Always There

by Megan Derr

  Far off in the distance he could hear the bells tolling the hour and startled when he realized the hour they tolled was the midnight. Heavens above, had he been in here so long? A glance at the torch, which he noticed now had grown quite low indeed, confirmed that he had indeed spent more than a mere hour reading.

  Swearing softly, he returned the book to its place and went back for the torch. He froze in place, however, at the sound of a key being turned in the lock, echoing loudly in the tomblike silence of the library. Those who possessed library keys were few; naught but four existed, and two of those had been taken from the monks to be used by him and Corentin in their efforts to locate the brigands. One remained with Father Drogo … and the last with the monk appointed Head Librarian …

  Reading about the secret passages had only confirmed what he and Corentin already knew—that the brigands must have inside assistance. Their chances of finding such a passage by scouring the mountain were near impossible; Yvain struggled simply to find them within the monastery. That meant that at least one monk knew of a few of them, and willingly or not was assisting the brigands.

  Dousing the torch, Yvain moved on silent feet, trusting to memory and what little he could see in the dark to hide amongst the shelves. He secreted himself away only just in time as the library door creaked open and someone slipped inside. He recalled the last time he and Corentin had been caught by their shadows and was grateful that this time there was not enough light to give him away. A dark blur moved past him and he did not need light to pick out the tall, straw-thin figure of the Head Librarian. Betrayal lodged like spoilt meat in his gullet; nothing fouled the air like knowing a traitor was present, and only years of training and the fact that he needed to know more kept him crouched with sword sheathed.

  The sound of stone grating against stone gave Yvain enough noise to cover his own movements as he crept slightly forward to better see what transpired. He had not explored the library, choosing instead other more likely locations after the three of them had agreed that the king would not likely have built a secret passage in a room which held precious objects that were all too easy to destroy. 'Twould seem they had been terribly, horribly wrong.

  Yvain watched with hands balled into tight fists as the monk vanished into an entrance behind the massive desk that was his own. The entrance was in plain view, and yet not, for clearly no other had ever found it. Why would the Head Librarian turn traitor? What motivated any man to behave in such despicable fashion? Yvain would never understand it; much better to die than betray.

  Minutes passed, feeling like hours, and then the monk reappeared—and ten men followed behind him. Eleven dark blurs, murmuring in voices too low for him to catch the words, drowned out entirely as two of them restored the entrance to secrecy. Yvain forced himself to stillness, but only with great effort. He must not move, must not give himself away. So many men would slay him ere he could learn anything of use or verify the presence of the Rothland prince. Too much was at stake for him to act foolishly. He wished Corentin were here, for a good man at his back would go a long way toward steadying him, easing his burning need to do something—anything.

  At last the group moved toward the door, departing the library—and Yvain breathed a silent sigh of relief when he did not hear the turn of the lock. They no doubt feared lacking a key should they have to make a hasty departure and the Head Librarian would risk being reprimanded for forgetting to lock the door should another chance upon the library before all was set again to rights.

  Counting the seconds (giving the brigands some time to keep well ahead of him), Yvain stood and crossed to the door, opening it only as far as needed to slip out, and then locked the door behind him. If they should get away from him, at least they would have a more difficult time making their escape.

  He could no longer see the group, but he saw the shadows vanishing from the very end of the hall. Walking swiftly (hoping distance would make up for any sound he could not entirely quell), he closed the space between them, his mind racing with all that he must do, must not do, how to both delay them and seek help. Rousing the monks might cause more harm than good, if they were so foolish as to get close enough to drag themselves into the fight. Monks had already been harmed; Yvain did not want to be responsible for further injury. 'Twould seem, then, that he would have to go at this alone, and soon, for if they began to hunt for the puzzle box, that too may cause harm to the monks.

  Yvain reached the end of the hall and rounded the corner slowly—then nearly laughed in relief to see that they were venturing down the staircase that led to the open field below, a shortcut to the lower level of the monastery. Stairs made this much easier. A great risk, for a certainty, to take them all on alone, yet he saw no other recourse. Surely someone would hear the racket no doubt to ensue and seek assistance. Corentin would come at once.

  Nodding, decided, Yvain strode to the stairs and waited until they were all at the base and moving well away.

  "Good evening, my lords!" he called down, drawing his sword from its sheath. He spared a brief thought to wish for his armor, then he dismissed it and brought the whole of his mind to a single, sharp focus—kill or otherwise delay the enemy. "Seek you a puzzle box? I can take you to it."

  At the foot of the stairs the brigands swore, several moving toward him before a sharp command brought them to a halt.

  Yvain smirked. "Of course, I can also spare you a great deal of trouble." He brandished his hand, letting moon and torchlight catch the ring upon it. "Come and fetch your ring, Highness."

  The man who obviously led the others cursed loudly, then barked out a sharp command to the men he had ordered to stillness only a moment ago. Yvain met them head on, taking down one, throwing the second back into the third, and sending them both tumbling down the stairs. Against such odds he would not live long, but perhaps he could live long enough.

  Bellowing the Lons war cry, Yvain threw himself down the stairs to meet his adversaries head on, sending a last thought to the man he knew most likely still knelt in prayer.

  The marble tiles were as cold as ice, the room itself too massive to be aught but near-freezing, even through the layers of winter clothing and his gloves, but Corentin did not move. Could not move, for at least here he had something upon which to focus, some hope of finding an answer.

  Often had his mother dragged him to the chapel of Castle de Capre to pray and meditate; as a boy he had loathed those hours lost to pointless endeavor when he could have been practicing his knightly arts … but as the years went by he began to appreciate them. Whether or not the heavens spoke, and if they had spoken never had he heard, he found the simple quiet soothing. 'Twas a soothing he desperately needed, when every waking moment of his life was filled with regret and grief and tumult. He wished just this once the heavens might give him a clear and simple answer—that they might say he had the right to ask for a chance to return in full all that Yvain offered.

  A selfish thing to ask; a shameful thing to ask. What right did he have? None. To ask of Yvain such a boon would be to abuse feelings that he had no right to claim, no matter that Yvain said he was forgiven for the brutal deaths of his men. Nay, he deserved no forgiveness, no matter how badly he sought it anyway. If the heavens were silent, 'twas because they and he both knew silence was all he deserved.

  Still he knelt, still he prayed. Perhaps if he persisted enough, the heavens would at least grow aggravated enough to strike him down for impertinence.

  When Corentin completed the long prayer which he had been quietly reciting for the past half hour, he began it again anew. How many times he had recited it, he no longer knew, having lost track some time ago. At some point he had heard the bells for the eleventh hour ring, but if the midnight bells had rung he had missed them. Despite the thick gloves he wore, his hands were near frozen, stiff from being so long clasped. He was hungry, tired, but not so badly that he felt like stirring himself. If he received no answer to his questions, no balm for his agony, then at least th
ere was comfort in the prayers themselves.

  He wondered what Yvain was about; if he had come and gone from the library, what book he had selected, if he was bedded down to enjoy it … and thoughts of Yvain in his bed were not the sort he should be entertaining when he was kneeling before an altar and deep in prayer. Were his mother here, he had no doubt she would sense the perverse nature of his thoughts and cuff him hard enough to make the world spin. Ever had she been too good at knowing when he was up to mischief, even if only in his thoughts.

  Frowning, Corentin attempted to regain his concentration, focusing on naught but his prayers and wishes, as unattainable as those wishes were. What would it take, he asked hopelessly, for him to earn the right to return Yvain's affections? Would he ever be worthy?

  He shook his head and raised his voice a bit as he continued the prayer, trying in vain to drive all else from his mind.

  'Twas the shouting that drew him from his newly-regained focus some minutes later, and he might not have noted it but for the fear, for the monks oft shouted at one another no matter the time of day or night.

  Even as he struggled to rise, legs stiff from cold and disuse, the doors to the prayer hall were thrown open and a monk stumbled and crashed to the ground with a pained cry.

  Striding down the hallway, Corentin grabbed his arm and helped the monk stand. "Be calm," he said, much as he would soothe a new knight overanxious on the eve of battle. "What troubles you so?"

  "Brigands!" the monk gasped out, eyes wide with fear and panic. "His Grace fights them alone. You must—"

  "Where?" Corentin demanded, the word snapping out.

  "Near the library—"

  He did not wait to hear what else the monk might have said, unable to hold still as fear washed through him, colder than even the most bitter winter night. What in the heavens had transpired that Yvain would be so foolish as to take on the brigands alone?

  Through the monastery he ran, despising the size of it, the length of the halls, the number of turns he was forced to make—the monks he shoved from his path, uncaring where they landed. Finally he reached the stretch of hall that led to the library, overlooking a snow-covered field … Which was filled with bodies, men fighting … nay, no fighting was there any longer. A large man loomed over a fallen figure … a fallen figure who lay in a pool of black, and far too much of it was there smeared across the moonlit snow.

  Reaching into his boot, Corentin pulled free the dagger kept there and hurled it across the field, not waiting to see what became of the victim but simply continuing to move. Grabbing the balcony ledge, he threw himself over it and down into the field below, rolling as he landed and drawing his sword as he regained his feet. Bolting across the field, he saw that his target had bolted for the stairs—and did not care. His eyes were only for Yvain, who lay too still upon the blood-drenched snow

  "Yvain!" He dropped to the snow and fumbled to secure the wound at Yvain's side, bellowing for help, for someone—anyone—to come. Where were the thrice-cursed monks now?

  Slowly Yvain's eyes opened. "Did … they get the ring?" he whispered.

  Corentin glared. "I do not care."

  "Library," Yvain said. "That is how … " His eyes drifted shut again.

  Panic took over, although Corentin tried to fight it. "Yvain! You are not allowed to die."

  "Sorry … " Yvain murmured, and the sound that came from him should have been a laugh, but was instead a weak sigh that frightened Corentin all the more.

  "Nay!" Corentin said. "I will not accept apologies." His eyes stung, burned, and he snatched Yvain close, all but shaking him with fury and fear. "You are not permitted to die! Do you hear me, Yvain? I will not permit it."

  Yvain tried to laugh again. "I would think … Coren … that it would ease you to be rid of me … "

  Corentin released him and barely prevented himself from beating the fool further senseless. "What mad talk is that? You are not allowed to die, damn you." He bent over Yvain, fingers holding fast to the bloodied tunic. "Why does everyone who claims to love me insist upon dying?" He stared into Yvain's pain-hazed eyes. "Bastard. What good is a corpse to me? How do I love a ghost?" He realized suddenly that he was crying, but could not bring himself to care. He cared about naught but that Yvain lived. Whatever else troubled him seemed as nothing, of a sudden. "How am I supposed to make myself worthy if you die too? How will I ever earn the right to love you in return if you are naught but another death to my name?"

  Yvain's eyes cleared slightly. "Would you? Love me?"

  "Aye," Corentin said, "I would, if only I had that right. Never will I earn it if you leave me. Damn you, Yvain. Vow unto me you shall not die. Vow it!"

  A faint but true smile curved Yvain's mouth as his eyes drifted shut. "I vow it, then. I shall not die." Then he went abruptly limp, completely passed out.

  Corentin wiped the tears from his face with his sleeve, and then moved stiffly to resume those duties he had neglected for fear of Yvain. Glancing down at Yvain's hand, he spied the royal ring of Rothland's secondary heir. Removing it, he stripped off his glove to place it upon his own finger, and then as stood as he pulled his glove back on, stooping to recover his sword. Yvain would live, for he had vowed it, and Corentin would—must—trust to that vow.

  From the corner of his eye, he could see monks coming down the staircase and he bellowed at them to tend Yvain before bolting up the stairs himself and racing down the corridor toward the library, following a trail of blood. The doors had been thrown wide open, which meant a traitor, and of the four keys he knew only one who could have proven traitorous …

  How had Yvain come across this mess? Why had he not come for help?

  Corentin shoved the questions away, for they would have to be addressed later, and made his way down the main walkway of the library. At the far end, beyond the desk of the despicable Head Librarian, was a gaping hole through which a chill wind blew. Corentin shoved the desk out of the way and threw himself into the dark depths of the secret passage, sword held aloft and head craning to hear any sound at all that was not of his own making. Mere moments later the dark tunnel spilled out into another field of silver white snow—and a figure crouched in it, bleeding from a deep wound to his shoulder. Corentin fell immediately upon him, pressing against the deep wound and hearing the screams of pain, subduing the foul knave who had nearly taken Yvain from him.

  "La, Highness," he said mockingly. "We have told you foul Rothland bastards many a time 'twas a foolish thing to cross the knights of Chieldor. Now you will pay for your crimes and your father alongside you. Have you anything to say or are you wise enough to hold still that tongue of yours?"

  The man said nothing and Corentin clubbed him hard with the hilt of his sword, then bound the wound as best he could, finally hefting the unconscious prince over his shoulder to carry him back into the monastery. He was met in the library by several monks, all of them grim-faced and solemn. With a grunt he gave the prince to them for tending and strode to where Father Drogo was just entering the library. "Twas the Head Librarian who proved traitorous. Where is he?"

  "Dead," Father Drogo said heavily. "By his own hand, rather than let his brothers fall upon him."

  Corentin nodded. "Yvain?"

  "Has been taken to his room and is being tended."

  "How fares he?" Corentin asked, forcing the question out and dreading the answer, although he had a vow upon which to hang his hopes.

  Father Drogo smiled faintly, some of the unhappiness etched deeply into his face easing. "Alive and likely to remain thus, although 'twas a near thing for a certainty."

  Corentin nodded. "Behold the secret passage and fie on me for choosing not to explore this place sooner, for mayhap lives might have been spared."

  A heavy hand settled upon his shoulder. "Nay," Father Drogo said. "The only lives lost this night were those of enemies and traitors, and he by cowardly fashion."

  "Aye," Corentin agreed, although it was hard, for he did not like to think that any wh
o took his own life might be a coward. Yet he found the thought, the pain, did not dig at him quite so painfully as it had before. Mayhap because he had a vow upon which to rely or mayhap he was too tired after the fear and running to feel naught but exhaustion.

  "You look exhausted," Father Drogo said. "'Tis our duty from here, Your Grace. Your part in the affair has been accomplished. Go and seek your bed, and leave monastery matters to we humble monks."

  Corentin tried to muster an argument, but could not force it past his lips. At last he conceded defeat and nodded, departing the library and traveling the halls with slow, weary steps, until he reached his own rooms. Stripping off his bloody clothes—wishing he might see Yvain—he fell upon his bed and immediately dropped off into sleep.

  *~*~*

  "He refuses to take his medicine, Your Grace," a monk groused, his brother healers muttering in agreement alongside him.

  Corentin lifted one brow and closed the book he had been attempting to read while he struggled between wanting to see Yvain and not wanting to see Yvain. Now that all was well, his behavior of the night past brought a dull flush to his cheeks. He had overreacted, behaved like a maiden overcome by the sight of blood. Yet all he could feel was relief that Yvain lived, that he would carry naught but a scar when he was well and truly healed. So badly did he want to see for himself that all was indeed well, but his behavior … He cringed just to think upon it, how he must have seemed to Yvain. Mayhap Yvain had been too overwhelmed by pain to recall their exchange, but Corentin did not believe for a moment that he was so fortunate. What, then, was he to say?

  He could not bear to think upon it.

  "Why does he refuse the medicine?" Corentin finally asked, sighing.

  "He says that he shall not swallow a drop lest your hand administers it. His medicine will do naught but sit upon the table until he sees your face."

  Corentin scowled; that was not playing fair in the slightest. "I see," he said, and stood with another sigh. "'Twould seem there is nothing for it but to make the knave take the medicine. I apologize for the trouble his childish temper is causing you. Show me to his room."