Exiles

Chapter 1 

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

King Oren and his forefathers had ruled the land of Caledonia time out of mind. Still, he was aging now and had no sons to follow. Some sought to take over, vultures who saw the King’s age and lack of an heir as an opportunity to seize the throne and the Empire of Caledonia. As a result, King Oren had to move quickly to find a way of ensuring the throne remained in the family. So it was young Kennet of House Leon was summoned to Caledon, the capital city of Oren’s vast empire. Kennet’s father was the King’s brother, and his duchy was high in the mountains of Varense, northeast of the city. This forested land was where the Highborn originated, along with King Oren’s bloodline.

Since his birth, Kennet was raised in a distinguished royal household and received comprehensive education on court etiquette and customs. He also underwent rigorous sword fighting training. Despite his young age, his innate leadership skills were evident and refined under his father’s tutelage. The duchy was his father’s inheritance, and thus his as well.

Kennet’s father, Prince Thomas, Grand Duke of Caledonia, was a revered military leader renowned for his bravery and sagacity. Darius, a skilled magician well-versed in white magic, herbal lore, and astronomy, often accompanied him. Darius was not only a warrior who fought alongside Prince Thomas in numerous battles but also a trusted confidant and friend. When the Duke died in his son’s arms on the battlefield, Darius assumed the young prince’s teacher and mentor role, providing guidance and support.

Darius greatly influenced Kennet, who learned from him the skills and knowledge that would help him become a wise and powerful prince. He also inherited his father’s bravery and courage and soon became a leader in his own right.

In Kennet’s twenty-fifth year, the King’s summons came to Varense, requesting Kennet, as Heir to the throne, to go to Caledon. So, leaving his mother and younger siblings behind, Kennet set off for Caledon., Darius at his side.

“It is my pleasure to welcome Kennet, my brother’s son! To my sorrow, I have no heirs of my body, so I here appoint Kennet as my Heir Presumptive.” The King greeted his arrival with a State Banquet, introducing him to the court. He raised the young man to his feet and gave him the kiss of kindred.

“May I prove worthy of that honor, my liege.” Kennet knelt before his uncle and King.

Little did he know that his life was about to change even further.

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

For Kennet, falconry was always a favorite pastime, especially at home in Varense, where the mountain ranges provided the perfect environment to hone his skills. He was a natural at it and was even able to train his own birds to fly and hunt. He practiced often, spending hours in the mountains of his home with his loyal birds of prey.

Upon arriving at Caledon, Darius and others were not surprised when Kennet befriended Harris, the head austringer. They shared a passion for falconry and spent many hours discussing techniques and strategies. One afternoon, about a week after his arrival, Kennet was consulting on a young bird that required training when he suddenly heard an altercation outside the yard.

“…Ill-bred whelp! Get back to whatever kennel spawned you! What right have you to mix with gentlemen, you…“

“Maybe we should find a gentleman to ask?” Another voice queried silkily, “For I don’t see any here.”

“Why, you—“

The quarrel escalated, and Harris made for the door, but Kennet held him back. “I’ll see what it’s about,” he said.

“As you will, Highness….”

Kennet stepped into the small alley and saw three assailants closing in on their prey. However, the target held his own, fighting fiercely until Kennet arrived and leveled the playing field. The attackers, taken aback by the sudden appearance of another fighter, were forced to retreat, leaving the victim panting and bent over, his hands resting on his knees.

“Thanks,” he said. “But I fight my own battles, sir. When I can.”

“Oh, and it looked it, too, three against one. Hardly fair,” Kennet said sardonically as he tended to his scraped knuckle. He saw a tall and unkempt young man in front of him, whose messy dark hair and injuries,  a split lip, a bloody nose, and a torn tabard, gave off an aura of disreputability. Who was ineffectually brushing himself down.

“I was well-trained,” the young fighter said shortly; he couldn’t tell by the intruder’s tone if the comment was a compliment or an insult. Observing his rescuer, he saw a man who was of similar height but leaner,  garbed in a dark, hooded cloak more suited for the mountains of northern Caledonia than the capital city, with a well-tailored tunic that suggested a higher status than his own. His bright blond hair indicated he was highborn, but the man’s piercing yet gentle blue eyes captivated him. It made Raphael feel like he was being seen for the first time, truly seen for who he was.

He averted his eyes, realizing he was staring. “I need to clean up,” he said “ And I owe you a drink, at least, sir. If you care to join me? I’m lodged at the Falcon and Fetterlock.”

Kennet grinned at the invitation. He was clearly unrecognized, clad as he was in a plain tunic, pants, and a hooded cape. “Of course,” he replied with ease. “But I don’t drink with strangers, even if I save them from bruising.”

“Well, that is easily fixed. Raphael D’Arcy. My friends call me Raphael.” He held out a hand, and Kennet took it. “Lucian,” he responded, giving his middle name rather than his proper one, wanting to keep his identity a secret for a while longer.

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

The tavern was almost empty, but Kennet pulled the hood of his cape up to conceal his bright blond hair. The barmaid’s eyes were not on him, anyway — it was Raphael who had her attention. “And what have you been doing?” she scolded, hands on hips. She was a pretty, buxom wench, dark hair in a thick braid. “Brawling again, no doubt, and you needn’t think you’re coming in here looking like a ruffian. There’s water in the kitchen. Get cleaned up!”

“Ah, Catrin, you are an angel!” The young man seized her hand and kissed it.

“Get along with you!” She twitched her skirt, turning away with a flirtatious smile. Raphael grinned and strolled past her into the tavern kitchens.

When he returned, Kennet already had a mug of ale, and another awaited him. He slid into his seat, looking much improved, blood washed off, and stained tabard replaced by a simple linen shirt, open at the throat. His curling hair was combed back, and secured at his nape with a leather thong. He looked, Kennet thought, to be the same age as him, but there was a maturity in the handsome face, in the dark blue eyes fringed with lashes a girl might envy. This man had seen action, and recently. But whatever it was would have to wait.

He took a deep draught of the ale, and Raphael followed suit.

“I needed that. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. So, tell me about yourself. D’Arcy is not a name I recognize.”

Raphael nodded. “Why would you? My family were merchants from Ninevra, way back.”

“The spice region. The people there, or so they say, made the stars from the sky settle in the sand and rock.”

“You know your geography, Lucian. And the ancient myths.”

“No more than the next man. They say the sand and the heat make the spices particularly valuable.”

Raphael chuckled. “And perhaps a little magic, too. No, it is made and refined like anything else, with men’s hands and the sweat of their brows. But it is special to us. It brought us wealth.”

“So your family bought their title?”

The blue eyes hardened. “If you mean bought, by the blood split during the border wars, then yes. My kin fought hard in Ardent; my sire and his sire before him kept the Easterners out so you here in the west could live safe and secure in your castles. So yes, we bought our title. With blood.” He drained his mug and made to stand, but Kennet put a hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Raphael hesitated, studying the earnest face before him, then relaxed. “No offense taken.”

“I heard about the skirmishes in Ardent. Just south of Varense and its mountains.”

“They were more than just skirmishes,” Raphael called for another drink. “I should know.”

“My father fought with the northern regiment,” Kennet supplied as the mugs were refilled. “My family hails from Varense.”

Raphael nodded. “I figured that the minute I saw you. All that blondness….” His gaze sharpened. All that blondness, the sun-bright hair hidden under the hood, the eyes like summer sky… “ Your pardon. I should have known you for a highborn northerner….”

“Does that bother you?”

“No. Only to wonder why you’re here, so far from your home ground.”

“I could ask you the same.” Kennet avoided the question. “You’re no more a city-dweller than I.”

The other shrugged. “Until a month ago, I was a Ranger, peace-keeping on the southern borders. My tour was up, so I took what was owed me, traveled a little, and heard from a comrade that Caledon was recruiting.”

“I’ve heard the King was recruiting,” Kennet agreed, “ it’s why I am here as well. A…special detachment, from what I heard.”

“Huzzah, And I was lucky you are here!”

“Indeed, though you said you had those ruffians on the run.” Kennet gave a knowing smile.

“Never hurts to have a little help now and then.” Raphael returned the smile and continued,  “I just arrived a few days ago. A comrade — Aumery St. Clair —  told me about the post. He’s already here. We’ve fought together. He’ll speak for me at need.  In fact, I was to meet him here when I got waylaid by that scuffle.”

“Maybe I should go—“ Kennet began, but a grinning redhead was plumping himself down next to Raphael, annexing his mug and signaling for another. “Hello, Rafe; mind if I take this? You’re such a fine friend.”

“Tch, Merry, where are your manners? Meet Lucian—” Raphael retrieved the mug and wiped spilt ale off his sleeve and table.

“Aumery St.Clair, pleased to…” began the redhead, then his eyes widened. “Oh, shitfuck, I am so— Highness, your pardon!”

The concealing hood had fallen back, and bright blond hair fell over Kennet’s brow.

Raphael looked instead as if he had been hit with a brick. “Highness?” he repeated faintly. “You’re the King’s neph—“

“Shhh.” Kennet looked around, but no one seemed to notice Aumery’s outburst.  “I really don’t want anyone to know I’m here,” Kennet said. “I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Slumming! I love it!” Aumery had recovered faster than Raphael. “But you’ll be missed at the Palace.”

Ignoring the comment, Kennet focused on Raphael, who was still stunned. “The ‘special assignment’ you were after is for my personal guard,” Kennet explained. Though he had only recently met Raphael, he felt a sense of familiarity that he couldn’t quite explain.

“For your…” Raphael questioned, not sure how to react. A minute ago, this man was simply a bystander who helped him, an equal. Now Lucian was the King’s nephew, the heir presumptive…

“Well, D’Arcy?” Kennet interrupted Raphael’s thought. “If I am looking for men to join up, are you interested?”

“Y-yes, Highness…” he stammered.

“Lucian,” Kennet corrected. “And if St.Clair here will speak for you, consider yourself recruited.”

Chapter 2

There was already a City Guard headed by Aldous Marquet, and Kennet instantly disliked him. He was a sycophant, out for number one, and had a bad reputation for those he considered underlings. Small cruelties, visited upon the weak or vulnerable, had come to Kennet’s notice, but few of the man’s victims were willing to accuse him. Those who did, tended to suffer worse indignities.

It had been Marquet who oversaw the establishment of imprisonment for wrong-doers and employed a skilled torturer. Kennet would have had him dismissed but, as yet, having only been there a short time,  had little in the way of influence, despite his status. He was a Prince, yes, but there were some who saw him as an outsider, and were looking for anything to undermine his authority. Marquet was well-liked by some, and Kennet showing his hand would give the man more power than he deserved. Kennet chose instead to establish a guard company of his own, taking the best and brightest.

This did not sit well with Marquet.

Kennet had his eye on several likely men; Aumery and Raphael were included among them. Both took the required oath of loyal service, pledging their allegiance to the Crown. It was a solemn act. In his turn, Raphael went to one knee before Kennet, taking his oath of fealty, placing his hands between the hands of his commander.

“I, Raphael David D’Arcy, do become your liege man of life, limb, and earthly worship, and faith and truth I will bear unto thee, to live and die against all manner of folk, Gods Above bear witness.”

He looked up into the crystal-blue eyes that smiled down at him and lost his heart.

 ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

Every day, Kennet put his men through training drills and mock battles to evaluate their abilities. After observing them closely, he determined that the two ex-Rangers were just as resilient as he had hoped, possessing horseback riding, swordsmanship, archery, and hand-to-hand combat skills. Within a month, Kennet promoted both of them. However, he had to sacrifice the camaraderie he had established with them at the tavern. They were no longer permitted to address him as “Prince” or “His Highness,” and instead communicated with him less formally, using the title “sir.”

Kennet got very tired of it. So much so that after a bruising single-stick contest in which he came off worse, he lost his temper when Raphael apologized and called him ‘my lord.’

“Give me strength, D’Arcy! You’re my second! I’m not your Lord; I’m not your anything!”

Leaning on his quarterstaff, Raphael regarded him quizzically. “Well, I can hardly call you ‘Lucian’ in company, can I? Sir?”

That much was true. Kennet remembered his home, where titles were respected, but using first names was not uncommon, nor disrespectful. “Call me Kennet, then. It is my proper name, so there will be no disrespect.”

That earned him a quirky grin. “As you command, Captain Kennet, sir!”

“Right,” he snorted, wiping sweat from his eyes. “Now you can show me that sidewise strike again….”

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

Kennet was finding that a few of his company were not willing to go all out when sparring with him. Raphael was not among them. He enjoyed their sessions, perhaps too much, and it was noticed and remarked on, particularly among Marquet’s City Guard, who were frankly envious of the preference shown by the royal company.

Raphael was at work in the stables, grooming Owlet, the powerful sorrel gelding that was his favorite mount, a task he disliked leaving to the stable boys, as the animal tended to skittishness, as well as the big black, Goliath, Kennet’s mount, who shared a stall. He took the harness out for a final polish. It was hot work, and he was sweating, looking forward to the plunge bath outside the barracks.

A group of Marquet’s men sauntered past, off-duty and sharing a wine flagon, led by Marquet’s second, Jehan. Who was clearly drunk as he sneered at Raphael.

“What have we here? Why, if it’s not the pretty princeling’s pretty pet! Likes them stinking of the midden, does he?”

It was enough and more than enough.

Throughout those six months, Raphael had been a member of the esteemed Prince’s guards. However, Raphael could no longer ignore the subtle innuendos and taunts, which had become increasingly unbearable. His patience had worn thin due to the constant barrage of insults and jibes aimed at his friend and commander.

“You will take that back, scum,” he snarled, turning to face the drunken group.

“Oh, and who’s going to make me, you dunghill cockerel?”

Accepting the challenge, Raphael set aside the harness and grabbed a nearby water bucket. Without hesitation, he hurled its contents at Jehan, who let out a furious howl and charged at him. Raphael’s quick reaction to the situation was a result of Kennet’s company being better trained than the City Guard. He swiftly seized Jehan’s outstretched wrist, used a back-heel move to trip him up, and skillfully flipped him into the horse trough with one arm awkwardly twisted behind his back.

As Jehan cursed and tried to get up, one of his troops came to his aid, but he howled in pain. “My shoulder…!” he cried out. Raphael remained calm as Jehan was pulled to his feet, but he knew there would be consequences.

Fighting between individuals of the King’s army and the different units was strictly prohibited.

After Jehan had been taken away, dripping wet and cursing, Raphael faced Marquet in the guardroom. It was clear that there would be a reckoning for what had transpired.

Raphael stood at parade rest, eyes fixed ahead as the City Guard commander circled him. He avoided eye contact, knowing he was in trouble. “Do you have anything to say for yourself, D’Arcy?” Marquet inquired. “You know that brawling is strictly forbidden within the Palace grounds.

Furthermore, you have severely injured one of my men. A suitable punishment must be administered, according to law. Ten lashes at the public whipping post…” He grinned maliciously. “You’ll be striped like a tiger before I’m through with you.”

When Kennet strode into the room at that moment, he was incandescent with rage. “Marquet, D’Arcy is my man, and you have no authority over him, or any of my men.”

“Discipline, sir, has to be maintained,” Marquet pointed out smoothly.

“Agreed.” Kennet gave a short nod. “But it would seem our ideas of discipline vary. D’Arcy, do you deny this accusation?”

Raphael continued to stare stonily in front of him. “No, sir.”

“Guilty, as charged.” Marquet smiled like a shark. “The whipping post is ready. Ten strokes of the whip—”

“Five. Then I’ll do it myself. And I’ll use the strap.”

Marquet did not like it. But could not over-rule the King’s nephew…

There were already spectators in the courtyard. Raphael walked steadily forward until he faced the post, when his shirt was dragged down to his elbows, exposing his back. Kennet came to his side; the strap doubled in his hand.

“I would spare you this, D’Arcy,” Kennet said softly. “Admit your fault and apologize.”

“Only if Jehan will do likewise,” Raphael whispered back, “He is as much at fault as I am, and you know it.”

“What am I going to do with you,” Kennet sighed. He knew very well that Jehan was just as guilty as Raphael. But the only witnesses were Marquet’s guards, who were unlikely to come forward out of fear of their commander. “Very well. Do you need to be tied?”

Raphael shook his head, bracing himself against the rough wood of the post and bowing his head. The first stroke burned across his shoulders, but he made no sound until the last, when he caught his breath and let his tense posture relax.

But it was not over.

“Love taps,” Marquet snarled, and stalked forward. Before Kennet could stop him, he had slashed his riding crop across the welts three times. Unprepared, Raphael let out a yelp of pain.

Kennet snatched the crop from Marquet’s hand.

“My man, and mine to punish,” he said tightly, and snapped the crop in two over his knee, tossing it at Marquet’s feet. “D’Arcy. Can you walk?”

He managed to nod, though it felt as if his back was on fire. He wanted to say he was sorry for putting Kennet through that, but he was afraid it would be taken the wrong way, so he kept silent.

“Merry,” he heard Kennet say wearily, “Take this idiot of a hero to Magister Darius, if you would. He will see to his wounds.”

Aumery would have offered a supporting shoulder, but Raphael shrugged it off, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

“You are an idiot, you know,” Aumery hissed, keeping pace with him. “You put Jehan’s shoulder out of joint….”

“I wish I’d broken his neck,” Raphael muttered. The stripes were a savage reminder. He didn’t regret what he had done. He’d avenged the insult, and held to his oath.

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

The Magister Darius had taken the position of Premier Court physician, when he arrived with Kennet after the previous physician had retired. Darius was a portly man, of an age with the King. Dark skinned, with a poll of greying curls, he examined the welted back, grunting. His opinion was in accord with Aumery. “You’re a fool, boy. Skin’s not broken, at least —bruises only. You got off lightly.” He was slathering an aromatic ointment over the welts. “But you’ll sleep on your belly tonight. I’ll have my ‘prentice prepare you a sleeping draught to help the pain.”

After enduring the fight earlier that day, then the consequences and Darius’s chastising, Raphael finally made it back to his quarters, but it was no easy feat. The corridors were thankfully empty, and he was grateful for Aumery’s assistance upon leaving the infirmary. However, Raphael quickly sent him away, too proud to let anyone else, even his friend, see how much pain he was in. As he settled onto his cot, his bruises were already stiffening, causing him to flinch at the slightest touch of the light sheet. He was shivering, the shock of the altercation finally catching up with him. Sitting on the cot’s edge, he dropped his head into his hands, his breathing becoming unsteady. More than anything, his pride was wounded, as he had been beaten and humiliated in front of others. Suddenly, he heard the door open but didn’t lift his head, too ashamed to face anyone.

“Leave me be, Merry….”

“I’ve brought the magister’s infusion for you. And it’s Kennet, or had you forgotten? Come on, drink it.”

Thus commanded, Raphael accepted the cup, but could not meet his friend’s eyes. “Tastes like horse piss,” he grumbled, but drank it.

“That I wouldn’t know.” Kennet pulled a stool to the bedside. “Are you going to tell me what happened, or do I beat it out of you?”

“You did that already,” Raphael muttered, sourly.

“Yes, and I’m sorry, but Maquet would have had your back in ribbons.”

“And he’d have done that anyway. Before you stepped back in.”

“I had to…”

“No, you didn’t….”

“And what would you have me do, let him shred you.?”

“If that was my punishment, then yes, and I would do it again.”

Kennet bowed his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. There was no talking to his friend when he was like this. No convincing him, he was as stubborn as a mule sometimes.

“Tell me, Raphael. It’s not like you pick a fight without reason. And there are no witnesses I can trust. So what was it? Another smear on your ancestry? Do you think that really matters?”

The drug was working in his veins so he couldn’t guard his tongue. “It was a matter of honor…” he blurted, “Jehan insulted you….”

“And for that you dislocated his shoulder? Of all the… man, what are words, after all? Magister Darius thinks you an idiot, and I am inclined to agree!”

“Well, I’m not sorry, and I wish I’d done him more damage! I swore an oath, Lucian. I am your liege-man. Of life, limb, and earthly worship. Your honor is mine. And I will defend that to the death,” he finished, his voice shaking a little with the intensity of the statement.

Kennet looked at him, exasperated. Then: “Your family crest. What is it? The Falcon Displaying?”

“Yes… But…”

“It suits you.” And he smiled into the confused eyes. “Fierce and fearless, my young peregrine. Tiercel, I name you. Yes, you’re an idiot, but you’re my idiot. My Tiercel.” He got up to leave, and Raphael impulsively seized his hand, laying a kiss in the broad palm, quite unable to speak. Kennet reclaimed his hand but bent to press his lips to the silky dark curls. “Sleep now, my Tiercel. Sleep.” He was at the door before Raphael spoke, plaintive.

“If I’m your falcon, does that mean I have to sleep in the mews?”

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

It was two days before Raphael was fit for duty, though the bruises were still evident when he stripped for the bath after practice. Darius had counseled massage and directed one of his ‘prentices to perform it, but Kennet would send them away and administer the treatment personally. Raphael was also aware their relationship had changed over time. Ever since Kennet had given him a new name, something had awakened within him, a deep knowing that his love was reciprocated. It was a bittersweet realization, for he understood that their love could never be fully realized. He would awaken, tangled in twisted sheets, drenched in sweat. It only compelled to push himself harder to suppress the growing desire.  “You know,” Kennet remarked casually one morning as he observed Rafe’s grueling warm-up routine before they started with their horses.
as my second, it would be customary for you to sleep outside my door,”

“Is that so?” Raphael smirked, closing the distance between them and leaning against the stable wall. “Well, unless I’m mistaken, the floor tends to be rather uncomfortable, and I happen to have a perfectly good bed that I much prefer. If it’s all the same to you.”

Kennet chuckled, his eyes roaming over Rafe from head to toe. “Indeed, that tradition is more often disregarded than observed. We live in more civilized times now, and I’m sure I can find more suitable arrangements for you to serve your lord. C’mon, I think you’ve warmed up enough; now it’s Goliath and Owlet’s turn.” Kennet tapped Raphael’s stomach before turning and walking away.

As Rafe watched Kennet walk away, uncertainty lingered in his mind, unsure if his friend’s words held the meaning he longed for. Nevertheless, a mischievous grin spread across his face as he contemplated the various ways he could please Kennet when the opportune moment arose.

 

Chapter 3 

Kennet’s Company was establishing a name for themselves, earning a reputation for their exceptional training and sharpened skills. They had successfully tackled the persistent border conflicts that had plagued the nation ever since the king withdrew his military forces from the battlefield. The task had been passed on to the king’s heir, who possessed the vigor, youth, and intelligence to effectively combat the unruly bands that instigated chaos along the borders. Although it resembled more of a policing operation than a full-fledged war, it was an essential task that needed to be carried out. It was hot work but short. The Guard were trained troops, up against ill-disciplined ruffians. Kennet and Raphael fought as they had become used to fighting, almost as one entity, and only when the adrenaline wore off did they discover the small hurts they had sustained.

Magister Darius did his part, tending to their injuries. There was nothing serious, and he prescribed rest more than medicine. “For the both of you,” he advised sternly. “I have a sleeping draught prepared….”

“Which you won’t take,” Raphael said dryly as the man left, assisting his commander into bed. “I know you.”

Kennet settled himself among the furs, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “No one knows me better,”

“Or will put up with you, Kennet.”

“But you do. Come, you’ve been ordered to rest as well.” Kennet patted the furs at his side.

“I’ve got my bed.”

“Mine’s closer.”

“Is this one of those obligations, you were talking about….My duty as a second is to serve you.”

Kennet smiled softly. “No, you are not my second,” Kennet whispered. “But my equal. We are twin souls, Tiercel. You saved my life in that fight, standing over me when I was down. Don’t think it will be forgotten.”

Raphael obeyed, stretching himself on the edge of the bed and reclining on one elbow to look at Kennet, taking in the fine silk hair, the crystal-blue eyes, the curve of the wide mouth. You are beautiful, So beautiful.

It was as if Kennet had read his mind. He reached out a hand and cupped Raphael’s cheek.

“Kiss me?” he murmured, and Raphael bent to touch his lips to his Prince’s in chaste and gentle obedience. But Kennet had other ideas. He curved his hand around Raphael’s neck, pulling the thong that bound his hair loose and drew the man into a deeper kiss. The mouth that opened for him so willingly tasted the sweetness of the honeyed wine, and he could feel the accelerated heartbeat as he drew him down into the furs.

“Lucian…” Raphael breathed, breath coming short as his mouth was captured again and Kennet’s fingers were at his throat, pulling at the lacings of his shirt.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” Kennet responded, and the fabric was sipped from his shoulders as his mouth was plundered again. “You’ve wanted this for a long time, haven’t you?” Raphael couldn’t manage a coherent response, moaning as strong hands continued to strip him until he was as naked as the Prince, every inch of his skin electric with the caressing touch and he couldn’t think of anything but his desire for more.

How had Kennet divined his need? The whole world knew they had a close friendship, and some thought it inappropriate, but it had never mattered, he had been careful to keep within the boundaries of Court protocol in public. They called him Kennet’s Shadow, the Royal lapdog, and worse, but the insults touched him not at all. He was secure in Kennet’s friendship, and while he had dreamed for more, he had kept that longing secret.

Until now, and it was a wonder and a delight that his prince reciprocated.

“Tiercel,” Kennet murmured. “My falcon, my own…”

Raphael moaned as he was drawn down into the softness of the furs, Kennet’s long body pressing close, the hands that wielded sword and bow skillfully finding the places that made him shiver with passion. He yielded up all control, helpless in his lover’s hands. Kennet was exploring his body, fingers finding every sensitive part, making him writhe, pant, and press himself closer, almost delirious with need. Kennet was murmuring love words. “Tell me you want me, Tiercel.”

“Gods Above, can’t you tell?” he gasped, arching to the touch. “Yes, please, don’t stop…You call this ‘resting’?”

“No, I call this making love to the one who commands my heart.”

“You shouldn’t say such things to me, Lucian…” It was becoming more and more difficult to find words. His skin was hypersensitive, the fur underneath him heightening his arousal. “You…are the king’s nephew….”

“And you are my dearest love, Raphael D’Arcy….” Kennet was kissing his way down his body, licking, tasting the sweat on the tanned skin, as if the man in his arms was a banquet set for himself alone. “Don’t hold back, Tiercel….”

Raphael could no more have disobeyed than fly. He cried out, convulsing, yielding, his essence flooding from his core, and he collapsed, shuddering and unable to speak for the moment. He knew what he wanted, what his lover wanted, and cried out again at the incredible sensations as he was breached and filled, and they were joined in body and soul…

They finally slept tangled together, and Raphael did not even dream. It was near dawn when he woke, and found Kennet very gently anointing him with the Magister’s healing oils. He smiled, and stretched.

“Good morning,” his lover said softly, wiping his hands before joining Raphael on the bed. “How is it with you, Tiercel?”

“I think all my dreams have come true. Though I must admit I hope we’re not going anywhere on horseback for a while.” He took the sting out of the words with a kiss.

“You were a virgin, Tiercel? Did I hurt you?”

“Yes, and no, you didn’t hurt me. I mean, there have been women. And — suggestions… the other interests amongst the guards have not gone unnoticed. .. but you were my first, Lucian…my one and only.”

 

Spring moved into the summer and on into Autumn. And it was at this time King Oren announced a treaty with a neighboring kingdom of  Ralmat.  With the treaty came a proposal for the marriage of King Oren to the Princess Mellissa of Ralmat.  The order to escort the Princess fell upon Kennet’s company and King Oren did them honour, coming to inspect his nephew’s company and make the announcement.

Kennet was filled with an overwhelming sense of pride as he reflected on the exceptional performance of his company. His heart swelled with joy when the king approached him and warmly embraced him in recognition of their achievement. As the king patted Raphael on the shoulder and applauded their success, Kennet couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of satisfaction and fulfillment.

“I have decided that your company will meet the princess at the border, and act as her escort to Caledon.”

“We are honored, sire….”

As they approached the border, the tension in the air was palpable. The soldiers were on high alert, their hands on their weapons as they prepared to meet the Princess and her entourage. But to Kennet’s relief, there was little trouble. The Princess, a regal figure with a commanding presence, took a cool leave of her own people, barely acknowledging them before turning her attention to Kennet’s company. He offered a brief introduction, trying to keep his nervousness at bay, but the Princess seemed unimpressed. Without any further ado, she retired to her opulent curtained litter, leaving Kennet and his company to follow. The soldiers let out a sigh of relief, but Kennet couldn’t shake off the feeling that things would not be easy with the Princess.

“Well?” Raphael asked Kennet eagerly as soon as Kennet came to their tent later that evening… Since he was in charge of managing the affairs of the princess’ guards, he had not been introduced to her company earlier.

Kennet shrugged. “Couldn’t make out much behind the veil she was wearing. She was at least civil. It must be hard, Tiercel, to be sent to a foreign land, to wed a man she has never met, who is much older than her. And all for policy.” He threw himself down on his bed, propping his head on his hand. “It is fortunate that I don’t have to worry about that… Come here, my love, and kiss me.” He lounged back against his bedroll, eyes hooded, smiling at his lover. “I know what you want, Tiercel…”

“Oh? Besides decent drink? This ale tastes like—“

“—horse-piss. That’s your usual complaint. Come over here…”

Raphael, tidying his own bed, rolled his eyes. He was ordering Kennet’s clothing as well. “And if I don’t want to?”

“I could order you, you know.”

“Pulling rank, because you’re the king’s nephew?”

“Exactly.” He held out his hand.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to disobey the king’s nephew.” The dark lashes swept down to veil the deep blue eyes. “I have a feeling that would get me into a lot of trouble… This jerkin is beyond repair, you know.”

“What, are you my valet now?”

“Hush. I love doing it. Serving you…”

“I can think of a number of ways you could serve me better.”

An enraged stallion’s bugling scream sounded then.

“Ambush!” someone yelled, and as Kennet and Raphael exited their tent, chaos erupted.

“Hold that thought!” Raphael shouted, and kicked dirt over the fire, bringing instant darkness and reducing their chance of being silhouetted against the light. The raiders carried torches, which made them more obvious targets. Sword drawn, Kennet sprang at the nearest horseman, dragging him from the saddle and dispatching him.

“Raphael, guard the princess!” he yelled, as another tried to ride him down.

The princess’s own guard were on high alert now, having corralled their charges behind their spears. Kennet’s attention was momentarily drawn to the gleaming gold of the woman’s headdress, and in that moment, he failed to notice the charging horse. The animal’s shoulder collided with him, causing him to stumble and lose his balance, tumbling to the ground. As he desperately rolled out of the way of the horse’s deadly hooves, a raptor’s piercing scream filled the air, and suddenly Raphael was there, leaping to straddle him with his sword flashing in the firelight.

Everything became a blur of chaos and confusion, and Kennet could hardly process what was happening. Everything blurred into madness, and he hardly knew what happened, but abruptly Kennet found himself standing with a bloody blade in his hand, a pounding headache, and a numbed shoulder.

He sucked in a lungful of air. “Rafe?”

“Here.” White teeth in a feral grin. “Sit down, before you fall over. You took a crack on the head.”

“You’re not hurt…”

“Not a scratch. And before you ask, the princess was ably defended. Our men did well.” A supporting arm under his shoulder. “I’ll set an extra guard and check for casualties. The physician in the princess’ party can assist me. Tamas—“ this was said to a frightened page—“See to the horses….”

Kennet made it back to the tent before he passed out.

When he woke, the first thing Kennet saw was Raphael’s intent face hovering over him, splitting into a wide smile. “About time, love. We’re getting ready to move out, and Goliath is having a conniption fit and won’t let anyone near him.”

The stallion was snorting, circling on his tether, but calmed when he saw his master. Kennet scolded him fondly as he was tacked up, and swung into the saddle easily enough. With Raphael riding at his side, he led the little cavalcade the final miles to Caledon.

The first thing Raphael did after their arrival was to bespeak a bath—after the events of the journey, they were both in need of one—and after he led his lover to where a fire blazed on the hearth, pulling one of the bed furs down to spread in front of it.

“Lie down, love,” he ordered. “Going to take care of you tonight.” The fur was deep and soft and luxurious, caressing. Kennet groaned with pleasure as he settled himself. The bruises he had sustained were dark shadows on the fair skin. Raphael smoothed them with Darius’ herb-infused oil, then set it aside and bent to kiss the relaxed mouth. “You said you had ideas on how I could better serve you, Lucian…” He kissed his way down the beloved body, relishing the small sounds of pleasure Kennet made, until he discovered his prize, silk over steel, demanding his attention. His lover’s arousal was like an aphrodisiac. He bent his head in worship, and took the straining organ into his mouth…

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

Draped in a veil of delicate gold gossamer, the Princess emerged from her carriage, greeted by the reverent courtiers as she made her way towards the throne where her soon-to-be husband awaited her for their wedding ceremony. The King reached out to take her hands and she gracefully allowed her veil to cascade down her back as he bestowed a formal kiss of welcome upon her. The King then escorted her to the High Seat, which was designated to be hers, and Magister Darius began the sacred ritual.

She was no conventional beauty, Kennet saw. Nor over-young.. She was tall, and regal, bronze-dark hair coiled to support the crown, and her eyes were a startling green. Kennet estimated her age at about late twenties —certainly young enough to bear children. He hoped his uncle would be kind to her, a princess from a foreign country; though she had a small entourage consisting of a majordomo, a physician, a cook, and three attendant ladies, a matron-of-honor as well as two to carry her train. She would not be alone, a stranger in a strange land…

Beside him, Raphael was swaying slightly on his feet, eyes half-closed, scarcely awake. It was no surprise, considering the way they had spent the night. He had barely had time to struggle into his dress uniform of sable and silver before presenting himself with the rest of the company, his blazon of the Falcon Displaying on his breast. Kennet thought he looked amazing. As befitting the Heir Apparent, his violet and gold bore his own blazon, the Wolf Passant Regardant.

The time came for the Homage. Kennet, as Heir, was first to take a knee before her and kiss the hand held out to him. It was cold under his lips, and laden with rings.

“Kennet of House Leon,” her majordomo spoke in her ear. “The Heir.”

She gave a small chill smile, inclining her head in acknowledgment. He was followed by the nobles, in order of precedence, and then by the captains of the military. Standing a little aside, Kennet saw her face change as Raphael knelt. “Raphael D’Arcy, madam. Second to Prince Kennet.”

Well, if she was impressed, Kennet could not blame her. He was inordinately proud of his lover. She was speaking to her major-domo, and then to Raphael. “I saw you, in the fight. When the prince went down, you vaulted to stand over him. You saved his life.”

Raphael’s eyes slid to where Kennet stood, smiling. “I am his sworn liege-man, Lady. It is my honor and my privilege to defend him at need.” He did not add that Kennet would have done the same for him.

‘So… Such loyalty.” she murmured. “I will remember…”

  ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

Kennet and Raphael lay entwined in their bed, early sunlight filtering in through the window shades. It was a lazy morning, with nothing to do but enjoy each other’s company,  with no plans to get up anytime soon.

Raphael traced patterns on Kennet’s bare chest, eliciting a contented sigh from his partner. Kennet’s fingers played with Raphael’s hair, enjoying the soft texture of the curls.

“I could stay like this forever,” Raphael murmured, blissfully closing his eyes.

Kennet chuckled. “As much as I’d love that, we do have to get up eventually. We have a busy day ahead.”

Raphael groaned, not wanting to leave the warm embrace of the bed. “Can’t we just stay here and forget about everything else?”

Kennet kissed the tip of Raphael’s nose. “As much as I love the idea, we have responsibilities.”

Raphael grinned mischievously. “And if I make it worth your while to stay in, just a little longer.”

Kennet feigned a pout, but couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. “Fine, but you better make it worth it, if we’re neglecting our duties.”

Raphael leaned in for a deep kiss, his hands roaming down Kennet’s body. “Oh, I plan to.”

Their peace was interrupted by the arrival of a page bearing a message f rom the king. The boy gave a small bow, handing the package into Kennet’s hands. The seal was that of his uncle the king, as was the superscription. He nodded, dismissing the boy, and broke the seal, frowning a little as he read.

“Well, Tiercel, it would seem we made quite an impression at the wedding…”

Raphael rolled over, dragging the coverlet with him. “How so?”

“The king has decided that our company shall be divided in two. You to Captain the King’s Guard — while I’ll have the pleasure to serve our new queen.” His mouth twisted. “Her idea, I’ll wager.”

“Her choice of you I can understand.” He reached up to pull his lover down beside him. “Who better? I’d choose you. I have chosen you.”

“Oh, yes. She wants me under her eye, to control me, as the Heir, until she gets with child and I am no longer a threat.” He paused, thoughtful. “ Tiercel— will you marry me?”

Raphael’s jaw dropped. “Marry—“

“Be handfast with me, love. It will have to be secret, to begin with, but I will petition my uncle to permit it. I don’t think he’ll deny me. What say you?”

“Marry you, Lucian?” His voice had risen an octave. “Yes, if only we could… but we can’t… you are Blood Royal, and I’m just—“

“You are the love of my life, Raphael David D’Arcy, my Tiercel,” Kennet stated seriously. “So, will you? Be my handfast companion, bonded by the blood-rite?”

“The Blood Rite? I thought that was a legend, something from long ago….”

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

In his robes of office, Magister Darius regarded the two young men who stood before him. “I can’t help but think this is not wise, my sons. Without the king’s permission…You know this is an illegal act: for one highborn to take a mate of lower ranking… it’s unheard of.”

Kennet snorted inelegantly. “It happens all the time, Magister. Any highborn can tup a willing wench, and no one thinks anything of it. I’ve had Raphael in my bed for months now. As for it being an illegal act, men make laws and can change them.”

Darius looked uncomfortable. “No one can deny you your right to choose who you bed with, my Prince, but…”

“But Raphael is only good enough for that, is that what you’re saying? No fit mate for one of the Blood Royal? I tell you, Magister, there is no one more fitted to stand at my side in all the world. He is as my right arm, my shield. My shoulder-to-shoulder man, as the old saying goes. We’ve both spilled our blood on the field of battle, Raphael no less than me. He’s saved my life more times than I can count. In all the ways but one, we are already bonded. The Blood Rite will merely confirm it.”

“You understand what it means, both of you? Yes, I can stand witness to your handfasting, and I will not say it is wrong…”

“You have doubts, Magister?” Raphael said softly.

“Yes! I do not think you know what the Rite means, the power it gives! Linked by the Blood Rite, you cannot live sundered! You will be joined, life to life,  in an indissoluble bond!”

“So be it, then,” Raphael said firmly. He held out his hand for the blade, and drew it across his palm. Blood welled up as Kennet copied his action.

They faced each other, hands joined so that blood mingled with blood, blue eyes meeting blue.

“Raphael D’Arcy,” Kennet said. “By this blood, I claim you as my life companion. I pledge you my undying devotion, as long as life lasts.”

Raphael smiled into his lover’s eyes. “So I, in return, claim you by this blood, my Lucian, as my life companion, and I pledge my heart and soul to you, my lord and love. To be your companion and your mate, we will now make together as one on this journey.” He sucked in a breath, eyes going wide, as the ancient bond took hold.

“It is done,” Kennet declared, a little shakily. He did not need to ask if Raphael had felt what he had. Caught lightning, as if for a moment their shared blood was quicksilver, power thrumming through his veins. He then understood why the Rite had been tamed into simple handfasting.

And he could barely contain himself, wanting to drag Raphael into bed and take him and be taken in his turn. Raphael’s eyes were fever-bright, burning blue. Yes, love. Yes!

He accepted the kerchief Darius offered, using it to bind Raphael’s hand and staunch the blood. “Magister, I thank you for standing witness. You may hold yourself guiltless, should anyone object. Though for now, this must be between us. You have our leave to go.” Darius was scarcely out of the door before Kennet pulled Raphael into his arms, almost delirious with need.

We coupled like leopards in their mating season, Raphael thought dreamily, enjoying the warm water of the plunge bath even as it sought out the sore places left from the wild passion following the Blood Rite. He could not keep the smile from his face. He had almost fallen out of bed laughing when Kennet had told him the original purpose of the rite, which was for fertility.

“Well, love, you can’t get me pregnant!”

“Not for want of trying, Tiercel!” Kennet growled, tackling him back against the pillows…

 

Chapter 5

Darius was disappointed if he had hoped to find a common cause with the princess’ physician. Pardoe was wise in some things, but astonishingly ignorant in others. There was an air about him that Darius did not like, almost a miasma cloaking him in darkness. His knowledge of herbs and simples was not in accord with those Darius knew.

It came as no surprise, therefore, that Darius found himself summarily dismissed from service. “I cannot like him, Kennet,” he confided, overseeing the packing of the books he would be taking with him to the old castle he had chosen for refuge. “I thought we would have shared interests as healing arts practitioners. But we do not see eye to eye. I will be happier to retire. My castle is no palace, but I will be glad to leave here….”

It was a remote, uncared-for family home, but his wants were few—if he had his precious books, he could eke out a living by bartering his knowledge to help the few inhabitants who would be his neighbors. “But let me warn you, lad, I fear for your uncle the king. His health is not of the best. The queen has Pardoe dose him with concoctions I do not recognize. I cannot prove they are harmful. There are ingredients that certainly might increase potency in the king’s loins, but for the rest….” Darius shook his head. “All I can tell you is to be wary, and trust no one.”

“There is one I will trust with my life, Magister,” Kennet said seriously. “You know it well.”

“Ah, in that, I think your trust is well placed. I have spoken to Raphael also myself, expressing my concerns. So, my goods are ready to be packed onto my mule. Farewell, dear boy.”

Kennet seized his friend into a hard embrace. “ I’ll ride a way with you, we can talk more away from listening ears.”

“As you will, then. I’ll break my journey at Callum’s cott. “

Callum, a deaf-mute, owed Darius much and would shelter him as long as necessary. The castle was another two days’ ride and more.

Darius had indeed confided his fears to Raphael. “Kennet is the Hope of Caledon, Raphael. I have no gift of foreseeing, but I fear the Queen’s influence grows stronger by the day. I think there will come a time when she seeks absolute power and rule, and then she will not need Kennet. She will find means to do away with him—”

“Over my dead body!” Raphael breathed. “She’ll have to go through me before she touches one hair of his head!”

“I know. But she and that black mage of hers have skills undreamed off. She will destroy you both, Raphael. Your best bet is to leave the City – aye, I know, persuading him will be difficult – but once away, he will be safe. At least, as safe as is possible…. Do you think you can persuade him?”

“Myself? Not a chance. But if you are already leaving, Magister, he might ride a way with you if you asked. And I could contrive to meet him later….”

 ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

The queen turned on the mage, furious. “Another failure, Pardoe! You swore that the king’s seed would bear fruit! I have done all you suggest, dosed him daily, but still, my womb is empty! What now can be done? I need a child!”

“Perhaps, madam, it is time for you to look – elsewhere? For one whose seed is stronger…? The Heir is young and potent… It is not beyond your resources to bring him to your bed….”

Her pacing halted. She stared at him. Slowly, she smiled. “And if he does not come willingly, then that pretty D’Arcy boy might be the way to persuade him….”

 ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

The Falcon & Fetterlock had become their sanctuary, a place where they could escape the prying eyes of the court and be themselves. They cherished the moments they spent together in the small back room, where they could indulge in both intimate conversations and passionate lovemaking without fear of discovery.

Kennet lay back against the pillows, his chest rising and falling with each breath. “I have sent a petition to my uncle, asking for an audience, and he has granted it. I will see him tomorrow,” he said, his voice low and serious.

Raphael, who was tracing circles on Kennet’s chest with his fingertips, looked up at him. “And what will you ask of him?” he asked.

Kennet met his gaze. “I will ask him to make our alliance legal,” he said firmly. “I want to claim you as mine in front of the whole court, Tiercel. I want us to stop hiding our love in dark corners.”

Raphael’s eyes widened in surprise and a smile spread across his face. “Are you sure that’s wise?” he asked, a hint of concern in his voice. “Some at court would use our relationship against us, against you.”

Kennet’s expression grew serious. “I know. But I cannot keep hiding forever. And besides, if we have the backing of my uncle, it will make it much harder for them to speak out against us.”

Raphael nodded in agreement. “Very well. I will stand by your side, no matter what happens.”

Kennet leaned over to kiss Raphael, their lips meeting in a soft and tender embrace. “Thank you, my love. With you by my side, I know we can face anything.”

As they lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, they knew their love would be tested in the coming days. But they were ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, as long as they had each other.

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

The following morning Kennet walked into the Throne Room expecting to find his uncle there, hearing petitioners. Instead, he found the queen in the High Seat, and no trace of the king. Some petitioners were still waiting, but at her gesture, they scurried out.

“Captain Kennet,” she purred, sliding from the throne as sinuous as a snake, her silken gown molding to her. “So stiff, my dear, so very proper… Come, take wine with me, and drink to the health of your uncle….” She dismissed the servant and poured the wine herself.

Kennet was taken aback by the queen’s unexpected presence and her seductive demeanor. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease as he approached her, his guard up. Nonetheless, he accepted the wine she offered him and took a small sip.

“Thank you, Majesty,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

The queen chuckled, a sound that sent a shiver down Kennet’s spine. “You needn’t be so formal, Captain.”

Kennet didn’t respond, unsure of what to say. He wondered where his uncle was and why the queen was alone in the throne room. Was something amiss?

The queen seemed to sense his discomfort and leaned closer to him. “Relax, Captain. Let us enjoy each other’s company. After all, we are family,” she repeated, her hand brushing against his arm.

He stepped away from her touch. “Your Highness, I would speak with my uncle. I sent a request…I have begged him to give me an audience. ..”

“The king is unwell,” she said shortly. “I stand for him in matters of state. You asked permission to wed.” She forestalled him. “We know. It is refused. Your blood is of the highest. You cannot expect us to grant you our permission to ally yourself with — gutter-sweepings!”

His fingers closed hard on the stem of the cup. “Your pardon, my Queen, but you are mistaken. The D’Arcy family is an ancient line, and well-respected. Raphael is —“

The woman sneered, “Oh, we know about him. He was sent here to Court because his family could not control his wild ways! A Ranger, forsooth! A rebel in the making, a veritable woods colt!”

Her captain responded coldly, “You are mistaken. Raphael D’Arcy is as true-born as any man at Court. It is his misfortune that both his parents are dead and cannot answer for him.”

The woman shrugged, “Nonetheless, your request is refused. We have other plans for you.” She moved closer, and he could smell the musk of her perfume. “Your uncle is old, Kennet. His seed is weak. When he said the king’s impotence was curable, I sent the Magister away. The country needs fresh young blood. Your blood, my dear. Reign at my side, dear one. You can have whatever your heart desires – yes, even the D’Arcy boy in your bed, if that is your pleasure – anything! Come, drink with me!”

He threw the cup from him as if it contained a scorpion, spilling its contents and leaving red stains on the tiles. “You are mistaken in me, Madam. I will not listen to treason.” And without another word, he turned and left.

“I have not given you leave to go!” she screeched at his departing back.

The queen’s voice echoed behind him, filled with venom. Kennet could feel the weight of her gaze on his back as he strode out of the Throne Room, his heart racing with anger and fear. He knew he had just defied one of the most powerful women in the realm, and he had no idea what she might do to him or Raphael. But he had no choice. He could not betray his uncle, or his love for Raphael. He would not become a pawn in the queen’s twisted game of politics and power.

He made his way to their rooms, where he knew Raphael was waiting. When he entered, the chamber seemed empty.  But as he turned to leave when he saw a figure emerge from the shadows. It was Raphael, his face tense with worry.

“What happened?” Raphael stepped closer to him.

Kennet told him everything, the queen’s words ringing in his ears as he spoke. Raphael’s expression grew even grimmer as he listened. He and Kennet were in mortal danger. He knew that now. He had courted the Queen’s enmity by refusing her. They had no recourse but to flee the city.

“No,” Raphael said, thoughtful. “I understand what you are saying, but if we leave, your uncle is at the mercy of the queen and her minion.”

“Then what can we do, Tiercel? Darius is certain that when she makes her move, and the king dies, then we are to be done away with. Death, at the worst. Exiles if we live….”

“We have friends,” Raphael said. “The company is loyal, I would swear it.” he was gathering items of clothing, and weaponry as if preparing for a campaign. “Kennet, you must go. Aumery and I will sound out those who we can trust. I’ll follow you in four days. Wait for me at the waterfall, at Hayden’s Force. I’ll join you there with whoever will join us.” And amazingly, he grinned. “Outlaws, Lucian. Wolfsheads! Once we establish ourselves in the wilds, then we can strategize.”

“Tiercel…” Everything was happening too fast, Kennet thought. Raphael was talking sense, but he didn’t like it in the least. “Dammit, I won’t leave you. I can’t…”

Strong hands gripped his shoulders. “You must. There is no other way for us.” And I can buy you time, at least. The queen will not suspect your absence if I remain here. He did not say so, however. It would greatly tax his ingenuity, but he had to ensure Kennet’s safety. “Hayden’s Force, in four days’ time.”

 

Chapter 6 

Warning: Everything in the garden is not lovely! Violence and non-consensual sex!

The queen paced the inlaid marble floor of the throne room, furious, when her captain did not answer her summons. “Bring me, Captain D’Arcy,” she had demanded. “He will know where his lover has gone.”

Flanked by Marquet’s cronies, who were in the Queen’s colors, Raphael stood before her, hands lightly clasped behind him, at Parade Rest, in the King’s Guard livery of black and silver. “Madam,” he gave an abbreviated bow before the throne. “You sent for me?”

“Where is Kennet?” she said. She did not mince words. “He has dared to insult me, his Queen. He attacked me, violently. It is his doing that I miscarried the child in my belly!” She gestured to the stains on the floor, to a ripped overgrown, likewise soiled. An attendant was carrying a silver bowl – she snatched off the covering cloth. “See!”

He could not help but look. In the clotted congealing blood, something floated. He controlled his nausea, giving nothing away. “If you wish, I will call Magister Darius to assist you. But surely, one of your ladies—your own physician….”

“Darius? That quack! I’ve dismissed him from the king’s service. You know that already.  Even if he was here, I’ll not have him near me! Where is Captain Kennet?”

The man’s expression did not change, polite but giving nothing away. “I am King’s Guard, Madam. I am not his keeper. We do not live in each other’s pockets.”

“You are insolent!” She slapped him, hard. Raphael did not flinch, continuing to stare forward. “It is no secret that you are his closest friend,” she hissed. “Yes, and more. You are handfasted together, against all law and custom. That alone would merit your death, but we will commute that sentence if you tell me where he is!”

“We are handfasted, yes,” he admitted, proudly. “Blond-Bonded, in fact.”

The queen stared at him, unbelieving what she had heard.  Blood-bonded.  This man, little more than a commoner, bonded with a Highborn.  “Impossible, you lie,” she seethed.

“It’s not a lie.”  Raphael stripped his gauntlet, showing her the scar that bound him and Kennet together.

“Then where is he? If what you say is true he would be here to save you!” She snapped her fingers, and two of Marquet’s guards stepped forward. “You know where he has gone. You will tell me where he has gone!” she commanded.

“Forgive me, Madam. I cannot.” He did not sound in the least regretful.

“Cannot or will not!” she snapped, losing her temper. “You will tell me what you know, or suffer the consequences. Don’t you realize what you have done, traitor? In taking the Blood Bond, you have also sentenced him to death. I am going to take great pleasure in watching you both die…Take him,” she commanded. “Tell Simon I want him put him to the question. Start with the rack.”

Marquet hesitated. It was strictly against protocol for one of the elite to be put to the extreme question. But then again… D’Arcy had never shown any sign of interest in him, though he had made it clear, in the beginning,  that he would have liked a closer relationship. “Madam, are you—”

“Do as I say!” Her eyes blazed at him. “Or take his place yourself!”

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

Aumery St-Clair drew rein beside the waterfall, Hayden’s Force,  where the torrent hurled itself down the cliff face in a foaming rush.

“My lord Kennet?” There was no sign of the Captain, or of the great horse Goliath. “Sir? I have a message for you.  From Captain Raphael?”

“From Raphael?” A hooded figure stepped from the trees. “Is he not with you?”

Aumery slid from the saddle. “No. The Queen had him arrested when you vanished. The charge is High Treason. There’s supposed to be a court-martial, but she’s ordered him put to the question without waiting for any verdict.”

“Damn her!” Kennet hit at a nearby tree in frustration then gave a short whistle. Goliath answered, shouldering his way through the trees to Kennet’s side. He tightened the cinch, was about to swing astride when Aumery stopped him.

“You’ll be playing into her hands if you go back to the city now, sir. She’s given orders that you be killed on sight. Captain Raphael is the bait in a trap, sir….”

“So I’m to leave him to the Queen’s mercy? I think not!”

“He’ll not want you to risk yourself, sir. When she summoned him, he knew what might happen. We have a plan, Captain….” Aumery outlined what his friend had told him as he donned his dress uniform, before Marquet’s guards came for him. The young Captain had not resisted as Marquet’s guards stripped him and chained him like a felon, pride stiffening his backbone. He knew what faced him. It was something of Marquet’s doing, rarely used, and he had never personally sent any miscreant into the hands of the torturers, nor would he. There were those who thought him too soft-hearted.

  ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

Raphael was escorted down into the bowels of the palace, where Simon, chief of the interrogators, waited. Raphael tried not to look at the tools of the man’s trade, but even his iron control could not prevent his shivering.

Simon regarded him with a professional eye.

“He won’t break easy,” he commented. “What does Madam want?”

“She said to start with the rack,” Marquet said.

“So she wants it fast and dirty? What’s the crime?”

“High Treason.” It was the queen herself who answered. She stalked to face the prisoner. “Last chance, traitor. Where is Captain Kennet?”

Raphael stared stoically over her head. She made an impatient noise. “You will tell me. A session on the rack, to begin with…Master Simon, you may proceed.”

Raphael was manhandled onto the ladder-like rack, wrists and ankles shackled.

“Two turns should suffice,” Simon said, calculating.. He was an expert at his trade. “I take it you don’t want him taken beyond his limits, Madam?”

“That will depend on how cooperative he is. Start with two. And blindfold him. It will… intensify the experience.”

Two turns of the winch and the lean body was stretched taut, and head strained back. Sweat glistened in the torchlight.

“Where. Is. Kennet ?”

“I can’t say…” he gasped, rib cage heaving as he fought to get air into straining lungs. Pain was running like lightning through his limbs.

“You are a fool,” she spat. Her eyes were glittering. “Do you know what your insolence could cost you? We could start by cutting out your lying tongue. And those pretty eyes the ladies love? I’ll have them gouged from your head. And finish by gelding you. You will beg to die….”

At her nod, Simon stepped to the side of the rack, checking the racing pulse in the great vein of the neck. “His heart is strong, madam. He can take more, if you wish it.”

“Two more turns then. I want to hear him scream for mercy.”

Two more turns, and deprived of sight, every other sense heightened,  Raphael could hear the whine of the winch, the creaking of the ropes, his own tortured breathing, and he could not hold back a groan. He could feel his muscles begin to shred apart. Agony ripped through his strained body. But he would not scream. Would not. He bit the inside of his cheek to hold it back. He heard the queen’s voice, close to his ear. Smelled the rich musk of her perfume.

“This could stop now,” she purred, stroking a hand over his flinching belly. “Tell me where he is, and you shall go free. I will have my own surgeon ease your pains. Think on it, a soft bed to rest in…”

Kennet, Raphael thought dimly. Be safe, my love… His consciousness was fading. Simon’s hands checked the stretched limbs.

“ A respite, madam, unless you want to kill him…?“

“We will give him a night to consider,  then. And a few strokes of the whip to remind him…Maquet, see to it.”

Maquet had him dragged stumbling down another flight of stairs into one of the prison cells, and chained there spreadeagle. The harsh stone was slimy against chest and belly. He could feel Marquet’s hot breath close behind him. Raphael flinched as the man’s hand trailed down his spine, from his shoulders to his buttocks, pausing there.

“What does your pretty princeling call you, when you’re in his bed, D’Arcy?” came the whisper. “David, perhaps? Or Raphael? He has left you, your lover, he has run like a coward to let you face punishment alone.”

 No, Raphael thought. No, I won’t believe that. He’ll come for me…

“You think he’ll risk himself for you, Tiercel?” And the love name they had thought the secret was a mockery in his tormentor’s mouth. Marquet moved in closer. Raphael could feel the man’s skin rub against his own.  The smell of Marquet made him want to gag, but he forced it back. He wouldn’t, couldn’t give this man the pleasure of seeing him sick.

“Oh, you thought that was secret, Raphael?  No.  No, I think not. Those stolen moments you thought private? Hidden from eyes and ears?” A breathy chuckle. “Common knowledge.” A hard body pressed him into the wall, hands gripping his hips, positioning him. “Thought you were special, did you? You were convenient, boy. A willing little bitch, panting for it… and once the Queen has your lover leashed and trained to heel, she will give you to me. A falcon, an eyas , chained on your knees in the hawk-house, hooded like your feathered kin, fed only from your master’s hand until you are compliant…” and Marquet grunted as he thrust into the helpless body.

Raphael had not cried out on the rack, but he screamed now as his body was invaded, violated…

Marquet prolonged his enjoyment for as long as he could, relishing the anguished groans of his victim. “Madam wants you flogged,” he said conversationally to unheeding ears as he took his pleasure. “And I plan to make it quite a spectacle. The whole company mustered to watch the punishment of one who has incurred the Queen’s wrath… you can spend the night in anticipation of what it will feel like to have your back in ribbons. I may have some of your own men wield the whip. Your friend St. Clair, for one. He’s had to play subordinate to you since you crawled into Kennet’s bed. He’ll relish a little revenge, I think.”

A few more thrusts, and he was finished. Withdrawing, Marquet relaxed against the bound man and whispered in his ear. “You’re a good fuck, Raphael; I can see why the prince kept you to himself. Pity you will be dead before he gets to have another go.”

When he didn’t get a response, Marquet turned his victim’s head, then laughed when he saw Raphael had passed out. “Guess a real man was too much for you, Tiercel.”  He let the head fall forward with a crack against the wall.

Raphael was no longer conscious enough to care.

  ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

As the bucket of icy water was dumped on him, he gasped for air and struggled to open his eyes. Slowly, his surroundings came into focus. He was no longer in the dark dungeon, but in the bright sunlight of the barracks courtyard. The whipping post stood tall in the center, its shadow casting a long and ominous figure on the hot stone ground. The sun beat down mercilessly, the heat radiating off the stone making him feel as though he were standing in an oven. The air shimmered in waves around him, distorting his vision and making it difficult to breathe. It was a stark contrast to the cold and damp atmosphere of the dungeon, and he couldn’t help but shiver despite the heat.

Sun-dazzle. Scorching heat. Rough wood of the T-shaped whipping post as his wrists were shackled to either end, the harsh metal searing his skin. Then a momentary shadow, and a voice. “Sorry, Rafe. We have to do this.”

“Merry…” he got the name out. “I … know. Don’t earn her enmity.”

“She wants the scourge. But the company surgeon told her straight that forty lashes with that would kill you. She doesn’t want you dead. Not until she’s got the Captain back in her clutches. Have a drop of this,” Brandy,  poured down his thoat. Fierce and strengthening, running fire though his veins. “She’ll want to watch, the cow, but it’ll be too hot for her out here, so we can put on a bit of a show. It’ll be bad, Rafe; Marquet’s an expert with the whip, but he wants me and the boys to take turns. We’ll spare you all we can .”

In spite of Merry’s promise, the lash scored his back cruelly. Raphael sank his teeth into his lip so as not to cry out, but at last failed to stifle a scream.. He lost count of how many strokes he took before Marquet tired of the game and called a halt, but at least the sun had moved, and the heat was off him.  Sweat was running down his back, stinging in the raw welts.  He was barely able to keep his feet when Aumery came to his side again, pretending to adjust the shackles. “She wants you strung up like this until sunrise, Rafe,” he whispered, “but the Captain is ready to follow the plan. Once it’s full dark, I’ll create the diversion.”

“Kennet… “ he breathed. “Tell him…not to risk himself…”

“I might as well tell the sun not to rise, and you know it.”

Raphael discovered that it hurt to laugh.

“The diversion, Rafe. That’ll be his signal. I’ve unlocked the shackles. You should be able to slip free. If the bitch-queen comes out to look you over, best if you maybe moan a bit?”

“Aumery…” He pressed his brow against the unyielding wood, trying to quell the dizziness that threatened him. “Don’t …. Do anything foolish….. We’ll not forget this.”

As Aumery had warned, the queen did indeed venture into the cooling courtyard to inspect her victim. He did not see her approach, was only aware of her presence when sharp nails dug into cringing flesh. Raphael could not hold back a moan of pain.

“Oh, yes, that begins to bite, does it not?” she purred. “I think by morning, you will be ready to tell me what I want to know. It would be a pity to spoil the pretty looks that please my husband so… King’s Guard! King’s catamite, more like!”

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

Sitting astride Goliath, clad in enveloping black, Kennet waited on Aumery’s signal. When it came, a blossom of flame burst over the old stable block, spreading along the walkway toward the gate. Ill-maintained, the old wood of the gate caught and blazed, a sheet of fire against the dark cloudy sky, and Goliath hit it with all the strength of his powerful quarters, fearless, urged by his master’s voice and heel and hand.

The gate burst open, and iron-clad hooves sparked fire from the cobbles. A great horse, black as night, and a black-cloaked rider.  “Kennet…!” Raphael croaked, relief leaping in his breast.

A swift wrench and his wrists were free, though raw and aching from long confinement, and the great horse was at his side, so close he could smell the sweat of its hide. “Can you ride, Tiercel?” Kennet asked urgently, reaching down a hand even as Raphael grasped it, boosted astride the sheepskin saddle pad on the beast’s withers, wincing as abused muscles complained.

“I’ve never fallen off a horse yet,” he said breathlessly.

“There’s always a first time,” his lover reminded him, and with a surge of adrenaline, Kennet and Raphael rode Goliath through the gate, leaving behind the chaos and panic of the burning scene. The powerful beast carried them swiftly, its muscles rippling beneath them as it galloped forward. The wind whipped through their hair, mingling with the sounds of crackling flames and distant shouts. Kennet held on tightly, his hand securely gripping the reins, while Raphael clung to him, the strain on his muscles a constant reminder of the ordeal they had just endured. The urgency of their escape pushed them onward, the horse’s hooves thundering against the ground, propelling them further away from the chaos.

The crackling flames and distant shouts slowly faded into the background, replaced by the serenity of the moonlit landscape, and the world around them seemed to blur into a surreal tapestry of moonlit shadows and shimmering stars.  After a while, Raphael felt Kennet slow Goliath until the horse, snorting from the exertion, eased to a gentle trot. His body molded against Kennet’s, seeking comfort and reassurance in their close proximity. As the rhythmic movement of Goliath lulled his senses, Raphael closed his eyes, surrendering to the weariness that had settled upon him. The events of the day and the adrenaline-filled escape ; in the comfort of Kennet’s embrace, he allowed himself to let go, to release the tension that had built up within him. With each breath, Raphael felt the ebb and flow of his weariness, the gentle embrace of slumber beckoning him, and he surrendered, putting full trust in Kennet’s ability to keep them safe as he surrendered to sleep.

Raphael did not stir until Goliath came to a stop. Slowly, he opened his eyes to find the Forest closed in around them, its dark silhouette contrasting against the fading moon on the horizon; they had stopped by a river, the only sound of its waters mixing with the wind through the leaves. Weary and disoriented, Raphael slid from Goliath’s back at last into his lover’s arms; half-conscious, he leaned heavily on Kennet, his body trembling with exhaustion. His senses were dulled, but he could still feel the concern emanating from his lover’s touch. Kennet’s voice broke through the haze, urging him to rest. With a tender gesture, he spread his cloak on the ground, a makeshift bed for Raphael.

“You can’t go any further without rest,” Kennet’s voice was filled with gentle authority. “Lie down. Let me assess the damage.” There was a brief pause, and then Kennet’s voice turned dangerously soft. “Did Marquet hurt you, Tiercel?”

“No,” Raphael said quickly, pulling away from the gentle hands. His body trembled, not only from fatigue but from the weight of their recent encounter. He knew Kennet’s protective instincts were in full force, and the love and concern in his voice stirred a mixture of gratitude, vulnerability, and shame within Raphael.

“Don’t lie to me, love. I’ve known Marquet for years. I’ll kill him for this.”

Raphael’s breath caught in his throat, his heart torn between the desire for vengeance and the need to shield Kennet from further harm. He knew the depths of Kennet’s love and the lengths he would go to protect him, but Raphael couldn’t bear the thought of his lover being consumed by violence. “Get in line,” his voice trembled, a mixture of anguish and defiance. The truth was hidden behind his weary words. He tried to convince himself that he had escaped physical harm and could bear the burden alone. But deep down, the wounds Marquet had inflicted were more than skin-deep.

Kennet fell silent, his gaze penetrating the shadows that clung to Raphael’s spirit. He had heard the rumors and seen the aftermath of Marquet’s brutal assaults on his victims. The anguish etched on Raphael’s face, and the involuntary flinch at his touch spoke volumes, despite the injured man’s attempts to hide his pain. At that moment, Kennet made a silent vow. He would not let Marquet’s darkness consume Raphael. Kennet’s grip tightened around him, offering a steadying presence amidst the shadows of the forest. Raphael trusted in his lover’s ability to shield and protect him, even in the face of danger. It was in moments like these that their bond proved unbreakable.

As Raphael settled onto the makeshift bed, the weight of exhaustion settling upon him, he closed his eyes, seeking respite from the haunting memories that tormented his mind. The images of his captivity and the brutality inflicted by Marquet replayed relentlessly behind his closed lids, a cruel slideshow of pain and fear. With a deep breath, he forced his eyes to open, focusing on the figure of Kennet as he made his way to the nearby river.

Raphael watched in silence as Kennet soaked his shirt in the cool water, his movements deliberate and filled with purpose. The sound of rushing water provided a soothing backdrop to their fragile sanctuary, a temporary respite from the chaos that had brought them here. As Kennet returned, his eyes filled with determination and concern, Raphael shifted, allowing his lover to assist him in turning onto his side.

Gently, Kennet laid the wet cloth over the angry welts that marred Raphael’s back, his touch both tender and deliberate. The coolness of the water offered a momentary relief, soothing the rawness of his wounds. Raphael winced at the sensation, a mixture of pain and gratitude coursing through his veins. He allowed himself to lean into Kennet’s touch, finding solace in the strength and tenderness that radiated from his lover.

Kennet’s voice, filled with a quiet determination, broke the silence, cutting through Raphael’s thoughts. “As soon as we’re across the river,” he began, his words laced with conviction, “I’ll turn towards Darius’s castle. He can tend to your hurts.”

The mention of Darius, their trusted ally, brought a flicker of hope to Raphael’s weary heart. He knew that within the walls of the castle, they would find safety and a chance for healing. The weight of their shared journey pressed upon him, and the vow that escaped Kennet’s lips only reinforced the depth of his love and determination. As Kennet knelt beside him, his fingers gently running through Raphael’s dark curls, Raphael found a renewed sense of purpose. The fire of vengeance burned brightly within both of them, fueled by the injustices they had endured.

“Lucian,” Raphael gritted, his voice filled with determination despite the pain that radiated through his body. He propped himself up on one elbow; his gaze fixed on Kennet. “There used to be a time when we had a just king. But not anymore.” Raphael’s words carried a weight of disillusionment and bitterness. “She’s poisoned his mind, manipulated him like a puppet dancing to her tune. The good men have been replaced by her own.”

Kennet’s gentle yet purposeful touch interrupted Raphael’s tirade as he smeared the soothing ointment of comfrey and aloes over the raw wounds. Raphael flinched, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips, his body still reeling from the physical and emotional torment inflicted upon him. But as the pain subsided, his gaze softened, his eyes searching Kennet’s for understanding.

“Lucian, I didn’t betray you,” Raphael’s voice held a note of desperation, a plea for reassurance in the face of the Queen’s torture.

“I know, my love,” Kennet’s response was swift, his words laced with unwavering faith and love. He drew Raphael into a gentle embrace, enfolding him in a cocoon of safety and understanding. At that moment, the world outside ceased to exist, and all that mattered was the bond they shared. “She was mistaken in thinking you would. You have my trust, now and always.”

Raphael’s body relaxed against Kennet’s, finding solace in the warmth of his embrace. The weight of the world seemed to lift as Kennet’s words washed over him.

“Sleep awhile, if you can,” Kennet’s voice held a tender note, his fingers gently caressing Raphael’s cheek. “I’ll keep watch.” There was a quiet determination in his words, a silent promise to protect and cherish their love in the midst of chaos.

With a sense of trust, Raphael closed his eyes, surrendering to the exhaustion that enveloped him. He found solace and safety in Kennet’s presence, knowing that their bond was unyielding. As Raphael drifted into slumber, his breaths steady and calm, Kennet’s gaze remained fixed upon him, a silent vow etched in his heart to stand against the darkness that had befallen them. In the depths of the night, as the world slept and the weight of their journey bore heavily upon their shoulders, Kennet stood sentinel, his love for Raphael fueling his determination to face whatever challenges awaited them. Together, they would navigate the tumultuous path ahead, guided by their unwavering commitment and the flicker of hope that burned bright within their hearts.

 

Chapter 7 

Pardoe’s words hung heavy in the air, filling the Queen’s mind with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. The revelation of the forthcoming celestial alignment—the Moon at its fullest and brightest, shrouded in an ominous veil of shadows—ignited a fire within her. This rare convergence presented the pinnacle of power for her malevolent intentions, a moment when her vengeance could be unleashed upon the two men who dared defy her authority.

With unyielding determination, the Queen immersed herself in a world of arcane rituals and esoteric knowledge. She delved deeper into the mysteries of her newfound magical powers, seeking to harness their potential with unwavering resolve. Every step of her preparations was carried out with meticulous precision as she crafted each incantation and honed her gestures to perfection. Her rage and resentment, pulsating like a dark storm within her, were skillfully channeled into the creation of a spell that would inflict upon her adversaries a torment of profound and everlasting despair.

The appointed time arrived, and the Queen stood in the heart of a sacred circle, its ancient symbols etched into the ground. Her hands rose high, poised to command the forces of magic that she had forged an alliance with. As she called upon the depths of her power, a surge of energy coursed through her veins, animating the balefire that sprang forth in response to her fury. The flames flickered and danced, casting an eldritch glow upon her face, contorting her once-beautiful features into a grotesque mask of horror.

In that pivotal moment, the Queen’s voice echoed through the night, resonating with a commanding presence. She invoked the Dark Powers, drawing upon their ancient and sinister energies as if tapping into a wellspring of malevolence. The air crackled with a palpable malevolence. Each whispered word was laden with a weighty curse that permeated the very fabric of the surrounding space. Her spell, fueled by her relentless determination for revenge, took shape—a tangible manifestation of her wrath, ready to be unleashed upon her targets.

Her heart pounded within her chest, a symphony of anticipation and triumph mingling with the malicious pleasure of her impending success. The stage was set, meticulously prepared for the inevitable downfall of those who dared cross her path. With a final invocation, her voice resonating with resolute satisfaction, she released the spell into the world. Like ethereal tendrils, the malevolent enchantment reached out, searching, seeking, ready to ensnare its victims and subject them to unrelenting torment.

As the echoes of her incantation subsided, a sinister calm settled upon the scene. The Queen and her Black Mage, locked in a shared understanding of the darkness they had unleashed, exchanged a knowing glance. At that moment, they were united in their pursuit of power and revenge, their eyes reflecting the depths of their malevolence. Unbeknownst to them, their actions had set in motion a chain of events with consequences far beyond their initial intentions—a complex web of fate that would entangle their enemies and themselves.

Silently, the Moon observed their dark designs, both radiant and shadowed, a silent witness to the unfolding of their malefic plan. The wheels of destiny turned, inexorably propelling them toward an uncertain future where their ambitions, their choices, and the very fabric of their beings would be tested in ways they could scarcely imagine. The stage was set, and the world awaited the consequences of their twisted desires, with the Moon casting its watchful gaze upon the tapestry of their intertwined destinies.

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

The pre-dawn air carried a biting chill, stirring Raphael from his slumber on the third day of their arduous journey. As he opened his eyes, he saw Kennet diligently saddling Goliath, their faithful companion in this race against time. The towering silhouette of Darius’s castle loomed on the horizon, a beacon of hope that promised respite and safety. Sundown was their target, and they were determined to reach their destination before darkness engulfed the land.

Raphael’s body ached from the relentless exertion and the remnants of his recent ordeal. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a more comfortable position as he sat up. Kennet’s concerned gaze found him and a tender smile curved his lips.

“How is it with you, Tiercel?” Kennet’s voice carried both warmth and worry, a testament to his unwavering devotion.

“I… I don’t know,” Raphael’s voice tinged with uncertainty. With a measured effort, he maneuvered his way onto his knees, his movements still stiff and constrained by the lingering pain.

Before either of them could speak further, a sudden and agonizing cry tore through the air. Raphael’s body convulsed, arching backward as if contorted by unseen forces. His scream echoed, piercing the stillness of the dawn as the first rays of sunlight caressed the sky. In that moment of inexplicable transformation, the veil of humanity was torn asunder. Before Kennet’s horrified eyes feathers unfurled from Raphael’s back, his limbs elongated, his fingers transformed into feathered wings resplendent in rich black and gleaming silver hues, stretching outwards with ethereal grace. The strengthening sun gilded the spread wings as the raptor that had been Raphael took to the air..

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

The afternoon was drawing into evening when Darius heard the sound of a horse approaching and paused in his gathering of herbs from his garden patch, straightening. He recognized the horse first, the big black stallion that the prince called Goliath, that legend said he alone could ride. The cap of bright blond hair identified the man himself, and on his arm sat a falcon.

“Magister Darius,” he said, drawing rein in the courtyard and swinging down from the saddle. “I need your help.”

“Anything that is in my power to do, my son.” He brushed dirt from his hands. “As ever, I am yours to command.”

“You may rethink that,” Kennet said shortly. “We are fugitives, Raphael and I. There are those who would hunt us down. But you have been our friend… will you give us sanctuary?”

“Granted,” Darius said quickly, recognizing the simmering rage in his young friend, and looked past him to where the great warhorse stood, expecting to see D’Arcy slumped over the saddle-bow. Instead, Kennet caressed the rumpled feathers of the bird he carried, a bird certainly not in the best of health. “You said Raphael and yourself; where is he?”

As Kennet held up the falcon, Darius saw a shadow pass over his young friend’s eyes.

“He is here. I don’t…I don’t know how, but this is what is left of my Raphael.” Kennet held the falcon aloft for Daruis to see.

Darius stood before the captain, his mind racing with confusion as he tried to make sense of the man’s words. How could this bird be Raphael, the man Darius bonded to Kennet just six months ago? He looked at the bird perched on Kennet’s leather-gauntleted hand, studying it intently. It was a magnificent creature, large and dark, with only a few white flecks on its breast. As Darius looked closer, he realized that this falcon was like none he had ever seen before.

It was as if the bird had been carved from the shadows themselves, its feathers deep, almost pitch black. It absorbed the light around it. But it was the eyes that caught Darius’s attention the most. They were a startling cobalt blue, piercing and intelligent, and seemed to stare directly at him. He felt a shiver run down his spine as he recognized those eyes; they belonged to Raphael.

As Darius observed the restless falcon, he couldn’t help but feel deep sympathy for the magnificent creature’s longing for freedom. He questioned how Kennet could keep such a majestic being confined, even if their arrangement was meant to benefit both of them.

“It’s the queen’s doing,” Darius blurted out in frustration.

“But how…” Kennet began, seeking an explanation.

“I suspect it was her mage, Pardoe. He dabbles in the forbidden arts, black magic that lies beyond my expertise. This must be his handiwork.”

Kennet’s response surprised Darius. “No. This is the Queen’s revenge,” he asserted. “Because I rejected her advances and left the City, she ordered Raphael to be interrogated. Marquet tortured him at her command. He’s in a terrible state, Magister…”

Concerned for Raphael’s and Kennet’s well-being, Darius suggested they retreat indoors. However, as he uttered those words, the sun sank below the horizon, casting an eerie shadow over the courtyard. In an instant, the man before Darius transformed into a black wolf, while the falcon metamorphosed into the crumpled form of the D’Arcy boy lying at Darius’ feet.

Taken aback by the bewildering turn of events, Darius instinctively recoiled as the wolf emitted a chilling howl that sent shivers down his spine. The creature swiftly disappeared into the darkness, leaving Darius bewildered and alarmed.

“What manner of mischief is this?” Darius wondered aloud. Gathering his composure, he carefully lifted the semi-conscious Raphael and carried him inside. He gently placed him on the makeshift bed in his personal room, determined to tend to the young man’s condition.

Aware of the urgency at hand, Darius set about preparing a febrifuge to alleviate Raphael’s suffering. He gathered the necessary herbs and ingredients, meticulously following the recipe. The young man’s recovery would be gradual, but Darius resolved to do everything he could to aid his healing.

He got almost a cupful down Raphael’s throat before the boy succumbed to exhaustion, then assessed the obvious injuries. Marquet’s methods of torture were common knowledge. Darius was not surprised to see the marks of the whip on the tanned back and traces of fresh blood between his thighs. Riding must have been agony. As he administered the febrifuge to Raphael, Darius contemplated the strange occurrences that had unfolded. The sudden transformations of Kennet and the falcon and Raphael’s tortured state hinted at a malevolent force at work. Darius realized that he needed to delve deeper into these mysteries, seeking knowledge and assistance from those more versed in combating dark magic.

Leaving Raphael to rest, Darius retreated to his study, where an extensive collection of arcane texts awaited him. He began scouring the pages, searching for clues and insights that could shed light on the enigmatic events he had witnessed. Simultaneously, he formulated a plan to gather allies—fellow magisters and trusted confidants—who could help him confront the Queen and her malevolent mage.

With determination fueling his efforts, Darius delved into his research, unraveling the secrets behind the transformations and seeking ways to save Raphael from the clutches of darkness.  He was grateful for his extensive herb-lore. Here at least, he was able to help. In the meantime, he took up looking through his library. The books he had smuggled out of the City before his exile were possibly the country’s most comprehensive collection of arcane knowledge. He had suspicions about the queen when she demanded that he share his knowledge with her. He thought her need for a child made her desperate, and he had counseled her against extremes.

His exile, therefore, had not been unexpected.

Now he found the information he sought. She had laid a curse on the prince and his lover, using her arts to enforce it and the assistance of dark powers.

He did not find a way to reverse it. Ameliorate it, possibly, but not reverse it.

For now, he could only seek to ease their condition.

He nursed the injured Raphael through the night, watching in horrified amazement as sunrise turned him into the falcon, and an exhausted Kennet came in to share his vigil, accepting what simple food he had to offer. “There is little more I can do, my son…”

“I know.” He did not take his eyes from the bird cradled in his lap. “What have you discovered?”

“As you know, the D’Arcy crest is that of a falcon displaying, while yours is the wolf passant. Those are the forms you have been forced into — you are the wolf at night, as he is the hawk during the day. You are bound together by the Blood Rite, the oath you took, and no curse cannot change that. Together, yet forever separate now.”

Kennet bit out an obscenity.

And the day turned into night.

The young man curled on the pallet whimpered a little, waking, and stiffened as pain made itself known.

“Be still, Raphael,” Darius said, “I know you are hurting. I have a remedy for that, at least.” The unguent was a powerful analgesic. The lash marks had faded a little; the raw flesh scabbed over. “Marquet? Yes, I recognize his tender touch. And that’s not all, I’ll wager. The man is a known rapist but escapes punishment because his victims are too afraid to accuse him. Up until now, that is.” He pulled a stool to the bedside. “Raphael, I must tell you what I told the Prince. You and he are under a curse, the most powerful I have ever seen, and I know of only one person who has the ability to call on the Dark Powers. You and he have earned the Queen’s enmity. She would have killed you save that she fears the prince’s vengeance. She dare not kill him while she has no child of the Blood Royal, but should she achieve that, then she will have no need of the prince, and you are both dead.”

The indigo-dark eyes fixed on him. “So we are condemned to this half-life….”

“Do not despair, my son. I am not without resources. I shall find a remedy, I promise you. But until then, write to him. As he will write to you. As if you were only parted by distance….”

 

Tiercel, hawk of my heart, I brought this on us by rejecting the Queen’s advances. The Magister says it is a curse she has inflicted, using dark arts, and he has yet to find a way to break it. I trust that he will, my love. You must believe that, and have faith that we will overcome this. Be strong, Tiercel. Remember that I love you. And know that Marquet is a dead man walking.

I am always yours.

Lucian.

Chapter 9 

Beloved, this is none of your doing. I trust the magister’s knowledge and know he will find a remedy for this evil curse. Until then, I hold you in my heart and trust that we will be together again. Soon.

Tiercel.

Chapter 10 

The hands of time never stop moving, and as days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months, time marches on relentlessly. It marks the passing of time with changing seasons, leaves turning from green to gold and then to brown, snowflakes falling gently from the sky, and flowers blooming in the spring. Each tick of the clock marks another second that passes by, and before it is comprehended, those seconds become minutes, those minutes become hours, then years, and then another.

And five years have passed, and as dawn swept the last remnants of the night away, a lone rider in black waited on a hilltop above the city, as he had done the dawn before and the dawn before that. Despite the cold and misty conditions, he watched the sky gradually brighten, and the gray fog lift from the valley below. He saw the golden turreted towers of Caledon Castle breaking through the mists like a glimpse of heaven. He was enchanted just for a moment by the sight, but only for a moment. He smiled mirthlessly at his own inability to stop believing this vigil would end.

For five long years, he had waited and watched for the sign he had been promised, certain it would come. But all he saw was another sunrise. Below him, the rest of the ancient city emerged from the fog. Caledon was once a thriving village, then a town, then a metropolis where people traded, ruled, and learned. But time had changed its once brilliant avenues, gilded halls, and proud homes to cramped houses and twisting, narrow streets inside grim stone walls, then surrounded it all with a moat of black, sluggish water fed by an underground river.

The fields outside the city gates were nearly as bleak. Autumn came early this year after a blistering summer with almost no rain. The year before was no better. By now, the fields of whatever poor, drought-stunted crops survived had been harvested. This year’s harvest would scarcely have fed the already-hungry people of Caledon through the winter, even if their Queen had not raised taxes again to keep her storehouses and coffers full. The specter of famine haunted the city streets. Over this decay and misery ruled a merciless queen while her husband, the true leader, withered away and the people starved.
The King’s Hall, lying at the heart of the city, kept its ethereal beauty in the full light of day, with its grand throne from which rulers of old dispensed justice and wisdom, the high windows of colored glass, and countless silken pennants turned its statue-lined walls and vaulted ceilings into a vision of paradise—the closest most of the populace would ever get to heaven on earth. The Queen had promised them their reward in the next world while she enjoyed hers now.

The gaunt, candlelit faces of the citizenry gazed impassively toward the altar, where the body of their late King lay in state. Music filled the vast space above them and overflowed into the streets, reaching even the watcher on the hill. The Queen of Caledon stood before the ornate altar, a severely resplendent figure in her black mourning dress. To the observers behind her, it seemed she was paying respects to her King: one she had never loved and, in fact, loathed. The noble class invited to this show mourned the King they loved and cherished, secretly hoping the Queen would follow him into death.

If any of them had dared to look directly at her, they would have gazed uneasily at the contrast between the richness of her clothing and the unhealthy pallor of her angular features. She was tall, with a face that showed the signs of years of self-indulgent living, and glittering eyes as pale and unforgiving as ice.

Like the echo of a shot, a dull crack rang through the Hall. The Queen glanced toward an unshuttered window as the dangling legs of three bodies swung silently from a gallows just outside Caledon Castle across the city square. The music swelled around her again, and she turned back unconcernedly to the altar.

A small crowd had gathered in the square. They stared at the limp, hanging bodies of three thieves who had abruptly met their end. The four guardsmen in charge of bringing out more prisoners for execution stood warily among them, waiting for further orders from their captain. Their crimson-and-black uniforms stood out in bloody contrast to the crowd’s drab, patched clothing. The captain looked out over the crowd with disdain, unmoved by their stares of anger and sorrow. He raised his hand and signaled the guardsmen to continue. The crowd was silent as the guardsmen marched away, the only sound being the clinking of their heavy boots on the cobblestone.

Marquet, the Captain of the Guard, had a dark beard and hard eyes. His blunt, heavily muscled body looked like it was born to commit mayhem and violence. Marquet had been their leader for five years since the Queen had charged their former captains with treason. They were outlawed for reasons none clearly understood and were said to have died in some wilderness far from home. Their old captains were men they respected and admired, and they had served them well. Marquet was neither—but he was feared, and so they obeyed him equally well. But their lives and everyone’s lives in Caledon grew harsher under Marquet’s heel; some of the guardsmen muttered darkly that someday their former captains would return and claim their revenge.

Marquet heard the whispers and, fearing the same thing, only grew more hostile. Now Marquet looked up at the gallows, smiling in satisfaction at the swinging bodies—three wretches who had been caught stealing grain from the Queen’s storehouses. On his helmet, golden eagle wings, the symbol of his rank, winked in the sunlight as he nodded. “That should give them a bellyful,” he murmured.

The Queen had made him supreme captain because he could be counted on to carry out the Queen’s orders unflinchingly . . . and to enjoy his work. He turned back to his lieutenant. “Jehan! The next three.”

Jehan saluted and led his men away across the stone-paved square toward Caledon Castle’s dungeons. Entering

an underground passage, they circled down and down the narrow, slippery steps cut out of solid rock. The air grew danker and fouler as they descended, and they heard the moaning of the prisoners down below.

A vast hole was carved into the castle’s bedrock to house the dungeon. There was no escape from these pits of hell, so deep and inescapable were they. It was a honeycomb of countless cells and cages divided by a gridwork of wood and iron, all with a clear view of the torture devices in the dungeon. These dungeons were the stuff of nightmares, with dark and dank cells of despair and no hope of ever leaving. Those unfortunate enough to be sent to the dungeon were rarely seen again.

Jehan stared through the bar’s lattice. It took him a long moment to adjust to the gloom on the other side. He held his breath; the stench of human waste and sickness was overwhelming. His eyes adjusted to the dim light as he spotted two ragged figures propped against the far wall.

A man stared fixedly ahead as if his mind had fled this pit of misery, leaving his body behind. Another prisoner murmured unintelligibly under his breath as he hummed a tuneless song. Despite the darkness, he knew neither of their gaunt, dirty faces was the one he was looking for. He pressed against the bars, searching every corner of the cell.

There was no one else in it. “Horation Guston?” he asked. He turned to the jailer. “Wrong cell. I want Horation Guston, the one they call the Bear.”

The mumbling prisoner sang audibly, “The bear, the bear . . . is neither here nor there. . .”

Peering at the almost unreadable scratches on the cell door, the jailer held up his torch. “Sir, one thirty-two. This is it.”

“He’s run away,” the prisoner sang, “No bear in the pits today . . .” He giggled, gesturing across the cell with a bony hand.

Jehan pressed against the bars again, looking into the shadowed corners of the cell. This time he saw an open drainage grate. Jehan gaped in disbelief. The hole was no more than three feet square, so no adult human could escape through it, not even that scrawny, half-grown wretch Ursus.

As he watched, a small rat scurried up out of the hole and across the reeking cell floor.

“. . . to stop the pain, he’s down the drain . . .”

“Shut up, you idiot!” Jehan snarled. He looked back at the jailer. “Open the door!”

The jailer fumbled with his keys, unlocking the door quickly. Jehan and the guards pushed into the cell. “What happened to him?” Jehan asked roughly.

The singer stared up at him with an unwavering calm. “I just told you, gentle Lord.” He gestured at the drain hole. “I tried to escape myself, but I was unable to.” He smiled, holding up his hands. “So since he still lives, you can kill me twice.”

Jehan turned away, seeing only Horatio “Ursus” Gustan, who was not there. He shoved his guardsmen toward the door furiously. “Search every sewer! Every drain! Find him, or Captain Marquet will hang you in his place!” And maybe me too, damn him . He listened to their frightened footsteps retreating down the Hall. He glanced last at the drain hole. “Incredible,” he muttered. With a curse of frustration, he left the cell.

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

Far up in the hills, too far away to make out any clear detail of the city, the rider in black sat listening to the unexpected sound of the alarm bells. He gazed down at the city for a long while and then raised his arm, and a moment later, a peregrine falcon alighted on it.  He stroked its head gently as it gave a cry.

“Yes, Tiercel, our time is coming. I’ll wait no longer,” he told the bird, then reined his black stallion around and started down the hillside away from Caledon. In another moment, he was lost in sight among the reds and golds of the late autumn trees.

 

Chapter 11 

The Queen moved serenely through the atrium courtyard of Castle Caledon, her exquisite and heavily guarded personal domain. Chrysanthemums and roses still bloomed in the court’s green and sheltered gardens. She paused to admire the castle’s beauty, a reminder of her power and status. Her personal bodyguard and secretary followed her at a discreet distance, as they always did. Outside her private chambers, she was constantly on display, and her long experience taught her never to show anything to anyone.

She glanced up as the sound of booted feet intruded on the not-so-peaceful contemplation. The Queen’s mouth tightened as she watched Captain Marquet hurry through the gardens. She had not forgotten for an instant the sound of alarm bells interrupting her ‘mourning’ of the King’s passing, false as it was. But she would not allow Marquet to know her concern. She straightened her back and composed her features into a mask of indifference as she waited for Marquet to reach her, her gaze never wavering.

Power can only be exercised when the appearance of complete confidence is present.

“Alarming news, Your Grace—” Marquet burst out, halting breathlessly before her.

The Queen frowned. “You forget yourself, Marquet.”

Marquet’s face froze. As if in reflex, he knelt to kiss the emerald ring the Queen held out to him.

As he rose to his feet, he told the Queen that one of the prisoners had escaped from the dungeon.

Queen Melissa looked at her captain, her pale eyes glittering. “No one escapes Caledon’s dungeons,” she said softly. “The people of this city accept that as fact.”

Marquet swallowed. “The responsibility is mine,” he murmured. Sweat stood out on his brow.

“Yes,” Was her only reply as she turned away from him.

Marquet dared to follow her. “It would be a miracle if he made it through the sewage system—”

“I believe in miracles, Marquet,” the Queen said. “They are an unshakable component of life.”

Marquet looked away nervously. “At any rate . . .” He fumbled for words to lift the queen’s wrath from his neck. “It’s only one insignificant petty thief. . . a nameless piece of human garbage . .”

The Queen stared coldly at him. “Great storms announce themselves with a simple breeze, Captain. And a single random spark can ignite the fires of rebellion.” She looked away, her eyes growing distant as if she possessed some otherworldly knowledge given to her in a way that no ordinary mortal could comprehend.

“If he’s out there, I’ll find him, your Grace!”

The Queen looked back at the captain, and her eyes narrowed. “Failure is not an option.” She fixed him with a steely gaze, her voice hardening. “Bring me his head,” she said. “Nothing less will do.”

Marquet nodded like a chastened schoolboy, unable to meet the gaze of the blinding figure before him. He knew better than most men that the Queen did not hold her power by chance. Her authority was absolute, and he had no choice but to obey. He bowed his head in submission, turned on his heels, and walked away as quickly as he dared. Only when Marquet was almost out of sight did the Queen’s eyelids suddenly twitch with unreadable apprehension. In her hand, she twisted her emerald ring.

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

Nothing was found in the city or its sewers when his men searched, and Marquet assembled his men to search the countryside. At the base of the curving bridge by the city gates, guardsmen gathered on horseback around an oxcart loaded with supplies. Marquet turned impatiently in his saddle as his second-in-command, Jehan, rode up.

“Take ten men to Dupuy!” he shouted. “I’ll ride north to Taroche.” Already the sun was setting; there would be little time left to search before nightfall. Horsemen milled around him as he issued orders. While he stood in his stirrups to locate the supply cart behind him, a small dripping shadow darted out from beneath the bridge’s arch and scuttled under the legs of the milling horses.
“You there!” Marquet shouted at the two men on the supply cart. “Take the supplies.”

As Marquet rode alongside it, a shadow passed under the supply cart and disappeared underneath.

“We’ll rendezvous outside Taroche at noon tomorrow.” Marquet looked back at his waiting troops, his eyes hard. “The name of the man who finds Guston will be brought to the Queen’s attention! As will the body of the man who lets him escape.” He watched as Jehan rode off at a gallop with his troops, stones and sparks flying from metaled hooves. Then he jerked his own horse’s head around and led his men away to the north.

The two guards left behind with the supply cart looked at each other in the empty silence that followed and shrugged. The driver cracked his whip, and the oxen lumbered forward, pulling the creaky wooden cart away down the rutted road.

With his feet wedged in the corner joints of the oxcart’s rear corners, Ursus clung to its mud-spattered underside like a burr. As the cart moved, he winced and groped with his abused fingers for a better hold. Suddenly, a loose board at the bottom of the cart gave way. Grinning, he slid the board aside; Never one to ignore potential, he pushed his arm up through the opening and reached for supplies. His heart leaped as his fingers closed over something he recognized instantly and unmistakably: the pouch full of coins hanging from the driver’s belt.

He gently tugged at the strings.
“If you ask me, we’re looking for a ghost,” the second guard’s voice stated sullenly as it drifted down to Ursus’ hiding place. Ursus hesitated, then tugged on the purse. Its strings were too tightly knotted. His hand made a fist in frustration, and he groped farther along the belt.

“Careful,” the driver said, and Ursus’ hand froze. “They say the Queen leaves her window open at night, and dissident voices are brought to her on a black cloud.”

Ursus’s dark fingers brushed the driver’s dagger, hanging beside the money pouch. He slid it from its sheath with a skill born of long practice and slit the purse strings deftly. The money purse and the dagger disappeared through the floorboards without a sound.

“In that case,” the second guard said, “I have a message for the Queen.” He farted loudly. “Close your window!” The two men laughed.

Beneath the cart, Ursus pulled open the pouch and examined its contents with a shrewd eye. He smiled; he glanced up with sudden guilt at the sliver of sky shining through the boards. “I know I promised not to steal again,” he whispered to whatever deity above might be listening. “Never again, I know. But I also know You realize how weak I am. This is Your way of pointing that out to me, and I humbly accept my punishment in Your name.” Pulling his feet from the corners of the wagon and letting go with his hands, he dropped silently out from under the wheels onto the dusty road. The cart and its occupants rumbled on, oblivious, into the twilight.

Ursus got to his knees in time to see the last rays of the setting sun disappear behind the distant hills. Somewhere nearby, a wolf howled. The desolate, haunting sound echoed across the empty land. Ursus looked up and crept away into the bushes at the roadside.

Ursus lived the life of a hunted animal for the next two days, hiding in the forest and sleeping in trees to avoid the guardsmen of Caledon, who had promised rich rewards for his capture and ruthless punishment for anyone who gave him aid. He had a pouch full of coins hidden under his rags, but he could not get close enough to a house even to steal food or clothing. By day he hid in the forest; at night, he slept in trees to avoid the equally pitiless hunters of the dark. Ursus stayed one step ahead of the guard, thanks to his knowledge of the forest, and his agility.

Ursus spent his second hungry, freezing night in the woods huddled in the crook of an ancient tree beneath a hopelessly inadequate shelter woven of branches. Even the weather turned against him. Despite the farmers ‘ endless prayers, the sky that had remained nearly cloudless for two years suddenly filled with storm clouds, sending down torrents of rain driven by the cold autumn wind. He clung to the trunk with numb hands while the relentless rain poured down his face. He wondered why his luck had run out so quickly. He had thought he was finally on his way to a better life. He finally succumbed to exhaustion, his body shaking from the cold; he closed his eyes and imagined a better world.

When Ursus woke up in the morning, he discovered that the rain had stopped, and his hopes brightened with the sunrise. He climbed down from the tree, moving like an arthritic old man. Stretching the cramps from his arms and legs, he ate a handful of squashed berries and started walking through the woods. Above him, Ursus heard a bird cry. It was a mournful sound and haunting, like the wolf he had heard the first night. He caught a glimpse of wings, watched it until it disappeared amongst the trees, then turned back to his own path, putting the bird and wolf out of his mind.

The morning was sunny and warm for fall. His clothes dried out for the first time in days. Around noon, Ursus finally crept close enough to a solitary cottage to steal a loaf of bread left to cool on a window shelf. He moved toward the hills, strengthened by his first substantial meal in a long time. He had not seen any guardsmen all morning and hoped he had outdistanced or at least outwaited them. Surely they must have given up hunting a worthless thief by now.

Late in the afternoon, he stopped beside a small river to rest and clean himself up. The pouring rain had already washed away the most repulsive part of Caledon’s filth and stench. His tunic and pants, which had been old and worn to begin with, were in rags now, but so were many people’s these days. And with luck, he could steal some better ones. If he could make himself halfway presentable, with the coins in his money pouch, he could pass for an honest traveler, not a hunted fugitive.

Ursus settled down on a warm rock, half hidden among the riverside weeds and rushes. He rubbed his aching feet, savoring the view of the setting sun framed by the bridge’s arch. Then, very carefully, he stripped off his ruined shirt, grimacing as the coarse cloth scraped the angry, half-healed welts on his back. He reached around and touched them gingerly, wincing. Before his capture, he’d led the Queen’s Guard on a wild and furious chase through Caledon’s maze of streets. But they caught him in the end and beat him thoroughly in retribution.

Taking advantage of the water, Ursus splashed his face with icy river water, gasping with the cold as he scrubbed his skin. He looked into the water and watched his reflection emerge for the better in the gleaming mirror of the water and thought that he had a handsome face, although a little too thin. Ursus thought it maybe suited the face of a noble’s son who had been stolen away at birth by treacherous enemies and raised by humble peasants as their own. He imagined that somewhere, a Duke or other nobleman had no idea that his long-lost heir still lived, and so he had never bothered to search for him.

He was startled back into reality when he heard a loud noise above and behind him. As Ursus turned around, he stared up the hillside. Toward the river’s edge, two horsemen in the unmistakable crimson uniforms of the Queen’s Guard rode down the hill.

He took a deep breath and leaped into the water.

As Jehan and a second guardsman rode downhill through the tall, ripe grasses, they came upon the river. He beat at the reeds by the waterside with the flat of his sword; his eyes were weary, and frustration was rising. “I could swear I saw somebody!” He sat back, dropped his reins, and sheathed his sword. He sighed and shook his head.

“We’ve been riding in circles all day. There’s nobody here.” The second guard spoke up.

“Until Captain Marquet has been satisfied—that the Queen has been satisfied,” Jehan said truculently.

Their barely intelligible voices carried dimly to Ursus, lying on his back beneath the water’s surface among the rushes. He breathed shallowly through the hollow stalk of a reed, watching foam from the mouths of the grazing horses drift lazily downward toward his face.

Why me?

And then the reed was suddenly pulled from between his teeth. A horse tore it free, along with a mouthful of rushes. Suddenly breathless, Ursus barely stopped the shocked gasp that would have drowned him. He clutched frantically at the rushes, holding himself down against his frantic need to leap up and fill his lungs with air.

“Marquet’s life hangs in the balance,” Jehan droned above, “and he knows it.”

Leave! Leave! Ursus’ mind screamed. Any minute his lungs would burst. . . .any second—

Jehan’s horse plunged its nose into the water again, rooting among the weeds. All at once a violent spout of spray exploded into its face. The horse lunged backward with a panicked snort, nearly throwing Jehan into the river. Jehan pulled on the reins frantically, saving himself from falling. Getting his mount under control, he turned back to the water’s edge.

Before his astonished eyes were the equally astonished figure of Horatio “Ursus” Gustan.

Jehan stared, his face filled with recognition and rage.

“I’m sorry,” Ursus gasped. “That’s entirely my fault. Here, let me dry your horse off. . .” He stumbled toward the shore in fear.

“It’s him!” the second guard shouted.

“No, it’s not!” Ursus shrieked.

Jehan drew his sword, pointing it at Ursus. “Get him!”

Ursus turned to dive back into the river, but the other guard was before him, cutting him off and driving him back to the shore. As he scrambled up the bank, Jehan bore down on him, the guardsman’s sword shining and deadly in his hand. Ursus yelped hysterically as the blade came down to cut him in two. But instead, its flat struck him hard on the rump and knocked him sprawling in the grass. He rolled onto his back, looking up in disbelief. Jehan’s face loomed above him, grinning savagely. Then he understood: They were playing a game of cat and mouse.

Ursus scrambled to his feet and bolted up the hill, running harder than ever. Above him was the bridge; if he could only get to the bridge . . .

The two horsemen followed him at an easy canter, letting him run himself out. Their laughter goaded him like a lash.

He finally reached the top of the hill, just as he had decided it was endless. Sobbing for air, he threw himself onto the bridge and began to run across it. The flat wooden planks gave him fresh speed, but behind him, he heard the clatter of hooves bursting onto the wood. He looked back futilely as he ran, and his foot caught on a loose board and he pitched forward onto the hard planks, knocking the last of his breath out of him. He lay still for a long moment, paralyzed by the knowledge of his imminent death. But no sword fell; no blinding instant of pain ended his terror. An uncanny silence stretched on and on around him until, finally, he dared to raise his head.

His jaw dropped.

His head rested between an enormous black war-horse’s steel-shod hooves and muscular forelegs. The hooves shifted slightly; wisps of steam curled from the great beast’s nostrils into the chill air. Dark eyes rolled to look down at him with almost human suspicion from its finely formed head. The horse was the most magnificent creature he had ever seen. And then he saw the black-clad leg of a rider pressing its side.

Ursus pushed himself up slowly and jerked upright as the fierce cobalt-blue-eyed hawk resting on the rider’s gauntlet screamed suddenly. It hissed at him, flaring its wings. Ursus sat back on his knees, gaping at the man who controlled both falcon and horse. He thought that the looming, hooded figure, dressed all in black, could only be the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse. His black cloak was lined with flaming red, like a glimpse of hellfire, as he shifted in his saddle to look down at Ursus. He held a gleaming longsword in his free hand, and the cold blue eyes that shone in his shadowed face were as distant and threatening as death. Ursus tore his gaze away from the silent figure and looked back over his shoulder.

The two guardsmen sat on their horses, momentarily frozen with the same awe. Their mounts pranced and backed nervously as if even they sensed the aura of danger that hung about the man in black.

At last, Jehan roused himself. “Clear the bridge.”

The stranger made no reply, sitting motionless on his horse. The rising wind moaned uneasily in the trees.

“The man’s an escaped prisoner.” Jehan raised his voice. “We’re taking him in.”

“On whose authority?” the stranger asked at last.

“Her Grace, the Queen of Caledon.”

Only Ursus saw the fleeting, involuntary twitch of the stranger’s mouth that might have been a smile. And then the war-horse lunged forward, and the falcon rose to shriek into the air.

Ursus threw himself aside, barely avoiding being trampled.

The second guard charged forward to meet the man in black, his sword raised. The stranger’s horse reared with all the fury and splendor of a mythological beast. One deadly sweep of the stranger’s sword cut through the guardsman’s ribcage and sent him sideways off his horse and over the edge of the bridge. His scream echoed as he plummeted toward the river below.

Before the first man struck the water, the stranger had turned on Jehan, unhorsing him in one swift motion. Jehan crumpled to the planks of the bridge; he tried to rise again, only to find the stranger standing over him with his sword point jammed at his throat. Jehan swallowed hard, looking up with white-ringed eyes into the face of Death.

The man in black pushed back his hood. Jehan’s face turned even paler as he recognized the man who stood over him. “Return to Marquet,” the stranger said. “Tell him Captain Kennet is back.”

Jehan nodded, speechless with fear. He got to his feet and ran back the way he had come. The rider watched as Jehan scabbled onto his horse and galloped into the dusk. At last, the stranger turned back and remounted his own horse. The falcon spiraled down out of the indigo heights of the sky and settled on his wrist again. He sat for a moment, gazing curiously at Ursus, who still stood weak-kneed with awe where he had left him. Then he nudged his horse forward, riding toward the small, silent, waiting figure.

Ursus shook himself out of his daze, pulling himself up until he was almost standing on his toes. “Magnificent, sir!” he shouted. “A dazzling display! As I’m sure you could tell, I was in the process of luring them onto the bridge when you arrived, and . . .”

The rider reined in his horse, staring down at Ursus with a cryptic smile. “An escaped prisoner from Caledon?” he said, almost to himself. “Not from the dungeons.”

“Why not from the dungeons?” Ursus asked incredulously.

“No one ever has.” The man spoke like someone who knew why it ought to be impossible.

Ursus raised his eyebrows, considering the possibility that he had actually done something remarkable. But he only shrugged, too much of a gentleman to brag about his exploits.

Leaning forward across his saddlebow, the man studying Ursus thoughtfully. Then all at once, he looked up again, away toward the west, where the sun was disappearing behind the hills. His face turned grim and tight. Prodding his mount with his spurs, he started on across the bridge, passing Ursus silently as if he had ceased to exist.

Startled, Ursus reached up, not quite daring to put a hand on the other man. “Sir? Wait . . .”  The rider didn’t even glance down.

Ursus trotted after him. “You see, the truth is I’ve been thinking of taking on a traveling companion . . .” Still no response. More desperately, he shouted, “There are more guards out there! You’ll need a good man to watch your flank!” He was running.

The stranger rode away into the darkness without looking back.

Ursus stopped running, letting his hands drop. He turned around and walked back to the bridge, trying to ignore the nameless ache that was suddenly filling his chest. He peered down past the edge of the wooden planks, seeing the dead guard’s body drifting in the reeds. He shook his head ruefully.

“You were severely outclassed, my friend. You never had a chance.” He glanced back in the direction the stranger had gone with a brief smile of gratitude and regret. And then he went on across the bridge to the guard’s waiting horse to unhook the purse from its saddle. “I will just take care of this, my dear sir; you won’t mind, will you.” He glanced back at the body. “Don’t mention it,” he called as he started on his way again.

 

Chapter 12 

As the night wore on, the rain returned with a vengeance and intensified, drenching the surroundings and amplifying Ursus’s misery. He couldn’t help but wonder if the two-year drought had come to an end only to torment him further. Seeking refuge, Ursus endured yet another miserable night perched in a tree, jolted awake by lightning flashes and the ominous rumbling of thunder. With the morning light, he descended from his temporary arboreal shelter and resumed his journey until he finally reached a quaint village in a narrow mountain valley.

Unfortunately, the farming community here was worse than on the drought-stricken plain around Caledon. The mud-brick-and-plaster houses inside a crumbling stone wall showed the villagers’ poverty. Despite this, Ursus, who was shivering behind a ramshackle shed just inside the walls, noticed they were still better off than he was. One part of his mind was always alert for any sign of his pursuers, even here. The fact that he now understood why the Queen’s guards wanted to recapture him didn’t make him more willing to give them a chance.

It was afternoon, and a few villagers were outside. Ursus assumed they were in their homes, eating midday meals. He felt a pang in his stomach at the mere thought of food. Since no one else was outside, Ursus decided to get himself some decent clothes.

“It is more blessed to give than to receive,” he muttered and quickly darted out of hiding to snatch a pair of boots left to dry on a doorstep.

Once safely under cover, he removed the tattered remains of his soft-soled shoes and slid his feet into a pair of damp leather boots. He bound them tightly to his legs for a secure fit, then stood up with a satisfied grin. He proudly identified himself as Ursus the Bear, the sole escapee from Caledon’s dungeons.

This was a task he could do effortlessly. He swiftly moved to another house and took a hooded woolen garment from a clothesline. He ignored a pair of pants that looked similar to his tattered ones.

The tunic engulfed him like a shroud as he pulled it on. He rolled up his shirt sleeves with a purposeful air so his hands were free and resumed his journey, walking along the outskirts of the village, taking careful notice of his surroundings as he walked. As he approached a dilapidated or unfinished house, he stumbled upon a clothesline that displayed a pair of pants in better condition. Sneaking into the yard, he stood upright to examine them closely. However, he was disappointed with what he saw and made a disapproving face.

“His tailor could be a better friend to him, but . . .”

With a nonchalant shrug, he swiftly reached out and plucked the pants from the taut clothesline. He quickly averted his gaze as he caught a whiff of food and smoke. His attention was drawn to a dilapidated tavern that he spotted between the houses. Smoke wafted from its chimney.

Barely stopping long enough to change his pants, he hurried down the muddy street.

In the tavern’s shabby courtyard, the villagers savored the last days of autumn, gathering around wooden tables, protected by a lattice covered in vines, enjoying food and drink. A crackling fire in a central firepit took a little chill out of the air.

As Ursus stepped into the enclosed tavern yard, he discreetly scanned each face. It became apparent that their demeanor was subdued upon carefully observing the patrons. Some individuals wore scowls, while others appeared disinterested and indifferent. Overall, the atmosphere lacked the warmth and friendliness Ursus would expect in a tavern. A blacksmith worked at a nearby forge just beyond the wall as a sullen barmaid moved silently among the tables.

As Ursus walked past, the patrons casually continued their conversation without looking up. He was utterly ignored, and nobody seemed to care about him or his borrowed clothes. At first, he was only relieved, but his ego began to prickle as moments passed.

Surely they couldn’t get that many strangers in this town.

Despite his size, he wasn’t invisible.

He reminded himself that he was Horatio Guston, the one who had managed to escape from the dungeons of Caledon and lived to tell the tale. He faced many dangers and survived. He was brave and strong and determined to fight for…

For…Well, he didn’t quite know what he would fight for, but if given the chance, he would fight for something.

Impulsively, Ursus pulled out his hefty purse and dropped it on a table in front of the barmaid.

“I want one of your finest wines,” he thundered. “And the same for anyone who joins me in a toast!”

This time the patrons glanced up at him in curiosity, but only for a moment before they all turned back to their conversations.

The barmaid returned with a heavy earthenware mug. Ursus looked critically at her as he took the drink from her hand.

“Not much of a recommendation.” He jerked his head at the mug. Ursus felt a sense of unease as he watched the girl walk away without response. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was amiss in the town. It was as if the entire place was under a strange enchantment.

“Let’s hear your toast,” a voice said suddenly behind him.

Ursus turned. An enormous, surly-looking man wearing a heavy cloak stood up, moving toward him.

“We drink to a special man, my friend,” Ursus said recklessly. “Someone who’s been inside Caledon’s dungeons and lived to tell the tale.” He raised his mug and took a long drink.

The stranger sneered at Ursus. “Then you drink to me, fool. My name is Fornac, and I’ve seen those dungeons.”

Ursus looked the man up and down, taking in his thick neck and heavily muscled body, feeling unsure of what the man was talking about. Ursus assumed it was a joke because he had been the only one who managed to escape. “Then you’re maybe a blacksmith? A woodsman? or even a stonecutter.”

“I didn’t say I was a prisoner.” Fornac reached up to his throat, unhooking his cloak. He threw it off. Beneath it, he wore the Queen’s Guard blood-red uniform.

Ursus froze as other men rose from the tables, removing their cloaks. Ursus stepped back in shock, only to find that the men had encircled him. All of them were members of the royal guard.

His situation was a precarious one. The regular patrons sat numbly, their faces taut with fear. Their strange behavior suddenly made perfect sense to him, but it was too late. He had been discovered. He knew he couldn’t escape. All he could do now was hope he could talk his way out of this situation.

A small curse escaped him as he watched Jehan rise from a dice game near the fire with the Captain of the Guard at his side. Marquet’s eyes locked with his, and Ursus knew his fate was sealed. He was about to be arrested or killed, and there was no way he could escape. He steeled himself for the inevitable confrontation, bracing himself for whatever came.

“If you’d stuck to the woods, you might have stood a chance, Ursus,” Marquet said.

“You’re right,” Ursus said miserably. He stared at the half-eaten meal on a nearby table with a desperate longing before he cleared his throat. “That is . . . actually, I was trying to find you, Captain.” Marquet stared blankly at him; the thief rushed on, stumbling over the words. “One of your men was cruelly murdered not far from here. But you’re in luck. I’m willing to exchange the name of his killer for a pardon from you.” Ursus realized, hopelessly, that this time it even sounded unbelievable to him.

Marquet glanced at Fornac. “Kill him,” he said.

As Fornac brandished his sword with fierce determination, he was poised to follow Marquet’s order. Meanwhile, Ursus deftly grabbed his drink and hurled it into the guard’s eyes, and taking advantage of the distraction, he swiftly slipped under a nearby table away from danger, deftly weaving between the legs of the startled villagers.

Food, plates, and pitchers were thrown heedlessly onto the ground by guards who rushed to the heavy table and turned it over.

There was no one beneath it.

“There he is!” Fornac shouted as Ursus darted out from behind a man sitting at the next table—straight into the waiting arms of another guard.

“Got him!” the guard declared triumphantly.

Ursus squirmed wildly until he freed an arm. He broke away from the guard with a well-aimed elbow and slipped under the table.

The guards leaped after him, searching every corner, upending tables and hurling chairs aside in heedless anger, throwing the courtyard into pandemonium. Patrons screamed and ran; the guards forced them back as they tried to flee the yard.

But Ursus the Bear seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

The courtyard grew quiet when Marquet directed a menacing stare at the frightened faces around him.

Suddenly, a shriek broke the silence from the courtyard’s edge as Ursus emerged from behind a large, angry middle-aged woman’s woolen skirt.

“Purely unintentional, madam,” Ursus gasped in apology. Looking frantically right and left, he faced the gauntlet of guards between him and the gateway. This time there would be no escape. He knew he would die even if he surrendered.

In the face of such insurmountable odds, in an attempt to escape, he drew his dagger defiantly and leaped back into the crowd, trying to make his way to the yard entrance.  Watching Ursus’ progress, Marquet pushed through the patrons on a course of interception as inevitable as night following day.

Marquet was just behind the thief when a guard caught Ursus’ arm, causing him to spin around. In doing so, Ursus’ dagger hand swung wildly through the air, grazing Marquet’s cheek with its tip.

A frozen mask of rage covered Marquet’s face as he stood before his prisoner. He had a jagged scratch on his jaw that caused blood to drip down his face. Slowly, his hand rose and touched the blood, confirming the wound. Marquet’s voice was low and menacing as he spoke. “You will pay for this,” he said. “You will pay dearly.”

Ursus slumped in the guard’s grasp, equally shocked as he realized what he had done and what it meant for him. “I’m . . . so sorry . . .” The words tumbled mindlessly out of his mouth. “Please, you must believe me. I didn’t mean to do it.”

The guard’s expression was unreadable, and Marquet gestured to his men.

Two of them pinned Ursus against a roof pole, while a third raised his sword to skewer his helpless prisoner.

Taking a step forward, Marquet grinned.

Ursus turned his face away; his eyes squeezed shut, and whimpered, his entire body shaking. Marquet smirked, feeling a sense of satisfaction.

Out of nowhere, a knife struck the guardsman in the arm and he dropped his sword with a shout of pain.

“Marquet!”

Marquet froze as he recognized the voice that called his name. He turned slowly, and his men turned with him to see the owner of the voice standing like a deadly shadow at the courtyard entrance. His longsword swung ready in his right hand, and a loaded crossbow rested in the crook of his left arm.

Marquet’s eyes widened as they confirmed what his ears told him.

The yard around him was utterly still.

“Captain Kennet. Oh, wait, no longer Captain.” Marquet sneered. “Fugitive, and by all accounts, a dead man.”  Marquet looked around as if searching for someone else. “Tell me, fugitive, where is your lover-boy, your Tiercel — did he tell you I clipped his pretty wings? He was a good fuck, just laid there and took what I gave him; I can see why you liked him. Yes, a good fuck indeed.”

The guards were no longer paying attention to Ursus; instead, they focused on Marquet and Kennet. Ursus slid to the ground out of the guard’s reach using the distraction. Ignoring Marquet, the Captain stepped forward and held out a hand to help Ursus to his feet, then shifted, pushing Ursus behind him, keeping his crossbow leveled at Marquet. “Go,” he said briefly to the thief.

“Yes, sir,” Ursus mumbled. “Thank you, sir . . .” Pulling himself together, he stumbled and ran out of the courtyard.

Kennet stood like a statue, blocking the courtyard entrance while the young thief ran past him into the street. Then he called out abruptly, “Marquet. Look at me.” Marquet’s eyes returned to him from watching the boy flee. They burned with deadly hatred—almost as deadly as his own hatred for Marquet.

“One of my men told me you were back,” Marquet snarled, his eyes never leaving his old rival. “I wanted to cut out his tongue for lying because I knew you weren’t that stupid.” He glanced at Jehan. “Forgive me, Jehan. You are restored to your former rank.”

Kennet gazed at the man who had stolen his life and helped destroy everything that had ever had any meaning for him.  Marquet, the sadistic, craven bully, the Queen’s willing henchman.

“I promised myself and Raphael that you would die by my sword, and my face would be the last thing you saw when you took your last breath.”

Marquet laughed in his face. “You have no power here. Your threats mean nothing to me.”

Kennet growled in rage, advancing on Marquet. But as Kennet lifted his crossbow, a guard rose from behind an overturned table, aimed his own weapon, and fired.

Kennet caught the motion out of the corner of his eye, turned, and fired almost simultaneously. His own bolt did not miss. The guard’s arrow, however, whizzed past him, inches from his face.

Kennet spun back, leveling his sword, searching for Marquet—and found himself face to face with another guard, a man he recognized.

Aumery. Raphael’s friend, and his own, who had helped them escape the Queen.

“Captain,” he murmured to Kennet, “I . . .”

Kennet nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “It’s alright, Merry. This isn’t your fault.”

“Oh, Aumery,” Marquet called from behind. When the guard looked over his shoulder, the captain’s heavy boot slammed savagely into the guard’s back, shoving him forward and impaling Aumery on his former commander’s sword.

Aumery gasped in pain, his eyes wide with horror before death claimed him. Kennet reached for his fallen friend, easing him to the ground. He briefly clasped his friend’s hand, bent his head, and touched Aumery’s forehead with his own. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, pulling the sword free of Aumery’s body.  Kennet swung it and his gaze to Marquet. He focused all his anger and sorrow on the man before him. He raised the sword above his head, ready to strike.

Seeing Kennet’s rage, Marquet stumbled backward in fear, narrowly avoiding his rival’s sword as it splintered a chair close to his head. Leaping out of the path of another strike, Marquet roared at his men to attack.

Kennet fought with the furious intensity of someone obsessed. Still, he was only one man, armed with one sword, against more than a dozen attackers. He ran another man through, but this time not one that he knew.

Sparks flew from the clash of steel on steel; his sword arm ached from the shock of a hundred blows. But his skill always remained strong. He gave ground slowly, and fewer attackers surrounded him one by one.

Marquet was just as fixated on his adversary. The person he despised had resurfaced and liberated a captive whose existence was more valuable than his own. Kennet had returned to retrieve what belonged to him, and Marquet’s animosity grew along with his concealed apprehension as he elbowed his way through the panic-stricken crowd as Kennet was forced back to the edge of the firepit, barely clear of the flames.

Kennet looked up to see Marquet advancing, murder in his eyes. He killed another man instinctively and shoved him at Marquet as he pulled his sword free, swinging it at Marquet’s head.

His sword glanced along the captain’s helmet, slicing off the golden eagle wings, the insignia of his rank.

Marquet’s face contorted with fury as he realized the man had done it intentionally.

Kennet smiled grimly and, reaching behind him, jerked a blazing branch from the firepit and drove it at Marquet’s face. Marquet leaped aside, lost his balance, and tumbled into the fire. Guards rushed to his aid, dragging him from the pit and beating out the flames on his cloak.

Kennet seized his chance in the confusion and fought his way back toward the exit.

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

Outside in the street, Ursus pushed himself away from the nearest building wall and forced his leaden feet to move, stumbling with shock and exhaustion. He looked back at the tavern, still unable to believe what had just happened. As he fled, he stumbled upon a group of guard horses in the stableyard next to the tavern. He quickly halted, using all his willpower to keep his footing. The sight of the horses made him nervous, as he had never ridden one before and found them intimidating. Nonetheless, he realized that riding a horse would greatly increase his chances of survival.

The animals, so massive beside even a large, heavy man, loomed over him like mountains.

Under normal circumstances, Ursus would not have considered this insanity. However, these were not normal circumstances. He had no other choice. Taking a deep breath, Ursus steeled himself and stepped forward. His hands fumbled as he untied the reins of the nearest horse. With one hand on the saddle, he struggled to get his foot into the stirrups. The horse backed away from him when it sensed his nervousness.
“Nice horse,” Ursus soothed unconvincingly. Trying to hide his fear, he tried again. “Good horse. .. .”
The horse jerked back and bolted down the street.

Ursus looked tensely toward the tavern. The shouts and screams, the clash of metal, told him the fight was still going on. His savior was holding off the entire company of guards single-handedly.

Ursus briefly considered returning to help the man who had just saved his life. In the same instant, he realized that the idea was not only suicidal but also completely absurd. As soon as he freed the reins, he jammed his foot into the stirrup of the next horse.

He held on to the saddle, boosting himself up, without seeing the dangling cinch strap. The saddle slid off the horse’s back and crashed to the ground on top of him. Cursing with frustration and humiliation, Ursus ran to the next horse.

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

In the tavern courtyard, Kennet engaged in a fierce battle. Despite sustaining several minor injuries, his will to escape remained strong as he approached the gateway with two guards standing in his way. With each passing moment, Kennet felt his reaction time slowing down, but he persisted in trying to gain freedom. He knocked the last guard aside and sprinted out of the courtyard. Marquet might still be alive, but he had accomplished what he had come to do, the truly vital thing—saving the young thief.

Incredulous dismay flooded his face as he saw Ursus still visible, as a horse without a rider galloped by. The boy stood in the middle of a crowd of horses, trying vainly to catch them. Ursus looked up as Kennet burst into view, and his own face filled with dismay. He turned and ran.

With intense anger boiling inside, Kennet quickly approached his stallion and vaulted astride it. The bird perched on his saddle, spread its wings, and flew upwards as Kennet turned his horse and thundered down the street to pursue the man he had rescued from Marquet. A horn blast from one of the guards behind him signaled a warning. Kennet, looking ahead, knew what was about to happen and clenched his teeth in frustration. He watched as the man foolishly fell into another trap, cursing him under his breath.

The town wall loomed ahead of them. There was an open wooden gate at the end of the street, but the guard stationed there had heard the horn blast and pushed it shut.

Ursus looked back as he ran, panic and terror lending his feet wings. “No! No! No!” he cried.

Kennet heard more horses galloping behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Fornac and another guard riding hard after him. He looked forward again, just in time to see the heavy gate slam closed. His target was within reach, though. Leaning down from his saddle, Kennet thrust out his arm and scooped Ursus up. The thief’s wiry body barely exerted any strain on his arm. He flung Ursus across the front of his saddle like a sack of meal and dug his spurs into the stallion’s flanks. The black’s heavy muscles bunched as he gathered himself and leaped into the air. He cleared the gate as if winged and landed on the other side.

The guard waiting at the gate lunged at them as they flew past, only to be kicked in the head by the fleeing knight. Kennet looked back, steadying Ursus’ groaning body with his hand. Behind him, their two pursuers cleared the gate with far less grace. He grabbed the sling from his saddle and thrust a stone into it. Whirling it over his head, he let the stone fly. It struck Fornac’s rider in the head, knocking him off his horse.

But Ursus’ awkward burden slowed his stallion, and Fornac got closer. Kennet glanced up into the sky. The peregrine wheeled in the blue heavens high above him, its silhouette like a drawn crossbow. “Hoy!” he shouted.

The raptor screeched and plummeted through the air, its talons flashing like knives as it dove toward Fornac. The guardsman flung up his arm with a shout and fell from his horse as it reared up.

Kennet rode on without looking back as the bird soared triumphantly over his head.

 

Chapter 13 

Kennet led his majestic war horse through the brambles while the man he saved sat behind him in the saddle. They had been traveling for hours, and the man was growing weary. They had been riding further up into the hills and the trees that offered protection from those hunting them. The captain, however, refused to stop, determined to ride until they were out of danger.

Ursus wondered who this man was and why he had shown interest in him. He watched the captain curiously, still wondering who he was and why he risked his life to save him. He didn’t even know his name beyond “Captain”.  If they rode together, he should know more.

“Do you have a name?” Ursus asked. There was a grunt in response.

“What was that, sir?” Ursus was surprised to hear the man speak. Up to this point, he had said only a handful of words, most of which were orders of some form or another.

“Most call me Kennet.”

“So, Captain Kennet?”

Kennet smiled, “No, just Kennet.”

“Well, Kennet, I am known as Horatio Gustan by your people, but I am known to others as Ursus. The Bear.”

A small grunt of acknowledgment was all Ursus got in response.

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

The sun was about two hours from setting when two men on one enormous black horse rode slowly out of the trees into a clearing where an isolated farm stood amongst the brambles and undergrowth. As the Captain pulled up the black horse, Ursus surveyed the farmyard. The unkempt state of the surroundings took him aback – the dilapidated barn, the dirty yard, and the cottage with peeling walls and decaying thatch. This was not what he expected for his overnight stay. He sighed heavily, knowing that his prospects for the night had gone from bad to worse. He looked at the Captain, who had a grim look, and realized he was in for a long night.

As far up into the hills as he was, there were few human habitations-and he knew that the man who had rescued him was just as hunted as he was. The weapons Kennet carried and his manner suggested he had been a fugitive for a long time. They had to take what they could get for now. Besides, at this point, he would gladly spend the night in hell itself to get off this horse.

Kennet swung down out of the saddle. Ursus slid down after him, barely keeping his feet as he landed. His body ached in so many places by now that the pains almost seemed to cancel each other out.

“Hoy!”Kennet gave a cry to the falcon, and the bird exploded from the saddle, soaring up into the late-afternoon sunlight. Kennet looked at the thief  “The falcon will get us some food while you gather some wood for the fire.”

A short time later, they had not one but two freshly killed rabbits for their dinner feast. At Kennet’s orders, Ursus built a fire in the yard, while the older man skinned the rabbits and spitted them on sticks.  The peregrine sat perched on the peak of the barn above them, like a sentinel watching, guarding. Silence descended on the clearing in front of the old barn while they ate. Kennet ate desultorily, though he had not eaten at all during the afternoon, even after his battle at the tavern. Ursus watched his companion across the fire from him and ate his meal silently.

The only sound was the occasional rustle of leaves as a breeze moved through the trees above them, and the crackling of their small fire. To Ursus, the quiet was unnerving. He was used to the city’s hustle and bustle, and the forest’s peacefulness felt eerie in the fading light. He glanced around, half expecting to see something creeping out from the shadows.

The falcon’s screech broke through the quiet and startled Ursus. He looked up to see its flaring wings as it looked away toward the setting sun. Kennet raised his head at the cry and looked toward the horizon as if following its gaze. He tossed a bone into the fire and rose slowly to his feet.

Ursus looked at the Captain. Kennet’s face, ruddy with sunset and fire glow, was the stark face of a man awaiting execution. A profound sadness welled behind the man’s eyes. Finally, Kennet turned and walked silently past the fire and away, his tall, dark figure silhouetted against the bloody rays of the sun.

Ursus stared after him with curiosity.

Kennet strode past the ramshackle barn to where the black stallion patiently grazed among the weeds. He began to rummage in his saddlebags, heedless of the thief or what he might think. His hands found the fluid softness of cloth and the cold curve of burnished metal with the ease of long familiarity. He drew out a man’s shirt of periwinkle-blue silk and the golden-winged helmet he had worn once in his rightful place as the Captain of the Guard.

He stared at them for a long moment, lost in memory, before looking up again at the setting sun. “One day . . .” He repeated a vow that he had made to himself and his lover so many sunsets ago. A vow that gave him the strength to face the night ahead.

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

Ursus rose from his place at the fire, abandoning the rabbit remains, and followed the captain quietly across the yard. Ursus got to within an arm’s length of the man, the other did not even hear him.

Ursus halted uncertainly, peering past Kennet’s shoulder. He blinked in surprise as he saw a man’s fine silk shirt neatly packed among the supplies. Ursus couldn’t imagine the shirt belonging to the captain, who was all dressed in black, as if in mourning. He watched curiously as Kennet’s hands pushed past it, searching for something hidden deeper in the bag. He pulled out a worn journal and opened it carefully.

Kennet’s hands trembled as he turned the pages.

“Sir?” Ursus whispered.

Kennet spun around with the speed of a striking snake. Ursus saw tears shining in his eyes in the split second before those eyes filled with furious rage.

Ursus fell back a step, his heart constricting with the same terror he had known when he first saw his rescuer. He opened his mouth, but for a moment, nothing at all would come out. “If . . . there’s nothing else I can do,” he managed, “I think I’ll turn in.”

Slowly Kennet’s face changed. The storm passed through his eyes and was gone as suddenly as it had come. He ran a hand through his close-cropped, fair hair. “There’s a stall in the barn,” he said brusquely. “Before you gather more firewood, see to my horse.”

Ursus swallowed a hard lump of unexpected irritation and nodded as agreeably as possible. He reached out for the black’s reins with an uncertain hand, trying his best to imagine an ancient, docile cart horse. “C’mon, old girl, let’s . . .”

A violent snort escaped the horse’s lips, and it jerked the reins from his hand. As though insulted, it fixed Ursus with a furious stare.

A nervous smile spread across Ursus’ face. “Spirited lady, isn’t she?” Ah. . . can you tell me her name?” His response was hopeful that things would improve if he could get to know the creature more personally.

“His name is Goliath,” Kennet said.

Ursus flushed. “Pretty name,” he said, refusing to back down.

Kennet took the stallion’s reins and handed them to Ursus. “It’s okay; go with him; he didn’t mean it,” he told the horse.

Ursus felt disappointed when he led the horse away, as the beast didn’t acknowledge him. In fact, he bet that the giant horse could make his own way to the barn without assistance from him.

With a sigh, Ursus led the stallion carefully and spoke frankly. “Goliath, let me share a story with you about a man named David……”

As Ursus and the stallion disappeared into the barn, Kennet couldn’t help but smile at the boy’s ability to break through his tough exterior. His attention then turned towards a patch of sunflowers still in bloom amidst the surrounding weeds. The setting sun’s glow beautifully washed the bright orange faces of the flowers. Kennet gazed at them wistfully and plucked the largest one, twirling it slowly as he lost himself in thought, his mind wandering far away from his present surroundings.

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

By the time Ursus had finished his clumsy attempts at bedding down Goliath, darkness had completely fallen. His rescuer was nowhere in sight. Ursus looked back at the barn with longing; the musty hay inside suddenly seemed softer than a down-filled mattress.

Everyone on earth must be asleep now, except him . . .

Ursus felt that it wouldn’t make any difference even if he were here to plead with Kennet to skip collecting wood.  The man was completely pitiless, with no compassion at all for the ordeal he had been through these past few days. Ursus rubbed his burning eyes and trudged wearily into the forest at the edge of the clearing. He began to collect dead branches and brush, grateful that at least he had bright moonlight from the full moon above to work by.

After what felt like an endless period, he returned to the farm through the trees, struggling with a cumbersome bundle of branches. The wood kept getting entangled in his clothes and snagged on various obstacles. He dropped two more every time he stooped to retrieve a dropped branch. He trudged towards the barn, grumbling under his breath in frustration.

“ ‘Comrade in arms.’ ‘Slave’ is more like it.” He deepened his voice in a mocking imitation of Captain Kennet, “ ‘See to the fire! Feed the animals, gather the wood . . .’ ”

The tall blond man was no better than the rest.

“Look at me. I was better off in the dungeons of Caledon. My cellmate was insane and a murderer, but at least he respected me!”

He broke off, suddenly remembering that he didn’t know where the man he cursed was. The Captain might even be watching him now, as he had apparently watched him for the last two days.

Ursus glanced back over his shoulder uneasily. “He’s a strange one,” he muttered to himself. He was no longer certain that the man was quite sane. “And he wants something from me. I can see it behind his eyes.”

After some reflection, he realized that Kennet had been dishonest with him. It was foolish of him to believe that the Captain saw him as a fellow warrior. Ursus now understood that he was nothing more than a tool to be used.

Overwhelmed by the tension of the past week, he abruptly stopped moving and gritted his teeth. In a fit of anger, he threw down the piece of wood he was holding. “I refuse to do whatever you want!” he yelled. “Furthermore, I cannot accept the risk of being at the mercy of a constantly moving target.” The only response he received was the sound of the wind. “I am still young and have a bright future ahead of me!” he shouted towards the barn.

Ursus was startled by the loud snap of a twig in the nearby darkness. He froze and listened carefully, hearing more rustling in the bushes. The thought of being watched made him feel uneasy. He called out, “Hello?” with mixed feelings of wanting and not wanting a response.

Silence.

Another tiny snap.

Silence again.

Ursus’ eyes narrowed as he looked around him, seeing nothing but impenetrable darkness between the trees. He cursed himself for not bringing his dagger or even a light. All he had to defend himself with was his wits. “Who do you think’s out there?” he said loudly. “Pierre, you’d better draw your sword! Ah, Louis, you brought your crossbow! We’ll all go back to the barn now.”

He answered himself in a variety of muffled voices, “Right!.. Yes . . . Right!.” He turned, listening, hearing the sounds behind him in the woods more clearly now as they moved his way like measured steps.

Whatever or whoever was stalking him was not impressed.

The back of his neck prickled. He backed up a few steps, turned around again, and began to walk quickly in the direction of the barn. The presence followed him, matching his pace. Struggling to stay calm, he began to jog. Whatever was behind him picked up speed, keeping perfect time.

Ursus panicked and ran. He bolted blindly through the trees, swatted by branches and scratched by thorns. His pursuer crashed through the brush after him. At last, he burst out of the woods into the clearing and pulled himself up short with a gasp of relief.

He turned, looking back—

Ursus threw up his hands, crying out. Then he turned and ran to the barn.

“Sir! . . . Come quickly, sir! . . . Wolf! . . . Wolf!” He crashed through the entrance, flinging the barn doors wide. “Sir! You must come!”  The captain was nowhere in sight.

Ursus slid to a stop and spun around desperately.

A crossbow rested against the barn wall in a shaft of moonlight. Ursus grabbed it up, snatched a bolt from the quiver, and ran to a wide crack between boards. He peered through, sweat trickling into his eyes.

Ursus wiped his forehead on his sleeve and tried to cock the weapon and notch the bolt into the bow with little success. His arms strained until they shook; the string barely gave. He relaxed his grip, panting, realizing, exasperated, that the bow belonged to a man twice as strong as he was. He tried once again, throwing all the strength of his panic against the unyielding string and wood. Slowly, the bow began to arch.

A hand draped in black reached past him and flicked the arrow from the bowstring.

 

Chapter 14 

Goliath knackered softly as Raphael slipped inside the barn. “It’s only me,” he said, caressing the velvety muzzle, stroking the strong neck. “I’ll find you some food soon…”

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

With a final pat on the head, Raphael turned to the pack close by. Draped on a hook just above it, his clothes hung, while his lover’s black clothing was below in a rumpled pile. With a shake of his head, he removed his clothes from the hook and hung Kennet’s clothing up. He ran a hand over the fabric one last time before pulling on the shirt, trousers, and supple leather boots Kennet had found for him in the last village they’d passed through. How many days ago? He’d lost track of time. He finished dressing by wrapping Kennet’s large cloak around himself, partially for warmth and partially to take in the scent of Kennet. The thick wool felt familiar against his skin. He took a deep breath, savoring Kennet’s scent, and for a moment, it was almost as though Kennet was with him.

A further search of the barn revealed little food except a plate with bits of cooked rabbit and potatoes, which he suspected was left over from dinner. Nearby there was some fresh hay and apples. Raphael gave one to Goliath, and the stallion crunched it appreciatively. Next to the plate was their journal they kept as a way to speak to each other. Though they had always written a word or two of love, of undying loyalty… Recently his lover’s messages were becoming increasingly desperate, and Raphael endeavored to remind him that Darius was still searching for a way to break the curse and to have hope…

After picking up the journal, the plate of food, and the leftover apple, he sat down on a hay bale close to Goliath and opened the journal. He read Kennet’s words as he explained Merry’s death. He could read his friend’s grief in those words and what Kennet did not say. Kennet blamed himself for their beloved friend’s demise. He closed the journal and put it aside with a heavy heart. He looked up to Goliath, who was standing nearby. He could feel Goliath’s sadness in the air and looked at the moon through the slates on the roof above him.

“It isn’t your fault, Kennet,” Raphael whispered. As if in reply, he suddenly heard a commotion outside the barn. Shouting, running feet, and the familiar wolf growl. Suddenly a man he did not recognize burst through the barn doors, shouting about a wolf and calling for Kennet. Hidden behind Goliath, the stranger never saw Raphael in his frantic search for a weapon. When the lanky black man picked up Kennet’s crossbow and tried to load it, Raphael stepped in to stop him. Stepping up to the frightened man, Raphael reached past the man and flicked the bolt from the bowstring. Ursus spun around. “But, sir! There’s a . . .” He broke off, struck dumb by the sight before him.

Kennet’s black-and-crimson cloak shrouded the ethereal figure of a slender young man. Beneath its hood, his skin seemed white as alabaster in the moonlight, and his dark unruly hair curled around his face. Flecks of silver shimmered in the man’s hair; his brilliant cobalt blue eyes studied Ursus with a strange fascination as if he had not looked at another human face in a long time.

Ursus stared back at the ethereal creature because he had never seen such beauty. It was not so much in this man’s features but in the radiant spirit that shone in the man’s eyes.

“I heard a noise, sir, a howl, and I’m a city boy; I didn’t know… Didn’t want to be caught out there in the dark. Of course, it might have been a dog, but it sounded big. Like a wolf.”

“Yes. It may indeed be a wolf, boy.”

“But the fire will keep it away, won’t it? If it is a wolf.”

The wolf howled in the yard outside, a wail of bitter desolation. The man’s eyes flickered toward the sound, his face filling with a strange emotion.

“We could go up into the hay loft, sir? Wolves can’t climb up there…?” Ursus whispered, trembling.

“No…No, they can’t.” But he didn’t follow Ursus up the ladder. Instead, he walked out into the moonlight as an enormous black wolf slunk out of the shadows. Ursus gulped in fear, hardly daring to look.

Ursus shut his eyes, bowing his head as he waited, breathless with dread, for a scream which did not come. Slowly he opened his eyes again, blinking toward the empty doorway. He slumped against the barn wall, his damp hands tightening on the smooth wood of Kennet’s bow. “Maybe I’m dreaming,” he murmured. “But my eyes are open. This means that maybe I’m awake and just dreaming I’m asleep. Or more likely—maybe I’m asleep and dreaming I’m awake and wondering if I’m dreaming . . .”

The shining man’s voice floated softly through the doorway. “You are dreaming.”

Ursus slapped himself hard in the face and leaped to his feet. He ran across the barn and flung himself up the rickety ladder into the loft. Scrambling through the hay to the star-filled rectangle of the loft opening, he lay flat on his stomach, looking out and down.

Below, in the silver wash of moonlight, he saw the man move slowly out into the yard. The cloak billowed behind him in the breeze that stirred the leaves. Then he turned to look at the wolf,  its eyes filled with anger and grief that Ursus somehow knew had nothing to do with what the wolf had done to him.

The wolf was huge; Ursus guessed it must weigh over a hundred pounds. Like the hooded man, its thick, coal-black fur was lined with silver.

Ursus clenched his fist and bit down on it.

The wolf circled the man warily, drawing closer, edging away, its fur ruffling, its wild blue eyes never seeming to leave his face. The man smiled the way he might smile at a beloved friend and put out his hand, beckoning the animal to him.

The wolf approached cautiously, sniffing.

Ursus stopped breathing, hardly daring to look.

However, the man opened his arms, and the wolf came to him, laying its head on the ground like a dog that expects to be whipped. The cloaked figure bent down, his arm gently circling the animal’s neck. The wolf shuddered under his touch, then hung its head in docile acceptance of his affection.

“Hush, my love… hush.” The words were crooned and floated up to where Ursus hid, and the wolf whined. “Do you think I don’t understand? However it went down in the tavern, I know you did not intend his death….” Another whine, and the man buried his face in the thick fur ruff on the wolf’s neck. “I’ll grieve for Merry—he was a faithful friend—but it was none of your doing, though it was your blade that let out his life. He would forgive you. So do I. He will not be forgotten…. his death is another crime to add to Marquet’s tally.”

After a moment, the two, man and wolf, stood and walked into the forest.

Ursus pushed himself away from the opening, unable to believe what he saw anymore. He sat in the straw, trembling again, harder than before.

Looking up into the darkness, he whispered, “I have not seen what I have seen. And I do not believe what I believe.” He had heard endless stories of magic and witchcraft but had never seen it happen with his own eyes. Fear of the known was terrible enough—”These are magical, unexplainable matters, and I beg not to be a part of them . . .” But even as he prayed for deliverance, he knew it was already too late.

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

Marquet had ridden through the day and the night without rest, running three horses into the ground, barely stopping long enough to demand a fresh mount at the guard posts along the road. At last, early in the morning of the new day, he saw the walls and towers of Caledon rise ahead of him on the plain, still miles away. He lashed his sweating horse with his quirt and galloped on.

Kennet was back—news more critical than even Ursus’ neck or his own. Marquet rode grimly toward the city gates, clattered across the bridge and into Caledon, nearly riding down the guardsmen on duty. Kennet was back, looking for vengeance—and the only one who had more to fear from Kennet than Marquet himself was the Queen of Caledon.

A peacock strutted through the ornamental gardens of Caledon Castle; its piercing scream echoed like a frightened child. Marquet strode into the paved court, ignoring the courtiers gathered there.

He paid no attention to the opulent surroundings, weaving his way around the flower beds and fountains to where the Queen reclined on a cushioned daybed. Her latest favorite, a pretty youth, knelt beside her – her physician hovered nearby. Marquet ignored them. The Queen fed a delicacy to the child, and laughed when he kissed her hand. A musician played a soft tune on the lute, but stopped as Marquet approached the Queen, dropping to one knee in obeisance.

“My Queen,” he murmured and registered her expression of displeasure, but she held out her hand for him to kiss. The great emerald sparked a green fire in the sunlight.

“You bring good news, I trust?”

A bead of grimy sweat dripped onto the white silk of her robe. Marquet could not meet her eyes. “Apologies, Madam…”

The Queen gazed coldly at him. “Have you found the criminal Ursus?”

“He . . . is not in my custody at this time,” Marquet mumbled. He was sweating even more. There was an aura about her that frankly terrified him.

The Queen frowned. “And yet you impose yourself upon my private garden, unshaven, unwashed . . .”

“Kennet has returned,” Marquet said bluntly.

The Queen stiffened, looking as if she had been slapped. “You are certain?” and, to the others, “Go. You are dismissed. Pardoe, you stay. Captain, speak.”

Marquet stayed kneeling, outlining the encounter at the King’s Head Tavern. … “The criminal known as the Bear travels with him. My men are combing the woods….”

Pardoe had inched closer. “A bad omen, Madam… If the thief did find a way out of the city, it is a weakness in our defenses. A way out is a way back in. And if Captain Kennet is with him, he may share that knowledge.”

“And Captain D’Arcy?”

Marquet looked blank. “Madam?”

“Raphael D’Arcy. Was he with them?”

“No, I didn’t see him.”

Pardoe interrupted, hissing. “A falcon. A peregrine.”

“Yes…A falcon” She turned her gaze on Marquet again. “Well?”

Marquet nodded, suddenly remembering. “There is. Trained to attack. It unhorsed Fomac.”

The Queen smiled thinly, unable to disguise her satisfaction.

Marquet tensed at the abrupt change in her expression.

The Queen’s smile grew at the fear and the confusion in her captain’s eyes.

Always keep them unsure. She rose to her feet. “We live in difficult times, Marquet,” she said conversationally. “This famine has prevented the people from paying their proper tribute to the crown.” She gestured at the palace rising above them. “I raise their taxes only to be told nothing left for me to tax. Imagine.” the Queen stopped abruptly, searching Marquet’s face again with sudden, fanatical intensity. Marquet stood still, riveted by her gaze.

“Last night, I dreamed, and my – adviser, Pardoe, interpreted the dream,” the Queen said softly. “He told me that Evil travels among us. And that Evil carries the name of Captain Kennet. He plans to steal the throne from me, Marquet. We can’t let that happen. You will prevent it, my loyal captain. You will hunt them down, and you will kill them all.”

Marquet stared at her, his brutal face transfixed. He dropped to his knees, kissing the Queen’s ring again. “Madam, my queen, I live to serve….”

“Go, then.” She did not watch him leave but snapped her fingers to summon her secretary. “Get me the trapper, Cezar,” she said.

 

Chapter 15 

Ursus and Kennet rode together through the new morning at a considerably slower pace. Ever since dawn, when Kennet’s gauntleted hand had roused him, Ursus had been trying to find the courage to tell the other man what he had seen in the night.

He watched silently as the peregrine fluttered up through the trees, gaining speed as he soared into the open air. A part of his mind wanted simply to believe that whatever he saw last night had never happened. But the part of his mind that knew what it knew desperately wanted some affirmation or denial.

Kennet reined in the stallion unexpectedly as they rode into a small, peaceful meadow. He dismounted. “We’ll stop now. I need sleep.”

Looking down at him, Ursus saw the deep lines of exhaustion on Kennet’s drawn face. Kennet walked away and dropped heavily to the ground beneath the shelter of a tree. Ursus realized that Kennet must not have slept at all last night. He had never heard Kennet come back into the barn, through all the long hours when he had sat rigidly awake in the hayloft, staring into the darkness, listening to every eerie creak of the ancient boards . . . counting the seconds until morning. Then, somewhere just before dawn, his beaten body had surrendered to its needs, and he had fallen asleep so deeply that Kennet had had to shake him awake.

Ursus still had not learned where Kennet had been all night or what he had been doing. But he was sure Kennet’s disappearance and everything else was related. He was even sure now that Kennet was mad, if not possessed. After all, he had witnessed in the moonlight, he had no intention of asking embarrassing questions. But now, he suddenly saw the opening for his own uncomfortable subject. He slid down from Goliath’s back and crossed the meadow to Kennet’s side. “I could also use more sleep, sir. After last night’s goings-on.”

Kennet settled himself comfortably among the fallen leaves, his eyes shut. “And what did happen last night?” Kennet asked with disinterest, although he was curious about what his companion had seen. Kennet had read the note left by Raphael, forgiving him, but he hadn’t mentioned meeting Ursus. Which he found curious, considering Raphael enjoyed meeting new people more than he did.

“There was a wolf, sir.” Ursus hesitated. “That wolf could have killed me, but left me alone.”

Kennet yawned, his eyes still closed.

“There was more,” Ursus said. No reaction. He took a deep breath. “There was . . . a man. He was like a ghost with blue eyes. An apparition from some faraway land. And when he spoke…”

Kennet’s eyes opened. “He spoke?”

Ursus nodded eagerly. “I asked him if I was dreaming. He said I was. Then, and this sounds impossible to believe. . .but he was there, and it wasn’t a dream.  He was as tall as you, but with unruly hair, flecked with silver. Like the stars, laid out on the dark fabric of the sky. And eyes as blue and dark as…as… I don’t really know.  But I know what I saw.”

Kennet took a deep breath and shut his eyes tightly to shield himself from the world. He then slowly turned his body away from Ursus, keeping his back towards him.

Ursus glared down at him. “I’m not insane,” he said, his voice rising. “You must believe me when I tell you these things.”

Kennet turned back and looked up at the thief, smiling sympathetically. “I believe; I believe very deeply. . . in dreams.”

Ursus’ face fell. “I see.” He turned away, defeated, feeling Kennet didn’t believe and was mocking him.

“This man of your dreams. Did he have a name?” Kennet asked eventually.

Ursus turned back. “Not that he mentioned it. Why?”

The smile was still on Kennet’s face. “Since I’m about to fall asleep, I thought I might conjure him up for my dreams. I’ve . . . . I knew someone like him once. We were comrades, fought alongside each other at one time. Even loved…”

“Was it the man killed yesterday in the tavern?”

“Aumery? No, not him.” A shadow passed over Kennet’s face.

Ursus stared at him, more curious and confused than ever. He glanced away again as the falcon swooped down, landing on Kennet’s saddle as if some unheard call summoned him.

“Now get some sleep,” Kennet ordered. “The bird will alert us if someone comes.”

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

Kennet abruptly awoke from a deep sleep, triggered by a familiar sound that instinctively alarmed his subconscious. He immediately opened his eyes, and although his body was tense and ready for action, it remained obedient to his will.

It was late afternoon already. As Kennet looked around, he noticed a falcon sitting on a tree branch above him. The bird seemed at ease, tilting its head and observing something below.

The sound came again—the whoosh of a broadsword through the air. Kennet raised his head and smiled. Resting on his elbows, he watched the young thief swing his broadsword again, hacking at invisible enemies with a look of vicious triumph. The boy needed both of his hands to lift the sword. He staggered with every swipe of the blade, its weight, and momentum dragging his rangy body around. Kennet got to his feet.

Ursus chopped another attacker in two as he battled his way through the treacherous ambush toward his helpless lady love. Any other man would have been hopelessly outnumbered, but he was the Black Knight, who fought with the strength and skill of ten.

He raised his sword for another blow and spun around as a black-clad arm effortlessly snatched it from his grasp.

Kennet sat back in the rainbow of fallen leaves beneath the tree and held the sword between them. “This sword has been in my family for five generations,” he said quietly. “It has never known defeat in battle.” His blue eyes met Ursus’ brown ones with faint reproach, but he smiled. His hand caressed the sword’s hilt. “Until now.”

It was beautiful, two large jewels embedded in the lower crosspiece and another partway up the grip. “This jewel represents my family name. This one, our alliance with the Throne in Caledon.” Kennet touched the two stones on the crosspiece briefly. He wasn’t ready to reveal who he really was, that the stone signified not only his fidelity to the throne but him as heir to it. He let his fingers linger momentarily, thinking about all he had lost and hopefully would regain.

“This stone,” Kennet said, touching the third, with an inner glow that blazed red in the afternoon light, “is from the Amutria region in the north, where my father fought in his youth.” Kennet turned the sword showing it to Ursus. His fingers explored the empty setting at the sword’s hilt.

Kennet looked up at Ursus.

Ursus paled as something far too knowing and expectant filled Kennet’s gaze. Was this what Kennet wanted a thief for—to fill that hole for him by stealing a jewel the size of a bird’s egg? Ursus cleared his throat. “Sir. . . you don’t think I took it. . .I swear it was already missing when I picked up the sword.”

“No,” Kennet said darkly. “This is mine to fill. Each generation is called upon to find its special mission.”

Ursus let his arms drop, relieved and intrigued. Kennet spoke to him like a confidant rather than a thief, and if it wasn’t because he wanted him to steal, perhaps he really respected him. “And what . . . what is your mission then?” Ursus asked expectantly. He saw himself riding off with Kennet on a knightly quest for the treasures of a glorious lost kingdom.

Kennet looked up at him. “To kill someone.”

Ursus’ face was expressionless. “Well. I pity the poor wretch,” thinking Kennet would have no trouble accomplishing his mission. “Does this walking corpse have a name?” It would be interesting to watch. Kennet climbed slowly to his feet. Thrusting the sword into the ground, “Her Grace, the Queen of Caledon.”

Ursus blinked. “I understand.” Based on his own experience, he was confident that Kennet had solid reasons for wanting the Queen’s demise. However, Ursus didn’t want to know the details. “Looks like you have a lot on your plate. I don’t want to be a burden any longer. I hope we’ll meet again someday.” With a wave of goodbye, Ursus took a step back.

Kennet hesitated as he watched Ursus slowly back away. This was not the outcome he had anticipated when he initiated the conversation. He scrutinized the young man’s every move keenly, trying to discern the reason behind his sudden retreat. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, determined to make Ursus see reason and help him. He had to make this work, no matter what it took. Ursus was his key to getting back into Caledon undetected.

Kennet knew he had to act fast and began formulating a plan.

“Come with me to Caledon.”

Ursus turned back to the black-clothed knight and shook his head. “Not even to save my mother. Even if I knew who she was.” He took another step, glancing at the trees. “ This is foolishness, even for me, and there is a whole line of people I can parade in front of you to bear witness to that fact.”

Kennet held back his frustration with the young black man. The falcon gave a small cry as if in agreement.

Ursus continued, “I refuse for self-preservation sake.” He then looked at Kennet, his jaw tight, “I’m done talking.”

“But I need your help to get into the city.” Kennet asked, “You’re the only one who’s ever escaped from there.”

“Escaped?” Ursus laughed sharply. “I fell down a hole and followed my nose!”

“Then follow it back again!” Kennet snapped. He started forward, cursing the twisted fate that had him so close to his goal, only for it to be ripped from his fingers. “I saved your life …Twice! You owe me.”

“And I am grateful, sir, and I can never repay you. But you don’t want me on this mission to restore your honor, or vengeance, or whatever it may be,” Ursus pleaded. “I’m just a cutpurse, a professional thief!”

Suddenly Kennet grabbed him by his tunic, nearly lifting him off his feet. The boy cringed away from his gaze, from Kennet’s animal fury. Kennet, seeing the terror he caused, dropped the boy immediately. He stepped back, breathing heavily, ashamed of his reaction. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself. “I’m sorry… I…..you don’t understand.” He took a deep breath, forcing his mind to stay rational. Slowly and painfully, he tried to explain:

“I’ve waited for Caledon’s warning bells for five years. Five years without a roof over my head, avoiding the Queen’s patrols, biding my time, waiting for a sign that the moment of my destiny had come.” He looked down into Ursus’ wide, glassy stare, into the bright, resourceful mind Kennet knew was hiding behind those frightened eyes. He smiled a quiet, merciless smile. “And here you are, boy.”

“Me?” Ursus pulled himself together quickly, smoothing out the tunic. He looked Kennet stubbornly in the eye. “Sir, I think you have it all wrong. Brave as I am, I will never return to Caledon, not for you or anyone. Certainly not for a fool’s errand.”. Ursus grimaced. “You’ve given me my life—but the truth is, I have no honor and never will have.” He shrugged.

Kennet stared at him, his face unyielding.

Ursus continued, “I don’t think you will kill me for being what I am.” He took a deep breath and shook his head. “But better that than return to Caledon.” His fists clenched.

As Kennet gazed upon the thief, his heart ached with empathy. The boy appeared fragile and defenseless, causing him to question his own actions. He outstripped the lad and had weapon skill to boot, but to drag him forcefully into a situation that could potentially harm him…

Ursus turned his back and walked slowly toward the woods. Kennet watched him leave, destiny slipping from his hands, and his last hope vanish in front of his eyes.

Ursus walked faster.

Suddenly Kennet raised his arm and hurled his dagger at the retreating thief.

The dagger smashed into a tree just inches from Ursus’ head and stuck. Ursus spun around, looking back with his heart in his throat. He saw the look on Kennet’s face—frozen, deadly, the face of an obsessed man. And he knew he had been wrong. Ursus paused to glance at the blade quivering in the tree. He smiled ingratiatingly as he leaned down, picking up a dead branch, never taking his eyes off Kennet. “I think I’ll gather some wood for the fire . .”

ᛚᚩᚠᛖ  ᛖᛏᛖᚱᚾᚪᛚ

The night was quiet around the deserted campsite; the embers of the untended campfire pulsed redly like dying suns. Goliath snorted and stamped, cropping grass, tethered at the clearing’s edge with Kennet’s sheathed sword slung at his saddle.

A twig snapped in the dark woods beyond the fire. Goliath looked up, pricking his ears. Another twig snapped. The man who had called the wolf to him the night before stepped cautiously out of the darkness. He wore a man’s tunic, pants, and a short dagger at his belt. His dark hair was uncovered and slightly unkempt. He entered the boulder-studded clearing, glancing left and right, nervous but expectant. The clearing was empty except for the stallion.

He sighed, resigned to another night of solitude. Goliath nickered softly in recognition, and Raphael dropped another branch on the fire and, crossing to the horse, offered his open palm for him to snuffle and lip.

The man’s eyes moved to the sword hanging from the saddle and froze as something wedged beneath its hilt caught his eye. He moved along the stallion’s shoulder to pluck a falcon’s feather from beneath the sword. Holding it up into the moonlight, he marveled at the subtle patterns of light and darkness along its length. his fingers traced its fragile profile delicately; he stood spellbound as if he were touching a part of some creature to which he felt an uncanny kinship.

He smiled a smile for no one but himself. his mind filled with dim echoes of a soaring flight as he let the feather drift to the ground.

Reaching out, Raphael uncinched the stallion’s saddle, pulled it down from Goliath’s back with the ease of long familiarity, and set it under a tree, then untied the rope of Goliath’s halter. Goliath gave a brief snort of protest as Raphael led him away from his meal.

“Oh, shush,” Raphael murmured, tossing the rope across the horse’s withers. Reaching up to catch handfuls of the heavy mane, he swung easily onto Goliath’s back. He smiled, stroking the strong neck. “Now, just make sure you remember everything we’ve learned,” he whispered.

Goliath tightened his legs and moved forward, trotting slowly around the campfire. And then he began to dance. Responding to the subtle shifts of the rider’s weight, the pressure of his gripping legs, the almost inaudible commands, the war-horse moved through the complex and beautiful dressage patterns Raphael had taught him through endless nights like this one.

As they circled the clearing like one creature, in perfect communion, Raphael could almost believe that he was again back in his home in Djenj, still just a boy. If he closed his eyes, he could be that other self, riding endlessly along the bright, sunlit sand of his home through the colors of the day . . .

“Psst.”

His eyes opened at the sound and halted Goliath instinctively, his heart pounding, wondering if he were going mad at last…not willing to believe that he had actually heard another human voice whispering in the night.

He peered into the darkness around him, seeing nothing.

“Psst! sir! Up here!”

Raphael looked up and blinked in astonishment. Hanging from a stout limb just above his head was the man he had seen last night, trussed up like a prize catch of game. His hands were bound behind him, and the single long rope that held him to the branch circled his throat; he could not even struggle. He looked exceedingly uncomfortable. But he smiled, trying hard to seem nonchalant. “Remember me?”

“What are you doing up there?” Raphael said incredulously; he realized it was probably not what he should have said, but he had almost forgotten how to speak to another human being.

“What am I . . . ah, and well, you might ask that, yes indeed . . .”  Ursus looked away, plainly thinking fast. “The Queen’s guards! A dozen of them! We had a terrible fight!”

Raphael raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Why didn’t they kill you?”

“Why didn’t they . . . ah, yes, I asked them that myself!” Ursus nodded and winced.

“And?”

“And?” Ursus said blankly.

“What did they say?”

“Why, that . . .” Ursus glanced toward heaven. “Uh, they preferred to leave that honor to the Queen!”

Raphael had to look down to hide his smile. He recognized Kennet’s handiwork: He must have tied the thief up, leaving him helpless and out of harm’s reach. But he had no way of knowing what his motives were. And what was he doing here at all? Raphael had thought he was only some peasant’s son. But he spoke too well—and was too good a liar—to be a simple peasant boy.

Had he been following Kennet? Rapheal looked back at the man tied up in the tree, uncertain.

“Please, sir?” Ursus said pathetically. “A giant owl examined me quite carefully not one minute ago.”

Raphael studied him thoughtfully, considering the possible alternatives.

No . . . he could not spend all night with that poor wretch dangling from a tree over his head. He looked harmless enough. Suddenly the yearning for human company, the sound of a voice that was not his own, became unbearable.

He drew his dagger.

Doubt and then gratitude filled the boy’s eyes as he reached up and freed his hands. Sliding from Goliath’s back, Raphael severed the rope that bound him to the tree. The boy wriggled loose and dropped to the ground beside him, shaking out his numbed hands.

A wolf howled somewhere in the darkness. Raphael looked away toward the sound; his heart squeezed with sudden grief. The wolf howled again, and he turned back to the boy reassuringly.

“Listen. There’s nothing to . . .” he broke off.

The clearing was empty. The boy had disappeared.

Raphael grimaced with dismay, clenching his fists. He had forgotten even more than he realized about how human beings behaved . . . Kennet would be furious. Suddenly he ached to hear his lover’s voice, even raised in anger, shouting at him—a longing as deep and hopeless as his longing for the sun.

He shook his head, turning back in resignation to face the forest, listening, waiting.