by Megan Derr
"What do you mean?" Bran turned back, only to encounter Topaz's lips.
Topaz's mouth was as warm and soft as his eyes had been earlier, his gentle heat making Bran gasp in surprise before he moaned a soft defeat and returned the kiss full measure. He reached up to twine his finger's gently through Topaz's hair, delighted to discover it was as thick and soft as it had always looked. He then slid his hand down Topaz's neck and across his shoulder, and reveled briefly in the feel of Topaz's skin under his fingers, as wonderful as he had always imagined.
He broke the kiss with a gasp, suddenly remembering that he needed to breathe. Topaz's eyes were unfocused, but they cleared a moment later and he grinned at Bran. "I think it rather obvious what I mean."
"I suppose so," Bran agreed faintly. "But…why? What about Rowan?"
Topaz shook his head. "I have spent the past six years mourning Rowan. I loved him dearly; he was my teacher and the one who made me human. But even if we met because you wanted to kill me…" His eyes sparkled at the old, familiar tease, "there was too much about you not to admire and grow to love. Perhaps it is strange…but I think not, really. Rowan made me human, but you are the one who made me want to be human again. And remain thus, for however long we both live."
Completely overwhelmed, Bran wordlessly shook his head and stood. He pulled Topaz close, reaching up with one unsteady hand to stroke his cheek. "I am not worthy of such words. You are far grander than I deserve. But…I feel like I am free when you are around. Like nothing I have ever felt before. So even if I am unworthy, I would keep you close anyway. I think that if I were to lose you, I would gladly let the wolves have me."
"Then I suppose I shall just have to remain close. Who but a dragon is capable of saving you from your own foolishness?"
"You are the only." Bran ducked his head to meet Topaz's kiss halfway, wrapping arms around him and pulling him close.
The Knight and the
Statue
"You needed to see me, Majesty?" Trey gave Bran a brief, puzzled look as he rose from his short bow. It was unlike Bran to conduct business during festivities, which were rare as they still worked tirelessly to restore the kingdom that had been ruled by mayhem for more than five years. It was odder still that Bran was conducting business in his private quarters, and had been almost since the Spring Fair had begun that day.
"None of that." Bran dismissed the formality with a gesture. "You are, I am told, well acquainted with Lord Montaine of Bellewood?" He indicated the man in the chair across from him. The man was tall and skinny, age having robbed him of the massive build he'd once possessed. His gray hair still contained strands of strawberry blond, the wrinkles in his face relating the active, happy life he had led.
"Of course." Trey sketched a bow. "I have known him since I was lad." He paused. "Your children too, sir, I have known for many years. I was surprised you did not bring them with you."
Montaine had two children: a girl with strawberry blond hair like her father's had once been and his same blue-green eyes. She had always been smiling and loved to dance—always insisting Trey dance with her, though he refused to dance with anyone else. But it was the youngest, Montaine's son, on which his thoughts lingered longest, a man who was the spitting image of his deceased mother. Midnight curls and pale skin, he spoke quietly and smiled softly, until he spoke of magic or roses. Then he turned all fire.
More than once, in later years, Trey had wondered what it would be like to stoke those fires. But guilt had kept him from trying—the boy was ten years his junior. Even if that had not been a problem, there was the fact that he was the son of a prosperous and well-respected lord. Heir to the Bellewood name and lands, it was hardly suitable that he take up with a nameless, landless knight—even one who had won the favor of two kings.
At his words, Montaine seemed on the verge of tears, and Bran looked grim as he said, "They are unable to come, Trey. Their absence is the reason I called for you."
"Bran…" Trey was confused. "Come to your point. You know my dislike for riddles. Did you want me to deduce why Dunstan and Beatrice are missing? Even a year after your taking the throne, the lands are not entirely safe. Dunstan has not visited the palace since Vladimir took over—I presumed they had been sent away for protection."
Beside Bran, a man with brown skin and gold eyes chuckled softly. "So impatient, my lord of Mistdale."
"So infuriating vague, dragon," Trey retorted.
"Sit, Trey." Bran motioned Trey to a seat. "This is a tale that will take some time to tell."
Trey obeyed, shooting another glare at Topaz, who as ever seemed wholly unaffected.
"Topaz, if you please?" Bran looked at the dragon. "I still do not have a firm grasp of the magic the people here take for granted. The explanation will make more sense coming from you."
"Of course," Topaz assented, smiling fondly at Bran, before turning more somber as he addressed Trey. "Lord Montaine has long protected our coastline from pirates and other threats. He does so with both steel and magic—magic that is probably the most superior in the land."
Montaine nodded. "The magic skipped me, but it showed up strongly in my son. My father believed Dunstan would surpass him, some day. We…we never imagined it would be his downfall…"
"His downfall?" Trey repeated, horrified. Something in his chest twisted and began to ache. "Is Dunstan…"
"He is not dead," Topaz said hastily. "Not yet, anyway. Lord Montaine takes great risk coming to us with his problem."
Montaine let out a long, shuddering sigh. "I had no choice. If I am to save him, I must risk us all. Gods forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive," Bran said forcefully. He turned to Trey. "His son has been cursed. I do not understand it much, except that he is not dead though that was the intent of the curse."
Trey frowned. "That does not happen. Curses are forbidden because they are killing magic."
Topaz replied, "Vladimir, unbeknownst to any at the capital, had made arrangements with mercenaries to help in his takeover—an outside threat that the crown and his council would not expect. But to get into the country they first had to get by the magic set down by the Bellewood sages. The only northern access was through the open stretch guarded by Bellewood. All the rest was jagged cliff and sharp rocks hidden in the waves to tear apart the boats that got too close.
"They unfortunately managed to kill Montaine's father, but something went wrong when they attempted to kill Dunstan. Rather than killing him, the curse turned him to stone—and somehow it also managed to freeze the protections set along the coast and the Bellewood lands. The majority of the mercenaries were unable to get past the barriers."
"He was turned to stone?" Trey gaped. "I have never heard of such a thing, save in children's tales."
"It is rather strange, is it not?" Topaz asked. "Under any other circumstance I would say it is fascinating. The situation is too grim for us to regard it so lightly, however."
"It has been a year since Vladimir's death. Why is all of this coming up only now? Surely the mercenaries have long since given up and retreated."
Montaine shook his head. "Most did leave; they had no choice. But there are more that want the money they feel they were cheated out of by both my son's strange evasion of the curse and Vladimir's death. They are waiting for the spell that keeps the curse from killing him to fade."
"Why not simply kill them?"
"Because otherwise they will kill my daughter," Montaine said hoarsely. "If their lives even once appear to be threatened, they will finish the curse they have begun with her. I risk her life even by coming here with my problem."
Trey shook his head, overwhelmed by the explanations. "So your son is not dead because a spell kept the curse from killing him. He has been turned to stone, and the mercenaries wait for that spell to fade, that they might exact their revenge? And to keep you from killing them, they have placed a partial curse on your daughter? Why not simply kill you all now? It makes no sense that they would merely b
ide their time waiting for one man to die."
Montaine replied, "Because there is no telling what will happen should they try, not after what happened to my son. They have cursed my daughter, and I dare not risk finding out if the magic will save her, too, but they also cannot risk simply killing us outright in case of the backlash. We are at an impasse until the spells fades and releases Dunstan. The longer he remains as stone, the longer we have to live. When the spell fades, we are either doomed or saved, depending on what happens when he wakes."
For several minutes Trey was silent, mulling over everything. "One thing still does not make sense to me. Well, more than one, but we will settle on just one question for the time being."
"Ask all the questions you like," Montaine replied.
"Why not simply smash the stone?" he saw the others wince and shrugged defensively. "It is a legitimate question. Break the statue that Dunstan has become, and he is effectively dead, freeing you all from the constraints of the unexpected spell."
Montaine nodded, though he had grown paler. "We cannot reach him. I do not think, Sir Trey, that you fully understand just what has occurred with my son. They attacked him in his garden, where he is most relaxed. Someone amongst the mercenaries did their job very well, for they knew it to be the best place to attack him. Dunstan is always alone when he goes to his rose garden, and he never takes any of his magical items with him. In his garden, he is at his most vulnerable."
He fell silent a moment. His voice was barely above a whisper when he resumed speaking. "The roses protected him. I don't know how, but they took the killing force of the curse and did their best to soften the blow. Immediately after, they also grew around him, protecting him. They succumb to neither blade nor fire. Nothing gets through them. Whatever magic he used to make them grow all year long changed them, but…"
"But?" Trey asked.
"The roses are dying," Montaine replied, voice cracking. "Only a few, but every day another begins to lose its vivacity. Time is running out."
Trey again shook his head, fingertips pressed lightly to his forehead as he thought. "So we must save your son without harming your daughter and keep? It seems quite the conundrum."
"It would take a great deal of magic," Topaz interjected.
"Then it would seem you are the key to this dilemma." Trey frowned at Topaz.
"Nay," Topaz replied. "I am average at best. Though Rowan taught me a great deal, I will never be of his caliber." He slid his gold-brown eyes to Montaine. "In fact, I do believe Rowan hailed from your lands."
"He was a cousin of mine," Montaine replied. "I wish more of us were as strong as Rowan and my son."
Topaz nodded. "I will not be the one going. My magic aside, my presence would arouse a great deal of suspicion. The King's Steward does not make visits lightly."
"Then what do you plan to do?" Trey's brows rose at the look Topaz cast him. "Not me."
"Yes you."
"What mad notion is this?" Trey demanded.
Topaz gave him a long, hard look.
Trey looked away
Bran looked between them with faint amusement. "Trey, you had a great deal of practice during the past five years at dancing around magic and finding ways to fight it. How else did you manage to be the only one capable of coming so close to our borders? You have the best chance of finding a way to oust the mercenaries without them bringing the curse down upon Beatrice. If nothing else, you can at least find a way to buy us time until we can locate someone with magic strong enough to best that of Bellewood."
"Indeed," Trey said coolly. His gray eyes never left Topaz's.
"Do you mind helping that much, Trey?" Bran asked, face and shoulders falling.
"Never do I mind lending my assistance," Trey protested. "Most especially for you, Bran." He turned to Lord Montaine. "Certainly I owe you more than a few favors for getting me out of scrapes in my…turbulent younger years." He would do a great deal more for the chance to rescue Dunstan. It had been nearly six years since he had seen Dunstan, but his guilty interest had not faded. When Montaine had arrived alone, Trey had stifled his disappointment and focused on his duties.
Montaine smiled briefly. "I hear you still get into them occasionally."
"The young knights start them," Trey replied. "I merely end them." He Stood. "If this meeting is at an end, allow me to escort you back to your chambers, Lord Montaine."
"I would appreciate it." Montaine rose to his feet.
Trey looked to Bran. "When do we depart?"
"With the morning, if you are amenable. Before sunrise."
"Most amenable." Trey sketched a bow and led Lord Montaine from the room. They walked in silence for a few moments, nodding to acquaintances but not lingering to talk. "I am looking forward to seeing your home, Lord Bellewood."
Montaine smiled. "Though I wish it was under happier circumstances, I do look forward to showing off my lands. Mayhap before the year it out, my son can show you his roses. They are his pride and joy."
"He spoke of them often, and always with deep fondness." Trey had listened for hours while Dunstan spoke of his precious roses, though he had always felt the roses would fall far short of their caretaker.
Silence fell again as they left the crowded halls behind and made their way through more deserted passages, lit by only a few scant torches. "You have calmed much over the years, Trey."
"Many beatings on the sparring grounds helped to knock much of the trouble out of me and some manners and discipline in."
Montaine let out a hearty laugh, looking less weary than he had before. "I think it is perhaps more than that, but every man I've ever known was better for a bit of humbling, it's true."
Trey smiled briefly. "Life this past year has been good; that has helped immensely, after all the years of strife."
"Ah," Montaine replied. "Here I thought perhaps someone had finally managed to locate the heart lost in the mists." He winked.
Trey grimaced at the old joke—that when he had been found as an abandoned child in the misty valley just beyond the castle, the knights had accidentally left his heart behind. He had not been a particularly likeable child. "I am afraid it is still quite lost, my lord."
"I see," Montaine said, and for a moment Trey thought he sounded pleased. He dismissed the strange thought.
He bowed once more as Montaine bid him good night and vanished into his room, then turned and went back the way he had come. When he had almost reached the Grand Hall, he abruptly veered left and headed instead for the stables.
Enough for one night. He needed to get out.
His horse looked up before he had even entered the stable, always somehow knowing when Trey was coming. The courser had been a gift, as war horses often were, from the late king. Trey had named him Whisper, for he heard everything and rarely made a sound unless he intended it.
"None today," he said softly as the horse inspected him for treats. "I promise to bring you something tomorrow." Whisper settled as Trey saddled him and led him from the stable.
He called a farewell to the guards as they opened the gate for him and ran off into the dark. Free of the castle, he loosed Whisper's reins and let him lead the way off into the night, winding through the fields until they came upon a small rise, pausing for a moment at the crest.
The hill was sharper on the opposite side, spilling down into a valley that was always—no matter the weather or the time of year—filled with mist. Only the benevolence of the place had earned it a reputation for mysterious rather than ominous. Trey had been found climbing the hill out of the mists when he was but a few summers old. He knew the Misty Dale better than he knew the castle, so often had he wandered it first alone, then with Whisper, to escape people that for many years he did not know how to get along with. And to remind himself why he kept trying to get along with them.
It had been a jest one day, when a visiting nobleman had asked the name of the young squire causing so much ruckus, that a nearby knight had said, "That is Trey of the Misty
Dale." The name had stuck, and when at last he had been knighted, the king had indeed declared him the Lord of Mistdale.
Distantly he heard the castle bells chiming the eleventh hour as Whisper reached the top of the hill once more and left the valley behind.
"Hail, Captain." A guard waved to him from the top of the gate.
"Hail. How does the night find you?"
"Bored out of our minds," a second knight said cheerfully. "Eleventh bell and all is well."
Trey nodded as he passed through gates, which clattered and slammed shut behind him. "I hope you are properly appreciative of that."
"Of course, of course. But honestly, Captain, all the revelers that were about this evening, and not even a drunkard to toss into a cell. Must not have been terribly grand a party. 'Tis a strange night, Captain."
"Indeed," Trey said coolly. "See that you keep your guard up."
"Never fear," the first knight replied. "You in a temper is far worse than whatever might be out there."
Trey grunted, keeping his laughter to himself. He dismounted as a boy of about thirteen years came running toward him, a fierce frown marring his freckled face. "It would seem I have gone and offended you again, Victor."
Victor sniffed, tossing his carrot-colored curls. "My lord, how am I supposed to do as you say or learn anything if you are always running off and leaving me behind? It is hard to attend a man who is constantly vanishing."
Trey ruffled his hair, laughing at Victor's affronted look. "I am certain you will manage." He handed over Whisper's reins. "Here, take care of my horse. That should give you something to do and soothe those ruffled feathers of yours."
Victor eyed Whisper warily. "More likely he will attempt to bite my feathers off. Again."
Laughing harder, Trey left them in the courtyard and headed for his bedchamber.
He sighed as he saw a figure sitting before his fire, brown skin seeming to drink in the flickering flames. "I was afraid you might have more to say on the matter."
