by Lara Adrian
The appointed hour had arrived.
Despite the sudden need for reassurance, she did not dare so much as blink over her left shoulder, toward the shadowed pillars of the abbey cloisters where Braedon waited under cover. She had to face Kenrick's captors alone, as was their original demand and present expectation, or all could be lost in a heartbeat. Ariana steeled herself as the sounds of coming riders began to take shape in the dark. Up the gently sloping rise they came, five men on horseback, large figures cloaked in dark habits and mantled in shadow but riding forth with obvious purpose. Dare she hope that one of these stalwart men was Kenrick?
Peering into the lightless distance, Ariana saw now that there was a sixth man. No less substantial than his companions, this one rode in the center rear of the group, slumped forward in his saddle, broad shoulders hanging weary as though burdened with an unbearable weight. He jostled haphazardly with every stride of his mount, and it was plain that it commanded all his strength merely to stay upright in the saddle. Ariana knew in her heart this haggard prisoner was her brother, and she swallowed past a cold lump of sorrow. His subjugation would end tonight. Tightly fisting her hands to keep them from shaking, Ariana squared her shoulders and prepared herself for the confrontation that was soon to occur.
With no gate to bar them from the ruin, the troop of guards cantered their horses past the half-fallen walls of the abbey and into the wide expanse of the courtyard. The man at the head of the group halted the others without a word, merely raised his hand to stop them while he allowed his mount to advance another few paces forward.
"Well...Ariana of Clairmont," he said by way of greeting, addressing her from within the deep cowl of his dark mantle. His breath must have been as cold as his heart, for despite the chill in the night air, his words did not steam past his thin, cruel lips. "You've been quite a tax on my patience, girl. I hope you don't intend to let this little game play out any longer."
"Let me see my brother."
"As you wish," came the cool reply. "Bring the prisoner here."
One of the guards at the rear gave a nudge of his sword to the flanks of the horse next to him. The beast moved forward, carrying the bent figure of a man. Covered in a tattered blanket, the rags of his filthy, torn clothing visible through the moth holes and fraying, was Kenrick. Little wonder he could hardly sit upright to ride. His hands were bound before him, with no gloves to protect them, and only the thinnest scraps of leather covered his feet, the soiled bits of hide laced round and round with string to keep the soles from falling away.
Ariana let her gaze stray upward, toward the bent head and the stringy, overlong hair that drooped past his shoulders. That this abused creature was her golden, heroic brother tore at her heart like nothing she had ever known. He looked up as his mount drew to a halt beside Silas de Mortaine, slowly lifting his head. His cracked lips parted in a pained half-smile. "Greetings, Ana."
"Kenrick." His name was little better than a weak croak when she saw how badly beaten his face was, how emaciated and pale her robust older brother had become since he'd been in de Mortaine's care. Ugly bruises and slow-healing, bleeding lacerations marred his cheeks and brow. His right eyelid drooped half-closed, puffy from recent abuse, and his lower lip was split open where a scab had hardly formed from the last beating.
He was in a terrible state, but even with his head slumped in submission, he held her gaze with the same fortitude he'd always possessed. Indeed, despite the torture he likely endured in his captivity, there was a spark of fury--a glint of ready determination--in the steady blue gaze that reached out to her across the distance that separated them. Kenrick might have been nearly broken physically, but by the grace of God, his spirit remained intact.
A swell of hot tears rushed up behind Ariana's eyes as she took silent inventory of her brother's damage, but she held her sympathy at bay, knowing there would be time for emotion once Kenrick was free. For the moment, she needed to maintain her focus, and her anger, which she now centered wholly on Silas de Mortaine.
"As you can see, he is alive."
"Yes, barely," Ariana charged.
"Let's not quibble over details, shall we?" He took a step forward and thrust out a gloved hand. "Bring me the satchel, girl."
"Ariana, don't." Kenrick's order rasped between his swollen lips. "Don't give it to h--"
A glare from de Mortaine, shot in the direction of the guard nearest Kenrick, delivered a heavy-handed blow to his already battered face. Kenrick swayed in his saddle but kept his gaze rooted on Ariana. Wincing in obvious pain, he stared at her from beneath the hank of dulled golden hair that had fallen over his scraped and contused brow. He gave a meaningful shake of his head, a further silent communication that no matter what he suffered, he did not wish her to surrender the bag to his captors.
Ariana drew a steadying breath. "Release my brother and you can have the satchel. Not before."
De Mortaine's sharp bark of laughter made her flinch where she stood. "What's this--more demands? Really, now. You are only making things worse. For your brother, certainly, but also for yourself. Give me the satchel, stupid girl...and perhaps I will allow the both of you to live long enough to walk away from here."
"Don't believe him, Ana! He means to kill us both regardless--"
"Silence him!" boomed de Mortaine, his soulless eyes flashing hellfire. While one of the guards drew a sword and held it at Kenrick's throat, de Mortaine looked back at Ariana with a deadly smile. "The satchel, little fool. Where is it?"
She shook her head, refusing to give in to the wave of fear that rose to engulf her. "Release him now, or you will never have it."
A tendon twitched in de Mortaine's jaw as he measured her threat. Gaze piercing, thin nostrils flaring as if he scented her trepidation, he gave a cool order to his guard. "Open his gullet and let him bleed a while before he dies."
"No!"
Ariana's exclamation of horror was punctuated by a sudden disturbance of the air beside her. From out of the cloister shadows, before any of de Mortaine's men could move a muscle in obedience of his command, Braedon walked his mount into the center of the courtyard. "I wouldn't advise it, de Mortaine."
Everyone stilled as he rode out and paused near the bonfire. He raised his left hand, which was fisted around the long strap of a brown leather satchel. In the undulating glow of the fire, the fat pouch dangled before him like the most tempting bit of bait swinging on the end of a tether. In truth, the bag contained nothing more than some of Braedon's soiled clothing and some small rocks, which they had found earlier that day while gathering kindling for the blaze that now illuminated the abbey courtyard and the disbelieving look on Silas de Mortaine's face.
With a slantwise sneer, he encouraged the guard on Kenrick to heel. "Well, well...Le Chasseur. This is an interesting wrinkle, although not entirely unexpected. Ferrand informed me some time ago that you were still breathing. A miracle, no doubt, after the shape I left you in last time we met. And an oversight. It will be my pleasure to make sure the devil takes you this time."
"Braedon," Ariana whispered, gesturing with her eyes to where one of de Mortaine's men slyly unlashed a crossbow from his saddle and brought the weapon onto his lap.
"He won't fire," Braedon replied, his gaze locked on de Mortaine. "One false move, and this satchel goes up in flames."
"You're bluffing, le Chasseur."
Ariana felt her throat constrict at that calm assertion. She swallowed hard, trying to tamp down her worry as she fought to maintain her courage. If their ruse was discovered already, none of them would escape the night with their lives. De Mortaine's amused chuckle only heightened her fear.
"You must think me a fool to believe you'd destroy the satchel. You know as well as I the value of the Dragon Chalice. You want to find the treasure as much as I do; you wouldn't be here otherwise."
The breath Ariana had been holding now leaked out of her in a quiet sigh of relief. Thank the Lord. They weren't found out...yet.
"Send Clairmont forward, de Mortaine. I'd rather see this satchel in a pile of cinders than let it fall into your hands." As he spoke, Braedon allowed his mount to sidle ever closer to the bonfire. "Release him. Let's have done with this meeting."
"You say release him, and I say not until I have the satchel. It appears we are at an impasse."
Braedon gave a grunt and shrugged his shoulder. "Nay, I don't think so."
The long strap of the leather bag slipped through his fingers a few inches, falling quickly. It bobbed to an end only when the flames of the bonfire licked at the bottom of the satchel. De Mortaine's eyes followed the downward path of his prize, his emotionless gaze flickering now with a spark of uncertainty, and, Ariana thought, not a little worry. She bit her lip, sharing some of that worry, praying for the moment of chance Braedon now provoked.
"Release Kenrick of Clairmont. I won't say it again."
"Untie him," de Mortaine growled to the nearest guard, his eyes never leaving Braedon and the satchel that yet dangled dangerously close to the fire. To Kenrick, he said, "You see, Clairmont? I told you I'd have it. And know this, too: my promise to you this afternoon still stands."
Ariana felt the danger in that promise, and threw an anxious look at Braedon, whose gaze remained fixed steadfastly and unwavering on de Mortaine. Nervously, she watched as Kenrick's bonds were cut loose from his hands. She saw her brother flex his long fingers, then caught only the briefest flash of fury in his blue eyes before he lunged for the guard's dagger and plunged it home in the man's chest.
"Ariana, run!" he shouted as he shoved de Mortaine's dead man to the ground. "Run, Ana! Get out of here now!"
"The satchel!" de Mortaine bellowed over the madness that had suddenly erupted. "Seize it from him!"
Ariana jerked in startlement as the courtyard rang with the ensuing chaos, but she didn't run. She and Braedon had wanted this sort of confusion. They had planned for it, knowing it was their only hope of getting close enough to Kenrick to assure his escape--but they had not expected him to instigate the action. Braedon sprung upon the serendipitous opportunity, ordering her to stay back, out of the fray. Then, with de Mortaine watching in wide-eyed horror, his three remaining guards rushing headlong on his command, Braedon tossed the leather satchel high into the air and let it fall deep into the center of the pyre.
"No!" De Mortaine's howl echoed with unearthly fury as the bonfire spat a plume of smoke and sparking ash high into the night sky. "Get it, you idiots! I must have that satchel!"
Everything was happening in a blur of activity. Ariana saw Braedon dispatch one of the guards, cleaving him in twain with a mighty swipe of his broadsword. Another had leaped off his mount to combat the fire with his mantle, beating the conflagration in a vain attempt to smother the roaring flames that now consumed his overlord's false prize. She saw Kenrick wheeling his mount about to grab at the reins of the dead guard's palfrey.
And there was de Mortaine, launching himself off his shying, wild-eyed steed and stalking toward the bonfire as if to conquer it by sheer force of will alone. Cursing, shaking with a rage that seemed beyond the grasp of anything human, he shed his fine mantle and threw it aside. He walked closer to the flames--right up to the very edge, unhesitating. Unafraid.
Nay, what she saw was impossible!
Frozen in astonishment, Ariana blinked away the smoke that blurred her vision, certain that the spiraling ash and churning heat was playing tricks on her eyes. It had to be a trick. Either that, or...
Silas de Mortaine had walked straight into the heart of the roaring bonfire!
"Ariana!" Kenrick's voice from across the courtyard rattled her stunned gaze away from the undulating flames that had just devoured de Mortaine. "Ariana--here! Hurry!"
He rode toward her with a second mount, and tossed her the reins. She ran up to the horse and seated herself astride, breathless as she watched Braedon slay the last guard and wheel his palfrey around to join them.
"Are you fit to ride?" he asked Kenrick as he sheathed his bloody sword.
"I've been better, but I'll manage."
"My lady?"
Braedon's eyes were wild as they settled on Ariana. She nodded urgently, bolstered by the strength of his hand as he reached out to squeeze her trembling fingers. "Let's away," she gasped. "Let's get as far away from here as we can."
With that, the trio kicked their mounts into a hard gallop and fled the hellish inferno that roared and spat like a dragon, unleashed and rampant in the center of the ghostly abbey.
Chapter 17
They didn't dare slow their gait until the outskirts of Rouen lay some untold miles behind them. The horses were lathered in a cold sweat, huffing and straining to obey the unyielding urgency of their riders. The night itself was nearly spent as well, giving quarter to the pinkish-gold fingers of dawn, which curved gently over the horizon, turning the new day.
Although he was not convinced it was prudent to stop, Braedon could not force the ride any farther. If it didn't mean the certain death of their mounts, pushing on even another mile stood a good chance of killing Ariana's brother. Battered and bloodied, slumped in his saddle, Kenrick was running on pure will alone. But like his stubborn sister, Braedon doubted very much the man would cry mercy until he was knee-deep in the grave. While he appreciated the apparent stalwartness of the Clairmont line, he hadn't gone to the trouble of finding the errant Templar scholar only to kill him in the escape.
Braedon reined in with a low call to his wheezing mount. Ariana and Kenrick did likewise, drawing to a halt at the frosted edge of a wide tract of marshy land. "There's a farm up ahead," he said, gesturing toward a squat little domicile and an adjacent barn. "We can stop here and rest awhile."
He procured them lodgings in the outbuilding, which was cold and ripe with the smell of livestock, but there was a pile of winter straw that would make a soft enough bed, particularly after so many hours in the saddle. While Ariana fashioned an empty stall into sleeping quarters for her brother, Braedon tended the horses. He heard the rich murmur of her voice as she spoke to Kenrick, her many concerned questions answered by little more than grunts and nearly incoherent mumblings.
"How does he fare?" Braedon asked her when she came out of the stall a short time later.
"He was asleep nearly before his head hit the pallet. I've never seen him so exhausted and weak. He won't tell me what he endured all these months he's been imprisoned, although his mistreatment is obvious. On top of his numerous cuts and bruises, two of his fingers are broken, and the way his chest pains him to breathe, I suspect he also suffers damage to his ribs."
"He's alive."
"Yes," she said, smiling tremulously. "Thank God, he's alive. And thanks to you most especially, Braedon. I owe you so much for all you've done, for everything you've risked to help me. You have put your life in jeopardy for us, and I...I don't see how I can ever repay you."
He blew out a wry laugh as he rubbed down the last mount, thinking on all he had done where Ariana was concerned--not the least of which being his ruthless pursuit of her into his bed. She had been in danger with him at every turn since the moment they met, and if he helped win her brother's freedom in the end, he reckoned she had already more than paid the price.
He walked past her to get a bucket of water for the horses. "You don't owe me anything. And you shouldn't be standing here talking about it when you ought to be trying to get some sleep, too. You're shivering."
She made no effort to move, and when Braedon looked at her askance, ready to order her beneath a blanket before she dropped like a lump of ice, he realized that it wasn't cold making her tremble. It was fear. She was quaking with it, as if she had held it at bay for as long as she could but now it threatened to devour her. She was staring at him in quiet torment, her soft blue eyes muted to a haunted shade of indigo.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
"Braedon, I saw something at the abbey tonight...something...terrible. De Mortaine. He--"
She broke off a
nd looked at him helplessly, adrift with such emotion, he set the bucket of water down and went to her. She didn't wait for him to open his arms, but wrapped herself around him, clinging to his waist as though he was her anchor. He petted her hair, smoothing it off her face as she looked up at him, jaw quivering. "I won't let him hurt you, Ariana. Don't be afraid."
"He's dead," she blurted, shaking her head. "He walked into the center of the bonfire while you were fighting his guards. The fire swallowed him up."
"What do you mean, he walked into the fire?"
"He killed himself--I saw him! He took off his mantle and strolled into the heart of the flames after you threw the satchel in. He's dead, Braedon...and it terrifies me how glad I am for it."
He hugged her tighter as he absorbed the news of de Mortaine's apparent demise, but inwardly he wondered. Hearing this now, it would be impossible not to think on another day in the past, another confrontation with the man called Silas de Mortaine. That day, it had not been flames, but Braedon's sword that ended his villainous existence.
Or should have.
Braedon could still feel the queer give of his blade as it cleaved down across de Mortaine's torso...
And passed clean through without delivering so much as a scrape.
Unfathomable, and yet undeniable. And now this, he thought grimly, absently pressing a kiss to the top of Ariana's head, allaying her fears with the warmth of his embrace while his heart grew chilled with foreboding in his breast.
