A Trilogy of Knights Page 8

  Trey smothered a laugh, because from the look on Victor's face, he was suddenly determined to endure the cold no matter what, and not ask the fair princess for more blankets. "Thank you, Bea." He bowed as they stopped in front of the indicated room. "I promise we will tell you everything about the royal castle at dinner."

  "Yes, you will," Bea said.

  Montaine looked at his daughter. "In return, Bea, I promised the young lad here that you would tell him all our stories about the Lost Ones."

  "Oh!" Beatrice clapped her hands together. "Of course!" She beamed at Victor, who looked as though he had been given a rare and precious gift. "Those were my favorite stories growing up." Her smiled abruptly fell. "Dunstan always told them best…" She attempted to shake off her sudden gloom. "But I am not so bad in his place." She nodded. "Rest, change, and we shall see you at dinner."

  "Who is Dunstan, my lord?" Victor asked once the door closed behind him. "She looked so sad…"

  Trey sighed. "Dunstan is her brother, younger by two years… He has gone missing." He gave Victor a warning look. "You are not to say anything about it, is that clear? No matter what, do not discuss him."

  "Y-yes, my lord." Victor nodded and set about opening the trunks they had brought with them, setting out a fresh set of clothing for Trey before digging out his own. "Need you help changing, my lord?"

  "No." Trey moved away from the window he had been staring out of, letting the fine tapestry depicting a rose garden fall back across it. Mechanically he went about cleaning up and donning the fine, long, dark blue-gray tunic and black underclothes Victor had set out for him.

  "Would you like your sword, my lord?"

  "Just my daggers." Trey firmly grasped Victor's shoulder, urging the boy to stand still and attend him. "Listen to me, Victor. My purpose here is more than I have said. There are people here who intend Montaine and his family harm. So be silent, be observant, and do as I tell you—no matter what I say. Do you understand me?"

  Victor's eyes had gone wide with surprise, but they narrowed in seriousness as he listened. He nodded. "Yes, my lord. I am yours to command."

  "Good. Then fetch three of my daggers and see that you wear the other two."

  "Yes, sir!" Victor scrambled to obey.

  Trey sat down to pull on his good boots, rich black leather polished to a high shine. Though he had the soft shoes more appropriate for dinners and balls, he loathed them. And given the nature of his visit, good boots were preferable to slick silk.

  *~*~*

  Had they been in a crowded hall rather than a small, private meal, he still would have known the mercenaries on sight. One was skinny, his build reminding Trey greatly of the wiry Gerald. His dark brown hair was shorn close to his head, and his face bore the scars of many unpleasant altercations. His companion was of a slightly larger build, head shaved and sporting the ear jewels popular amongst inhabitants of the coast. Though they looked every inch the lazy nobles in their silks and satins and fine jewels, there was a menacing shadow to their demeanor that set them glaringly apart from the rest of the room. The bald one was the sage, and a strong one. It was no wonder they'd managed to take an experienced old man by surprise, and nearly killed Dunstant.

  "So you are the famed Misty Knight of the North," the skinny one said by way of greeting. "Not a very flattering name, is it? Either you are as weak as the mist or you are a monster."

  Trey narrowed his eyes. "You seem to have forgotten your manners, stranger. As well as your intelligence. Or is it typical in your world to greet monsters with rudeness?"

  "I was merely trying to be playful, Lord Captain," the skinny man replied easily. "It is rare that Lord Montaine has so infamous a guest."

  "Indeed," Trey said coolly.

  "Come now, my lords." Montaine frowned. "Trey, my friends share a unique sense of humor, but they mean no harm." He looked at the mercenaries. "I will thank you gentlemen to treat my old friend with respect."

  "Of course," the bald man said lazily, watching Trey with dark eyes. "I am Frederick of Connoughton. My friend is Brandon of Farshire. You are Lord Trey of Mistdale, Knight Captain of the North."

  Trey nodded stiffly and finally took his seat. He could hear Victor shifting nervously behind him and quietly motioned him to stillness. "Mulled wine, if you please, Victor."

  "Yes, my lord." Victor dashed away to fetch the requested drink.

  "So how come you to know Lord Bellewood?" Trey asked pleasantly.

  "We were passing through and begged permission to rest here. I am afraid we are overstaying our welcome for love of the place."

  "Nonsense," Montaine admonished. "I enjoy the company. Even with Beatrice I grow lonely."

  Trey stifled the urge to reach across the table and swiftly dispatch the two mercenaries. It would not be difficult.

  Movement caught his attention, and all four men stood as Beatrice entered the room. Once more she was dressed in an out-of-fashion dress, this one dark blue and embroidered with silver roses. Her hair was bound in fine silver netting. Her nervousness as she stared at the two mercenaries was apparent only because Trey watched for it.

  He also took note of the way she touched her chest, right below her collarbone. He kept his satisfied smile to himself, pleased to have already answered one of his own questions. "Enchanting, Lady Beatrice. Your presence adds much to an already splendid meal."

  "Thank you, Lord Trey." Beatrice took the seat opposite her father, where her mother would sit were she alive.

  The meal was a fine dance of pleasantries, stories, and challenges between Trey and the mercenaries. Try though they did to discern an ulterior motive in his presence, they learned only that he was simply as he claimed—an old friend paying a visit.

  Beatrice helped to keep the atmosphere light, insisting on story after story of the palace she had not visited in more than six years. Her father at last called a halt as dessert was brought out. "Dove, there is still a young man here waiting anxiously for a promised tale."

  "Of course." Beatrice bowed her head, lips twitching. "I am being greedy." She smiled at Victor, standing quietly at attention just behind Trey's seat. "Do you suppose your lord would grant you permission to sit and enjoy a few sweets while I tell your story?"

  Trey motioned for Victor to sit. "Of course. You have done well tonight, Victor."

  "Thank you, my lord." Victor said quietly, unusually shy and quiet. He gingerly took a seat, as if scared someone would bark at him to get up.

  Beatrice waited until he had overcome his nervousness to enjoy the sweetmeats set in front of him. "Do you know the meaning of the name Bellewood, Victor?"

  "No, my Lady. Some sort of forest, yes?"

  "Yes," Beatrice nodded in approval. "'Belle,'" she spelled it for him, "is an old word, from a language we no longer use. As you already know, none of our ancestors are native to this land. Bellewood is our family name, from a time and place long forgotten. Our ancestors gave it to this castle to make it ours and drive out the spirits of those who dwelt here before us."

  "You mean the Children of the Moon?"

  "Precisely," Beatrice said. "The Children, it is said, could control their world with naught but a thought. Their magic was incredible, powerful—and wholly new to the invaders that came to steal their land. It seduced us, this wonderful thing called magic, and instead of slaughtering the inhabitants, we in turn seduced them, coerced them, made them part of us.

  "At least until we realized our magic would never be as powerful, that all we could do was create complicated spells that were, at best, pale imitations of what the Children could do."

  Brandon rolled his eyes and looked bored. "Why must you always discuss the wretched faeries?"

  "They are not faeries," Trey said coldly. "Faeries are myth. The Children of the Moon very much existed, though of course they were not as glamorous or mysterious as legend has made them out to be."

  "But why do you call them such an absurd name?" Frederick asked.

  Beatrice bowed her
head politely. "I will explain. They are called the Children of the Moon because their magic had but one weakness: it waxed and waned with the moon. When the moon was full, their magic was beyond compare. When there was no moon they were little better than us—though still quite capable of magic."

  She turned back to Victor, smiling. "When at last our ancestors betrayed and killed the Children, they did so by driving them into small packs and then killed them. There is strength in numbers, and our ancestors made certain those numbers were few—and on a night when there was no moon. The last of them were driven into this castle, their last stronghold. It was our family that was charged with killing them, but there was one problem they could not overcome."

  "What was that?" Victor asked, sweetmeats forgotten on his plate.

  "The mist," Beatrice said simply. "This castle was once called the Phantom Castle because of the black stones from which it was built, and the mist that came off the ocean every night. Once the sun went down and the fog rolled in, the castle was all but impossible to see. Attacking by daylight was useless because the Children attacked at night when they were strongest. Daylight was for resting." She paused to take a sip of wine, looking pensive. "But one night the fog did not roll in, for whatever reason, and there was no moon. The Bellewood army wasted no time and stormed the castle. But when they entered it, no one was there.

  "Some say that many of the Children snuck away under cover of night and mist, and that they live among us still. Others suggest they escaped to the sea in search of a new home."

  "It is believed that if they ever vanish completely, they will take the magic with them. Some believed, back then, that we had magic only because they allowed us to have it. If we killed all of them, magic would cease to exist."

  Trey rolled his eyes. "Which was absurd, because magic is not unique to the North."

  "Yes. I think that bit of the legend was mostly to assuage guilt over killing them," Beatrice replied. "Dunstan always said magic was a gift, for better or worse." She smiled at Victor. "I always thought it was a battle that finished off the Children of the Mist, but my grandfather said the Bellewoods and the Children simply became one. That the reason members of our family are so magically strong is that we carry the blood of the Children in us. That we are their descendants. Dunstan disagreed. They used to love to argue over the matter."

  Victor beamed. "Thank you for the story. I think it sad but also pretty."

  Beatrice smiled at him and quietly urged him to finish eating.

  "There is another bit of the legend you might like to know, Victor—"

  Trey glared at Montaine. "Will you stop filling his head with foolish tales? I have been doing my best to see he does not learn them!"

  Montaine blithely ignored him. "The knights errant came into being not long after all that, when normal people still feared magic and worried that amongst the sages, who were closely watched by the king, Children bent on revenge might be hiding. Knights errant were originally used to protect sages from those that feared them. In fact, the name came about largely as a jest—errant fools who gave up everything to protect someone who quite feasibly could have been an enemy."

  "I grow weary of these foolish tales," Brandon groused.

  Trey nodded. "The hour is late; it is long past time I sought my bed. My Lady Beatrice, thank you for the tale."

  "My pleasure, Trey." Beatrice hid a yawn behind one of her voluminous sleeves.

  Trey motioned to Victor. "Escort her ladyship to her chambers and then fetch her something hot to drink. Report to me when she no longer requires your assistance."

  "Yes, my lord!" Victor all but jumped out of his seat and ran to Beatrice's side, escorting her from the room with all the manners Trey had managed to instill.

  Trey stood, as did Montaine. "Thank you, Lord Montaine, for the magnificent dinner."

  "I appreciate your traveling so far to visit me. Shall I escort you to your room?"

  "No, but thank you." Trey spared a nod for the two men across from him. "Sleep well, my lords. May your nights be dreamless."

  "And you, my lord."

  Another nod, and Trey departed. Alone in the hallway, he pressed a hand to his forehead, allowing some of his trembling to make itself apparent.

  It was harder than he had thought it would be, dwelling in the Black Castle. The voices always present in the mist were stronger, louder, within the castle.

  He never should have come…but the memory of dark beauty and eyes that burned when they spoke of magic would not retreat from his mind's eye. Curse Topaz for forcing this upon him. Trey all but snarled in frustration as he reached his room, ripping away the tapestry to let in some fresh air.

  The door opened and closed a few minutes later, and he almost smiled as Victor immediately set to squawking. "What are you doing? Trying to make yourself sick?"

  Trey laughed. "If you are cold, Victor, why not go ask your princess for an extra blanket?"

  Victor turned six shades of red, all of them clashing horribly with his orange hair. Muttering curses beneath his breath, Victor retrieved the tapestry Trey had thrown aside and covered the window. "Do you require anything else, my lord?"

  "Go to bed, Victor. We have many long days ahead of us."

  Victor was silent for a moment. "…I did not like those two men, my lord. They had mean eyes."

  "A smart and accurate observation," Trey said. "They are the ones we must watch out for. Now say no more of it, for you never know who is listening. Go to sleep and do not leave your room until sunrise. Is that understood?"

  "Yes, my lord." Victor took the strange order in stride and vanished into his own room.

  Trey stripped out of his fine clothes and retrieved an older set from his trunk. The short tunic, breeches, and undershirt were all soft and faded with wear and tear, the dark gray fabric patched in several places. His boots were just as old but long his favorite pair. They were high, coming just up to his thighs, soft and pliant, and required lacing. Dressed, he stretched out on his bed and listened to the thrumming of old magic all around him. The castle was soaked in it, the legacy of a people who had vanished centuries ago.

  Guilt was part of the reason he had never attempted to court Dunstan. But fear had also kept him silent, if he forced himself to be honest. He'd spent his whole life hiding for fear of the old myths that labeled him an enemy. For fear that someday he would succumb, as his mother had, to the mist.

  Turning onto his side, Trey let his eyes slide shut. He waited, unmoving, as the bells chimed through the hours. When they rang once and then fell silent, he opened his eyes and slid soundlessly from his bed.

  Outside, a half-moon shone bright in a clear sky. But no one within the castle could see it, for a heavy blanket of mist had settled around the castle and across the fields surrounding it. Trey crept from his room, through the hallways and down into the main courtyard.

  Only the night guards were about, high on the castle wall and unable to see through the mist. Even the torchlights were invisible—that or the mist had put them out.

  He was little more than a shadow as he made his way through the mist, moving as easily as if he had lived in the castle his entire life. Reaching the wall on the eastern side of the castle, he followed it until he came upon an old wooden door.

  Barely had he touched it when the door creaked slowly open. Trey slipped through it and pulled the door shut behind him, making his way along a footpath he could sense but not see, winding his way until the path at last ended in a small clearing in the wood that lined the eastern side of the castle.

  The clearing was a nasty tangle of thorns, the faintest shreds of moonlight making visible a vast number of roses. By day they would be a rainbow of colors: red, violet, orange, yellow, and pink. In the moonlight and mist, however, they were mere shadows of their normal vibrancy.

  What once had been a rose garden was now little more than a mess of thorns and roses, surrounded by dead grasses and dying trees. The rose bushes climbed high, using one
another as support, some extending so high they clung to the tree branches above them.

  There was no obvious way inside. The roses guarded well the man within what had once been a beautiful garden. The mist seemed to curl and curve around Trey, stretching past to delve into the tangled fortress before him.

  Trey reached out to touch the nearest rose, the petals limp and starting to shrivel at the ends. It almost seemed to twitch beneath his fingertips, reaching toward Trey's calloused touch, absorbing the mist that brushed it.

  Around the flower, the tangled rose bushes shuddered and began slowly to move. Several minutes later, a narrow opening appeared in the tangle. Trey gave the pale rose he had touched another caress as he passed, a silent thanks, and vanished through the gap that closed behind him.

  Beyond the wall, within the garden proper, it looked as though the world had died.

  Once the roses must have flowered everywhere in the garden—he could see the remains of the wooden slats for climbing roses, a dried up fountain and marble bench, traces of where the roses must have been so carefully and lovingly arranged. But now there was no trace of even a weed; all life had given itself over to sustaining the roses and the man they guarded.

  Trey's boots crunched on dead grass as he approached the statue in the middle of the garden.

  The statue was beautiful. It appeared to be made from gray marble, and had Trey not known the reality of it, he would have said it had been carved with great love and care.

  Dunstan was even more breathtaking than Trey had remembered. Even turned into stone, he was beautiful. He was dressed in the old-fashioned robes his grandfather had been fond of, the bottom and ends of the wide sleeves meticulously embroidered with an intricate knotted design—such a style had not been used in decades. Modern robes were heavier and tended to hang loose rather than cling as the older ones. His hood partially obscured his face, only one well-sculpted cheek and a stone-cool eye bared to Trey's eyes. Several soft-looking curls had escaped the confines of the hood, brushing Dunstan's shoulder. It looked as if he'd been waiting for someone and some sound or movement had turned his head.