by Lara Adrian
"Ah, I see. And your wife?" At Braedon's flat stare, the old man smiled and brought a gnarled finger to his temple. "My eyes are old, but not so old that I no longer keep a watch on my harbor. I could not help but notice you and your lady as you arrived. She is lovely, sir. You are a fortunate man, indeed."
Braedon grunted, acknowledging neither Ariana's comeliness or his relationship to her. "The sail," he prompted again. "Can you have it for me on the morrow?"
"Oui, monsieur. I will start on it at--" A sudden light-footed scurrying noise from high in the rafters of his shop drew the old man's attention. "Damned rats," he grumbled, squinting into the shadows above their heads. "I keep a cat, but do you think that lazy old thing would trouble herself to catch them? Not one, the worthless beast, in all the five years I've had her."
Braedon glanced up toward the skittering sound that had traveled from the end of one long support beam to the other. He could have sworn he saw the reddish glow of two small eyes catch in the glint of the fireplace, but then he blinked and the beady little stare was gone. "I'll be back, then," he said to the sail maker. "At first light, if that will give you enough time to do the work."
"Fine, oui. It will be ready for you, monsieur." The old man nodded, but Braedon could see that he had all but lost him to the sudden pursuit of his vermin infiltrators. Picking up an oar that rested against the wall, the sail maker stalked toward the corner of the shop, wearing a look of dogged determination. Braedon left him to his hunt, stepping out into the snowy street and closing the door behind him just as the oar crashed down with a deafening bang!
From the virulence of the curse that followed, Braedon guessed it was safe to assume that the old man's quarry had eluded him.
Outside, in the narrow street off the sail maker’s shop, snow fell from the darkening gray sky like a silent white rain, feather light and steady. It frosted the narrow alleyways and clung to the faces of the half-timbered buildings that lined the harbor. Nary a soul was out, despite that it was still some hours before dusk and the worst of the squall had begun to pass.
Braedon's boots crunched in the freezing slush that choked the street outside the inn, his steady gait the only sound, save the intermittent clank and bump of ships moored at the dock to wait out the weather. The niggling sense of unease that had followed him from the inn remained with him now, even as he left the sail maker’s shop and headed back to speak with Ariana.
And something else niggled at him now, too.
He had the distinct and sudden sense that he was being watched.
No one lingered in the street, nor in the alleyways he passed as he made his way back toward the inn, but that did not quell the hairs that rose on the back of his neck in warning. His instincts quivered with swift awareness. He scented the presence of someone. He was being trailed, he was certain of it. Someone hid somewhere nearby, just out of sight. Watching. Waiting.
For what?
Calais, being the closest port between England and France, was a busy place, a known haven for criminals and outcasts, and various other of humanity's more unsavory element. No doubt the hunting was poor this far into winter, but Braedon had a feeling he was being studied by someone other than a basic cutpurse, and for more than just a simple bit of petty thievery. There was deadly intent in the chill silence that surrounded him, a predatory charge in the air.
He drew up short in the middle of the street and paused there, listening. He pivoted his head, daring the shadows to materialize and confront him.
No one came.
No one was there.
Slowly, as if creeping back inch by inch, the prickling of his instincts began to subside. He turned his head back and took a step forward--then felt the stunning blow of heavy knife hilt smash into the side of his skull. He went down on one knee in the slushy muck, instantly dazed. With effort, he shook off the shattering spray of pain and light that exploded in his brain, his bleary vision rooting on a scuffed and wet pair of large brown boots that stood beside him in the street. His palm came away from his temple smeared with blood.
"Where is it?" growled a rough voice from above him.
One of those sodden boots planted before him lifted to kick him in the ribs, but Braedon saw it coming. He grabbed the muddied heel and twisted hard as he came up off his knees, sending his ox-like attacker to the ground in a breathless heap. The knife flew out of his hand and landed in a dingy clump of snow and ice. With a roar, Braedon leaped on the man and yanked him up by his doublet and mantle. He did not know him, he decided at once, letting go only long enough to deliver his fist into the miscreant's face.
"Who the hell are you?" When he did not answer, Braedon hit him again. "Who are you, damn it? What do you want?"
The man didn't answer, merely chuckled through his bloodied teeth. "He's going to finish you this time, le Chasseur."
Braedon mentally recoiled to hear his old name voiced after so long. Le Chasseur. The Hunter. A name that had once brought him glory and honor, now reached his ears like a curse. Caught off guard momentarily, fury soon blazed in place of his surprise. How did this man--this crude stranger--know him by the name he buried nearly two years ago?
"Draw your sword," he growled at the man, shoving him back as he freed his weapon from its scabbard.
The beefy knight rocked back on his heels, chuckling, but he made no move to meet Braedon's challenge. He took another step back, hardly a pace, just enough to put himself beyond arm's length.
Then, with a look of arch amusement, he bolted.
Moving with a speed and agility surprising in a man of his size and bulk, the huge knight sprinted down the side street like a stag dashing through a thicket. Braedon started to give chase, then realized the futility in it. A few moments later, the swirling snow and foggy gray day had swallowed up all traces of the man.
Save the dagger he had dropped.
Braedon went back and picked up the intricately tooled, gem-encrusted blade. He scowled, noting the strange design of the hilt and handle--a writhing serpent wrought in silver and coiled around the weapon's grip. Nay, not a serpent.
A dragon.
With one last look down the empty alleyway, Braedon tucked the strange blade under his baldric and headed back to the inn. Whatever was going on, whatever trouble was eager to revisit him, he was certain he'd find Ariana of Clairmont squarely in the middle of it. Since he'd known her, he had been sliced at, shot at, battered about and nearly drowned in the English Channel. Now, this most recent assault in Calais. His anger had finally snapped its leash, and he would be damned if he'd let her go another minute without an explanation of just what she had gotten him into.
Braedon stalked through the small inn and down the corridor to the chamber he shared with her. He drew up in front of the door and scarcely paused before he kicked it open in his fury. The feeble lock on the other side of the panel exploded from its fixtures and the door swung wide, banging against the hind wall.
Ariana's yelp of shock was echoed by another distressed scream, the second coming from behind Braedon in the hallway.
"Monsieur!" shouted the innkeeper, rushing up behind him upon hearing the commotion. "Oh, monsieur--the damage! Have a care, I beg you!"
Braedon rounded on the little man with a vicious snarl. "Leave us."
The innkeeper blinked at him for a dazed moment, then ducked and fled without a further word.
"What the devil are you doing!" Ariana gasped. She had been in her bath but a moment ago, and now stood beside the wooden tub, the ends of her honey-gold hair dripping water, and naught but a sheet of white toweling gathered around her lithe, long-limbed body. She gripped the edges of the cloth tight together in a white-knuckled fist that balled over her heart. "H-how...how dare you barge in here in such a manner! Have you lost your mind?"
"In truth, I am beginning to wonder," he said, stalking inside the small room.
Braedon had imagined she was lovely beneath her many layers of clothing and blankets, but he had not been prepare
d for the lissome creature that stood before him now, trembling and wide-eyed, rivulets of water tracing delicate lines of moisture down her creamy arms and slender legs. The blow he'd taken on his head had been solid, but evidently not punishing enough to keep him from indulging in a moment of thunderstruck admiration as he took in the pleasing shape of Ariana's body, so delectably draped in the small swatch of toweling.
"Get out!" she cried. "Get out at once! Have you no sense of decency?"
Braedon mentally kicked himself out of his stupor and shot her a withering glance. He was not about to leave. "Oh, do forgive me, my lady. No doubt I lost what little consideration I had when someone attacked me and tried to crush my skull in the street a short while ago."
A twitch of confusion ruffled her outraged expression. "W-what are you talking about? Who attacked you?"
"Alas, I did not pause to get his name," Braedon growled wryly. "But the bastard knew mine. And he wanted to know where it was. What do you suppose he meant, Ariana?"
"I'm sure I don't know!" she shrieked as he stalked forward.
"God's blood, but you are easily the most infuriating female I have ever known. Just what the devil are you about, lady?"
She frowned, taking a step away from the tub as he came farther into the room. "I-I haven't the slightest notion what you're talking about."
"Nay?" His gaze scanned the small room, fixing on the neat arrangement of her clothing near the fireplace. Her satchel lay beside her clothes, partially concealed by the fold of her drying cloak. That fat leather pouch and its damnable secrets. Secrets that might yet get her, or him, killed.
Braedon headed for the satchel, crossing the room in three angry strides.
"No--wait!" Ariana rushed after him, her bare feet padding hastily on the plank floor. "Please, you mustn't--"
Braedon seized the bag and threw open the thong and toggle that held it closed. He felt Ariana's hand frantically clutch at his tunic sleeve. He saw the wet skin of her bare arm glisten in the firelight, heard her little mewl of distress when he did not relent.
"I beg you, Braedon, do not--"
But he was undaunted by her pleas. She owed him this much, and he was tired of her evasions. Grabbing the bulky girth of the bag, he flipped it over and dumped its contents onto the floor. Behind him, Ariana sucked in her breath as the items it contained--parchments and papers and two plump leather journals--tumbled down around his feet.
"Braedon, you don't understand. I would have explained--I wanted to tell you, but they said no one was to know..."
He looked at her in questioning silence, then bent to retrieve one of the volumes that had broken open on the toe of his boot. The pages were inscribed with a careful hand, but the words made little sense. They were encoded somehow, penned in Latin, yet not the meticulous form Braedon had been schooled to learn in his youth.
He flipped the page and found something folded and tucked inside. A drawing--rather, a map. Though rendered with less skill than a cartographer, Braedon still recognized England's island coastline. Several points were marked on the map: Cornwall, Glastonbury, and an area tucked into the woods of Cheshire. A line connected all three places, and beside it on the page was a complex series of figures and calculations. He fanned through more pages, finding more of the same. More cryptic text, more scribblings, more strange drawings.
Then he saw it.
A sheaf of parchment, nearly obscured by the jumble piled atop it. Braedon saw the outline of something sketched onto the paper, and his blood froze. He bent down and slowly drew the parchment out from under the rest of the satchel's contents.
There it was, as plain as day.
An ornate chalice, depicted in black ink and rendered in detail far too accurate to be pure conjecture. He saw the dragon image, coiled around the stem of the goblet. The cup had been drawn to seem afire, with rays of light shooting from the chalice's four priceless stones embedded in its wide bowl. Stones which were purported to have powers beyond imagining.
Powers of life eternal, unstoppable might, and wealth without limit.
Braedon had to struggle to keep the fury from his voice. "Do you know what this is, Ariana?"
"I-I'm not sure. It belongs to Kenrick."
A disbelieving oath on his tongue, Braedon sharply pivoted his head to look at her. Ariana was still trembling, her eyes still glinting with reproach for his immodest intrusion, but he saw no deception in her gaze.
"I swear to you, Braedon, I do not know what any of it means. Kenrick kept it all very secret."
"These are your brother's papers?"
"Yes." She nodded solemnly. "I only know that unless I deliver that satchel to Rouen, my brother will be killed."
"By whom?"
"I don't know."
He snorted a vicious bark of laughter.
"I swear, I don't. He was here in France when someone took him hostage. That satchel is his ransom." When he stood up and let the parchment fall back to the floor, Ariana put her hand on his arm, her touch imploring him to hear her out. "They sent a message to Clairmont with word of Kenrick's capture. No one was to know about the papers--they warned me, Braedon. They said I was to deliver them to Rouen, alone, before the next full moon, or else...or else, I would never see my brother alive again."
Braedon did not answer her. Indeed, in that moment, he had no reply to offer her at all.
"It is the truth," Ariana insisted when he strode away from her to pick up her clothing from near the hearth. "You know everything I do now."
"Christ on the Cross." The irony of it was so rich, he could have laughed aloud. "What a damned bloody jest this is."
"You've been hounding me for answers since I met you, and now that you have them, you don't believe me?"
"Aye, demoiselle. I believe you."
He handed her the gown and chemise. He glanced back down at the scattering of papers and notes, at the unlikely bag of scribblings that just might be the key to a considerable fortune.
The Dragon Chalice.
There could be no mistaking it.
The cup was the stuff of legend, a folktale that got its start some hundred years before Braedon's birth. It was little more than myth and magic, oft dreamed of but never proven to exist beyond the hopes of a determined, powerful few.
Braedon ought to know.
He had once been one of them.
Chapter 8
"Get dressed, Ariana. Now."
Braedon's tone was clipped, on the verge of an outright command. She bristled at the order, still rankled with him for intruding on her bath and now committing this greater breach of her privacy. He shoved her kirtle and chemise at her, then paced to the room's sole window and peered through the shutters at the courtyard below.
"If you think I'm going to dress in front of you while you stand here, sirrah, you are mad."
"You can either get dressed and come with me, or you can stay and deal with this trouble on your own."
"What do you mean?"
He glanced back at her and jerked his thumb toward the window. "Two knights just rode into the courtyard--heavily armed knights, my lady, both outfitted for war. Any guess as to what business they are about?"
"You think they're after me?"
"You, and the information in that bag." He stared down at the spilled contents of Kenrick's satchel, his features sharper than she had ever seen them. "They're probably after both of us now, but I'm not staying here to find out."
"Do you mean to say these are the same people who hold Kenrick?"
He didn't answer, but she could tell from the grim look in his eyes that he suspected as much.
"Get dressed," he told her. "I'll pack up our things."
Any thoughts of maidenly modesty were cast to a distant second behind Ariana's primary want for survival. She hastened to the far corner of the room, and quickly donned her chemise and kirtle while Braedon gathered Kenrick's papers and replaced them in the satchel. She drew her woolen hose on in a rush, then fastened them to her gart
ers and threw down her skirts.
"Where will we go?" she asked, tugging on her still-damp boots. "You said yourself the weather will delay us from sailing on to Honfleur."
"We'll have to risk it. I don't see any other choice."
Ariana grabbed her cloak and threw it over her shoulders, then raced forward to meet Braedon where he waited at the door. It did not escape her notice that while she dressed, he had neatly appropriated her satchel.
"It will be safer for you if I carry this," he told her when she paused to question him with a meaningful glance at the pack, now slung over his arm. She might have been inclined to argue that, but he took her by the hand and led her into the hallway. "Let's go, Ariana. There must be a back entrance to the inn. We have to find it, and we don't have much time."
* * *
Together, they ran down the corridor and ducked into the kitchens of the small inn. Spice-scented steam wreathed their heads from the large cooking pots simmering over the fire. Skinned rabbits and headless chickens hung from iron racks along the far wall. One of the cooks had just returned from an adjacent storeroom with a bowl of vegetables under his arm as Braedon and Ariana crossed the kitchen. Sweating and corpulent, he barked at them to leave at once.
"Out, out! You are not permitted in the kitchens. The public room is down the hall."
"Is there a back way out of here?" Braedon inquired, giving the man a quick, conspiratorial tilt of his head. "I fear my lady's husband would be most displeased to find her here with me."
"Agh," groused the cook with a glance at Ariana and a shrug of his beefy shoulder. "That way. Through the storeroom. It will put you in the alley behind the inn."
