Too late he acknowledged his own foolishness in not only trusting in the pledges of loyalty from the men who, before he killed Raulf, had their own designs on his grandfather’s throne, but in dismissing the warning of the mysterious voice echoing in his own head. Had not the betrayal of close friends that led to the deaths of both his grandfather and his immediate predecessor been enough to put him on his guard?
As if in an alternate world, one that proceeded with excruciating slowness, he felt the point of the sharp dagger pierce his back and carve upward, and knew his reign was destined to be a short one. His cry of astonished protest at the ghastly pain assaulting him was smothered by a gloved hand so no sound emerged. His strength deserted him with shocking swiftness and his knees crumbled, as his sword slipped from his grasp. He was prevented from sliding to the damp, blood-soaked ground by the strong arms of his assailant coming around him to hold him upright. As he lost consciousness, he thought he heard an echo of his own silent cry coming from the lips of his murderer.
Chapter Thirteen
Elena sat huddled along with the female members of Baron Timothy’s family in the tunnels beneath the family’s estate. Servants and the younger male members of the household retainers waited anxiously for word of the battle raging above ground at the entrance to the city. Elena waited on the damp stone somewhat removed from the others, leaning back against the wall with her arms wrapped around her knees.
The air in the underground tunnels was dank and musty, but Elena barely noticed her uncomfortable surroundings. Her breaths came in short, terrified gasps, and not only because of the attack on the city. Though the majority of her uncle’s years as king had been peaceful ones, this was not the first time she’d been sent to safety underground while she prayed fervently that Calei’s defenders would emerge victorious over their enemies. Never before though had she been so overwhelmed with her worry.
Earlier in the day she’d been overcome too, but then it was with joy when the news reached her of Raulf’s death and that Michel had been accepted by the heads of the remaining noble families as the new king of Calei. She spent the day in a dazed state of happy dreams and grand plans, alternately feeling laughter bubble up inside of her, a reaction she guessed to her dazed relief that Raulf would never be able to reach her again, and wiping tears from her eyes. She did not even mind when Michel did not immediately ride out to Baron Timothy’s estate to bring her back to take up residence with him in the castle. She understood, better likely than the new king himself, of the constant demands his new responsibilities would thrust upon him.
When the sounds of the battle being waged above them fell silent, a deeper hush settled over their dark retreat, as all awaited the news of their futures. It seemed to Elena as if long hours passed before Amele stood framed in the doorway, his skin and cloak streaked with blood and sweat and grime, his grave expression confirming her worst fears. She would have sworn her heart stopped beating in her chest when her eyes met those of the older man’s. She was unaware her head was shaking silently back and forth in agonized denial, as Michel’s close friend approached where she sat.
“No.” The hushed denial escaped her lips as the older man, his weathered face etched in deep lines, regarded her out of dark, grief-stricken eyes, squatted in front of her.
“Lady Elena…”
Elena closed her eyes against the scalding tears that forced themselves through her clenched lids and reached up to cover her ears in a futile gesture meant to prevent her from hearing the words she knew he was about to deliver. The cruelty of having her newly resurrected hope snatched away from her fleeting grasp was too much for her fragile heart to contemplate. She buried her head in her knees and prayed she was in the grip of some hideous nightmare.
“Lady Elena, you must accompany me now.”
She heard the words spoken in his deep, now familiar voice, but merely burrowed her head deeper between her knees and clenched her hands more tightly against her ears.
“Lady Elena, the king would want you to return to the castle.” When she only ignored his quiet plea, he spoke the words that for a moment resurrected her dead hope and made her heart begin beating again. “Lady Elena, the king is gravely injured.”
“Injured?” Elena parroted blankly, lifting her head from her knees so she could read the confirmation she sought in his eyes.
Both his expression and confirming nod were solemn and Elena recognized, though he was giving her the truth that Michel still lived when he came in search of her, Amele held no real hope of finding him alive when he returned with her to his friend and his king’s side. It was obvious the older man did not expect his young king to recover from the grave injury he spoke of. Fresh tears stinging behind her lids, she nodded silently and allowed him to assist her to her feet.
Neither spoke to the astonished, silent witnesses of their exchange when Amele grasped her hand and led her back the way he had come. When they approached the men who awaited them outside in the cool, early morning light, their expressions all mirrored the same disbelieving grief echoed in Amele’s eyes.
Elena allowed herself to be assisted to the saddle and waited numb while Amele mounted behind her. His strong grip around her waist secured her in the saddle, so with nothing else to do with her icy hands she slipped them into the pockets of her cloak. Inside, the fingers of her right hand came up against something hard and cold. The stone! She’d forgotten all about it, first in the excitement of the earlier joyous news she received, and then in the dread of night. The stone heated in her hand. She’d meant to return it to Michel before he left the previous morning for his meeting with the noblemen to claim his rightful place as the new king, but she never had the chance. Would the stone have protected him against the wound that even now threatened to take his life? Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe the stone really was magic.
With irrepressible hope burgeoning in her breast, Elena clasped the stone in her clenched fist. She was not taking any chances it would attempt to escape her grasp again. To her surprise, the stone made no effort to do so, as if it too was in a hurry to be reunited with its rightful owner, and had reasoned out that accompanying her was the fastest way for it to achieve its objective. The distance to the castle was accomplished quickly as the crowds of shocked, grieving citizens hurried out of their way when they became aware of their approach.
Their small company came to a halt in front of the castle steps and Elena offered no protest when Amele helped her dismount then gripped her hand and pulled her through the throng clogging the entrance as ordinary Caleinians awaited word with tears glimmering in their eyes and staining their cheeks, on the fate of their new, young king. The inside of the keep was no less crowded, but the soldiers gathered there, still in their blood-soaked cloaks and tunics stepped back to allow them to pass, the silence among so many strangely overwhelming in its oppressive weight.
Elena thought she was prepared for the sight of Michel stretched out, helpless, his skin deathly pale, his breath barely discernible, a bloody bandage wrapped tightly around his naked chest to stem the flow of blood. Hadn’t she tended her uncle for long months in this same room, watched him lying in this same bed, his life slowly draining away? But though she loved him as a father, her uncle was not her beloved. If she needed proof of the depths of her feelings for the man who rescued her from another man’s lustful intent, it was evident in the blow she absorbed to see Michel in the same, helpless condition as her uncle, only he appeared in a greater hurry to depart this burdensome life. Had Amele’s strong arm not reached out to steady her, she would have fallen to her knees at the sight. Gathering herself, and making no effort to stem the flow of tears on her cheeks, she stepped away from Amele’s firm grip and hurried across the distance between the door and the large bed on trembling legs.
There she allowed her strength to desert her and she sank to her knees at his side, her hand reaching out to smooth her beloved’s long dark hair, matted with blood and sweat away from his pale face. She reach
ed into the pocket of her cloak and retrieved the stone from it. She glanced down at the odd jewel and was surprised when for a brief moment it seemed to gleam with a shining, white light, but when she blinked and lifted the odd gem to her face for closer inspection, the illusion vanished. Elena grasped Michel’s limp hand at his side and pressed the stone into his palm, then closed his fingers around it, holding the stone captive in his closed fist as the unconscious man was unable to perform this service for himself.
Then she closed her eyes, rested her head against the strength of his still arm, and holding his hand in hers, she prayed to her heavenly father not to take her last hope, and the man she suspected would be her only true love, from her side.
Chapter Fourteen
Some part of Michel’s weary mind and pain-wracked body comprehended he was in the unrelenting grip of his nightmares, but though his body slept there was no lessening of his weariness or his pain. He couldn’t recall what brought him to this place, nor did he understand clearly where it was he lingered. Violent memories intruded on his thoughts of war and blood, of dying men and dismembered limbs strewn about like so much refuse on the blood soaked earth. If he possessed the strength he would have covered his ears to drown out the sounds of the ghastly, agonized cries of the wounded and dying, lying unattended, staring up at the pitiless sun just beginning to traverse its daily path across the heavens, while their comrades contested above where they lay for their own lives.
Other less strident sounds whispered across his consciousness….voices…feminine voices, and just as he didn’t possess the strength to block out the screams of the dying, neither did he possess enough to cling to the gentle strains of the familiar feminine voices. He thought he heard the echo of his twin’s beloved voice among the whispers, “…then when you pray for death I will refuse you the comfort of its release…”
“Melissa…” The name formed on his lips and escaped in a hushed whisper between them. Michel had no way of knowing of the pain his twin’s name inflicted on the soft companion who knelt beside his bed, her hand closed around his.
Other voices muscled their way into his chaotic dreams. Some demanding, others caring, some amused even, but they were all united in the expectations they heaped on his back. He had a part to play in their destiny and they had every reasonable anticipation of him fulfilling his debt for their faith in him. Beneath the clamor of their voices, was another whisper, this one barely discernible to his dazed spirit. It was soft and gentle and he somehow recognized it belonged to the small hand joined with his own.
“Elena…”
This time a soft cry echoed at his whispered recognition and the hand covering his closed more tightly around his fist. He thought he heard his name on her lips, and then he felt her rest her head against his chest and was aware of her tears cleaning the stain of violence from his skin and his battered spirit. He reached up his other arm to stroke, to offer comfort, and to thread his fingers through the silky hair teasing his naked skin where the long strands lay across his bare chest. Content, he sighed heavily and fell into a deep, restful sleep.
A new, yet vaguely familiar voice woke him from his restful sleep, but this voice was accompanied by a misty form standing at the end of his bed, regarding Michel with a considering, speculative look in his eyes.
“Who are you?” Michel wasn’t certain if he voiced the words aloud or not, but the stranger did not seem to have any trouble understanding him.
“Ah, you are awake at last. I was beginning to think I would be forced to return to your sister with unpleasant news.”
The voice struck a familiar chord but in his dazed state, Michel could not remember when or where he had encountered the stranger. When the answer continued to elude him, he asked, “My sister sent you?”
“She requested I accompany you on your return to your grandfather’s kingdom, as she could not.”
Michel sighed, not certain he wanted to know how it was the stranger’s path had crossed that of his reckless twin’s. “You speak of Melissa.”
“Yes, I am not acquainted with your younger sister, Lady Rhiann. Though our destinies have intersected upon occasion, for the most part they were rather distant exchanges.”
“You are more intimately acquainted with my twin, then?”
“I am not certain I would refer to our acquaintance as intimate, but yes, we have known each other many years.” There was amused self-mockery in the stranger’s voice and in his manner that Michel found difficult to comprehend in his current weakened state.
“Then how is it we have never met?”
“That is easy enough to understand, my young king. You were not present at any of my previous encounters with your twin, except the first one when your sister went over the falls in a boat she could not control.”
Michel shook his head, protesting, “That was years ago, when we were children.”
“Yes, I remember the occasion quite well and your lovely twin’s determination to keep up with you.” The stranger laughed, apparently enjoying his recollection of the day he referred to. “She was most upset at the thought of being left behind, so she pushed the last remaining boat from the side of the river bank and barely managed to catch a hold of it and climb in and seat herself before her little vessel was swept away by the current. Unfortunately, she didn’t bother to retrieve an oar to guide her way when she set off in her reckless pursuit.”
His lips widened into an amused grin as he lifted one shoulder in a philosophical shrug, “Not that she could have wielded the instrument at her young age. She was much too excited about the prospect of showing all of you that she could keep up with the warriors and deserved as much as you did to be trained as one, regardless of the great inconvenience, in her mind, of having been born a girl.”
Michel had no difficulty recalling the events the stranger referred to. Even in the innocence of youth he had understood Melissa was going to die when her boat was catapulted over the falls by the rushing current. “I remember that day, but I don’t recall your presence there.”
“No, of course not. You were in no danger that day. It was Melissa who went over the falls.”
Even after a dozen years or more, Michel could still taste the raw terror on his tongue at the memory of Melissa barreling towards him, but it was the look on Amele’s face that morning that he would never forget. As if their guardian had known Melissa was going to die in the next few moments and there was nothing he would be able to do to prevent it.
Michel had always assumed it was merely random providence that intervened on his twin’s behalf that day. For the first time he questioned his conclusion as another memory from that fateful day intruded. When they found Melissa asleep beside the rushing water after a long and desolate search convinced at best they would recover only her lifeless body from the water to carry back to their parents for burial, Melissa was adamant a stranger had rescued her from the river and sat with her on the bank and kept her warm while she waited for Amele and the warriors to find her. Amele tried to convince her she was imagining the stranger she spoke of. Michel always assumed Amele must be correct.
“You’re the stranger she spoke of. The one whose name she forgot to ask. You fished her out of the water,” Michel’s awed voice sounded almost like an accusation in the silence between them.
The stranger nodded his affirmation of Michel’s conclusion. “Yes, it was not supposed to end the way it did. Your reckless twin should have died that morning, but sometimes, very rarely, I am moved to pity when my labors lead me to the very young and the very brave. Your sister was both. Besides, she was so reckless with her life, I didn’t think I would have long to wait before she joined me.”
Again the stranger’s self-mocking amusement surfaced when he added with a wry smile, “Admittedly, given your sister’s lack of regard for her own life, there have been numerous additional occasions when our paths have intersected, but I have always restrained myself from taking her despite the great temptation to do so. Melissa con
siders me a friend. There are so few who do, it would pain me to betray her trust and take her without her permission.”
Michel knew he must be dreaming, because the thoughts drifting through his glazed mind and coalescing into a single, untenable conclusion must surely be the product of a deranged mind. “Who are you?” His demand escaped his lips in a hushed whisper, and then when the stranger remained silent, he added in an even quieter voice, “Are you Satan?”
The stranger laughed with genuine amusement, and relieved beyond measure, Michel swallowed his sense of dread at the thought of Melissa’s seemingly close acquaintance with the lord of the underworld. His unease was immediately resurrected when his companion explained, “No, no, I am not Satan, but certainly our sometimes similar purposes often lead to my being mistaken for him. No, when the occasion warrants it, I merely inform the living that their deaths are upon them. It is the purpose of the lord of darkness to claim the souls of the damned.”
Michel could no longer discern if he was caught in the throes of a dream or contesting with the clinging tentacles of a nightmare, but he was certain this exchange was the most bizarre conversation he’d ever engaged in. “You make it sound as though he is rendering the world a valuable service,” Michel remarked.
“But of course,” his misty companion quickly agreed. “The Almighty does not allow the filth of evil souls to stain the perfection of heaven.”
“So they are sent to hell,” Michel confirmed, fascinated despite himself.
The stranger shrugged. “Sometimes there is no avoiding that unpleasant destination, at least for those souls who have proven particularly resistant to corrective teaching. Nothing like the fires of hell to pry open a closed mind.”
Despite their unholy topic, Michel’s shoulders shook with laughter. “No doubt.”
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