Bound In Darkness 02 - The Devil's Knight Part 13

"Nothing, from all I know," Orlando answered. He pushed Simon aside and began to st.i.tch the gash in Tristan's stomach. "A stake would have destroyed him. A wound from a blade should have healed."

"But these do not." After more than ten years being sure he could not really be wounded, Simon found this rather upsetting.

"Actually, they are healing," Orlando admitted. "The gash in his throat was much worse when I first examined it-someone apparently tried to take his head."

"Someone who knew what he was?" Simon asked. "Someone who knew how to destroy a vampire?"

"I cannot guess, and Tristan did not say," the wizard answered. "He was conscious, barely, when he made it back here, but he said very little before he pa.s.sed out." He finished his st.i.tches and sat back. "We will question him more when he wakes."

"If he wakes," Simon said morosely.

"Don't take on like an Irishman," his small companion scolded with the tiniest hint of a smile. "He will wake. I suspect that by nightfall, he will be just as he was." He stroked his beard, frowning in thought. "But I do wonder how he was wounded."

"Aye," Simon agreed with a sardonic smile of his own. "So do I." He tossed Orlando the sack of food he had brought him, then closed and sealed the door.

"So where were you, then?" the wizard asked. "Did you have trouble finding a messenger?"

"Not at all," he answered, sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out before him. "I found a traveling minstrel as soon as I came to the main road. He was in rather a hurry to be gone from this region, and the idea of serving a duke and his d.u.c.h.ess at Charmot suited him right well."

"So why was he in such a hurry?" Orlando asked, guessing the heart of the matter at once.

"He spent a day and night with the baron of Callard, some two days' ride from here," Simon answered. "Apparently he didn't like his welcome."

"The baron is not a music lover?" Orlando said, arching an eyebrow.

"I asked the same question." The sun was rising; he could feel the daytime need to rest creeping over him. "He said no, that the baron paid him well enough and wanted him to stay. But other matters in his hall were too...what was the word he used?

Unsettled."

Orlando opened the jug of mead Simon had brought and sniffed it with a smile. "Indeed?"

"I tried to get him to say more, but he would not. So I made my own investigation." Tristan muttered something in his sleep-a good sign, Simon supposed.

"You paid a call on the baron?" Orlando asked, surprised.

"I didn't have to," Simon answered. "If the number of fled peasants I found on the road are any indication, his lands will be empty before the month is out. They say a strange plague has oppressed the baron and his household-a disease that causes the blood to dry up in a man's veins."

"And what has made them think so?" Orlando said, his interest more piqued.

"The fact that all who die from it are found with no blood in them at all," Simon answered. "I spoke to one old woman who had been a cook in the baron's own house. She was so frightened, she could hardly speak at all."

Orlando swallowed a healthy mouthful of bread. "But you persuaded her."

Simon smiled. "A bit. She said 'twas no sickness killing Callard's men but a great serpent." Orlando stopped chewing, and he nodded. "She said that she had seen the marks-two round gashes in the throat."

"A vampire," Orlando said. "Could Tristan have ventured so far?"

"He could have, but I doubt he would," Simon said. "His purpose is here, remember? Besides..." All traces of good humor left his face. "Some of the killings were done in daylight."

All color drained from the wizard's face. "You are certain of this?"

"Certain enough." He had settled back against the wall, but now he sat up again, fighting to stay awake until his tale was told.

"Several of the people I questioned spoke of men being taken while working in the fields or hunting in the forest-alive in the morning, dead at night."

Orlando set his bread aside, no longer hungry. "Lucan Kivar."

"We know he was following Tristan." From the night he had made Simon a vampire, Kivar had survived by inhabiting the bodies of the dead, somewhat free to wander day or night. But he still apparently needed to feed on the blood of the living to maintain the illusion and keep the body he had stolen fresh. Simon had driven him out of his last mortal form with an enchanted stake found in the catacombs beneath the castle Charmot, the home of Simon's beloved, Isabel. But his spirit had escaped. "Perhaps when we found Tristan, he fled."

"He has no cause to fear us," Orlando said bluntly. He got up and checked the seal on the door as if fearful some evil might break in at any moment. "If Kivar is oppressing this baron of Callard, he has a reason for it." He looked down at Tristan, a frown of worry on his face. "I fear we shall know it soon enough.

By daybreak, Siobhan and a patrol of brigand guardsmen had searched every inch of the moat around the tower motte, and other patrols had searched every inch of the castle. But Tristan was nowhere to be found.

She walked back into the tower exhausted and filthy, her clothes torn by brambles and caked with mud. The hall was empty except for Sean, sitting on the dais, staring at nothing like a man in a trance. "Did you find the body?" he asked, turning to her as she came in.

"No." She took the cup Cilla offered her and drank.

"How is that possible?" Her brother sounded as if every spark of life inside him was gone, leaving a hollow sh.e.l.l. "You saw him fall. No man could survive a fall from such a height." His expression twisted in a snarl of rage. "Someone has hidden the body-"

"Sean, stop," she cut him off. "No one could have reached him before I did, even if they had been watching. There was no body to find." I told you! she wanted to shout at him. She might have if she hadn't been so tired.

Instead she went to him and put an arm around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He laid his head against her for a moment, squeezing her close as he repeated, "How is that possible?"

"Wait here," she said, pulling free. "I will show you." Silas was nowhere to be seen, she suddenly noticed, nor was Gaston. "I have a book upstairs."

"A book?" he repeated through a laugh that sounded like the nearer edge of madness. "Just wait."

Her room upstairs was just as she had left it. The shutter hung loose from one nail in its top hinge, where Tristan had ripped it open. Tristan's blood stained the rug where she had stabbed him with her sword. "Forgive me," she whispered, making herself look away. The book still lay on the table, open to the page where she had read the tale of the vampire.

Sean's Latin was only a little better than her own, but he read the story quickly, his eyes growing wider with horror by the moment. "You see?" she said when it seemed he was done. "Tristan is a vampire."

He looked up at her. "You conjured him?" he demanded. "You called him up from the grave?"

"I called him...are you mad?" All that was written on the pages, the nature of the demon his enemy had become, the only way to destroy him, and all her idiot of a brother could see was that a woman must have called him up. "No, Sean, I did not conjure Tristan from the grave." She shuddered with a sudden chill, remembering. "Unless it was at our wedding. He swore he would return to punish me, remember? Even from h.e.l.l itself."

"Aye, I remember," Sean said, standing up. "I would have kept him gagged, but no. You had to torment him."

The sheer injustice of this charge was almost more than she could bear. "Aye, brother, I wanted to torment him. And you wanted me to marry him in the first place."

The angry energy drained from him in an instant. "Aye," he admitted with a bitter smile. "I did."

"The point is not how he came to be this vampire," she went on patiently. "The point is how we must defend ourselves against him."

He looked up at her, a strange sort of admiration dawning in his eyes. "You meant to kill him," he said, incredulous. "Last night in the tower...you were trying to cut off his head."

"Yes." Even now, the thought made her feel sick. But what choice had she had? What choice would she have when he returned?

"Forgive me," Sean said, reaching for her hand. "I thought...you cannot imagine what I thought."

"I don't have to imagine," she said tersely. "I know." And it's true, she thought but did not say. I do love him. If you had not come in when you did, I would have told him so. Her brother kissed her hand, and she smiled, tears rising in her eyes. For years, she had lived for Sean's approval. But now it meant nothing at all.

"Sean." Michael was coming in, looking as exhausted as she felt. "It's true-the message from the sentries was correct. Our scouts have confirmed it."

"Message?" she said, confused.

"A message arrived from our sentries on the road just as your husband was learning to fly," Sean explained with a touch of his old humor. "The king's agent and his retinue are almost here, less than a day away. The baron of Callard is with them."

"Callard has betrayed us?" she said. "Where is Gaston?"

"Gaston is in his rooms," he answered. "And no, we have no reason to believe the baron has betrayed us. Perhaps he encountered the king's man on the road."

"Tristan has received no new letter from the king," she pointed out, her mind racing in spite of her condition. "Why would he just send someone-?"

"It's not that hard to imagine," Sean insisted. "DuMaine was-is-the king's cousin. Perhaps he wanted someone he trusted to see his new wife for himself." "Perhaps." Sean wanted to believe his plan could still work, that all would still be well. If he thought his great ally, the baron, had abandoned him, he might despair altogether, and then where would she be? "When do the scouts believe the party will arrive?"

she asked Michael.

"By nightfall at the latest," Michael answered. "Perhaps as early as midday."

"Lovely," she grumbled. So much for any of them having any rest. "Very well." She gathered her strength and her wits, refusing to dwell for so much as a moment on the consequences if her plans should fail. "Michael, where is Emma?"

"In the manor house with Lady Clare," he said, obviously confused.

Clare, she thought, her resolve threatening to fail. Poor child...what was to become of her? She had said she had seen her father; did she know what he was? Not now, she scolded herself. You cannot stop to think about that now. "Ask her to come to my room and help me," she said aloud. "And Cilla as well. I'll need a bath, and someone will have to do something with my hair. That gown I wore for my wedding is atrocious; I'll have to find something else." What perversity made you wear that gown? Tristan's voice mocked her from her memory.

"What are you saying?" Sean asked.

"I'm supposed to charm the baron, am I not?" He looked so surprised and pleased, she could almost have laughed at him. "I hardly think I can do it dressed like this."

"But what of DuMaine?" Michael said, meeting her eyes, obviously as doubtful as she was herself.

"Tristan has never appeared to me in daylight," she answered. "Perhaps he cannot." She took another deep breath, silently praying for strength. Please, G.o.d, just get me through this moment and the next. "In any case, there's naught we can do about him now."

"We will manage him," Sean promised, giving her a hug.

"Aye," she answered, making herself smile. He meant well, her brother; he deserved her loyalty the same as he had all her life.

Why did she want desperately to punch him in the face? "We will manage." She drew back and looked up at him, willing herself to see him as she always had, the hero who could vanquish any foe and would always protect her. It was hard, but not impossible, and her smile became more true. "We always have before."

Once again, Siobhan regarded her reflection in the mirror. "You look beautiful, my lady," Emma said, standing behind her.

"Do I?" In truth, she could hardly believe the woman before her was even herself. Her thick black hair was combed perfectly smooth and pinned back from her face in a proper married woman's coiffure, crowned with a circlet of gold over a flimsy excuse for a veil of the finest linen. She wore a gown of blue brocade the color of her eyes over a white silk chemise, its delicate lace peeking out at the bodice, and the points of her sleeves were so long, she thought she would surely trip over them going down the stairs. On her feet were tiny slippers so delicate they would surely dissolve if she stepped in a puddle. Her skin was scrubbed white as marble, but her cheeks were flushed pink with anxiety, and her eyes were bright. "I do," she decided. But she was not herself.

"You look like a princess," Clare said, watching from the bed. The rug stained with her father's blood had been taken out and thrown away before she was allowed to come into the room, and she seemed to know nothing of what had happened the night before. "My papa will be pleased."

Siobhan turned to look at her, but before she could answer, the door opened, and Silas came in. His eyes when he saw her widened in shock. "Heaven shield my heart," he said, pressing a hand to his chest and smiling for a moment, though the worry never left his eyes."Your heart is safe with me," she promised, returning his smile. "Thank you for coming, Master Silas."

"I wasn't aware I had a choice." He glanced at Emma and winked, and the nursemaid laughed nervously before she looked away.

"Your brother said it was urgent."

"Quite, I'm afraid." She went to Clare and caressed her little cheek, earning the sad little half of a smile that was the best she could hope for from her. "Will you go with Emma, please? I need to speak to the master alone."

"Yes." She rose up to her knees on the bed and opened her arms, and Siobhan embraced her, burying her face for a moment in her golden hair. "You need not be so worried, my lady," Clare said softly for her ears alone. "Papa will be here anon."

Siobhan's heart flipped over like a jester in her breast, but she smiled as she let her go, and said, "I have no doubt."

"I must say, it's hard to imagine," Silas said when Emma and the child were gone. Siobhan raised an eyebrow. "That she should be so fond of you, my lady," he explained. "And you of her."

"Anyone would be fond of Lady Clare," she answered brusquely. "She is a beautiful, sweet-tempered little girl." She made herself stop wringing her hands and went to the window. "Why she is fond of me, I could not guess."

"Because you are fond of her." He flipped the book she still had open on the table. "Her father was not the most jolly fellow either, if you will recall, but she loved him very much."

"Loves him, Silas," she corrected, turning back to him. "She loves him very much."

He smiled, but his eyes were wary. "Yes," he agreed. "Tristan still lives." He looked her up and down again as if he couldn't quite believe his eyes. "No thanks to you."

"I meant to kill him," she admitted. "I thought...G.o.d's truth, Silas, I don't know what I think anymore, or even what I feel."

Before he could answer or she could lose her nerve, she began to tell him everything, every detail of Tristan's return. She had to trust someone; she was not wise enough to manage the chaos her life had become all alone. Sean would never understand-he had already proven as much. Emma was sweet, but she was an innocent maid with less experience to guide her through such matters than Siobhan had herself. Michael would have done anything in his power to help her, but his true loyalty would always be to Sean, and she could hardly blame him. If she had not lost her mind, she would be the same. Silas, wise and kind and n.o.ble, was her only hope. "Your book is how I found out what Tristan is," she finished. "It tells about a demon called a vampire-"

"It tells about dragons in Scotland as well," he reminded her gently.

"And if Tristan had breathed fire at me, I would believe he was that," she retorted, returning his smile. Just having it out was like lifting a weight from her chest. "But he is not. He is a vampire."

He just stood there looking at her for so long, she began to feel foolish. Then he nodded. "Yes," he said with a weary sigh. "I believe he is." He offered his hand, and she took it, the simple comfort of the gesture making tears threaten her again. "Last night you meant to kill him," he said, brushing her hair back from her face, his eyes searching hers. "What do you mean to do now?"

"I don't know," she admitted. She could feel the sword strapped to her leg under the gown, within easy reach, but the thought of using it again made her feel sick. "Everything depends upon this man the king has sent, and this baron of Sean's, and mostly...

mostly on Tristan himself." She squeezed his hand before she let him go. "He tried to kill Sean last night right here in this room, holding my hand just as you do now, as if I should allow it." She let him go to turn away from him, pacing, her skirts tangling around her legs. How did anyone move in such a costume? she thought. "But I cannot, Silas."

"Of course you cannot." She turned toward him in her pacing, and he caught her gently by the arm. "When your brother sent me to you, I thought you meant to sentence me to death," he said. "With the king's man coming and me knowing the truth of Tristan's death, it seemed logical." "Sean thought that, too," she admitted. "I convinced him to let me deal with you, that I would decide what was best." The very idea seemed horrible, she knew. "He isn't a bad man, Silas. You have to understand-"

"I do understand, my lady," he cut her off gently.

"But I swear, I will not allow him to harm you," she finished. "I fear I am no good brigand, Silas. I am done wishing anyone harm."

"May you stay so ever after," he said with a smile. "In the meantime, I will make you the same promise." He lifted her hand to his lips. "I will do you no harm, either. Whatever you decide, whatever you say to these men who are coming, I will not dispute you."

He took her hands in his and looked her up and down again. "Now, let me teach you the manners to match your gown."

Tristan awoke to the gloom of the shelter feeling more himself. He made himself sit up, fighting his ordinary daylight stupor. He felt no real pain, just the sort of general ache he remembered only too well from the morning after battles as a mortal man. He looked down at his chest and found the gash where Siobhan had stabbed him all but healed. Neat black st.i.tches such as a surgeon would make crisscrossed the spot where the wound had been, but the skin underneath was barely scarred. He touched his throat and found it healed as well.