Knight of Sorrows: Poisoned Thorns

Jonathan Moeller

        

         Her father lay dying.

         Rosalyn sat by his bed, watching him breathe. He had always been so strong. She remembered him leading the men of Valayn into battle, remembered him sitting upon his throne and rendering his judgments. Even after her mother had died, Duke Ambrose of Valayn had never wavered, never broken.

         Now his skin had turned the color of his gray hair. Sweat glistened on his forehead and chest. His breath hissed and rasped, and his veins were turning black. His eyes trembled behind closed lids, and Rosalyn wondered what horrors haunted his dreams.

         She should weep, she knew. But she could not. She felt no grief, no sorrow.

         Only rage.

         He must have been poisoned. There was no other explanation. One moment he had been strong as ever, making plans with her husband for the coming war. The Knight of Sorrows had slain the dark wizard Marushan, but six of the murderous sorcerer’s acolytes had survived. They had fled to the north and raised the black banners of the Shadow Order, gathering tribes of Malrags and Defiled Ones into a mighty host.

         “War is coming,” her father had told her husband, “whether we will it or not. We must call a Great Council of all the princes and lords of the Silurian Isles, elect a Lord Captain to lead us against the Dark Acolytes. We must stand united against them, else they shall devour us…devour us one by one…”

         And then he had groaned and toppled to the floor, his crimson cloak pooling about him like blood.

         Rosalyn stared at her father’s trembling face. She had taken up the magical sword of the Knight of Sorrows, a secret she had kept from everyone, even her husband. The Knight’s mantle had given her the power to defeat Marushan, the power to destroy creatures of dark magic. The magic waited within her even now, lying upon her mind like a hot coal, waiting for her to summon it.

         But the Knight’s magic had not given her the power to heal her father.

         She swore that no matter how long it took, she would find whoever had poisoned him.

         “My lady?”

         Rosalyn looked up. One of her husband’s bondsmen stood in the doorway. “Prince Calwyn bids you to join him.”

         “My father lies dying,” said Rosalyn. “Leave me.”

         “My lady,” said the bondsman, “Diarmid has discerned the poison used on Duke Ambrose…”

         Rosalyn rose and pushed past the bondsman. Skirts in hand, she raced through the echoing corridors of Castle Taleisn. The ancient castle had been conquered half a hundred times throughout the centuries, and each conqueror had added and expanded, transforming the fortress into a rambling maze.

         At last she came to the castle’s great hall. Her husband Prince Calwyn stood near the doors, along with her brothers Julius and Lucas. Calwyn wore his mail and sword, her brothers the cloak and cuirass in the style of the old Empire. With them stood an old man in ragged gray robes, leaning on a worn cane.

         “My wife,” said Calwyn, taking her hands. His face was solemn, and both her brothers looked tired.

         “Diarmid,” said Rosalyn. “You said Brother Diarmid had found the poison.”

         “I did, my lady,” said Diarmid, limping toward her. The old monk was a scholar, a historian, a physician, perhaps the most learned man in the Silurian Isles. “I fear that the news…”

         “Well, what poison is it?” said Rosalyn, pulling away from Calwyn. “Can you cure it? Could you brew an antidote? Is…”

         “My lady,” said Diarmid. “Your lord father was poisoned with the nectar of an Ash Rose.”

         Calwyn looked away. Julius’s face remained impassive, and Lucas looked as if he wished to weep.

         “What is that?” said Rosalyn.

         “It grows in the uttermost north,” said Diarmid, “in wild lands poisoned by mad sorcery. The Ash Rose itself is a thing of potent dark magic. Its nectar is one of the most lethal slow-acting poisons on the face of the earth. A drop smaller than a needle’s eye will cause death in exactly three days.”

         “Is there an antidote?” said Rosalyn.

         “There is, but…”

         “But what?”

         Diarmid hesitated. “The only antidote is an extract prepared from the thorns of the Ash Rose.”

         “Then we’ll get an Ash Rose,” said Rosalyn.

         “Impossible,” said Calwyn. “The poisoned lands are seven hundred miles north of Taleisn. Duke Ambrose was stricken a day ago. No ship, no rider could reach the Poisoned Lands and return in two days.”

         “My lady,” said Diarmid, “you did not hear me, I fear. The Ash Rose is a plant of dark magic. The thorns used to brew the antidote must come from the same Ash Rose as the nectar. The exact same Ash Rose. Anything else will be ineffective.”

         The hall seemed to spin about her. “You mean to say…”

         “That unless we can find the Ash Rose used to poison your father, Duke Ambrose will die in two days,” said Diarmid.

         “Is there no other way?” said Rosalyn. Her voice was faint, shaking. She scarce recognized it.

         “The Druids of antiquity could cure Ash Rose poisoning, it was said,” said Diarmid, “but the old Empire slaughtered them all. A magus of great arts could cure him, perhaps, but there are none left in the Isles, and the price might be more than mortal man could bear.”

         "You haven't answered my question," said Rosalyn. "Is there no other way?"

         “I am sorry, my lady,” said Diarmid.

         “I will send my thanes to search every room in this castle, every freehold within a day’s ride,” said Calwyn, but she could see in his eyes that he thought it an empty gesture.

         “I shall bid my men to do the same,” said Julius.

         “But you must realize they will almost certainly fail,” said Calwyn. “The Dark Acolytes contrived this, I doubt not, and no doubt the poisoner has fled.”

         Rosalyn said nothing. She did not want to weep in front of her husband and brothers.

         “Julius, you will be Duke in Valayn soon,” said Calwyn, “and we must carry on your father’s work. We shall call a Great Council of the Isles and elect a Lord Captain to lead the war against the Dark Acolytes. I swear to you, my wife, that we will exterminate these vile sorcerers, and you will have vengeance for your father.”

         “My father is not dead yet,” said Rosalyn. She turned and left them.

         “Rosalyn…” said Calwyn.

         “Let her go, my lord,” murmured Diarmid. “Let her go. She needs to say farewell to him.”

         Let them think that if they wished.

         Rosalyn started running through the castle’s gloomy corridors, her heart racing. She had two days. Two days to find the Ash Rose that had poisoned her father. She would find it, she vowed.

         Or she would die trying.

         Rosalyn stepped into her father’s room and locked the door behind her. He looked worse than before, his face drawn tighter, his pallor more pronounced. She stood over his bed, took a deep breath, and concentrated.

         And drew the power of the Knight of Sorrows into herself.

         Only a little, not enough to transform, not enough to subsume herself in the Knight’s memories. But enough power for her to see the presence of other magic, of other powers. Rosalyn steadied herself, the magic thrumming through her, and looked down.

         Dark power swam through her father’s veins. Rosalyn saw its shadowy fingers digging deeper toward his heart. She stepped back and turned in a circle, looking. Castle Taleisn rippled with echoes of ancient magic, echoes rising from the Well of Power at its heart. The Knight’s powers flowed from that well, but she sought a darker magic now. Rosalyn looked past the well’s echoes, past the walls, seeking, seeking.

         And there it was. The west courtyard, where her father’s men had camped. There she saw a faint, flickering echo of the same dark magic that poisoned her father’s blood. The wrath flooded into Rosalyn, threatened to shatter her control. One of her father’s men had betrayed him?

         Such a blackguard would pay.

         She snatched a ragged commoner’s cloak from the corner and hastened into the night.

         Bonfires crackled in Castle Taleisn’s western courtyard.

         A dozen tents ringed the fires. Duke Ambrose’s thanes stood talking to each other in low voices. The bondsmen and bondswomen tended to the horses and cleaned weapons and armor. Rosalyn kept out of sight, hood pulled low over her face. She drew once more upon a trickle of the Knight’s power, looking for the shadowy echo she had seen earlier.

         There. In the corner, by the horses. A single figure sat on a bale of hay, eating from a bowl of stew. It was a young woman, Rosalyn saw, thin and lean with a wild shock of yellow hair. One of the cooks, most likely. The woman looked up as Rosalyn approached.

         “Aye?” she said, pulling her bowl closer. “You want your own food, go get it. There ought to be some left in the kettle.”

         “No,” said Rosalyn. “I already ate.”

         “Then what do you want?” said the girl.

         “I…I want to join,” said Rosalyn, thinking hard.

         “Join what?” said the girl. “Who are you?”

         “I’m one of Lady Rosalyn’s maids,” Rosalyn said. “I hate her. She has me whipped. I wish she would die. Things…I think things were better when the Shadow Order still ruled in Taleisn.”

         “Do you, now?” said the girl. She looked back and forth. “You can call me Eryn. There are those of us who feel the same way.”

         “But what of it?” said Rosalyn. “The Knight of Sorrows slew Marushan. Prince Calwyn still rules in Taleisn. Nothing will change.”

         “Think you so?” said Eryn. “Lord Marushan is dead, aye. But his teachings did not die. He passed his secrets on to his acolytes. They’re in the north now, gathering the Malrags and the Defiled Ones. But they’ll come south, and things will change. Aye, I swear to you, things will change.”

         “Words,” said Rosalyn. “Words mean nothing. Deeds matter.”

         “You speak truly,” said Eryn. “But the deeds are being done. Duke Ambrose. Do you know him?”

         “Lady Rosalyn’s father?” Her throat went dry. “I do. He’s dying. Illness, they say.”

         “Illness, they say?” said Eryn, voice mocking. “It’s not illness.” Her voice dropped. “The Dark Acolytes poisoned him. There’s no antidote. The old fool will die in two days, and there’s nothing Calwyn or the Knight of Sorrows can do to stop it.”

         “If what you say is true,” said Rosalyn, heart racing, “then might I, too, aid the Dark Acolytes in their great work?”

         “Surely,” said Eryn. “You can stand before Lord Mordaerus this very night.”

         “Mordaerus?”

         “The greatest of the six,” said Eryn. Her voice fell to a reverent, fearful whisper. “He has power. Greater power than even Marushan had. He will reshape the world as he pleases. You may pledge fealty to him before the dawn, if you wish.”

         “He is here? Do you not fear spies?” said Rosalyn.

         “Oh, no,” said Eryn. “Mordaerus does not fear spies. He can look into your heart, see the truth of your words. If you lie to him, you will see what his power can do.”

         The Knight of Sorrows had defeated Marushan; Rosalyn had no fear of this acolyte’s power. “Take me to him.”

         “As you wish,” said Eryn. She stepped around the fire. “We will go at once. I can persuade the thane guarding the…”

         Right then one of the bondsmen threw fresh wood into the fire. It blazed up brighter, throwing fresh light through the courtyard, the glow stabbing into Rosalyn’s hood.

         Eryn’s eyes narrowed, then widened.

         “You,” she hissed, “you’re Calwyn’s wife…”

         Rosalyn snatched the dagger from her belt and leveled it at Eryn’s throat.

         “I’ll scream,” whispered Eryn.

         “Oh, there’s a fine idea,” said Rosalyn. “Scream as loud as you wish. When the thanes come, I will explain how you confessed to poisoning my lord father. Who do you think they will believe?”

         Eryn said nothing.

         “What poison did you use?” said Rosalyn.

         “I know not,” whispered Eryn. “Lord Mordaerus gave it to me, bid me to put it in Duke Ambrose’s wine one night past.”

         “Where is the antidote?” said Rosalyn.

         “There is none.”

         “You lie!” said Rosalyn, watching Eryn’s face.

         “There is none, I swear,” said Eryn. “Lord Mordaerus told me sorcery was used to brew the poison. Only sorcery could cure it.” Her lips twitched into a mocking grin. “And Prince Calwyn drove all magicians, witches, and workers of sorcery from Taleisn, did he not?”

         Rosalyn gritted her teeth, hoping that nothing of her indecision showed upon her face. This vile creature had poisoned her father. She ought to hand Eryn over to her husband and brothers for their justice. Yet Eryn was her only hope of finding the Ash Rose.

         “Get out of my sight,” said Rosalyn, lowering the dagger.

         Eryn blinked in confusion.

         “Go,” said Rosalyn. “I cannot bear the sight of bloodshed. But I swear to you, if you are still in Taleisn come dawn, or if I ever lay eyes upon you again, my husband will mount your head over the gates.”

         A look of contempt flashed over Eryn’s face. Then she made a shallow bow and left, vanishing into the courtyard’s darkness. Rosalyn waited, counted to sixty.

         Then she turned and ran.

         Rosalyn had lived in Castle Taleisn for over a year, and she still got lost in its rambling maze of passages.

         But the Knight of Sorrows had guarded the castle and its Well of Power for long millennia. The Knight of Sorrows knew a dozen secret ways in and out of the castle. Rosalyn tapped into more of the Knight’s power, drawing out the memories of those who had borne the Knight’s sword before her.

         She took one of the hidden passages, and soon found herself outside the castle, near the seaward bluff. Rosalyn again drew on the Knight’s power. She saw the dark echo heading east. Eryn was fleeing into the woods east of the castle, Rosalyn realized. Fleeing to the protection of her precious Mordaerus.

         The Knight of Sorrows would show just how little power this Mordaerus really had.

         Rosalyn hastened across the fields, following the dark echo into the woods. The very trees themselves seemed too dark, as if overlaid by shadow magic. Ahead she sensed a creature bearing mighty shadow magic, cold and terrible. Yet at its heart there blazed something the color of hellfire, something raging and insane.

         Not even Marushan himself had possessed such an aura of power.

         Rosalyn hesitated, every instinct screaming for her to flee. But her father lay dying. She pressed onward.

         The dark echo halted, and soon Rosalyn saw that Eryn had stopped in a clearing. Rosalyn crept closer, keeping to the shadows, cursing every twig and dry leaf. Yet Eryn didn’t notice. She paced the clearing, agitated.

         Then Rosalyn saw a glimmer of yellow-orange light.

         “Lord,” said Eryn, falling to her knees.

         Another figure entered the clearing, a shape wrapped in a heavy gray cloak. It carried a long black staff in its right hand. Runes marked the gleaming wood, and the symbols flickered and shimmered with fiery light. The same light glimmered beneath the heavy cowl, and Rosalyn caught a brief glimpse of a face deformed and scarred.

         Even without the Knight’s senses, Rosalyn felt the power gathered within that staff.

         “Child,” said Lord Mordaerus, beckoning with his free hand. His voice was a hard rasp, the snarl of a man in pain. “You were not to come to me until Duke Ambrose perished.”

         “Forgive me, lord,” said Eryn. “I was discovered.”

         “You were?” said Mordaerus. “And you yet live? Remarkable. Has Prince Calwyn learned the virtues of mercy?”

         “Lady Rosalyn discovered me,” said Eryn. “I know not how. She let me go. She said she was weary of bloodshed.”

         “Indeed,” said Mordaerus. “I had thought her a child. A girl. No more than a pretty brood mare for Calwyn, a tie to bind him to Ambrose. It seems she has greater insight than I had judged.” He fell silent, the runes on his staff glowing brighter.

         “Are you wroth with me, lord?” said Eryn, kneading her hands.

         “Not entirely,” said Mordaerus. He lifted his head, his cowl scanning the trees. His eyes flashed with the same fires as his staff, and Rosalyn saw that a mask hid his features. It was a gruesome thing, stitched together from misshapen pieces of leather, making his face look gashed and torn. “Tell me. Why do you think Lady Rosalyn let you live?”

         “I…I know not,” said Eryn.

         “The Knight of Sorrows slew Lord Marushan,” said Mordaerus, “yet Prince Calwyn loathes sorcery. He has naught to do with it. Rosalyn found some dupe to bear the sword of the Knight of Sorrows, the ancient guardian of these isles. One of her husband’s thanes, perhaps. I suspect Rosalyn summoned him as soon as you left the castle, and loosed him upon your trail.”

         Eryn looked over her shoulder.

         “No doubt he watches us even now,” said Mordaerus. “Leave. Now.”

         Eryn fled.

         Rosalyn took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and embraced the Knight’s power.

         The magic erupted through her like a molten river. It took shape around her. Armor covered her from head to toe, plate brighter than a mirror and harder than diamond.  A helmet covered her head, and through its visor Rosalyn saw the snarling vortex of shadow and flame filling Mordaerus. Blue flames erupted from her right hand, hardening into the razor-edged greatsword of the Knight. Memories from a thousand years of battle flooded through her, drowning her thoughts in a sea of iron.

         Then she was Rosalyn the daughter of Ambrose no more.

         The Knight of Sorrows strode into the clearing, blue flames crackling from the sigils inscribed upon her sword blade.

         Mordaerus did not move, did not even flinch. Yet the fires of his staff and eyes began to shine with a hellish intensity.

         “Ah,” he said. “So I was correct. Tell me. Beneath that armor of Druid magic are you Prince Calwyn? Or one of his thanes, perhaps? When Lady Rosalyn gave you that sword, did she perhaps tell you the price its magic will exact?”

         The Knight pointed her sword at him. “You are one of Marushan’s acolytes?” Her voice rang like a thunderclap.

         “It pleased Marushan to think himself my master,” said Mordaerus, “and the pretense cost me nothing.”

         “You poisoned Duke Ambrose of Valayn with an Ash Rose,” said the Knight. “You will surrender the Ash Rose to me.”

         “No,” said Mordaerus. “In two days time Duke Ambrose will die in excruciating torment. Regrettable, but necessary. My servants will then plant the Ash Rose upon Julius, along with certain other convincing proofs that he murdered his father. Prince Calwyn will have no choice but to declare war upon Julius. Taleisn and Valayn will rip each other apart in endless blood feud. The Dark Acolytes will conquer this land without a fight. And the Well of Power will be mine, and I will use it to remake the world.”

         “No,” said the Knight, lifting her sword. “Surrender the Ash Rose or I will strike you down.”

         “I propose something better,” said Mordaerus. “Marushan was a politician. He desired the well for petty temporal power. I have a nobler dream. I will use the well’s power to reforge this world. And it is badly in need of reforging, is it not?” His snarling voice tightened. “Look at the pain, the cruelty, the anguish that is the lot of man. The gods have betrayed mortal kind. But with the well’s power, I can cast them down. I can remake the world, create a world without pain, without want, without gods.” He extended a gloved hand toward the Knight. “I can even heal you. I can break the curse of the Knight, release you from the magic that is even now devouring your soul. Take me to the Well. Help me make a better world.”

         “Give me the Ash Rose,” said the Knight, “or I shall take it from you.”

         “The young are ever impatient,” said Mordaerus. His hand tightened against his staff. “Ah, well.”

         The Knight of Sorrows leapt at him, sword rising for a massive overhead swing.

         Mordaerus pointed his staff. There was a snarling crackle, a surge of dark magic, and a writhing ribbon of yellow-orange light that stabbed like a crooked knife blade. The magic exploded into the Knight and threw her backwards. She slammed into a tree with such force that the trunk splintered. She sagged to the ground, agony flooding her limbs, a molten gash smoking across her cuirass.

         Marushan had never been able to do anything like that.

         “Poor fool,” said Mordaerus. The Knight tried to rise, fell again. “You bear the Knight’s power, but you haven’t the slightest idea how to use it, do you?”

         The Knight climbed to one knee, using her sword as a lever, just in time for Mordaerus’s magic to explode into her shoulder. The Knight spun, rolling across the ground, and just barely kept her grip on the sword.

         “I am sorry to cause you such pain,” said Mordaerus, walking closer. “But perhaps it is merciful. A little pain now, and you will be spared far greater pain in the future. You will not feel the Knight’s magic devour you from the inside out, nor will you see everyone you love die. Yes. A mercy, I think.”

         The Knight struggled to her knees. The Knight had defeated sorcerers in the past, she knew, had defended against dark magic. The memories of Knights past washed through her, visions of battle and blood. Mordaerus leveled his staff, the runes flaring, and the Knight swung her sword in a high arc.

         The ribbon of fire struck her blade and shattered in a spray of glowing embers. The Knight staggered to her feet, swaying, trying to keep her balance.

         “Impressive,” said Mordaerus. “But futile.”

         The next blast struck her in the neck, slamming her to the ground. The breath exploded out her lungs, and it felt as if her heart had stopped. Previous Knights had died in battle, she knew, and their memories flooded her. How could the Knight of Sorrows have ever defeated sorcerers in battle without defense against magic?

         “Farewell,” murmured Mordaerus, lifting his staff.

         The Knight remembered. It took power to fight power, and magic to fight magic. She reached deeper into the power, called it forth, and gave it shape. Blue flame shimmered about her left arm, and took the form of a kite shield, mirror-bright. The Knight arched back and raised the shield over her face as Mordaerus’s magic hammered down.

         The ribbon of fire struck the shield and rebounded. The magic slammed into Mordaerus, knocking him back a dozen steps. The Knight staggered back to her feet, more of the unlocked power howling through her. She felt it easing her wounds, making her stronger and faster. Mordaerus caught his balance, thrust his staff, and again loosed his magic. The Knight caught the blast on her shield, sent it flying for Mordaerus’s face. He ducked, the burning ribbon sizzling past his head.

         The Knight surged forward, sword swinging. Mordaerus caught the blow on his staff, orange fire struggling against azure. He twisted, sidestepped, and thrust his staff at her stomach. The blow clanged off her armor, but another wave of dizzying agony rushed through the Knight. She stumbled, fighting to keep her balance, and Mordaerus stepped back, leveling his staff for the killing blow.

         The Knight threw the shield at him.

         It stuck him in the face and bounced away. Mordaerus’s head snapped back, his attention stolen for just a second. The Knight leapt forward, both hands locked about her sword’s hilt, all her strength and weight behind the weapon.

         The point plunged into Mordaerus’s stomach.

         The staff fell from his fingers and vanished into black smoke. Mordaerus sagged forward, coughing, bending over her sword blade.

         “It is over,” said the Knight.

         “Do you really think so?” said Mordaerus, his voice little more than a whisper. “So little…you understand. It is never over. And your pain is only…only just beginning…”

         He slumped. The Knight pulled back her sword. Mordaerus crumpled to the ground, dead. The Knight released her power, and became Rosalyn daughter of Ambrose once more.

         The pain exploded through her. She fell to her knees with a shriek, her chest and neck throbbing. The skin where Mordaerus’s magic had struck the Knight was red and livid, and her head felt as if it would crack in two. Her heart raced, and for a terrible moment Rosalyn thought it would simply burst, but bit by bit the agony subsided.

         Your pain is only just beginning.

         Rosalyn reached over and pulled the misshapen mask from Mordaerus’s face. His features were withered, brittle, almost decayed. The hellfire had faded from his eyes, and his face looked like that of a man three months dead.

           Little wonder he had worn a mask.

         She knelt over his corpse, digging through his cloak until she felt something sharp. Excited, she pulled it loose. A black rose rested in her hand, beautiful and sleek and terribly cold to the touch.

         The Ash Rose.

         She had to get it to Diarmid. He would know how to prepare the elixir that would save her father. But how? Calwyn’s hatred of magic bordered on obsession, and he would never accept aid that came from the Knight of Sorrows. He would refuse the Rose, might even kill Rosalyn if he learned the truth.

         But could she force his hand?

         Rosalyn closed her eyes, summoned the Knight’s power once more, and tried to ignore the pain.

         “Where lies Duke Ambrose of Valayn?” thundered the Knight.

         She strode into Castle Taleisn’s great hall as Prince Calwyn and Julius stood. Calwyn drew his sword, his eyes cold and narrow, while Julius simply stared.

         “Get gone from here,” said Calwyn. “I have banished all workers of sorcery from Taleisn. Leave now, or I swear that you will die before the sun rises.”

         “I bear a gift,” said the Knight. “The Ash Rose used to poison Duke Ambrose. I slew the Dark Acolyte called Mordaerus and took it from his corpse. I would not see Ambrose die. You.” She pointed at Diarmid, who stood gaping at the Knight. “Scholar. Take the Rose and prepare the antidote from its thorns.”

         “No!” said Calwyn. “This is some sorcerous trick…”

         “My lord!” said Lucas, grabbing Calwyn’s arm. “My father will perish anyway. What is the harm in trying?”

         “Lord,” said Diarmid, “I know your hatred for all things sorcerous. But of old it was said the Knight of Sorrows guarded the Silurian Isles from all evils. Surely he has come to aid Duke Ambrose, not to harm him?”

         “I doubt it,” said Calwyn. “Slay him and take the Rose.”

         The Knight whirled and ran, Calwyn’s thanes hot upon her heels. But the Knight had the power of the Well and they did not, and she soon outpaced them. She raced through the corridors until she came to the dying Duke’s chambers. One kick of her armored boot shattered the door, and a single blow from her sword reduced the window’s shutters to splinters.

         Then she released the power. Armor and sword vanished in a swirl of azure flame, and Rosalyn stood in the corner, panting, the Ash Rose clutched in one hand. A moment later Calwyn ran into the room, sword in hand, Julius and Lucas and the thanes behind them.

         “Wife?” said Calwyn. “What happened? Did…”

         “The Knight of Sorrows,” said Rosalyn. “He kicked down the door. He…he gave me this, told me it was the Ash Rose used to poison my father. Then he went out the window.”

         Calwyn gazed at the Ash Rose in her hand with undisguised loathing, and Diarmid limped into the room.

         “Diarmid,” said Rosalyn, thrusting the Rose at him. “Here. Take this. For the love of the gods. The Knight said it is the Ash Rose that poisoned my father. You can brew the antidote.”

         “No,” said Calwyn, turning from the window. “No. This Ash Rose is a trick.”

         “My father is dying,” said Rosalyn. “We have no other choice.”

         “My wife, I love you, but you are half my age,” said Calwyn. “I know this will grieve you, but it might be better for your father to die. I saw what Marushan and his acolytes did. You haven’t seen how sorcery twists and corrupts, how magic can devour everything that is good in a man, transform him into a monstrous beast. You haven’t seen it happen. I have.”

         When Lady Rosalyn gave you that sword, did she perhaps tell you the price its magic will exact?

         Mordaerus’s crackling whisper echoed through her mind.

         Your pain is only just beginning…

         “My father will die if we do nothing!” said Rosalyn. “The Ash Rose…”

         “You do not understand!” said Calwyn, shouting. “Your father will die? I saw my father die as well, and my brothers. Marushan used his sorcery to torture them, to twist them slowly into creatures of dark magic. Only after he had broken them, only after he had twisted them into monsters, did he kill them. In front of me. I saw that, Rosalyn.”

         “You never told me,” said Rosalyn.

         “It is…not something I care to speak of.” There was pain, terrible pain, on his face. “But I will say that it is better that your father die cleanly than that he lives to endure such a fate.”

         “But this is different,” said Rosalyn, “we can save my father, Diarmid can…”

         “No.” Calwyn’s voice was flat. “I am Prince in Taleisn, and I forbid it.”

         Rosalyn’s breath came in a ragged hiss that was almost a sob.

         “I am sorry, my wife,” said Calwyn. “I am sorry that I must do this, and I am sorry that you will hate me for it. But I will not subject your father to further sorcery.”

         He turned and left, Julius, Lucas, and the thanes trailing after him. Diarmid remained, leaning on his cane, staring at Duke Ambrose. The old scholar’s face was stricken. He had known Ambrose for years, Rosalyn remembered, and the two men had often discussed history and philosophy late into the night.

         “Diarmid,” she said, touching his sleeve, “brew the antidote.”

         He looked at her, blinking. “But your husband has forbidden it.”

         “You are not my husband’s man,” said Rosalyn, “you are sworn to my father. And you’re his friend. Will you just let him die?”

         “Prince Calwyn may be right, my lady,” said Diarmid. “I have studied Ash Roses in the old scrolls, but never seen one with my own eyes. I know not what consequences it may have upon your father…”

         “I do,” said Rosalyn. “He will die if we do nothing. But this might save him. Can you stand by and let him die?”

         Diarmid stared at Duke Ambrose, at her. Then he took the Ash Rose from her hand.

         “No,” said Diarmid. “I cannot. I will brew the antidote, my lady. But Prince Calwyn will be wroth.”

         “So be it,” said Rosalyn.

         Mordaerus had been right. The Knight’s power had its price, but she would pay that price willingly.

         Two days later Duke Ambrose of Valayn woke.

         “Rosalyn?” he said. “What am I doing here?”

         Rosalyn smiled. “You were sick, Father.”

         “I…I have had terrible dreams. I was trapped in a dark place, surrounded by horrors. But you came with a light and led me home…”

         “It was just a bad dream,” Rosalyn said.

         She knelt beside the bed, and kissed her father’s brow.

Copyright 2008, Jonathan Moeller

Cover: "Voyager"

The Voyager Maiden edges toward the waterline as she awaits the setting of her planet's twin.

Copyright 2008, Victoria Zamudio

Victoria Zamudio is a student artist.  This is her first work to appear as a cover for Double-Edged Publishing.