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Rosalyn is the Knight of Sorrows, defender against dark magic, but treachery surrounds her. She must act quickly to save everyone she loves from a betrayer's ambush.
Fiction
Fantasy
Rosalyn had never seen her husband so angry.
“How could you defy me like this?” said Calwyn. His face had gone red, and he paced back and forth before his throne.
She stood in Castle Taleisn’s cavernous great hall, besides her father and the old scholar Diarmid. Her brothers Julius and Lucas stood a short distance away, watching the confrontation. The Prince of Taleisn kept pacing before his throne. At last he stopped and glared at her.
“I told you not to do this,” said Calwyn. “I warned you not to do this. Instead, you used that thing of sorcery to cure your father…”
“What, then, was my daughter to do?” said Duke Ambrose, stepping past her. “Should she have simply let me perish of poison, especially when the antidote lay near at hand? We have long been friends, Calwyn, but I begin to question your wisdom.”
“My Lord Prince,” said Diarmid, leaning on his cane, “there was no sorcery used in the antidote. The poison might have been a thing of magic, yes, but I spoke no spells nor worked any incantations. I merely brewed the antidote from the Ash Rose.”
“No,” said Calwyn. “No. None of you understand. I am glad you are well, my Lord Duke. But it was not your homeland the Shadow Order ravaged. I have fought workers of magic for far longer than you. And I know that sorcery has unseen consequences. Always sorcery has consequences, usually dark.” He looked at Rosalyn. “Those consequences are a burden I would have spared your daughter. And you, my Lord. I have seen what black sorcery can to do a man. Better to die cleanly.”
“My husband,” said Rosalyn. “I did what I had to do. I could not have stood by and watched my father die.”
Calwyn said nothing, his face tight with a scowl. Rosalyn felt eyes on her, saw her brother Julius staring at her. His expression was flat, almost unfriendly, and he had been curt to her ever since their father had recovered. It was almost as if he had wanted Duke Ambrose to die, so he could become duke in turn. But the thought was absurd. No doubt Julius shared Calwyn’s hatred of sorcery.
At last Calwyn sighed. “What’s done is done.” He stepped towards her. “But, wife, you do not see the consequences. You summoned the Knight of Sorrows.” He was only half-right, there. “You used the Ash Rose. Sooner or later…”
Rosalyn blinked.
She saw someone moving in the darkness behind one of the pillars. At first she thought it to be one of the bondsmen, hoping to avoid Calwyn’s ill temper. But now the shadowy figure stepped out from behind the pillar, a drawn bow in hand, an arrow pointed and ready…
No, no, not again.
“Father!” screamed Rosalyn. She flung herself against Ambrose just as the bowman released. The Duke staggered, and Rosalyn felt something tug hard at her left hip. Calwyn and her brothers whirled as the would-be assassin flung down his bow and tried to flee.
The assassin had not taken three steps before Julius’s sword plunged into his side. The man groaned and toppled to his knees. Julius took one step back, swung, and beheaded the assassin.
“Is anyone hurt?” said Rosalyn. “Father, did the arrow hit you?”
“No, daughter,” said Duke Ambrose. He smiled. “Your timing could not have been better.”
“Aye,” said Calwyn, gazing at her. “Wife, you are many things, but no man could ever call you craven.” He looked at the corpse. “Another hireling of the Dark Acolytes, no doubt, sent when the poison failed.”
“A pity you killed him,” said Ambrose.
“A pity?” said Julius, cleaning his sword on the dead man’s clothes. “He tried to kill you, Father. What should I have done? Given him a glass of wine and sent him on his way?”
“No,” said Calwyn, “but we could have put him to the question. No matter, though.”
The hall began to spin around Rosalyn.
She looked down. Her left hip had turned crimson, the blood soaking into her skirt.
“Rosalyn!” said Calwyn, seeing the blood.
“No,” said Rosalyn. “No…it’s…just a scratch…”
She tried to step forward, and never felt herself hit the floor.
She awoke to a wind that screamed like tormented souls.
Rosalyn sat up, shocked, and looked around. A plain of crumbling gray ice stretched away in all directions, pierced with jagged pinnacles of black stone. The sky roiled with furious black clouds, lit from within by a hellish glare. Rosalyn got to her feet and looked around with dismay.
What was this place? She remembered the assassin, her father, the arrow, and then…and then…
How had she come to be here?
“Welcome, child.”
The voice was cold, creaking, gloating. The voice of a bloated spider speaking to a trapped fly, perhaps. Rosalyn turned.
An old man in a black robe stood twenty paces away. He was missing his nose and both of his ears, and his brittle white hair floated on the freezing wind. Something like mildew, or black mold, mottled his pale skin. His breath hissed through his jagged teeth, and his yellow eyes were cold and cruel.
“You,” said Rosalyn. “You’re a Dark Acolyte.”
“Yes,” said the man, stepping closer. “I am Caul, once the acolyte of Lord Marushan, now the disciple of Lord Mordaerus.”
“Marushan is dead,” spat Rosalyn. “Mordaerus is dead. The Knight of Sorrows slew them both.”
Caul laughed at her. “But I, too, am dead. Or at least I am in this place. For I am only a shadow of the living Caul, an echo of his sorcery. But even my shadow is enough to drag you down to torment and death.”
“No,” said Rosalyn.
Caul smiled and lifted his bony hands.
And dark shapes boiled from the ice.
They were shadow-things, vaguely man-shaped, each with a pair of wings and a dozen writhing tentacles boiling from their flanks. A score of them rose in a circle around Caul. With a gesture the Dark Acolyte sent the creatures flying for her.
Rosalyn stood fast, reached for the power of the Knight of Sorrows.
And nothing happened.
She did not even have time to scream before the shadow-things swarmed her. Their talons grappled her, tearing through clothing and skin to sink into flesh. The tentacles wrapped around her like ropes. Some tightened hard about her neck. Others forced their way into her mouth, her nose, and Rosalyn began to choke.
“You don’t even know where you are, do you?” said Caul. “What a shame. But you’ll learn, soon enough. Here you can die, over and over again.” The tentacles began shoving into her throat. “Here the torment never…what?”
All at once the tentacles wrenched back, and the shadow things released her. Rosalyn fell hard to the ice, gagging and coughing. She heard Caul snarl something, heard a strong voice calling a command in an unknown language.
She looked up and saw the ghostly warriors.
There were a dozen of them, men and women both. A few wore only ragged furs, their arms and faces covered with strange tattoos. Some wore bronze armor, others iron, and still others wore helms of strange design. But all of them bore swords of azure fire. As Rosalyn watched they cut down the shadow-things. Caul backed away, black flames crackling around his gnarled fingers. A stern-faced man leapt after him, clad in bronze-scaled armor. His sword of fire plunged into the Dark Acolyte’s heart. Caul screamed and shattered into a thousand obsidian shards that soon vanished.
Rosalyn managed to stand. The ghostly warriors turned to face her, their swords of azure fire raised in salute. The stern-faced man in bronze stepped forward.
“Knight of Sorrows,” he said. “We greet you.”
“Who…who are you?” said Rosalyn.
“Do you not know?” said the stern-faced warrior. “For you summoned us, you who bear the Knight’s sword.”
“I do not know you,” said Rosalyn. “Name yourselves.”
They spoke in unison. “We are the Knights who went before.”
“I was named Hawk-Of-Fire,” said a tattooed man in furs. “I was one of the first to bear the sword of the Knight of Sorrows. Long I warred against ancient horrors in the dawn of ages, against nightmares that sought to claim the Well’s power and destroy all mortal kind.”
“I was named Talidania,” said a woman with a silver diadem and an iron cuirass. “When the Malrags first came to the Silurian Isles, after the ruin of Agahlain, my husband fell in the battle. But I took up the Knight’s sword and drove the Malrags into the bitter north.”
“And I was named Mabrigan,” said the stern-faced man, “and once I was Prince of Taleisn, guardian of both Castle and Well. When the old Empire came to enslave us, I became the Knight of Sorrows, and long I waged war against their wicked magi and black necromancers.”
“Then you were all once the Knight of Sorrows, even as I am now?” said Rosalyn.
The wraiths nodded.
“Then you are dead,” said Rosalyn, “and I am speaking to your ghosts.”
“No,” said Mabrigan. “Indeed all of us died long ago. Many of us died in battle against the dark magic. Others fell to the threefold curse of the Knight’s power. But our souls have all gone to their long homes. We are only their shadows, their echoes. But still we remember. And we aid whosoever has taken up the mantle and sword of the Knight.”
Rosalyn understood. Whenever she drew upon the power and became the Knight, memories of battles long past flooded her mind. The Knight’s sword had been passed from holder to holder over long millennia, and it seemed that each individual Knight’s memories and experiences became part of that power.
“If you would aid me,” said Rosalyn, “then answer my questions. Where I am?”
“This place is the netherworld,” said Hawk-Of-Fire.
“Then I am dead?” said Rosalyn. “I am one of you now?” The thought of wandering this icy plain for eternity was more than she could stand.
“No,” said Mabrigan. “This is the netherworld, the world between the worlds of the living and the worlds of the dead. You were struck down by a poison brewed of the dark magic.”
“Oh, gods, not more poison,” said Rosalyn.
“The contagion does not kill its victim outright,” said Mabrigan, “but instead severs the link between flesh and soul. The soul is forced to this place. The flesh lingers on, but soon dies without its sustaining spirit.”
“Then I am dead,” said Rosalyn. “For how can I return to my flesh?”
“You are the Knight of Sorrows,” said Talidania, “and you wield powers against dark magic that most mortals do not possess. Therefore you now face a choice. You may die in truth, and your soul will move on to the world of the dead. Another will come in time to take up the Knight’s sword. Or, with our aid, you may return to the world of the living. If you do, I warn you, you will endure dreadful suffering and grievous sorrow, but you may have chance to prevent terrible evils.”
“I don’t understand,” said Rosalyn.
“Do you wish to know more?” said Hawk-Of-Fire. “We are the shadows of Knights past, and we linger. We wait. We watch. There is much that we know. Would you see the evils you might have the power to stay?”
“Yes,” said Rosalyn.
Mabrigan nodded, raised his burning sword, and dropped it down.
The world moved in a sickening lurch. One moment Rosalyn stood upon the freezing plain. The next she stood in the dark woods outside of Castle Taleisn. For a moment she thought the wraiths had returned her to the world of the living. But the trees rippled and wavered around her, flickering, as if obscured by mist.
“We may only watch the world of the living,” said Mabrigan, “but even in watching, there is much to be learned. Behold!”
Caul stepped out of the trees. Rosalyn took a half-step back in alarm, but the Dark Acolyte did not see her. Caul set off through the forest, moving with vigorous speed despite his decrepit appearance, and Rosalyn and the shadows of Knights past followed. At last Caul stopped at a clearing. Rosalyn recognized it; it was the very place where the Knight of Sorrows had struck down the Dark Acolyte Mordaerus. In fact Mordaerus’s bones still lay moldering on the ground, the ragged remnants of his cloak clinging to his ribs.
Odd that the corpse would have decayed so quickly.
Caul glanced at the bones, almost fearfully, and waited.
A short time later another figure stepped into clearing, a man wrapped in a commoner’s ragged brown cloak. Despite that Rosalyn glimpsed the gleam of armor and a half-drawn sword beneath the rough cloth. Caul turned, his colorless lips pulling into a sneer, the remnants of his eyebrows climbing halfway up his mottled brow.
“Put that blade away, fool,” said Caul. “Unless you are the Knight of Sorrows himself, you bear no blade that could harm me.”
The man pulled back his hood. Rosalyn’s breath caught in her throat, her stomach knotting.
Julius.
“Well?” said Caul. “Did it work?”
“No,” said Julius, scowling. “My sister interfered, and that fool of a bowman missed his mark. I had to kill him, lest he speak, and now Rosalyn lies dying.”
“You hardly seem distressed,” said Caul.
Julius shrugged. “Well, what of it? I won’t have to pay a dowry to her new husband after we kill Calwyn. So, your first attempt failed. What do you have for me now?”
“My first attempt?” said Caul. “I provided the poisoned arrow to you, fool boy. How that arrow found its way into Duke Ambrose’s flesh was your concern, not mine.”
“And it would not have been my concern,” said Julius, “had that fool Mordaerus not failed to kill my father.”
Caul hissed, and looked around himself in sudden alarm. “We had not foreseen that the Knight of Sorrows would involve himself. Hold your tongue, boy.”
Julius laughed. “Does the mighty Dark Acolyte fear a ghost?” He kicked the crumbling skeleton. “Your precious Lord Mordaerus is unlikely to take offense. It seems his dark magic was not as strong as you claimed.”
“Dark magic,” whispered Caul. “What did the mad poet say? Can that which is dead ever truly die? And with long ages dark magic may even conquer death itself. So speak not of things beyond your puerile understanding, fool boy. Otherwise you may one day die screaming with those words upon your lips.”
“What I do understand,” said Julius, “is that the Shadow Order promised that I would become the Duke of Valayn and the Prince of Taleisn in exchange for my support. And yet that has not come to pass.”
Caul said nothing, but his yellow eyes flashed. Rosalyn’s hands curled into fists, the fury and the betrayal threatening to choke her.
Julius scowled. “The Shadow Order? You Dark Acolytes are charlatans, a collection of old fools in black robes. I doubt any of you have ever worked a single spell…”
Caul raised his hand and spat an incantation.
The winged shadow-things boiled from the earth and swept towards Julius. Rosalyn’s brother just had time to scream before they seized him. Their tentacles wrapped around him, binding him, gagging him. Julius struggled, but the shadow-things slammed him against a nearby tree. Caul shuffled closer, taking care to step around Mordaerus’s bones.
“Listen well,” he whispered, his gruesome face inches from Julius’s. “We need you not, foolish boy. But it is convenient to keep you alive, for now, because you might be of use to us. But if you ever question me again, if you ever mock me again, then I shall show you the torment that dark magic can write upon human flesh. Are you capable of understanding that?”
Despite the tentacles binding his face and neck, Julius managed to nod.
Caul lifted his hand, and the winged shadows withdrew. Julius toppled to the ground, coughing and wheezing. Caul watched him for a moment, and then reached into his robes. He pulled forth a glass sphere the size of an apple, its interior roiling with black smoke. The air around it blurred, and the globe flashed with occasional pulses of crimson light.
“What,” said Julius, climbing to his feet, “what is that?”
“Take it,” said Caul. Julius took the sphere, wincing at its touch. “Fool! Careful. Drop that and you will die before your next breath.”
“What is it?” said Julius.
“Your path to the thrones of Valayn and Taleisn,” said Caul, gesturing. The shadow-things hovered around him, cradling him in their tentacles. “Lord Mordaerus himself crafted it, before his latest death. Shatter that sphere within Castle Taleisn, and flee as quickly as you can. The…being…imprisoned within will slay every man, woman, and child inside the Castle’s walls. The spell binding the creature to this world will disperse come the next sunset, but do not reenter the castle beforehand if you value your life and soul. You will then be rightful Duke of Valayn, and since your sister was wed to Calwyn and birthed no heirs, the lawful Prince of Taleisn as well.” The breath hissed through the black crater of Caul’s nose. “But keep your end of the bargain, Julius son of Ambrose. The Shadow Order is not merciful to those who break troth.”
“I will,” said Julius, swallowing.
“Say it,” said Caul.
“I will swear vassalage to Lord Mordaerus,” said Julius, glancing at the bones, “or whoever becomes head of the Shadow Order.” Caul sneered at that. “I will support the Dark Acolytes in their war. And I will surrender Castle Taleisn and the Well at its heart to the Dark Acolytes. This I so swear.”
“Good,” purred Caul. “I look forward to hearing of your success. Should you actually manage to achieve it.” He gestured, and the shadow-things lifted him up, their wings beating. Caul flew away to the north, veiled in the flapping wings of his shadowy minions.
Julius stared after him, then tucked the black globe beneath his cloak and walked away.
Rosalyn stared after him, her lips peeled back from her teeth, her hands rolled into fists. How could he have done something like this? Rosalyn had never known her eldest brother well, in truth. He was ten years older than her. After their mother had died, Julius had remained at their father’s side, aiding Ambrose in the war against the Shadow Order, while Rosalyn spent more time at home, filling the duties her mother had once held as steward of Duke Ambrose’s estates. They had always spoken courteously to one another, and her father’s men always praised his valor in battle.
“That villain,” spat Rosalyn, snarling her rage, “that scoundrel, that treacherous blackguard!” So he would put his trust in the Shadow Order, would he? The Knight of Sorrows would show him the folly of that.
“So you see,” said Mabrigan, “the evil that might befall.”
She turned back to the wraiths of Knights past, standing with their swords of pale fire.
“Your brother would hand the Well over to the dark ones, and doom all the world,” said Talidania, “but you have the power to stop this evil, Knight of Sorrows. But if you return to the world of the living, the price will be steep indeed.”
“You saw what I saw,” said Rosalyn. “I have no choice. I must go back. But…this price of which you speak? What is it?”
“The curse,” whispered Hawk-Of-Fire. “The threefold curse of the Knight’s power. The ancients feared that the bearer of the Knight’s sword would turn to evil, and so laid a threefold curse upon the power. First the curse of flesh.”
“Then the curse of spirit,” said Talidania.
“And at last the curse of sorrow,” said Mabrigan. “If you return to the world of the living, Knight of Sorrows, you will know these torments, as we once did.”
Rosalyn hesitated. She had been full of wrath, ready to return and stop Julius, but the wraiths’ words made her pause. There was pain written upon their faces, a grief and a black memory lingering even after long centuries. What kind of agony had they endured? What kind of agony would she endure?
But no. Her brother might have a black heart, but she loved her father. And her husband was blind and stubborn, but he was generous and valiant and she loved him regardless. And what of wise old Diarmid, the thanes in Calwyn’s service, the bondsmen who labored in the castle? Would she let Julius slaughter them all in the name of his ambition?
No. By all the gods, no.
“So be it,” said Rosalyn. “I will endure whatever comes, because I must.”
“Then you are a worthy bearer of the Knight’s sword, Rosalyn daughter of Ambrose, wife of Calwyn,” said Mabrigan. “A great dark power is loose in the world, but you stand in its path. Go, therefore, with our blessing.”
Rosalyn bowed to her predecessors.
“Until we meet again,” said Mabrigan. “For so we shall.”
Breath exploded into Rosalyn’s lungs.
She sat up with a gasp, sweat pouring down her face, the world spinning around her. She was in her bed, she saw, clad in a nightgown. The shallow cut on her hip had been bandaged. Rosalyn felt better than she had any right to, all told.
But she felt the dark magic moving through the castle.
Rosalyn clawed aside the blankets, got to her feet, and reached for the Knight’s power.
The power erupted from her, pulled from the ancient Well at Castle Taleisn’s heart, the Knight’s magic taking shape around her. Armor sheathed her from head to toe, mirror-bright and diamond-hard. A helm crowned her head, hiding her face beneath the expressionless mask of a cold visor. Blue flame hardened into a greatsword in her right hand, traced with ancient sigils in azure flame. The memories of Knights past flooded her mind, visions of blood and battle and death.
Then she was Rosalyn, wife of Calwyn, daughter of Ambrose, no longer.
The Knight began to run, and the shadows in Rosalyn’s room seemed to darken. Frost crawled across the walls and floors, and a wind began blowing through the room, coming from deeper within the castle. The Knight felt the Well’s power stirring, responding to the dark power.
Julius was about to summon the dark magic.
The Knight raced through the castle’s gloom-choked corridors, the Well’s magic fueling her speed. She came to the great hall, saw Calwyn and Ambrose and a dozen thanes standing in a circle. All had swords in hand, their breath steaming in the unnatural cold.
Calwyn saw the Knight, and his eyes narrowed. “You. I knew that you had something to do with this.”
She saw Julius then, standing behind a pillar, the glass sphere uncovered in his hands, shadows pouring from it like blood from a wound. Even as the Knight stepped forward, Julius raised the glass and flung it to the floor. The sphere shattered, the broken shards spinning across the flagstones.
Blood-colored light flooded the great hall.
The black mist roiled up from the broken glass, and took the shape of a nightmare. The thing looked like a colossal insect, armored in crimson chitin, its pincers jagged and razor-edged, its tail tipped with dripping barbs. Wings like black leather flapped behind it, and its eyes glittered like rubies. The creature reared up on its hind legs, black wings brushing the vaulted ceiling, its talons lashing at the air.
It crackled with dark magic.
The thanes rushed at the creature. It moved with blinding speed despite its great size. A black wing burst out, sent the thanes flying. The creature leapt over them, pincers reaching. Calwyn shouted, his sword stabbing for the beast’s thorax. The steel blade shattered against the armored exoskeleton, and Calwyn stumbled off balance. The creature’s foreleg lashed out, knocked Calwyn to the ground. He rolled hard and crashed into a pillar, groaning, and the creature bent over him for the kill.
The Knight sprang across the hall, her leap enhanced by the Well’s power.
Her sword came down, and the burning blade crashed through the monster’s armor plates like paper. The creature shrieked in agony, its voice like a knife, and spun. The barbed tail whipped around and clanged against her cuirass with terrific strength. The Knight stumbled back, but the stinger had only left a dent in her armor. But again the barbed tail whipped around like a flail, and this time it crashed against the side of her helmet. The Knight fell with a clatter of armor, her head spinning.
The horror stooped over her, fanged jaws yawning wide.
The Knight thrust her sword at the hideous head, and the creature flinched back, turning its eyes from the azure fire, but its pincers reached for her face. The Knight came to her knees, swinging, and severed the creature’s foreleg. It shrieked again and reared back, wings flapping, and the Knight leapt to her feet.
Her sword plunged into the creature’s thorax, sinking up to the crosspiece. Azure fire pumped into the wound. The creature wrenched backwards with a convulsive jerk, limbs flailing, wings dragging. The Knight paced after it, sword ready. It had been a fatal wound, and the creature ought to drop any second.
Instead, it stood up straighter. The Knight saw the wound in its thorax knitting shut. A fresh foreleg, wet and glistening, erupted from the stump of the old. The creature shook itself, pincers clacking, and came at her in a rush.
It bulled into her, its stinger hammering against her helmet, its pincers clawing at her. Her armor shrieked and dented beneath the barrage, and one of its pincers closed hard about her left bracer. But the Knight still had her right hand around her sword, and she rammed it hard into the creature’s side. It screamed and let her go, and the Knight hit the floor hard.
She staggered to her feet again and saw the creature slamming itself against the side of the wall in pain, but the wound was closing again. It turned, and the ruby eyes seemed to focus on her with intent malevolence.
“Old Knight!” it hissed, its voice a grating harmony of dissonance. “Now do I remember thee! Long eons it has been. Aye, very long. But this time I shall feast upon thy heart!”
It prowled closer, pincers reaching.
The Knight stepped back. How could she possibly kill it? She had dealt the creature three fatal wounds, yet it had healed them all. Her sword hurt it, but she couldn’t kill it. Sooner or later it would wear down her strength…
You cannot slay it!
The voice echoed inside her skull.
Hawk-Of-Fire.
I fought such horrors long ago, in the dawn of ages when the lands were young. It is not of this world, and it cannot be slain in this world. Neither immortal magic nor earthly steel has the power to slay it.
“How, then?” said the Knight. The creature lunged at her. Sword crossed pincer in a quick exchange, and the monster reeled back from the blade’s fire.
Such a creature cannot come to the mortal naturally. Dark magic brought it here, and dark magic keeps it here. You must shatter the spell binding it to this world.
“How?” said the Knight again.
One of Hawk-Of-Fire’s memories came to her. She saw Hawk-Of-Fire, sheathed in the Knight’s power, standing atop a cliff, dueling with the crimson horror. As she watched, the sword burned brighter and brighter until the flames turned white-hot.
And the Knight knew what she must do.
She stepped back and drew on the Well’s power, drawing more and more of it into herself. The ancient sigils on her sword shone brighter and hotter, until the blade shone like a shaft of molten light, drowning the crimson glow in white radiance.
The creature flinched away from the light. “What trickery is this?”
"You may remember me, dark thing," said the Knight, "but I also remember you."
The creature screamed and leapt at her, pincers yawning wide.
The Knight plunged her sword into its head.
There was a thunderclap, an explosion of red and white light. The Knight felt the Well’s power roar through her and flood into the creature. She stumbled back, blue lightning snarling around her blade. The creature thrashed in a mad dance, white fire and blue lightning ripping through it like a storm. For a moment it writhed, and then the Knight felt the dark magic drain away. There was another thunderclap, a strange feeling of displacement, followed by another flash.
And the creature vanished into a swirl of black smoke, returning to whatever dark realm it called home.
The red glow vanished, and silence fell over the great hall.
The Knight leaned on her sword, breathing hard. One by one the thanes began picking themselves off the floor. Calwyn crossed the hall, his eyes still on the Knight, and helped Duke Ambrose to his feet.
“Duke Ambrose. Are you well?” said the Knight.
“Mostly,” said Ambrose. “I know not what face lies behind that helmet, but whoever you are, your arrival was most timely.”
“Assuming that you did not summon that horror yourself,” said Calwyn.
“I am not your enemy,” said the Knight. “When will you see that, Prince of Taleisn? I am not…”
She saw Julius standing behind them, his face twisted with frustrated rage. In his right hand he held a dagger, and he drew it back, the blade pointed at his father’s back.
The Knight leapt forward, shoving past the Prince and the Duke, and her sword came down on Julius’s elbow. The dagger fell to the ground, his hand still wrapped about the handle. Her next blow would have slain him, but Julius fell to his knees, howling, and the blow skidded off his ribs.
“Blackguard!” said Calwyn. “I…”
The Knight hesitated. She ought to kill Julius, she knew. He was in league with dark powers. He would have slaughtered everyone in the castle. But he was Rosalyn’s brother. Her father’s son. How could she strike down her mother’s flesh and blood? But, no, she dared not hesitate…
Ambrose’s sword crashed against her helmet. The blow rang, but her armor held. The Knight spun, parried his next thrust, and ran. Calwyn shouted to his thanes, but the Knight ran faster, filled with the Well’s power. She raced back to Rosalyn’s chamber and released the magic. The sword vanished in a swirl of azure fire, and the armor disappeared.
And Rosalyn collapsed onto the bed as the pain struck her like a blow. It sank into her flesh like knives, and she flopped onto her back, gasping. She would have screamed, but she could not find the breath. For long, awful moments, it felt as if she would simply tear in half, that her heart would explode inside her chest.
Bit by bit, the pain faded. But every time she summoned the Knight’s power the agony lasted a little longer.
First the curse of flesh…
Rosalyn closed her eyes, listened to the thanes search the castle, and tried to stop her hands from shaking.
“You’re awake,” said Calwyn. He knelt beside the bed, kissed her, and took her hand. “Diarmid feared you might never wake.”
“My husband,” said Rosalyn. She tried to think of what to say. “I…you’re hurt…”
“Just a bruise,” said Calwyn. “The Knight of Sorrows summoned a thing of dark magic in the castle, and when that failed, he tried to kill Julius.”
“No,” said Rosalyn, “no, that’s impossible.” She could not tell him the truth about herself, she dared not, but she had to warn him about Julius. “The Knight…”
“I warned you about the Knight,” said Calwyn. She expected anger, but he only looked sad. “Sorcery always has consequences. As your brother has discovered, I fear.”
She could not argue with that.
The next day Prince Calwyn and Duke Ambrose rode north to the Great Council of lords and princes that would elect a Lord Captain to lead the Silurian Isles in war against the Dark Acolytes. But first they placed a sentence of death upon the Knight of Sorrows for the attempted assassination of Julius. Whosoever brought Calwyn or Ambrose the Knight’s head would receive a rich reward of lands and gold.
Rosalyn stood on the battlements and watched her father and husband ride away, her heart in her throat. She loved them both, but if they learned the truth, how would they react? Would they kill her?
At last, the curse of sorrow…
She left the battlements and went to her brother’s room. Julius lay in his bed, eyes closed. Old Diarmid had cauterized and bandaged the stump of his sword arm. He would live, though he would have to learn to wield sword with his left hand. Her brother. Her mother’s son. Who would have slaughtered his father and his sister to claim Valayn.
Curse of sorrow…
His eyes fluttered open. “Sister?” He smiled. “Are you going to watch over me?”
“Yes,” said Rosalyn. “Brother. Yes. I’m going to watch over you very closely.”
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Copyright 2008, Jonathan Moeller. All rights reserved. Jonathan Moeller has written "Demonsouled," which was Amazon.com's #1 Early Adopter Item in Fantasy and Science Fiction for May 2005, "Worlds to Conquer," and short fiction for Deep Magic, Apex Digest, Sword's Edge, ShadowSword, Scorched Earth, and AlienSkin.
Visit him on the web at < www.jonathanmoeller.com >
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