Nightborn: Lords of the Darkyn

by Lynn Viehl

  “Life, perhaps.”

  The monk’s eyes turned the shade of a newly minted silver coin as they shifted toward the odd shape of the cloth sack one of the knights carried. He then regarded Richard Tremayne. “You dare bring this to me.”

  “I dared bring this to no one else.” When Brother Noir did not speak, the dark knight spread out his hands. “Tell me, then, which mortal shall I entrust with our greatest treasure?” He swung a hand toward Frémis. “Perhaps the little monk cowering in the corridor there. He seems an honest if simple fellow.”

  Brother Noir shouldered his way out to loom over Frémis. The weight of his silver gaze made the smaller monk sink to his knees.

  “Forgive me, I beg you,” Frémis pleaded as he stared up. “I cannot tell you why I brought them here. It was as if demons possessed me. I could not help myself.”

  A hand as wide as his skull settled over his bristled tonsure. “Peace, brother.” Brother Noir closed his eyes for a moment before he turned his head. “You and your men cannot remain here, Richard. Aragon is riddled with Philip’s spies, and doubtless they have been told to watch all of the monasteries.”

  “Then you must come with us.”

  “To take up the sword and shield again? Or to armor you for eternity?” The monk’s mouth bent at the corners. “I would sooner go to Marseilles and fling myself before Philip the Fair’s throne.” He went back into the room and took the sack from the knight. “If I am to give form to this damnation, then you will meet my price.” He looked at the other knights. “Leave us.”

  When Tremayne nodded, the other knights filed out of the room and disappeared down the corridor. No one paid any attention to Frémis, who dared not twitch an eyelid.

  The dark knight frowned. “What will you have? Gold or blood?”

  “Protection.” Brother Noir hefted the sack. “Once it is done, I shall conceal it from the eyes and the greed of the world. Only I will know where it is hidden.”

  Tremayne shook his head. “It is too dangerous a thing for only one to know.”

  “Those who share my name will shoulder the burden,” the monk said. “And when the day comes that I am no more, their finest will serve as its guardian.”

  “You ask too much.” Tremayne’s gaze dropped as Brother Noir offered him the sack. “You would have us rely on the honor of mortals.”

  “The honor of my name. Those who bear it have never betrayed my trust.” He cocked his head. “But you would know nothing of that, would you, my fine lord? For Blanche told me the brat was yours.”

  “As she told a dozen others they were his sire.” Tremayne let the words hang between them for a long moment. “Your kin will betray you, Cris. Just as she did.”

  “That is my concern, not yours,” Brother Noir assured him. “Those who prove disloyal will die by my hand. Even as I am gone from this world.”

  The dark knight fell silent for a time, and then slowly nodded.

  “From here we travel to England,” Tremayne said. “The king will be persuaded to offer us sanctuary during the trials. By spring we will divide the territory and establish our strongholds.”

  “When the work is done I will return to France and begin the education and training of my kin.” The monk glanced at Frémis. “You will not kill this one. He is an innocent.”

  “They always are.” The dark knight stepped out into the corridor and helped Frémis to his feet. “Come, brother. Come with me now.”

  The heavy scent of cherries made the monk’s head spin. “Where do I go, my lord?”

  A strong, hard arm steadied him. “Back to your post.”

  Chapter 1

  October 12, 2011

  Provence, France

  D

  uring the day the waitresses at La Théière Verte delivered filling but forgettable meals from the cramped kitchen of the restaurant to the table of any hungry tourist who had wandered in through the old green doors. The owner, Madame Eugenie, prepared all the dishes herself, using the cheapest ingredients and as much garlic as she dared. She considered this blatant desecration of God’s bounty an economical measure as well as her patriotic duty.

  The tourists, ignorant cretins that they were, never seemed to notice. As long as they were served a plate close to overflowing, they happily handed over their euros.

  Only after dark did madame’s chef arrive to cook for the villagers who came to dine, and whose standards were French. The local residents could not be appeased by a stew of shredded lapin smothered beneath a montagne of carrots, the blandest of radishes glued by oleo to day-old black bread, or gallons of cheap Spanish wine funneled into empty, French-labeled bottles. If in a moment of madness Eugenie ever dared to serve such swill to her neighbors, they would consider it their patriotic duty to lock her and her staff inside the old restaurant before setting fire to the place.

  For these reasons madame was not at all pleased when her waitress Marie nudged her and nodded toward a tall, flaxen-haired stranger standing just inside the threshold.

  “Zut, not a German at this hour. He must have run out of petrol. Unless he is an American.” Eugenie almost spit on the last word. To her, the only thing worse than the Berliners were those loud, nosy imbeciles from across the Atlantic, forever thumbing through their phrase books and mangling her native tongue. Or the ones who waddled in, their rotund bodies shiny with sweat and sunscreen, to demand to know whether she served low-fat this and sugar-free that.

  “Whatever he is, he’s handsome,” Marie said, and shifted to get a better look. “Such a big man, too. Look at those shoulders, and all that hair. It must fall to his waist.”

  “Et alors?” Eugenie gave the girl a hard pinch on the arm. “Forget his hair. Ask if he has a reservation. He will say no, and you will tell him to call for one tomorrow.”

  Marie rubbed her arm and said in an absent tone, “We do not take reservations, madame.”

  “Does he know this, you goose?” she hissed, and then saw it was too late. “There, now, because you are lazy and stupid, he is already sitting down. Go and see what he wants. If he asks for the cheeseburger do not tell me. I will choke him with his own hair.”

  Korvel stopped listening to the conversation between the women behind the bar and checked the interior of the restaurant. Only a third of the tables were occupied, most by couples and some middle-aged men. One delicate fairy of a schoolgirl sat picking at her food while her parents bickered in half whispers. Apart from sending a few uninterested glances in his direction when he had walked in, no one paid any further attention to him.

  As transparent as a bloody specter, but not half as interesting.

  When the young, smiling waitress approached his table his empty belly clenched, but years of self-denial quickly dispelled the involuntary response. He listened as the girl stammered through a brief recital of the evening specials before he ordered a bottle of a local Bandol and the vegetable soup. The wine would not satisfy his ever-present hunger, and if he attempted to eat the soup he would puke, but they would buy him a half hour of quiet and rest before he continued his journey.

  Or I could have the waitress and be gone in five minutes.

  He had no time or particular inclination to give his body what it needed: a woman. There had been a time when any woman would do, for no matter how different they were from one another, they all shared the same soft warmth, the same intense fragility. He had thought mortal women as lovely as an endless meadow of flowers.

  So it had been until he had fallen in love with Alexandra Keller. The only woman he had ever truly wanted for himself, now gone from his life and forever beyond his reach.

  For a time, being caught between his physical needs and his broken heart had produced ungodly urges that had nearly driven Korvel out of his head. Fortunately those, too, were now gone. His will, or what remained of it, permitted him to don a brittle mask each day and carry on with this imitation of life.

  God in heaven, he had wearied of this charade, of everyone and everything i
n it. More than that, he was sick unto death of himself.

  “Monsieur?”

  Korvel glanced up at madame, who had brought a dark bottle to his table, but seemed more interested in examining him than in pouring the wine. She measured every inch of the hair he kept forgetting to cut, and the garments he had tailored to fit his overlarge frame, which cost more than the average tourist spent on ten vacations. Doubtless she could also name his weight to within five kilos’ accuracy.

  Her gaze flicked down to dwell with disapproval on the mark that encircled his throat. It resembled a garrote of dark green thorns, and as most mortals did she would assume he had been tattooed. He could not explain that being hanged for weeks in a copper-barbed noose had caused the marks. Copper proved lethal to his kind only when it entered their veins or heart, but its poisonous effects were such that even touching it caused burns. Any extended surface contact with the dark metal left permanent, green scars on immortal flesh; grim reminders, in a sense, of humanity’s loathing of their dark Kyn.

  He also doubted she would care. “S’il vous plaît?” He gestured at his glass, earning a mild frown from her before she filled it to the rim.

  “You are American?” she asked in English as she wiped a dribble from the bottle’s neck.

  Another reminder of what could never be. “No, madame. I am from England.”

  “Ah, les anglais.” She nodded to herself with some satisfaction, and the lines bracketing her mouth softened. “You come with the caravan, oui?”

  “I am here on business.” The business of playing courier for his master, for reasons that had never been adequately explained to him. “Thank you for the wine.”

  “Il n’y a pas de quoi.” She bobbed her head and smoothed her hands over the sides of her apron before reluctantly turning away and resuming her post behind the bar. He saw the flicker of confusion that passed over her narrow features before she returned to her task of sorting flatware.

  Korvel reached over to open the window a little wider before sampling the glass. Mortals considered Provence a fine-wine void, something the residents likely encouraged to protect their supply of some of the best red and rosé wines in the world. Madame had brought him a Mourvèdre-based red wine with a pleasing amount of spine to it, and Korvel breathed in its tannic perfume while he removed a flask from his jacket. He had to sip some of the wine before discreetly adding a measure of the darker, thicker liquid from the flask to the glass, but his next swallow instantly eliminated the leaden sensation the first swallow had left in his gut.

  The mixture of blood and wine went to work, spreading slowly through him to warm his cold flesh and loosen his stiff muscles. It would tide him over until he reached his destination, where he planned to see to his needs once he retrieved his master’s property. He took out the small GPS device that had been attached to the car’s dashboard to check his current position.

  “That no work here, monsieur.”

  “Indeed.” Korvel eyed the plump face of the waitress as she set down a steaming bowl of soup. “Why not?”

  “The wind very bad Sunday. The tower, send signal?” When he nodded his understanding, she straightened her hand and then let it fall to mimic something toppling over.

  So it seemed the GPS was useless, and the French he spoke hadn’t been used in this region for half a millennium or better. He reached out to rest his hand over hers. “Do you know the road to Garbia?”

  “Mais oui.” Her expression brightened. “Go this way”—she pointed north—“until you reach the second turn. Then go this way.” She pointed east, but this time her fingers quivered under his, and her breathing grew fast and uneven. “I come with you. I show you. Madame, she not care.”

  Korvel eyed the scowl being directed at them from the bar. “Actually I do believe madame will mind.”

  “You take me. With you?” She released one more button of her blouse, which exposed the sweat beading between her full breasts. “I want go with you.”

  He knew exactly what she wanted, and carefully removed his hand from hers. “You have been quite helpful,” he said as he deliberately shed more of his scent to bring her under his command. “Thank you. You should return to your work now.”

  The light vanilla fragrance of larkspur enveloped the two of them as l’attrait caused the waitress’s pupils to dilate.

  “Oui.” She backed away, bumping her ample hip into the edge of another table. The pain released her from Korvel’s control, and she clapped a hand over her giggles as she fled toward the kitchen.

  Once he pocketed the GPS, Korvel drank the last of the bloodwine and sat back to let it finish its work on him. While he waited, he checked his mobile for messages. Stefan, the senior lieutenant Korvel had assigned to serve in his place during his absence, had texted him a brief status report before Korvel had left Paris. The men had been drilled, the night patrols assigned, and the high lord had retreated to his study for the night.

  All was as it should be, as it would have been if Korvel had never departed. It should have reassured him, but it only made the hollow sensation inside him grow.

  Since becoming one of the immortal Darkyn, Korvel had served Richard Tremayne as the high lord’s seneschal as well as the captain of his guard. Seven lifetimes he had devoted himself to his duties and honoring the oath he had made to his master. Eight, if one counted his mortal life.

  Now it seemed his absence was not even noticed.

  “You look sad, monsieur.”

  The ethereal little girl who had been sitting with the bickering couple slipped into the empty chair beside his. Confusion filled her eyes, as if she weren’t quite sure why she was speaking to him.

  Korvel knew exactly why the child had come to him. She must have been just on the verge of puberty; his ability to influence female mortals never affected the very young. “I am well, thank you.”

  “You are a Viking, no?” The girl darted a look over her shoulder. “My maman said you look like one, which made my papa very mad. But I think you are more like the beautiful angels.”

  Korvel glanced around the room and saw he had gained the avid attention of the child’s mother and every other female in the place. He’d made a serious error shedding so much scent to influence the waitress, for he had not considered that the cold air outside might have acted as a natural barrier at the ventilation points. His scent saturated the inside air now. If he did not leave at once, all of the women would come over to his table, drawn to him like moths to a burning lantern.

  “I must go now and continue my journey.” He managed a smile for the little girl. “Au revoir, my sweet.”

  “Take me with you.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “Please.”

  He could not explain to her that what she felt would disappear as soon as he departed, but he would not see her suffer even a few seconds. “What is your name?”

  “Tasha.”

  “Tasha.” He touched his hand to the side of her little neck, where the connection of his will to her mind was the strongest. “Go back to your parents. Forget me. Be happy.”

  “Go. Forget. Happy.” She turned like a sleepwalker and shuffled away.

  Quickly Korvel took out enough euros to pay for a case of wine and dropped them on the table before he rose to his feet. The habits of many lifetimes compelled him to attend to one final detail: the memories of madame and the waitress, who intercepted him at the door.

  As they were both already bespelled, he had only to command them. “You will attend to your work and your patrons. Once I am gone, you will forget me. It will be as if I never came here.”

  The women spoke in monotone unison. “Attend. Work. Gone.”

  Korvel left the restaurant, checking the street to ensure it was empty. As the chill of a dark wind streamed against his coat, he turned his head to look back through the front window and saw the waitress taking an order from an older couple. Madame stood once more behind the counter, her expression no longer as sour as it had been when he had walked into the pl
ace. For them he no longer existed; he had never existed.

  He envied them.

  In all the centuries Korvel had lived since rising from his grave to walk the night, he had never considered his own memory to be anything but useful. Indeed, every bit of knowledge he acquired he carefully added to, stockpiling all he knew like weapons. Now he would gladly empty his head of all of it, if it meant he could forget forever what had been. What would never be.

  You’re supposed to love me.

  He had put so much practice into banishing Alexandra Keller’s voice from his thoughts that he could silence her in an instant. Her scent, however, still haunted him. But no, what filled his head came on the wind, scoured from acres of blooming lavender. Provençal farmers grew so much of the fragrant herb for the wine and perfume industries that one couldn’t drive a mile without passing one of the vivid amethyst fields.

  He walked down the deserted street to the spot where he had parked the gleaming black Audi he had rented in Paris. Most of his kind preferred to travel on horseback rather than by automobile, and many refused to learn how to drive, but the demands of serving his master had forced him to make regular use of modern technology. A horse had to be frequently rested, fed, and watered on a long journey; the car required only brief stops for petrol.

  As he took out the keys to the vehicle, Korvel stared at them. As the first Kyn ever to be made seneschal, Korvel had set the standard for all the others, one that had yet to be fully matched. He had personally trained every warrior who had ever served in the high lord’s garrison, and had taught his methods to the captains of other jardins around the world. His unwavering loyalty to the high lord had earned him a spotless reputation as the most trusted and valuable second among all the territories. None would be shocked to learn that he had been sent to France to attend to his master’s wishes and retrieve a priceless artifact before it fell into the wrong hands.

  To serve Richard again, this time as his errand boy.