Always There

by Megan Derr

  "Now see—"

  "Nay," Corentin cut in, turning sharply around as they joined him in the dark tunnel. "In matters of heaven your counsel we take; in matters of war 'tis our words which you will heed, Father. If so commanded, you will flee. Naught good will come of having your corpse to bury over this affair."

  Father Drogo sighed. "Aye, as you say then. Let us make haste to finish this adventure."

  "Aye," Corentin said fervently. He wanted an end of it, yet the end he sensed he would get was not the one he wanted. Well, that was his lot.

  He forced himself to keep an even pace and not make haste, lest it turn to carelessness.

  "Keep the torch aloft," Yvain said, and moved past him as the light revealed a door at the far end.

  Nodding, Corentin kept the torch upon the door as Yvain shoved it open and stepped out. A moment later he called that all was clear.

  Outside the world was naught but black and white, set aglow by moonlight.

  "I see no sign of trespassers or of monks," Yvain said from across the small grove. "A pretty place and secluded. 'Twould be hard to come across if you did not know of it."

  "Aye," Father Drogo said. "I do not recognize it, save by location of the tunnel. 'Twould be hard to come across it, indeed."

  Corentin shoved the torch into a brazier by the door, and then moved further into the glen to help Yvain more thoroughly explore it. "A waste, this, unless those monks be duplicitous rather than merely young and foolish. Naught but duplicity would permit the brigands to enter by this path, for they could not lift the stone from above without raising some alarm."

  "Unless the brigands slipped in unseen, quite impossible in this grove," Yvain said, nodding in agreement. "Then there must be another way by which they gained entrance; a pity, for I had thought this riddle solved."

  "No puzzle is so easily solved," Corentin replied absently, sheathing his sword and turning to head back inside. The cold was not worth enduring if no brigands were there to slay. He came to an abrupt halt as the door slammed shut when he was a mere three steps away. Although he could not say for certain, he swore he could hear the sound of laughter. Entirely too smug laughter.

  "I suppose that is the Father's subtle way of saying mayhap we should attempt to work upon the other problem that put us here."

  "Aye," Corentin said irritably, sudden tension making his shoulders tight. "Naturally the best place for such a talk is out in the freezing cold in the dead of night."

  Yvain said nothing.

  Corentin strode to the door and tested it, unsurprised to find 'twas locked. He sighed softly and braced his hand upon the door, staring down at the trampled snow at the foot of it and wishing that he were anywhere—and that he might have Father Drogo's head upon a pike. Nay—the grand duke's head.

  "Although I never intend it," Yvain said softly, "'twould seem that all I ever cause you is pain. To say I am sorry seems weak and insufficient, yet I know not what other words I might offer … "

  Well that was rather more direct than Corentin had anticipated. He turned from the door, but kept his back still to Yvain, gazing upon the nearer side of the grove. "Nay," he said roughly. "Any pain I feel I have brought upon myself, by my choices and actions. If any apology is owed, 'tis mine and I give it, although it be feeble enough. My actions not so long ago were driven by anger and grief, but I never intended for your men to die."

  "Oh," Yvain said, sounding startled. "Nay, 'twas not your fault entirely and I knew it then. A bargain did you strike to have me killed, and to a man of honor it would not occur that another would act with such dishonor as to break the bargain that was struck. I mourn my men, but the risks were put baldly to them and they accepted."

  Nay, that was not good enough. Corentin should not be so easily forgiven. What right had he to that? He shook his head, wanting so badly to turn around, to see if Yvain spoke truly, if that truth was in his eyes. What would he do if it were?

  Only hate himself all the more.

  He heard Yvain move, then the footsteps stopped. Slowly Corentin tilted his head to look up at the sky. The silence was as deep as the snow, thick as the forest around them, and Corentin knew 'twas his place to speak. What was he to say? That although he was a fool, cowardly and fickle, he would like desperately to earn the right to return the affections that Yvain professed to feel for him? Nay, he had no right to say such things; no right to want such things.

  Yvain sighed softly and Corentin heard him move closer still. He did not turn, although the urge was strong. "I—I wish I had kept my silence that day. That I had been more willing to defy His Grace."

  Corentin shook his head. "Nay, 'tis better I know the truth of the matter." He swallowed around the lump lodged suddenly in his throat. "I … 'twas not your burden to bear and I am sorry you had to bear it, and pay so terrible a price. He should have spoken to me."

  Feelings he continuously fought against sprang up, and although he had been able to drive them back earlier in the hall … here he was not so lucky. So many months later still it hurt, left him floundering. All that he possessed he had been willing to surrender simply to spend his life with one man … and rather than speak with him, that man had killed himself. Had Nash loved him so much? Or not as much as Corentin had believed? If he was worth dying for … why had Nash not thought he might be worth living for as well? Did he think this current state was so much better? Much rather a pauper would he be, than live every day with this turmoil and confusion.

  It made him angry, despite all of his efforts not to be and the constant reminders that he had no right to that anger. 'Twas not he who had suffered most, for he lived and retained his title, his spurs. Although he bemoaned his fate, he had of everyone come out of the affair the most unscathed. Nash was dead, too many of Yvain's men dead … and Yvain, who had done so much, endured in silence Corentin's cruel words and actions. The strength and devotion of which that silence spoke ever took his breath away and left him feeling wholly unworthy … which meant that there was naught he could say that might make him feel otherwise. Corentin knew not what Father Drogo hoped they might accomplish here, what the grand duke had intended they accomplish … but it would not come to pass, because some things were not so easily mended. Those things he wanted to ask, he had no right. Nash had died for love of him … yet what good did that love do him now? A few paces away stood another man who had been willing to die for the very same reasons … but Corentin could not see what about him was worth so deep a love or why they thought 'twas better to leave him cold and alone. Yet it was precisely as he deserved for failing to convey thus to a man he had professed to love, and then proving so fickle as to want to love the man who had seen Nash die.

  Fie on it! The mess hurt his head, hurt the whole of him, and made him wish that he had been the one to tumble o'er the bridge. It seemed that of the lot of them, 'twas his life which was the most useless.

  Corentin bit back the curses he wanted to hurl at the sky, struggling against the memory of a kiss that made him ache to steal more and beg for things to which he had no right. A soft oath slipped free as he turned away and stalked once more to the door. Although he had been prepared to pound upon it until someone let them inside or the monastery came crashing down upon them, the door gave way easily when he pulled upon the iron ring.

  Ignoring the sound of Yvain calling his name, Corentin strode down the dark hallway back toward the monastery proper. He realized belatedly that it would have been wiser to bring the torch with him. Light flickered behind him in the very next breath, however, accompanied by the sound of boots on stone. He could all but feel Yvain at his back, and fisted his hands against the urge to turn and steal another kiss, see if 'twas only his mind which made that kiss so heady. 'Twould not be fair, however, to so misuse Yvain, whose feelings were true and loyal, not cowardly and fickle. A man so strong was too good to be used by one so weak, even if he likely would permit it.

  Nay, Corentin could not, would not, settle for such. He wanted to be
worthy or nothing at all, and not even the heavens at their most merciful would ever find him worthy to return Yvain's affections … which left him with precisely what he deserved: nothing. Inside, he lingered only just long enough to help Yvain replace the stone. As he stood, a hand latched to his arm, but Corentin tore free of it and bolted as quickly as dignity permitted from the storeroom, wending through the hallways back to his room. Once safely inside, he sank down to sit upon the floor, back to the door, and buried his face in his hands.

  Yvain glanced absently at the ring upon his hand as he strode through the halls, making his way slowly toward the great library. He wanted to wander, but feared a repeat of three nights ago when Corentin had not been able to find him. Not that he would mind a situation in which he was forced to steal another kiss, but he feared much worse would come if he was not where he could be located.

  So mayhap this eve he would try to read. Unfortunate that in all of his plotting, the grand duke had not thought to pack such things as books—mayhap he had not anticipated their having so much free time. Yvain should be doing more to find the brigands, of course, but for the moment naught else could be done. Still Corentin searched the monastery for more secret passages, and thrice more had he found, but none proved to be the one they sought. There appeared to be no recourse but to await the next appearance of the knaves, and waiting was a game that Yvain had never favored despite playing it all his life.

  Passing beneath a torch, Yvain glanced again at the jewel that flashed whenever fire caught it. A beautiful sapphire, truly, but he longed to be rid of the foul thing. Bastard Rothlanders, always committing one dishonor after another … he wished that they might be rid of the entire bloody lot of them. Perhaps this affair would be the first step toward that happy circumstance.

  He wished he might find some happy circumstance of his own, but he sensed 'twas not to be. Mayhap something had been accomplished during their time in the snow … but not once had Corentin looked upon him nor had the unhappiness in his voice eased. What would it take to ease that pain? To banish it and see Corentin happy?

  Not that Yvain was entirely altruistic in wanting him to be happy; nay, if Corentin were happy … mayhap …

  Yvain sighed softly as he turned a corner and wandered down what was one of the primary hallways. At the very center of it, directly across from a snow-drenched courtyard, was the main prayer hall. The monks had only recently departed from it, off to their cells or late night chores. Silence was falling, and the hall should have been mostly dark with naught but a few tapers to keep it lit through the night—yet bright light spilled out into the hallway, slipping through the not quite closed doors. Curious, or maybe bored enough to seek any distraction, Yvain pushed one open of them the slightest bit, taking care to remain quiet.

  Corentin. He knelt before the altar, dark blue cloak spread out around and behind him, the white lining of the hood like snow against it and only slightly paler than the delicate silver-gold of Corentin's hair. His head was bowed low, likely over clasped hands, and if not for the fact that he knew otherwise, Yvain might have thought Corentin naught but a statue. Candles flickered, prayer lights and additional tapers to drive back the dark, although not enough to fight back the terrible cold.

  Yvain withdrew, loath to cause a disturbance. Sighing softly, he continued on his way toward the library, taking the longest way possible even as he reminded himself that he should not be dallying about. Far on the opposite end of the monastery, wrapping around a bit of the mountain into which it was built, was the balcony he had wandered only a few nights ago. He strove to ignore his thoughts, the slowing of his steps, as he reached the portion of balcony where he had stolen a kiss that burned even now upon his lips, in his mind … So badly had he wanted to steal another that night in the snow, pretend for a moment that a few apologies and a kiss were enough to heal the rift between them. If only …

  Stifling another useless sigh, Yvain finally reached the doors of the library and withdrew from his cloak the key which Father Drogo had given to him. Always the library was kept locked, save those few hours of the day when the monks wrote and copied the precious texts that were under their care. Pushing open the door, Yvain grabbed a torch from a sconce on the wall, before closing and locking the door behind him, and returning the key to his cloak. A still deeper silence reigned here, punctuated by the smell of paper and ink. Not even incense was permitted within these walls, for fear of what damage it might do to the costly paper.

  Far to the back were the worktables, neatly arranged with the tools of the trade and tilted just so, with high chairs upon which the monks would sit for hours, writing and copying, and inking everything from the words to the birds, ivy, and all manner of other images that decorated each text. Yvain remembered being equally enthralled with it upon his only other visit; so wondrous a place, the great library, that the excitement of seeing it had nearly overwhelmed even his joy at finally being knighted. Many a book graced his private collection, but none could compare to what was upon these shelves. He would gladly empty his coffers to own copies of even a small portion of the books upon these shelves—especially if even one of them could tell him how to solve the problems that lay so thick and solid between him and Corentin. If even a single sentence in a single book could offer the slightest bit of hope that they may someday close the distance between them … Ah, he would give up all he possessed and more besides.

  Yvain paused at the last shelf, just short of the workspace and tables filling it, and trailed his fingers lightly along the spines of the neatly arranged books, murmuring the titles softly to himself. The torchlight made the gold foil of the lettering shine, almost seemed to bring it to life, and buried amongst the books it almost felt as though all of his troubles and woes were distant, insignificant things. Except he wished he were not here alone, or mayhap not here at all, for if he were fortunate enough to ever lay some true claim to Corentin, he could think of much better ways to endure the miserable weather that kept them firmly indoors.

  Rolling his eyes at himself and pointedly thinking of everything except the stolen kiss that would haunt him so long as a breath remained in his body, Yvain pulled a book at random from the shelf and looked at it without truly reading. A romantic tale, he thought, although he did not bother to confirm. Images of dragons and birds of fire, ladies in golden robes and knights in silver armor filled the pages alongside words written in a hand a thousand times better than his. He was quite steady with a sword; not so very with a quill.

  Replacing the book, Yvain moved to a different set of shelves and pulled down another, this one a history of some war or another. He skimmed it briefly, recognizing the battle as one oft admired for the beauty of the strategy devised by the king's advisors. His father had oft tried to beat a skill for such things into his head, and although Yvain knew he was no fool in the matters of war, he was no brilliant strategist either. A pity, for he sensed such sharpness of mind would aid his current predicaments. Alas, he could do naught but wait and hope that fortune chose to favor him in a way it never truly had.

  Yvain returned the history book to its place and wandered to yet another shelf, this time pulling down a history of the monastery itself, flipping through the pages and reading a paragraph here and there, full of admiration for the king who had built it with such genuine devotion and belief. When he realized he was reading rather than merely skimming, Yvain moved to one of the work tables and sat down, thrusting the torch into a nearby brazier before drawing his cloak close and bending to read. He absently recalled that he should be returning to his room, but the book proved too fascinating for him to stop reading and make his way back through the halls. Father Drogo and Corentin knew this to be his destination and Corentin had not seemed inclined to leave behind his prayers.

  His thoughts wandered briefly from the book as he pondered what prayers Corentin had been making and if he was receiving some answer. Yvain hoped so, if it eased the pain which Corentin wore like his cloak. Shaking his head a
nd letting slip a soft sigh, he returned his attention to the book before him and turned the page. His attention focused to a fine, sharp point as he realized what he had suddenly reached: a section discussing the secret passages woven throughout the already mazelike monastery. The king may have been more interested in the holy life than the royal, but he had been a knight and ruler all of his life.

  The monastery was a holy place, but it was also an extremely valuable place, a veritable treasury. Books, paintings, all manner of goods given as offerings and atonements by passersby, men seeking to become monks and those so desperate for heavenly forgiveness that they offered all they possessed in hopes of gaining it. The king knew such would be the case and he had deposited plenty of his own riches to give the monastery a solid foundation upon which to build and sustain itself. Bearing that in mind, the king had built his monastery the very same way he had built his capital—to be impenetrable; an insurmountable fortress built into and around a portion of the mountain. However, he had not wanted to be trapped within the walls of his fortress should the worst occur. So in both places he had ensured secret passages were built, and limited knowledge of them to himself and as few others as possible.

  Yvain was privy to knowledge of two of the secret passages within the capital. He knew Corentin was privy to a different two and Duke Delacroix would have knowledge of his own. Only the king and the grand duke held knowledge of every passage in and out of the capital.

  Tragedy, however, had once struck the monastery by way of a deadly disease. Too many monks had been stuck down by it, including the Father at the time and the man who had been chosen to follow him. With their deaths the secrets of the monastery were lost forever.

  Yvain read through the passage thrice over, searching anxiously for any hidden clues, for 'twould not be the first time some vital message had been hidden amongst text. Nothing caught his eye, however, and he closed the book with a frustrated sigh. Mayhap Corentin would see what he could not, if anything was there to see.