Renard. Please come to me. I need you. The witch-hunters have returned.
Simon crouched beside the stables, a shadow among other shadows, concealing the pale oval of his face beneath his hood. Even Master Le Vis had abandoned his bloodred robes for one of black, the better to blend with the night.
Belle Haven stood in the distance, moonlight shimmering over the ivy-covered manor. Simon watched tensely as Brother Finial slunk toward the gardens, sent to subdue any manservant guarding the house. There was an air of eerie abandonment about Belle Haven. Not a soul stirring, nothing to disturb the quiet of night beyond the rustle of wind through the trees. Not even the bark of a dog.
Simon had hoped that Miri, with her love of animals, might own some large fierce mastiff to rouse the household and force Monsieur Le Vis to abandon this raid. A wish disloyal to his master, but Simon felt sick at heart to be here, preparing to break into Miri’s home like some common thief.
He could tell Brother Jerome felt the same. The lantern that Jerome carried cast somber shadows over his lean, ascetic face. He inched his way over to Monsignor Le Vis and from their low, urgent tones, Simon could tell they were arguing. He craned his neck, anxiously straining to hear.
“Le Vis, we are supposed to be witch-hunters, not assassins. There is no righteousness in this and it is reckless besides. It is a miracle we were not already dashed on the rocks landing in that treacherous cove.”
“That only proves that God is on our side,” Le Vis whispered back.
“Or preserving us for a more terrible judgment. Have you forgotten the Comte de Renard?”
“We have eluded him so far. He is merely an ignorant man, the tool of witches. I don’t share your supernatural dread of him.”
“You should. At least leave the boy out of this.” Jerome gestured toward Simon. “Send young Aristide back to wait with the boats. He has no stomach for this kind of work.”
“Then he must learn,” Le Vis growled. “Now get back to your place and be silent.”
Jerome vented a sound full of disgust and frustration, but he scrambled back to crouch beside Simon. Simon attempted to reassure Jerome as much as himself.
“We are only here to capture the heretic, Captain Remy, not—not kill anyone. The master would never harm anyone without benefit of trial. He has promised and he—he would never lie to me.”
Jerome merely gave Simon a sad look, but before he could reply, Brother Finial darted back across the yard. His broad face was flushed with triumph. “There is no sign of anyone near the house, Monsieur Le Vis. Maurice and Gaston have checked the barn and stables. All empty. The entire place might well be deserted.”
“Perhaps they knew we were coming and all fled,” Simon suggested hopefully.
“Nonsense.” Finial sneered. “More like the stupid wenches are all asleep in their beds.”
“Then we will give them an awakening they’ll not soon forget,” Le Vis said. “Surround the house. Find a way to break in. Move quickly and block all exits. I want no escapes or interference this time.”
Finial and the others hastened to obey. But the master detained Jerome long enough to use his lantern to light a torch. Simon shivered. He had seen his master in dark moods, but this feverish glaze in his eyes was somehow far worse. He had been this way ever since the queen’s visit, as though that woman had somehow bewitched him with her painted visions of power and glory.
Commanding Jerome and Simon to follow, Le Vis led the way across the yard, brandishing his torch, no longer making any effort at stealth. Anyone in the house could have seen his approach through the windows and yet all remained silent. Simon’s heart hammered in his chest.
Somehow this seemed all too easy. Was it truly possible to take a sorceress this much unaware?
Simon thought again of Ariane Cheney’s peculiar ring and wondered if she might even now be conjuring the demon Renard to appear astride his devil horse, snorting fire. Simon shuddered, remembering all too well the terrible threats the evil Comte had made against his master if he ever caught Le Vis returning to Faire Isle.
The witch-hunters had breached the house. Even down in the fastness of the dungeon, muffled sounds carried from above, the shattering of a window, followed by the heavy tramp of feet.
Ariane twisted the ring on her finger and tried to remain calm and tell herself that Renard would come soon. He would be here. He had not failed her before. But something felt disturbingly different about her use of the ring this time. It was as though she had sensed her own silent cry penetrating the night, but she had felt no answer. No warm whisper of Renard’s reassurance.
One lone candle on her worktable broke the suffocating darkness of the dungeon, but the small flame was enough for her to see the fear and tension in the faces surrounding her.
The trap door was too well hidden. One had to know where to find the hidden spring to shift the heavy settle in the kitchen and the bench appeared permanently fixed to the wall. They would all be safe until help arrived as long as Ariane could keep everyone contained below stairs.
But that task was proving more difficult as the tense seconds crawled by and the sounds coming from above grew ever more ominous. Ariane scarcely knew who was worse, Remy poised at the foot of the stairs, clenching the hilt of his sword, looking like a penned-up warhorse, being reined back from battle. Or Miri clutching Necromancer in her arms, fretting over the safety of her other animals.
“I shouldn’t have left Butternut out in the stables,” she whispered. “Or my rabbits. Ariane, you must let me try to go and get them.”
“The witch-hunters are not after that fat old pony or your bunnies, Miribelle,” Gabrielle assured her.
A particularly loud crash from above caused them all to start. Gabrielle stomped over to Ariane to demand through clenched teeth. “Do you truly expect us just to stay tamely down here while those villains tear our house apart?”
Remy was hard behind her, urging, “Please Mistress Cheney, you must at least allow me to go up and put a stop—”
“No! No one is going to risk dying for a few sticks of furniture,” Ariane shot back fiercely, although she was finding it equally as hard to do nothing. Bad enough to have witch-hunters invade the island, but Belle Haven, her very home. The sense of violation almost made her feel sick.
But she clutched her hand bearing the ring and repeated almost like a mantra, “Renard is coming. He will be here soon.”
“And what if he isn’t?” Gabrielle asked. “What if the comte does not prevail this time? The witch-hunters managed to get past his patrol. What if Le Vis already dealt with Renard? What if he’s dead?”
Ariane felt herself pale at Gabrielle’s words. That dire possibility had never occurred to her, although perhaps it should have. She remembered the malevolence of Le Vis, the raw hatred in his eyes when Renard had driven him from the island. What if the master witch-hunter had managed to take Renard unaware? Or worse still, what if by calling out to him, Ariane had led him straight to his death?
Her fingers trembled as she pressed her ring-bearing hand over her heart.
“Renard, please answer me. Where are you?”
The silence that greeted her was so terrible, she felt the blood drumming in her ears. She attempted to call out to Renard again, but Remy’s grim voice broke her concentration.
“Forgive me, Mistress Cheney. But if Le Vis doesn’t find me, he may simply set your house afire and we will all be trapped down here. And even if the comte does come, I can cower here no longer while another man fights my battles.”
“No, Remy, stop!” Ariane cried, but Remy had already started up the steps. Ariane’s heart lurched with fear. Not only was the rash young captain going to get himself killed, he would betray the location of secrets the wise women of Belle Haven had kept hidden from outsiders for centuries.
Ariane started after him, but she had a brief tussle with Gabrielle at the foot of the stairs, her sister likewise determined to go after Remy.
Ariane f
inally managed to thrust Gabrielle out of the way. “Stay here,” she commanded sharply. “And look after Miri.”
Then she plunged up the darkness of the winding stone stair, but her heart sank as she realized she was too late.
“Renard, answer me. Where are you?”
Ariane’s urgent call whispered through Renard’s mind, but he could not spare a moment to pause and summon enough thought to answer. His head was filled with but one grim purpose, to reach Belle Haven before it was too late.
He urged Hercules on faster, the horse racing at a blurring speed, Renard thundering into the courtyard ahead of his men. His heart twisted with dread as he reined in sharply, spotting the yawning door, the shattered window.
The bastards were already in the house.
Barely waiting for Hercules to come to a halt, Renard leapt from the animal’s back, tossing the reins to one of his squires. Drawing his sword, his heart pounding as hard as his boots, he ran to the house.
Reaching the front door, he caught the flicker of light in the great hall. For a horrified moment, Renard feared Le Vis had set the house afire. But it was only the flare of torchlight as the witch-hunters overturned furniture, smashed the contents of the aumbry, deliberately carving a path of destruction as they ransacked the house.
Renard would do Ariane and her sisters no good by blindly rushing in. He approached stealthily, sword at the ready, hovering on the threshold, assessing the situation.
Three witch-hunters were in the great hall, the rest crashing about upstairs. Someone called out from above. “There is no sign of anyone, master.”
Renard heard Le Vis’s vexed oath. “They have to be here, hiding somewhere.”
Renard tried to pick out the form of the master witch-hunter. They all looked alike in their cursed black robes. Then Le Vis turned, his torch spilling a fiery glow over his ugly, twisted features. “If we can’t find them, we will burn them out.”
“Le Vis!” Renard stepped out into the open. For a moment, all the witch-hunters froze. Renard was dimly aware of the young boy Simon letting out a terrified cry. Le Vis glared at Renard.
“You!” Le Vis’s voice trembled with loathing. But he retreated as the rest of Renard’s retainers poured into the room.
“Upstairs. Go after the rest of them.” Renard issued the terse command to his men. “I’ll take care of Le Vis.”
As Renard advanced, Le Vis shrank away from him, baring his teeth with the desperation of a cornered animal. Even at such a distance, Renard was able to read the thought chasing through his mad glazed eyes.
“Damn you, Le Vis, no—” Renard roared, but in a whirl of black robes, Le Vis rushed toward the wall, setting his torch to the nearest tapestry.
Renard lunged forward, only to have his way barred by one of the other witch-hunters. A burly man with a round face, wielding a sword. Renard furiously beat his weapon aside. When he disarmed the man, the witch-hunter gave a cowardly whimper and fled.
Flames licked up the side of the tapestry and Le Vis darted toward another. But Renard was upon him. He cut the torch from his hand. Le Vis shrieked, clutching his bloodied fingers. He fell to his knees, still groping for his fallen torch.
With an enraged snarl, Renard raised his sword just as someone hurtled past him. He caught a flash of a terrified young face and barely managed to check his deadly blow as Simon flung himself forward to shield his master.
Renard felt himself seized from behind, a black-robed arm crushing against his neck. Renard grunted and fought, flinging his assailant off him. He swung about, recovering just in time as the witch-hunter charged him again.
The man rushed forward, impaling himself on Renard’s sword. Renard wrenched his weapon free as the witch-hunter sagged to the floor. Flames now threatened to engulf the tapestry. The entire house had erupted into a hellish chaos, witch-hunters pounding down the stairs, hotly pursued by his men. Renard coughed, struggling to clear his eyes, find Le Vis. There was no sign of him or the boy. But someone else loomed before Renard, his grim face shadowed with a dark beard. Renard’s mind dimly registered the fact that he was not wearing black robes like the rest of those devils.
But he was brandishing a sword and that was all Renard needed to see . . .
Ariane struggled through the trap door to find the kitchen dark and deserted. But sounds of some desperate battle being waged carried to her to the great hall. She snatched up a poker from the kitchen hearth.
Peering past the screen that separated the kitchen from the great hall, she froze, stifling a cry of alarm. One of the magnificent tapestries crackled with fire, the flames throwing a dancing light over the macabre scene before her. Her home resembled a battlefield, one witch-hunter stretched across the stairs, another tossed like a broken doll over an upended table, still another diving through a broken window to escape. Ariane nearly tripped over another hooded dark figure, sprawled in a pool of blood.
She shrank back involuntarily as two men rushed past her, but to her relief she caught a glimpse of familiar gold-and-black livery. Renard’s men. They rushed toward the fire, coughing and choking as they wrenched the blazing tapestry from the wall.
But in the midst of all the confusion, men still fought on. Through the haze of smoke, Ariane could make out the form of two silhouettes locked in a deadly combat, steel clanging against steel. Her breath squeezed from her lungs in a rush as she realized that one of them was Remy and the other . . .
Renard!
Remy’s sword crashed down, snapping Renard’s blade in half. Renard flung his useless sword aside, tackling Remy. He drove the captain back, trapping his sword hand, slamming it repeatedly against the wall until Remy was forced to drop his weapon. Renard’s other huge hand closed about Remy’s throat.
“No, Renard. Stop!” Ariane cried, rushing toward the two men. Dropping her poker, she used both hands in a desperate effort to loosen Renard’s ferocious grip.
“Please, Renard. Let him go. He—he is a friend.”
Renard seemed far too caught up in the heat of battle to pay her any heed. Then his eyes flickered toward her, recognition setting in. He released Remy so abruptly that the captain sagged to the floor, gasping for air and clutching his throat. Ariane hovered anxiously over him.
“Remy? Are you all right?”
“Remy?” Ariane heard Renard echo in a strange voice, but before she could offer any explanations Gabrielle burst upon them. Thrusting Ariane aside, she sank to her knees beside the captain, pressing her hand to his chest.
“Remy? Are you hurt? My God, Ariane! What has your ogre done to him?”
“N-nothing,” Remy gasped in a voice laced with self-disgust. “Merely dis-disarmed and knocked the wind from me.”
“Choked is more likely,” Gabrielle said. As she struggled to loosen the neckline of his shirt, she cast a blistering look up at Renard.
But the comte was quite oblivious. He retrieved the captain’s fallen sword, examining the weapon closely. “Well, well. The owner of the mysterious sword. Are you not going to introduce us, ma chère?”
Ariane gaped at him, trying to gather her disordered wits. Her great hall was a shambles of broken furniture, shattered glass, and fallen men. The burning tapestry was nearly out but still smoldering. And Renard . . . who minutes ago she had almost given up for dead, stood before her, large and solid and—and very much alive. And calmly drawling out a request for introductions. Ariane hardly knew what she wanted to do most, fling her arms around the man or hit him.
“Where have you been? Why didn’t you answer me?” Her voice came out astonishingly shrill, close to the edge of hysteria.
Renard frowned. “Your pardon, milady. I was a little preoccupied trying to rid you of your uninvited guests.”
“You could have spared a moment to let me know you were all right. I thought something had happened to you. I even thought you might be d-dead, you great, s-stupid—.”
Ariane gulped, struggling to compose herself, winking back furious tears. Rena
rd closed the distance between them, wrapping his arm around her waist. “Ah, chérie, I am sorry if I worried you. Please don’t cry. Not over me.”
“I—I am not crying over you. It’s the s-smoke from the tapestry.” Ariane held herself rigid as he drew her closer, but she found herself too weak to resist the lure of his powerful shoulder. She rested her cheek against him and closed her eyes, lost to everything but the comfort of Renard’s strong embrace.
Renard brushed his lips across her brow. “Forgive me, ma chère. I nearly failed you tonight. I don’t know how those bastards managed to slip past my patrols, but I promise you. You are all safe now.”
“Ariane? G-gabrielle?” Ariane heard a small voice calling out.
Miri! Ariane’s eyes flew open. She did not want her little sister stumbling into this grim scene, but she was too late.
Miri emerged cautiously from behind the screen that blocked off the kitchens, still clutching Necromancer in her arms. She surveyed the hall with wide eyes, her stricken gaze coming to rest upon the fallen witch-hunter nearest her, the dark cowl still pulled over his face.
Miri dropped the cat with an agonized cry. “S-simon?”
She stumbled toward the body, her face as white as her nightgown. But if it was the boy hidden beneath that cowl, Ariane did not want her little sister to be the one to discover the fact. Wrenching free of Renard, she darted across the room just as Miri was bending down.
Ariane gently pushed her aside. She hunkered down beside the inert witch-hunter. There was no sign of life, the black robes soaked in blood and Ariane hesitated to draw back the hood herself, fearful of what she might uncover.
Bracing herself, Ariane peeled back the cowl and then joined in Miri’s tremulous breath of relief.
It was not Simon, but a man Ariane only remembered vaguely as being part of Le Vis’s unholy band. But she had no idea who he was or more accurately who he had been. He stared up at her with empty eyes. Whatever ignorance, whatever delusions had prompted this man to join in the persecution of innocent women, what waste he had made of his life was over now, all stripped clean by the hand of death. Ariane could not help but feel a stirring of pity as she brushed her fingers down his face, closing the witch-hunter’s eyes.
The Dark Queen Page 32
