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  At long last he reached the keep itself, and here light blazed as though in an effort to drive back the grim black and white world which had been brought upon by winter. As he reached the gate, guards rushed forward—but here they could see more clearly and knew him on sight, moving swiftly to take his horse and offer assistance. He waved them aside with thanks, moving stiffly at first as he attempted to regain feeling in his limbs.

  Just inside the keep, at the far end of the great hall, he shook his cloak free of snow and pushed back the hood, shaking his head to free it of stray flakes, combing a hand through his light brown hair. Free of snow, the deep, rich green of his wool cloak was visible, a splash of fine color in the dimly lit gray hall, although the rich black sable lining it was near invisible. Even here, all had sought the warmth of their beds rather than continue to endure the miserable cold. 'Twas like a strange dream to see a place normally overflowing with people so stark and quiet.

  Moving forward, while stripping off his gloves and tucking them into his belt, Yvain traveled down the length of the enormous great hall and through passages he could travel with his eyes closed, until he reached the southern tower. He took the stairs rapidly, arriving at last at the private chamber of the Grand Duke of Chieldor. He nodded to the guards who stood on either side of the door, murmuring absent greetings as he passed by them. Inside, his breath abruptly lodged in his chest, refusing to move any further—then a deep, familiar ache blossomed and only long years of practice kept his emotions from his face.

  Corentin was as pale and beautiful as the snow consuming the world. He seemed a child of winter come to life—pale blonde hair and soft blue eyes, tall and broad, and dressed in a deep blue surcoat trimmed in gray with the crescent moon crest of the House de Capre emblazoned on the chest. Around his shoulders was a full cloak equal in measure to Yvain's, blue rather than green, and lined with white fur. Both had been gifts last winter from the grand duke.

  Always had Yvain loved him, always from afar, for how dare he confess such feelings to a man whose House had ever been locked in hostilities with his own? So many times had the words been upon the tip of his tongue, only to die there as their fathers renewed the animosity that was too many decades entrenched for Yvain to easily overcome. Then his wistful, distant watching had revealed to him Corentin's secret lover and he had finally given up all hope that he might find some way to bridge the chasm between their families.

  Even then, the worst had not yet come. When the worst did come, Yvain could not comprehend it—only that he would rather die than have Corentin learn the truth. It killed him, to know Corentin's hatred was entirely personal and now eternal … but he would rather that, even now, than see the pain etched so deeply into Corentin's handsome face. A year and half now had passed, but it may as well have been a day.

  No hope had Yvain now of having his love returned, and while it was a fact to which he should long be accustomed, 'twas more like the ache in his thigh, a relic of a battle fought when he was young and reckless and thought himself immortal. It would be there forever, worse on some days, more tolerable on others, but never truly gone or eased. It had been more bearable when Corentin believed the hatred mutual; ever since that awful day at tourney, when the grand duke had forced him to speak the truth of the matter, he had avoided them both as much as possible. Now … now he was called late in the night, in awful weather, to private conference with the grand duke and, it would appear, Corentin. What did one say to a man who hated him, when that man knew he was loved by the man he hated?

  Yvain moved to the grand duke's chair before the fireplace and dropped to one knee before him, head bowed low. The grand duke touched his shoulder lightly and Yvain obediently stood.

  "I am sorry to have called you here at so late an hour and in such miserable weather," the grand duke said. "However, the matter is one which cannot wait. I want you well on your way come the dawn." He looked at both of them, and only long years of association allowed Yvain to pick out the unspoken concern and … amusement … in the grand duke's eyes. The man was old, but not half so lost to his age as he liked people to think. He knew where matters stood between them, and if he had summoned them both here, something about that situation figured into this strange conference. But what?

  The grand duke relaxed in his chair, smoothing out the blanket draped over his legs. "I am sending you to the monastery on Mount Rosa," he said, sly eyes looking between them.

  "Why?" Corentin demanded, even as Yvain started to say the same.

  "I will explain," the grand duke said calmly. "Bring some of those chairs over and that chit I called should be coming with mulled wine shortly. Food as well, for I know you both traveled hard. Fetch those chairs and sit, my dukes, and we shall talk."

  The mulled wine, when it came, did much to ease Yvain's increased tension. Ne'er would he be calm around Corentin, but the wine dulled his urge to flee—or at least reminded him 'twas better to be warm and miserable than cold and miserable.

  "So why would you have us travel to the Mount Rosa Monastery?" Corentin asked.

  Since the moment of his arrival, Corentin had not looked upon him. Yvain missed the days not so very long ago when Corentin had cast glares and frowns in his direction, for 'twas better by far to be hated than invisible—not that he had much right to complain. He constantly stole fleeting glances of Corentin, but ever was he careful not to catch his eyes, deathly afraid of what would be lurking within them.

  "The good brothers are plagued by brigands," the grand duke explained, "though the monastery be a fortress to rival even the king's keep." He rapped the arm of his chair as though indicating the castle itself. "How the brigands gain entrance, the brothers do not know. They are confounded. Four of their number have taken injury, one quite grave. They are not seriously cowed, our brothers of Rosa, yet they have sent for help. They would not specify why, something quite unlike Father Drogo."

  "You suspect 'tis more than brigands afoot," Yvain said. Indeed, it would have to be; as the grand duke had said, the monastery at the top of Mount Rosa was a fortress. Yvain had not been there in more than a decade, for 'twas a place most sacred and not to be treated casually. Ever would he remember those three days, for it had been the day of his formal Knighting Day, eleven years ago now … and the day he had realized what precisely it was he felt for the pale and pretty son of the family he had ever been instructed to detest.

  "Aye," the grand duke agreed. "Father Drogo is no fool. The matter is most serious, and so I am sending my two finest knights to address the matter."

  Corentin frowned and shook his head. "Nay, there is something more to it. 'Twould make more sense by far to send one of the Delacroix or Legrand."

  "Nay," the grand duke replied, bringing his hands together and steepling the fingers. Yvain was briefly reminded of how notorious this man had once been with sword and lance. "My reasons for sending you, my dukes, are twofold."

  Yvain tensed, disliking the sudden shift in tone and the look in the grand duke's eyes—that he knew very well that he was about to upset them, but had no choice, and it was for their own good. He knew that look quite well.

  "It has not gone unnoticed by all and sundry that your two Houses share an even greater tension than before, and that tension was already higher than the king finds pleasing. After me, you two are the highest peers in the realm: you kneel to none but the the heavens, the king, and me. Even your sires, my dukes, managed a polite conversation when duty dictated they must. Since the day of which you will not speak, this is the longest I have seen you so much as stand in the same room."

  Desperately wishing he were somewhere else, or dead, Yvain stared hard at a spot on the floor. What would the man have him do? Act as though all were well? 'Twas not. Ne'er would Corentin forgive him … ne'er would he forgive himself. Better to have gone to his grave that day than obey the grand duke and reveal the truth of the matter. Yvain wished sometimes that he had killed that confounded peasant; the man had been blessed enough to hold Co
rentin's heart, so loved that Corentin had been prepared to give up the title to which his family had laid claim for eleven generations … and the fool had killed himself because he would rather Corentin remain a duke. More than that, Yvain wished he could simply take his own life. He should have been able to prevent the peasant's terrible deed and arrogantly thought he had … only for the man to have played him for a fool the whole of the conversation.

  The grand duke sighed. "Even now, you look everywhere but at each other. Such behavior cannot continue, my dukes. This silence between you is known by all and such poor behavior reflects back upon the throne which bestowed unto you those titles. Vows have you made unto your king, your kingdom, and the heavens. The throne commands you go to the Mount Rosa Monastery and there rid it of brigands and yourselves of the problems between you. Remain there until spring and return no longer at odds."

  "The spring?" Yvain exclaimed. "Your Grace, we cannot—"

  "Matters will be attended to in your place," the grand duke said, holding up his hand. "His Majesty and I have been planning this for some months; the brigands are an additional difficulty, but you were going to the monastery regardless. Winter Solstice is but days away and your faces I will not tolerate seeing until the Spring Equinox. Show me your obedience, knights, or show me your defiance."

  Yvain stood and Corentin did the same beside him—and then both knelt, as though one, identical from the very way they knelt to the bowing of their heads, one hand splayed for balance on the thick rug before the fire. "Unto crown and heaven, by the will of crown and heaven, ever do we serve crown and heaven."

  "Good," the grand duke said. "Then you are dismissed. Godspeed on your journey and by the grace and mercy of heaven, return to me the men you once were."

  "Aye, Your Grace," they replied. Yvain stood and turned, and almost glanced toward Corentin. At the last he could not quite bring himself to do it, dreading as ever what he might see in Corentin's eyes. Pain? Hate? Nothing at all? Some part of him wanted to know so that he need not keep wondering … but most of him preferred ignorance, for was it not honesty which had brought this final misery upon him?

  Outside the grand duke's chambers, Yvain slowly descended the tower stairs. Behind him, the occasional scuff of boots was all that gave away Corentin's presence. He drew up short at the foot of the stairs, momentarily surprised to see a monk awaiting them. He was dressed in the plain brown robes Yvain still recalled from his brief time at the monastery, with naught but rope for a belt and a small pouch at his waist. His cloak was sturdy and well made, however, for the monks knew better than any the terrible ravages of a hard winter.

  "Your Graces," the monk said, sweeping them a bow but not kneeling. "I am honored to make your acquaintance and hope I prove a worthy escort up the mountain."

  Coming up to stand beside Yvain, Corentin snorted. "You will prove most worthy, assuredly, for were I to try the endeavor on my own, I would find myself lost within a moment."

  Yvain nodded in agreement. "Aye. Tis a miracle I reached the capital, for a certainty."

  "The horses await us, Your Graces," the monk said. "I hope I am not impertinent in saying that I hope you are well rested or this journey will be a trial most great indeed."

  "We are well rested, and better to face the trial of snow than return to his Grace and tell him we must tarry here longer for want of a nap."

  Beside him Corentin made a sound that suggested he was struggling not to laugh. 'Twas pleasing to know he had coaxed a laugh from Corentin, especially given the rift between them. Mayhap … nay, 'twas foolish to let his hopes build over a laugh, especially when Corentin had struggled not to release it. The grand duke might be ordering them to heal the breach between them, but that did not mean it could be done. He would try, although he knew not how yet … but it would take them both to heal it truly and Corentin had never cared for him before that dreadful day. Ne'er would Yvain forget the look upon Corentin's face as the truth had been told … both of his lover's death and the reason Yvain had kept that truth hidden. He could not imagine himself in Corentin's place; hard enough to endure his own part in it. Corentin had left the room on a barely-muffled sob and Yvain could not forgive himself for causing so deep a pain. And if he could not forgive himself, how could he ask such from Corentin?

  Yvain could not, and yet they had been commanded to heal the rift. Truly he hated it when the impossible was asked of him.

  In silence the monk turned and led the way through the keep, out to where their horses waited with three more to carry additional supplies. Yvain dreaded the arduous journey ahead of them—that it would be too difficult a journey to permit conversation was empty comfort.

  The Mount Rosa Monastery was beautiful: much of it was carved from the very mountain itself, the rest of costly marble hauled a long distance and with the greatest difficulty up the mountain. Many centuries ago it had been built, by a king most pious. Upon the monastery's completion, he had given the crown over to his son and become the first Father.

  At the heart of the monastery was the primary worship hall, more beautiful still. Marble tile, pale red-pink in color, made up the floor, but nothing rest upon it; during times of prayer, each monk would unroll his prayer mat. Early afternoon sunlight, or what of it had managed to break through the snow-laden clouds, spilled through the stained glass windows that ran across every wall but that which contained the altar. The altar itself was decorated with a mural painted by those monks who had first taken vows alongside the former king. It depicted one holy story after another, each blending into the scene before and after it: a wondrous work that ever encouraged the eye to gaze upon it. Before the mural was a low table set with candles and silver dishes for offerings, and at the very center, between the candles, was a book at least as old as the kingdom. Precious few copies of it existed, yet here it rest always for those who desired to read it and find whatever wisdom they sought, whatever comfort they needed.

  Corentin remembered how he had knelt upon a great mat composed of symbols and crests that he had been too young and nervous to appreciate at the time. Yvain had knelt beside him, he remembered that. 'Twould be hard to forget; envy had been strong in him that day, for ever had he been reprimanded for wearing too many of his emotions upon his face. Beside him, Yvain had been implacable, unreadable. If he had endured his own anxiety, Corentin had not been able to identify it.

  Over the years, 'twould seem Yvain had only improved his ability to be unreadable. He stood not more than two steps away, yet it seemed to Corentin to be a wide, deep chasm. What did he say? What could he say? A thousand times he had prepared and discarded pretty speeches, humble apologies, expressions of his own stupidity and regret … but none was fit or worthy. Naught he could say would ever compare to all that Yvain had confessed, all that he had endured. By his will, Yvain had lost several men and nearly his own life. Corentin regretted his stupidity, for a certainty, but he did not wholly regret his actions; if Yvain had proved to be a murderer, he would have felt most justified … yet he had not proven wise from the very start.

  Nay, Corentin had done naught but commit one knavery after another. How many times had it been impressed upon him to trust no eyes but his own, to doubt any word which could not be unfailingly confirmed? He had known Nash was frightened by his declaration to surrender his title … but to take his own life … Ne'er had he suspected Nash would take such recourse; the thought never passed for so much as a moment through his mind. He should not have so readily believed Yvain a cold murderer, however; 'twas not in Yvain's nature and had he been thinking rationally …

  Corentin recoiled from dwelling upon his wretched behavior. 'Twas only the discretion and mercy of the grand duke which had kept his head upon his shoulders. Loyalty and honor, two of the most important qualities for a knight to master: he had proven himself to possess neither by his actions. Yvain, however, had proven to be wholly the opposite. Loyal, honorable … and humble.

  Humility, too, was something a knight must alway
s remember. Even a duke was not above kneeling and bowing his head. Neither was he above fault. Corentin was most certainly humble now, and ever would he be with those words forever echoing in his head, the memory of Yvain's face that day.

  "I would rather you think me a murderer and slay me for the crime to find some measure of peace, than be burdened with the truth that now you have heard. Better to die than cause you that pain."

  How long had Yvain loved him? Why had he never realized? He had thought their dislike wholly mutual … Yet oft since that day had he pondered heavily all of the reasons for his own dislike of Yvain … and all he could find had the strength of a snowflake afore a great flame. Instructed by his family had he ever been to dislike the House of Lons. Ever had he and Yvain bickered and glared from afar for that very reason. At least, ever had he thought Yvain glared—now Corentin wondered. His own personal dislike, for a murder Yvain did not commit, had died that day. All emotion had died that day, save for a deep feeling of self-loathing he would ne'er overcome. Nash had died for love of him and Yvain had been willing to die a murderer for love of him. What part of him was so worthy of either?

  At least, he had acknowledged often and miserably, his penance and punishment fit his terrible crimes. Now he knew truly how Yvain regarded him, he could do naught but steal all the glances he dared. Free of the dislike his family had draped over him, seeing Yvain truly for the first time this past year and a half … he was plagued by what ifs and might have beens. He had loved Nash truly, but mayhap Nash had ever known something Corentin had willfully missed. Would he have managed life as a peasant true? The Beauclerc had done it, as well as his son—which was what had given Corentin the idea and determination … yet Nash had not been happy to hear it, as he had anticipated. Instead he had taken his own life. Mayhap the heavens had never intended them to be one. It was hard to admit, but Corentin had willfully ignored far too much already. Yvain … Seen through eyes unclouded, he was far from the arrogant, reserved knave for which Corentin ever had taken him. Beneath the handsome exterior was a knight most worthy and true, and Corentin wished with all of his heart that he knew how to bridge the gap that lay between them. Never was it to be, however, no matter the orders of the grand duke; it would be the height of everything despicable and wretched to declare after all that had passed that he thought he might be capable of returning Yvain's affections … if still those affections he held, which Corentin could not entirely believe. How could he? If Yvain's actions in the affair had proven him to be a man worthy of much, they had also proven Corentin to be a man worthy of nothing.