within the black storm that was raging at the horizon before him he could hear a thick, metallic sound as a catapult was trained and loaded. He was almost to the bell tower, but nonetheless the sound reached into his bones, paralyzing his muscles, causing him to freeze where he stood. The metallic sound clinked again, ratcheting against the groan of splintering wood.
A surge of power blasted through Dunstin. He bolted forward, running with all the speed he could muster, keeping his eyes focused on the tower that was growing larger, nearer, with each step, each difficult breath. There was a small door in the back, a caretaker’s entrance, no doubt, and Dunstin fixed his eyes on it, willed himself to reach it, pushing, pushing, trying to ignore the agony in his shoulder and chest and the blood that was pulsing from them now.
His hand was on the handle, cold steel stinging his palm and fingers, when the world dissolved in fire and thudding shards of stone around him.
Dunstin’s tumbling consciousness could feel the rain of stones as the tower exploded, could tell that his skin was ripping away in the oily flames that were consuming him. The dust of the broken tower walls, spilt now across the frosty field like breadcrumbs scattered for the winterbirds, filled his bleeding nostrils, and as darkness closed in at the edges of his foggy vision he remembered the blackness of his childhood nightmares, and wanted his mother to come with the candle.