Darkyn - Master Of Shadows Part 12

Saetta stood at the ravelin atop the main house and looked out at the surrounding property. The stronghold's central observation post offered a commanding view of the outlying lawns, but nothing past the tree lines. By trapping Locksley's jardin inside Rosethorn, he had eliminated the immediate threat of a counterattack. However, his lady had warned him that reinforcements were likely to arrive within the first day.

"I have seen not a glimmer of light, marechal," the guard on duty a.s.sured him.

"They will not use light, or fire, where it might be seen from the house." He handed the binoculars to the guard. As luck would have it, the wind was coming from the north, blowing from the back of the property to the front and eradicating any scent they might have otherwise detected. "Signal me if you suspect an approach."

As Saetta returned downstairs to the main hall, a subtle uneasiness crept over him. The house was secure, and no more guards had been attacked by mysterious shadow demons, but something was not right. The silence of the pa.s.sages seemed too absolute.

The air rang with soundless whispers. If he were a superst.i.tious man, he would swear that the house itself watched him with cold, unseen eyes.

"Bernardo, attend me." When the captain of the cavalieri came to him, Saetta said, "Change the guard." "Yes, marechal. Which guard?"

"All."

Bernardo frowned. "We have three hours before the next rotation."

"Anyone who has been watching us will know that," Saetta said. "They will seek to take advantage of it. Change them all, at once."

"Yes, marechal."

Saetta went to an adjoining room, where his two best interrogators were still questioning the Kyn taken from the cells. Spatters of blood stained the floor and the prisoner's clothes, but he remained still and watchful.

"What progress have you made?"

"He says nothing, marechal." Domion pulled off his gauntlets and slipped spiked copper knuckle guards over his fingers. "I think he will soon change his mind."

Saetta crouched in front of the sullen warrior. "One of your jardin attacked my guards. He took one of my men. Until he is returned, and the Kyn who did this named, you will suffer in his place." He saw the hatred in the man's eyes. "You cannot prevail."

The warrior smiled, showing bloodied teeth, and then spit in Saetta's face. With a curse Domion slammed his fist into the prisoner's chest, puncturing it with his spiked knuckles. The warrior doubled over as far as his bonds would allow, coughed several times, and then slowly straightened.

"He will take you," the warrior promised in a low, menacing voice. "One by one, you will go. You cannot stop him."

Saetta seized the front of the prisoner's tunic. "Who is he?"

"Master of shadows." His eyes closed, and he sagged, unconscious.

"Give him time to heal," Saetta said as he straightened. "Then begin again, and do not stop until he talks or he dies."

"As you command, marechal."

Saetta went to the kitchens, where he washed the blood and saliva from his face. Darkyn did not eat food, so to him the room was a waste of s.p.a.ce, but he imagined the Americans pampered the mortals who served them. He could easily imagine the pretty wife of Sylas, working over a breadboard, her sleeves folded back, her slim hands shaping dough. In his human life, he had loved to watch his wife work in the kitchen. Even when he had been hired by the Medicis, and had more money than he had known how to spend, she had refused to hire a cook. Making food for the family was the work of a wife, she always claimed.

"Marechal," someone said behind him.

Saetta dried his dripping face and turned. "What is it now?"

"'Tis the prisoners we put below," the lieutenant said. "They have escaped."

"Which prisoners?"

"All of them, marechal."

Reese took the camper to a public underground garage and parked it there. She was exhausted, and if she were going to finish this thing she had to sleep. Cautiously she went into the back to check on Rebecca, who had curled up on one of the camper's bunks and appeared to be in the deep, still state that pa.s.sed for sleep among the Kyn. But as she turned to make her way back toward the front of the camper, the chatelaine called her name, startling her so much she dropped her bag.

Rebecca looked over the side of the bunk. "Forgive me. I didn't intend to scare you."

"No problem," Reese told her, bending down to pick up her things. "I've found a safe place to park for a while. We're going to stay here until sunset."

The chatelaine reached down and picked up Reese's wallet. "Do you carry photos in here?"

"Just one." Reese took the wallet, unfolded it, and showed her the picture tucked under the clear plastic. "That's my father."

Rebecca frowned. "He's dressed like a priest."

"He was a priest, before he...left the church." She closed the wallet and finished gathering her things. "Rest now. In a few hours we'll be back at Rosethorn, and we'll find Sylas."

"Sylas." Rebecca's eyes closed. "He's in the shadows."

Being in the darkest part of the garage helped block the sunlight and gave an illusion of night, but Reese still couldn't rest. Given Rebecca's uncertain mental state, sleeping close to the chatelaine seemed unwise, so she returned to the front of the camper. She lowered the driver's seat back as far as it would go and turned on her side, trying to make herself comfortable, but her stomach felt shriveled and her head pounded unpleasantly. Finally she grabbed her bag, removed one of the vials, and, with a glance back at Rebecca, drank from it. Only then was she was able to close her eyes and fall into a deep sleep.

The dream that came over her took her into a shabby room lit only by candles and the flames from a fireplace. There were two people sitting at a table, one dressed in priest's robes, the other a rude-looking peasant man with a powerful build. A candle and two mugs sat between them.

Reese tried to turn and leave, but the dream held her fast.

"Pater Noster, que es in calis, sanctificue nomen tuum," the priest said, and then waited for the peasant to respond.

"Adveniate regnum tuum," the villein muttered. "Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra."

The priest nodded. "You see, my child? You can remember the words, when you try."

The peasant held his head in his hands. "Remember. Words." He lashed out with his arm, knocking the two mugs from the table.

"Forget."

"G.o.d wants you to remember words," the priest said. "He wants you never to forget again."

"Look." The peasant gripped his own shirt in his fists. "Not me."

"I would give you back what you have lost, child, but it is not meant to be." He eased the peasant's hands away from the shredded shirt and held them. "G.o.d has given you an enormous gift. It is a miracle. You can be anyone you wish to be."

"Me." Tears rolled down the man's face. "I want me."

Reese rushed toward the table. "Kill him," she shouted at the priest. "Kill him now." She pa.s.sed through the table, her body like that of a ghost. "G.o.d, please, don't do this."

"We will find a woman for you," the priest was saying. "One who pleases you. Then we will continue with our work." "Woman. Work." The peasant swiped at his eyes. "Yes."

Reese was torn from the room and into another, this one lit by electric lights. The priest sat at a table with six other men and one woman, a scroll rolled out before them.

"The prophecy of Beatrice says that the book will remain hidden until just after the turn of this century, when it will be used against the mortal world," one of the men said. "The colonies of the new world where it is said it will reappear must be the United States, and from our calculations, the month will be April of next year. But who is the smiling thief and the dark lord, and which one will take the book?"

"Robin of Locksley and Guy of Guisbourne." The priest rolled up the scroll. "Locksley has been made a lord paramount.

Guisbourne fled to America a few months ago. Both of them, in fact, will take the book."

"So it has begun," one of the men murmured. "The end of days, just as she said."

Another of the men leaned back and folded his arms. "Father, how can we trust the predictions made by a demented witch burned at the stake six hundred years ago?" "She was not demented, nor a witch," the priest said. "She was Darkyn, and her talent was foresight." He looked at the faces around him. "The moment is at hand, and the fate of all humanity rests with us."

Reese saw the priest produce a photograph, one of a smiling young woman with laughing dark eyes, and hand it to the woman at the table. Reese shook her head as she watched the woman study the picture.

"Don't do it," she whispered, even though she knew she couldn't hear her. "Tell him no. Say he must choose another."

"I should have no difficulty with her," the woman said.

The priest nodded. "Our investigators say that she works in an advertising agency in the city, she lives alone, and she has no friends outside the tresori."

"Convenient." She looked up at the others. "Once I take over, you cannot contact me. I will report only to Father."

"There is something else you should know, my child," the priest said, and touched her arm. "The woman has been seen in the company of Robin of Locksley's seneschal, Will Scarlet."

The photo dropped out of the woman's fingers even as Reese was pushed out of the dream and into the dark. Afraid and alone, she called out for Will. When he came, she tried to reach him, but she couldn't see him. She began to babble, telling him everything she had kept secret, but then she felt him drawing away.

The connection between her and Will snapped, and snapped again, and then a third time, until all she could hear was a sharp rapping.

Reese opened her eyes and turned over to see a security guard tapping the handle of a nightstick against the driver's-side window. She sat up and opened it.

"You can't sleep in here, miss," the man said. "Leave the vehicle or leave the lot, one or the other."

She looked at her watch and saw the time. The sun would be setting in a few minutes. "All right."

She started the engine and backed out of the s.p.a.ce.

Will knew he had to rest. Jayr had admonished him before retiring to her tent with mac Byrne, and even Lucan had advised him that the quickest way to lose a duel was to spend the night before it awake. As the sun rose, he sent his men to their bedrolls, issued orders to the tresori who would be standing watching during the day, and at last retreated to his tent.

It had been several years since he had been obliged to sleep on the ground, but he had ordered that the few camp beds available be placed in their allies' tents. The ground was hard and the blankets rough, but as soon as he stretched out on the bedroll his tired body went limp with relief. He would have to rise early and feed before the others woke, he thought, and closed his eyes.

Red, if you are not too mad, I would beg your forgiveness.

Will stood before the gibbet and the hangman, but this time they were all alone. That April morning, when his mortal life had ended, had turned to a night of ill wind and cold, distant stars.

"I shouldn't have tormented you that day." Robin of Locksley removed the black hood covering his handsome face. "Have you ever forgiven me for it?"

"You didn't break my neck, master," Will reminded him. "You saved it."

"We still cheated all those fine folk of their spectacle. Or, rather, you did." Rob cuffed the back of his head. "Five hundred mortals you sent to sleep that day, with only a thought."

Will looked over at the empty road, and remembered the shock of seeing all the bodies of the townspeople piled on either side of it. "A pity my talent doesn't work on the Kyn."

Robin produced a black book. "Not to worry. It'll be quick, lad."

The dreamlands often distorted things in the same way mortal dreams did, but always with a purpose. "Why have you come to me, Rob? What am I to do?"

"Look." His master opened the book and showed him the blank pages. "You have served me well, Will Scarlet. You have been my good friend. But in all these years, you have asked for nothing for yourself. You have lived my life, not yours."

"I am your seneschal, my lord. My life is yours." Will didn't know what else to say. "Rob, are you in trouble?"

"I am beyond trouble. I have fallen in love with a mortal." Robin laughed. "So have you."

"Reese and I are friends."

"So you were. Not anymore." He went to the gibbet and tore down the hangman's noose, placing it around his own neck. "I have ever had the luck of a fool, but this time I have the feeling that it has run out. I do not believe I will see you again, Liam of Aubury." He tightened the slipknot. "You will look after Rosethorn and our people for me?"

Will went to him and tried to pull the knot loose, but it held tightly. "You are Robin of the Hood. You are a legend. Legends do not die. Do not call me Liam, and give me this b.l.o.o.d.y rope."

A black wool hood dropped over his head, shutting out the sight of his master trying to hang himself. He could not speak or move, but he heard Robin take in his last breath. He felt the rope biting into his neck just as it tightened around his master's. This time, the roar of fury inside his head was for the man who had saved him, whom he could no longer save.

Bright spots of eerie light danced on the insides of his eyelids, and Will heard Robin's heart begin to slow. Just as fear and outrage were about to swallow his mind, something hissed into his ear and the hood was torn away. He fell, landing with a brutal thud facedown in the cold dirt, his wrist snapping under the weight of his body.

The little wooden cross fell from his limp fingers into the dirt.

Rob, Will thought, gasping in precious air and trying to push himself up onto his feet. He would not see Robin of Locksley cut down the middle and torn to pieces by four horses. He would rather take Robin's place than allow his master to spend his last moments on this earth in unimaginable agony. But the rope slowly swaying in the wind was empty, and his master was gone.

Instead, Reese stood at the gibbet, dressed in Claris of Aubury's clothes. "Your master is coming for you."

Will knew it was impossible for her to have entered the dreamlands. No mortal could. "Who are you?"

"Everyone. No one. I had nothing else to give." She tried to smile, and for a moment she was Clary. "'Twill be forever now. You never came back for me."

She might be a ghost of his imagination-a confused one at that-but she was trying to tell him something. Just as Robin had.

He took a step toward her and felt something under his bare foot. He bent down and found the little wooden cross Claris had given to him. He picked it up out of the dirt and brought it to her.

Will pressed it into her hands. "This was your faith in me."

"I found it later." She tugged a chain out from under her ragged overtunic, and the cross vanished from her hands and appeared on the end of the chain. "I kept it for you."

He couldn't tell if her face was Reese's or Clary's; her features kept blurring. "I was the one who made you sick," he told her. "I came back, but not soon enough. They had already buried you in the graves with all the others."

"No, Liam." She smiled and tucked her cross under her collar. "They waited too long to put me in the ground. I woke when they tried to bury me."

Will breathed in and smelled her scent, as sweet and ripe as a field of berries. "You went through the change." Horror sank into him. "You went through the change alone."

"Do you know what they do when a body crawls out of an open grave?" She brushed at her hair, and soil fell from it. "They try to kill it. Do you know what they do when she won't die?"

He backed away from her, shaking his head. "You are not Claris."

"They put her in a cage, like an animal. They toy with her. They try to feed her offal and s.h.i.t. Days and weeks and months of it."