Bound In Darkness 02 - The Devil's Knight Part 11

"Of me?" He studied her, obviously concerned. "I was much disturbed to hear that you had been attacked." He sat down on a rug-covered chest near her chair. "Your brother said this morning you did not remember your a.s.sailant. Has your memory returned?"

Sean would have had to lie, she knew, but to hear it still gave her a shiver. "No," she answered. "I remember no more now than I did when I awoke."

Silas smiled slightly, a question in his eyes, as if he recognized this for the evasion it was and would like to guess the truth. "Thank G.o.d it was no worse," he said.

"Yes," she nodded. Michael had said Angus's throat was torn out as if by a wolf...Tristan had done that. "Master Silas, you are a learned man," she said. "You have many books."

"Yes, of course."

"Do you have any books about demons?"

Of all the things she might have asked him, he had expected this the least. He glanced at Clare and Emma, but they seemed engrossed in their game. "Demons, my lady?" He was shocked by her pallor, but she seemed quite lucid-or had, at least, before this. "Do you have need for such a book?"

"A curiosity," she answered. "Why, do you think a woman should not think of such matters?"

"In truth, I believe no one should," he admitted. "I believe far too much ill in this world has been blamed by the ignorant on superst.i.tious nonsense." "So you do not believe such a thing as a demon could exist?" Again, she sounded merely curious, but her interest could not be so idle, not with men being slaughtered in the night.

"I am more likely to believe in a man turned to evil," he answered.

"Or a woman?" she replied with a soft but wicked smile.

"Yes," he said. "Or that." Could Gaston be right? he thought. He thought of her confessing it was she who had murdered his masons, or ordered their murder, at least-boasting more than confessing. Could she have set her dogs upon her brother's men to push him into giving up his quest? Watching her now, so delicate and pale, he could hardly believe it. She was like an angel. But she was a soldier as well.

"So you do not possess any such book?" she asked. He was watching her so strangely, she would have feared to ask him what he was thinking.

"I do." Even if she could have killed those men, how could she have hurt herself? he thought. The wounds on her throat were appalling; just to see them made him feel faint. "What hurt you, my lady?" he asked, speaking gently as if to a frightened child.

"Was it a demon?"

"As Sean said, I do not remember," she answered. She could not bear his sympathy, the kindness in his eyes. If she let herself, she could dissolve into tears and tell him all that had happened. For a moment, she considered it. He was a learned man; he was a friend to Tristan. Perhaps he could help her.

But no. Sean did not trust him. She could not either. "A demon seems a likely explanation," she went on, making her tone light.

"But perhaps you think I am ignorant to say so."

"No," he promised, returning her smile. "I will find you your book."

"Thank you, Master Silas." She stood up too quickly, and her legs gave way beneath her.

"My lady!" Emma cried, rushing to help Silas catch her.

"I am all right," she insisted, feeling a fool. "Just a bit dizzy." She gripped Silas's arm as he and the girl led her back to the bed.

"The book, Silas." Clare was watching again, and the look in her eyes made Siobhan shiver. "You won't forget?"

"No, my lady," Silas said, patting her arm. "I promise I will not."

An hour before sunset, Silas sent a book to the tower by one of Lebuin's men and wandered out into the courtyard. "So you do not believe a demon could exist?" Siobhan had asked him. An odd question, to be sure. "A demon seems a likely explanation,"

she had shrugged when he asked why.

The courtyard was swarming with brigands as it had been all day, but none of them seemed to have any clear idea what it was they should be doing. He had heard that the lieutenants among DuMaine's former troops had been taken prisoner for questioning.

No doubt there would be more beheadings soon if the culprit responsible for the murders could not be found. Gaston had suggested Siobhan had set her dogs on the dead men, but Silas had seen little evidence that she cared much for the kennels. She seemed kindly toward the beasts when they came near her, but she rarely sought them out. And would a pack of dogs murdering a man not have raised an alarm among the guards? No, some other power was at work here, either from the lady or another. "A demon seems a likely explanation," she had said. Likely to whom? Why should she think of such a thing?

One of the dogs Gaston would label a deadly weapon was sunning itself in the gra.s.s, scrubbing its back on the ground with an air of ecstasy that made Silas smile in spite of his worries. DuMaine had been fond of his animals. Indeed, he had taken as much interest in the design of the stable and kennels as he had in his own quarters; this was one of the reasons Silas had liked him so well from their first meeting. In the scholar's mind, no man who treated dumb beasts with such consideration could be truly cruel, no matter what his reputation might be.

Another dog emerged from the steps that led down into the kennels, sniffing the air. Usually the entire pack roamed the courtyard until nightfall, but today he saw only these two. Perhaps they, too, could sense the tension in the air. Still, it was strange. As he watched, the second dog squatted in the gra.s.s to do its business, then trotted back to the kennels.

"Master Silas?" His chief a.s.sistant was coming toward him, carrying the money box with a scroll under his arm. "Some of the masons have been questioned again," he said as he reached him. "What shall we do?"

"Just answer honestly," Silas answered. He gave the young man a smile that he hoped was encouraging. The first dog he had seen got up and went back to the kennels as well. Were they hiding? "We have nothing to hide." His mind drifted again to the dog he had seen the night before, the way it had looked back at him, meeting his gaze like a man. "Go, tell the men to stop work for the day," he ordered. "I will be back."

The kennels were dark and cool, a pleasant place that smelled of straw and earth, not filth. DuMaine's dog boys had been charged most sternly with keeping the animals clean, and Lady Siobhan had kept up the practice, insisting the bedding here be changed as often as the rushes in the hall. A few of the brigands with dogs of their own for hunting or fighting still kept them near to hand out of habit, but most had joined the castle pack, mutts mixing with the purer breeds in a near-platonic peace their masters would be hard-pressed to emulate. Usually by this time of day, they would all have been awake and outside. But today they were all sleeping, gathered in a cozy ring around a central figure-a man who slept in their midst.

Silas crept closer, not trusting his eyes in the dim light. Surely he must be mistaken...

"My lord?" he said softly, hardly daring to speak. The man was Tristan DuMaine. His clothes were poor, a peasant's garb, and his face was rough with beard. But there was no mistaking it was him. He slept on a makeshift bed of straw, his favorite hunting hound tucked in bliss against his side, its head on his chest. All of the dogs seemed eager to be near him, even the brigands' mutts, as if they knew their true master had returned. Watching in shock, Silas was happy beyond measure to see his friend alive. But for some strange reason he couldn't have named, the sight gave him a chill.

"Lord Tristan," he said, raising his voice a notch as he moved closer. The hound raised its head from Tristan's chest and blinked at him, his tail thumping the floor. "Tristan..." With pounding heart, he bent and touched the young man's shoulder.

His eyes snapped open, glowing green, and Silas recoiled in horror. Tristan grabbed him by the wrist as he sat up, his demonic eyes showing no sign of recognition, and his lips drew back in an animal snarl, showing long, white fangs. "Y-you," Silas stammered, too shocked to struggle. "It was you..."

Holding the scholar in a grip of iron, Tristan fought for clarity, to see beyond the drunken haze that was his daylight world.

"Silas..." The fear in his friend's eyes was almost comical-he must look a perfect horror. "You can't..." Even his voice was slurred, and he was speaking much too loudly, trying to be heard over the living man's heartbeat, like thunder to him. He had never fed the night before, he suddenly remembered. Silas was in danger, friend or not. "You must not come upon me without warning, Silas, not in daylight, at least," he said, consciously speaking more softly. "I am..." He smiled a bitter smile. "I am not myself."

"I see that." Silas smiled as well, his heartbeat slowing down a bit. As soon as Tristan had spoken, the worst of his fear had abated in spite of his monstrous appearance. Monster or not, he was still DuMaine. "Welcome home, my lord."

Tristan smiled in earnest. "Many thanks." He released Silas's wrist, feeling rather foolish. He still felt thick, and the hunger was still there. But seeing Silas so calm made him feel calmer himself. The man was frightened, but he wasn't hysterical. He still knew Tristan for the man he had been, the man he still was at heart, and that was a greater comfort to him than he ever could have guessed it would be. He was not quite so alone after all. He offered his hand and smiled as the scholar clasped it. "I am glad to see you, Silas."

CHAPTER 11

Siobhan awoke again, this time from a nightmare. "My lady?" Emma said. "Are you well?" "Fine." Her mouth felt dry, and her skin was still clammy with fear. "I am fine."

"Master Silas sent you a book," the girl said, handing over a weathered, leather-bound tome nearly as big as a tabletop. "Michael brought it up."

"Wonderful," she said, opening it at once.

After a few pages of the horrors written there, she thought she would never sleep peacefully again. Her Latin was not the best, and the text was written in the common vernacular of a soldier of the days when Rome still ruled and the language was still spoken in the streets, not the formal diction of the contemporary letters and religious texts she was accustomed to reading. But even understanding only half of what was written was enough to make her hair turn white. The incubus, the succubus, the fire-breathing worm-G.o.ds of the Irish pagans-if the writer was to be believed, he had encountered every scaly, fanged beastie h.e.l.l had ever sp.a.w.ned. But so far none of them sounded remotely like Tristan DuMaine.

She got up from the bed, slowly this time, and went to the window. In her dream, she had been standing in this selfsame spot but in the ancient druid's tower, gazing at the setting sun. She couldn't remember any particular detail that should have frightened her, only words spoken by someone behind her. "The wolf has found us..." She had not recognized the voice, and now the words meant nothing. But the sense of dread she had felt inside the dream remained.

"Michael also brought more food," Emma said. "The guard would not even let me see him."

"I'm sorry, Emma." The poor girl had done nothing wrong; it was cruel that she should be punished. But there was little Siobhan could do. She took her book to the table to keep reading, and soon she heard the bed creak behind her. By the time she heard Emma snoring, she was lost in the Roman soldier's story once again.

The shadows had grown long and the room dim enough for her to think of lighting a candle when she happened upon what she wanted. "A sad, strange tale," the soldier began, or words to that effect.

We came upon a town where a witch was about to be stoned. She was a beautiful young woman, and our captain demanded to be told the evidence against her.

"She is the consort of a devil," the city fathers told us. "Her husband who was dead has come to her." They showed us marks upon the creature's neck, saying the dead man had fed upon her blood, and when the captain questioned her, she swore that it was so. "She raised him up," the priest who had condemned her said. "She has used magic to transform him to a demon." "Not I," the woman wept, but none in the town did believe her. Seeing no hope of discovering more without causing a riot, the captain allowed them to proceed, and the woman was stoned until dead.

That night as we camped on the green, we heard a commotion from the church-a brawl, or so it sounded. A patrol of us went to investigate and beheld a sight such as I might hardly describe. The witch's demon husband had returned in search of her and was wreaking vengeance on the town. His shape was the same as any normal man, but his eyes glowed like embers in a fire, and in his mouth were the fangs of a lion. The priest demanded he be gone in the name of Holy G.o.d, and the demon was averted for a moment. But when the priest did let the crucifix he carried fall, the demon fell upon him, ripping out his throat.

We did attack the monster, but our swords were all but useless. A hundred wounds we did inflict, but none did harm him, all healing in an instant, and I did smell brimstone in his blood. At last in desperation, my sword broken, I did raise a stake of wood against him, driving it straight through his heart. With the howling of a thousand wolves, he fell, never to rise. One of my comrades struck his head from his shoulders, and the corpse did dissolve into bile.

Since that time, I have told this story to a learned monk of the mountains of the East. He told me that this creature was a thing his people call "vampire," a man neither living nor dead, cursed forevermore to walk the world of night. What should make such a monster he could not tell, but I do not doubt his word.

"Vampire," Siobhan said softly, touching the word on the page. Somehow Tristan had become this thing, vampire. She thought of his laughter as she tried to cut him with her sword, the way his flesh had healed itself with a hiss like blood in flame. "You cannot kill me," he had mocked her. "But I can kill anyone I like."

"No one dies tonight," she had demanded of him, and he had agreed-"As you will," he had promised. But he had killed Sam just the same. Against her will, she remembered his face as he kissed her, the sweetness of his touch. He had bewitched her, but not just with demon's magic. She had wanted him, longed for him from the first time they met, the first moment he had touched her. "I will return from h.e.l.l itself to punish you," he had sworn at their wedding, and so he had done, just as he had promised. "I will kill you, darling."

"No," she said now, speaking to the gathering gloom of the night. "I will kill you first." The very thought made tears rise in her eyes, but she would not let them fall. Tristan was a monster, a vampire. A stake of wood could destroy him.

For a moment, she considered sending for Sean and showing him what she had read, but she quickly decided against it. He would not believe me, she thought, remembering the poor wife in the story, stoned for a witch. Had she loved her husband? Had she feared him in his demon's form?

"It doesn't matter," she said aloud. "He is evil. He must be destroyed."

"My lady?" Emma said, yawning as she sat up on the bed.

"Where is my sword?" She went to where she had left it and found nothing but the clothes she had worn the night before. "Where is it?" She opened her trunk and found it laid inside, the short sword she had found in the cliff as a girl.

"My lady, what is wrong?" Emma said, getting up.

"Nothing," she promised. "Nothing has changed." A sword alone was little use to her, she thought. She needed a stake as well.

"Emma, I'm freezing."

"Freezing?" the girl said, aghast. It was midsummer; the room was sweltering hot.

"Yes," Siobhan said. "Go downstairs and fetch wood for the fire-lots of kindling. That hearth is old; it may not be easy to light."

Clare was sitting up as well, watching her with green eyes so like Tristan's, their gaze made her shiver.

"Take Clare with you," she ordered. "Hurry-I'm chilled to the bone."

"My lady, they won't let me," the girl protested. "The guards-"

"Ho there," Siobhan said, banging on the door. "Open up at once." The door swung open barely a crack, and one of Sean's most trusted and least efficient brigands peered inside. "Where is my brother?" she demanded.

"Downstairs, my lady," he answered. "He said you were not to be left."

"Did he, in faith?" she asked, privately pleased. If she had to slip out, this boy would give her little trouble. "Did he say I was to be frozen?"

"No, my lady, of course not," he said, obviously confused. "But-"

"This girl is going to fetch me some wood," she cut him off, catching Emma by the wrist and dragging her to the door. "She is going to take the child with her to take her to the privy on the wall."

"The captain said-"

"The captain has not spent the day locked up with a fretful child," Siobhan interrupted again. "What is her crime, that she should be imprisoned?" Clare had come to stand beside her, and at this, she looked up, a tiny frown wrinkling her brow. "Take her yourself, if you fear Sean so much." "I?" he stammered, appalled. "Nay, my lady, I could not."

"Then let Emma do it." The maid gave her hand a conspirator's squeeze. "Hurry," she ordered, shoving her through the door.

"I don't want to go," Clare said, deepening her frown. "I want to stay with you."

"And so you shall," Siobhan promised. She would keep her promise; she would protect this child as if she were her own. "But for now, you must go with Emma."

"Come, my lady," Emma said, holding out her hand. "We will be back soon." With a final long, questioning look, the child obeyed, taking her nursemaid's hand.

"Do not linger, Emma," Siobhan said. "No more than a moment." She gave her a wink behind the guardsman's back. "I will be right here."

Orlando watched as Simon saddled his horse. "I don't suppose I should waste breath on objecting," the little wizard said wryly.

"You can if you wish," Simon answered with a grin. "But you cannot stop me." Malachi snorted as if eager to be under way, and Simon scratched under his chin. "I won't be long. The main road isn't far."

"What have you told Lady Isabel in your letter?" Orlando asked.

"Everything, of course." He swung into the saddle. "If something happens, I want her to know what became of us." He brought the horse around. "As soon as I find someone headed south who looks trustworthy, I'll give them the letter and ride back."

"As you will," the wizard nodded. Tristan, their new comrade-at-arms, had not returned the night before; heaven only knew what mischief he had found at his castle. "You did send her my greetings, I hope?"

Simon smiled again. "Of course." In truth, he hesitated to leave his small companion alone, particularly with Kivar most likely on their trail. But Orlando had insisted he could not leave Tristan with no guidance at all, whether the new vampire wanted help or not. "I won't be long," he repeated, clucking to his horse. With a final wave, he rode away.

Silas entered the crowded hall with the golden mastiff following at his heel. The day's mad activity had done nothing to inform the castle residents of the nature of the evil that pursued them and little to a.s.suage their fears. The so-called castle guard had been brigand bandits barely a month before; their discipline was somewhat less than perfect, and they were angry. "What are we supposed to do, then, Captain?" one of them was demanding of Sean as Silas and his companion came in. "Wait around for whoever or whatever it is that's killing us to pick us off one by one?"

"No one goes anywhere alone," Sean answered. "No man is to venture outside this tower or off the walls without a full patrol."

The discussion made it ridiculously simple for Silas and Tristan to pa.s.s unnoticed through the hall and out the other side.

At the foot of the stairs, they encountered Emma, leading Clare by the hand. "Well met, mistress," Silas said, giving her a smile.