Midnight's Knight: A Fae War Chronicles Novel (The Fae War Chronicles Book 0)

by Jocelyn Fox

  Finn angled his body to emphasize his right-handed blade-work. He forced the red-masked Knight to focus on his right hand, tailoring his defense to a right-handed opponent. He felt his breath rasp harshly in his throat as he gathered all his remaining strength. Then he leapt forward, feinting with the sword in his right hand, enough to draw the red-masked Knight into the defensive block. With a gasp of pain, Finn tossed his sword into his left hand. He almost lost his grip, his palm slippery with his own blood; but with a herculean heave he forced his wounded arm to move. The masked Knight couldn’t reverse his block quickly enough, and Finn put all his weight behind the thrust that should have sunk his blade into the Knight’s shoulder.

  Instead, an invisible force knocked Finn backward as the point of his sword pierced the stiff leather of the Knight’s jerkin. He lost his footing and landed hard on his injured shoulder. Bright lights exploded behind his closed eyelids, but even as he struggled to hold onto consciousness, he scrabbled to his hands and knees, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet as darkness receded from his vision.

  He didn’t have his sword. It was lost in the thick stream of the fog beneath his feet. He gritted his teeth and raised his fists, unable to lift his left arm higher than his chest but clenching his hand into a fist all the same. He felt blood slide over his lip. The force that had knocked him backward must have hit his nose hard enough to make it bleed. He swayed on his feet and bared his teeth challengingly at the red-masked Knight.

  The Knight tossed his sword down into the fog and advanced on him. Finn didn’t have the balance to dance backward and keep a good distance between them. It was all he could do to keep his feet, but he’d be damned if he’d go down without a fight. The Knight stopped an arm’s length away, hands by his sides. Finn clenched his jaw and threw the first punch with his right hand, his body screaming as the movement wrenched his wounded shoulder. The Knight avoided his blow easily and caught Finn by the front of the shirt. Finn stared at him defiantly, waiting for him to strike.

  Instead, the Knight reached up with his free hand and removed the red mask. Finn stared uncomprehendingly at the face of Knight Arian. The dim light glimmered on the tears standing in the stoic Knight’s eyes. Finn couldn’t understand what was happening as Arian nodded slowly.

  “Well done, my squire,” said Knight Arian in a quiet voice, his words tight with pride and some other emotion that escaped Finn’s comprehension. “Well done, Finnead.”

  As Knight Arian spoke, the white mist slowly dissipated. Finn saw his blade and shield lying on the ground. He instinctively leaned toward them, his good hand flexing. Arian kept him from falling but gently lowered him to his knees and let him grip the hilt of his sword.

  “Finnead,” Knight Arian said.

  Finn looked slowly up at his master, and then beyond him to the faint blush of dawn in the latticework of sky visible beyond the branches of the trees.

  “Finnead,” said Knight Arian again. “You’ve made it, lad. The gauntlet is over. You’ve made it.”

  Finn blinked and stared at Arian. Then the meaning of the words broke through his pain and exhaustion. He took a huge, heaving breath, and then another, as the reality of the moment overwhelmed him. He’d made it through the gauntlet. He’d survived.

  Knight Arian didn’t reprimand his squire as the younger man bowed forward beneath the weight of his emotions. He gathered the lad’s head onto his shoulder and let him weep, waiting until Finn’s shudders subsided to reach up and wipe a few tears from his own weather-beaten face. He patted the exhausted, bloodstained squire’s back gently.

  “Come on, then, Finn,” he said, his words almost gentle. “Time to walk out of the forest.” He glanced at the unsheathed blade in Finn’s hand. “Don’t forget that blade, lad. That’ll be your first sword as a Knight, if the Queen calls your name this Solstice.”

  Finn swallowed hard, took a deep breath and nodded. He stood shakily, Knight Arian standing close but not touching him. He had survived the gauntlet, and he would walk out of the forest in the light of dawn proudly. His chest ached, and not just from his fractured ribs: he’d finally made it. He’d conquered the greatest obstacle standing between him and the goal that had informed every decision of his life since he’d been old enough to choose his own path. Emotions so complex he couldn’t process them all threatened to split his chest in two. He took another deep breath and began to walk, focusing instead on putting one foot in front of the other, raising his bloodstained face to the growing light of the second dawn.

  Chapter 13

  Ramel crossed his arms as he scanned the forest below them. He’d slept a little during the day, his tiredness conquering the bright sunlight, and he’d dozed for a few hours in the middle of the night, velvety blackness wrapped around them. A few hours before dawn, a strange clinging fog mysteriously appeared, seeping out from the edges of the forest and dissipating in the long grass. The sky to the east lightened imperceptibly, more gray than black now. Ramel felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest as the pages waited for the squires to emerge from the forest.

  “You’re waiting for Squire Finnead.” Murtagh made it a statement rather than a question.

  “Yes.” Ramel nodded. Murtagh wordlessly handed him a sandwich made from bread and cold meat. He ate it mechanically; he hadn’t expected to be so nervous. He wasn’t the one going through the gauntlet…

  But the Knight who will be your master is, whispered a small voice in the corner of his mind. He shivered at the sureness of it.

  “I’ll help, if you’re all right with that. Are we taking him to his room in the squire’s barracks, or yours?”

  “His, of course,” replied Ramel. He glanced at Murtagh. “To be honest, I didn’t expect you to stay the entire vigil.”

  Murtagh smiled lopsidedly. “Well, sometimes I like to defy expectations.”

  Ramel knew he should grin or chuckle, but he couldn’t manage it.

  “You’re nervous,” Murtagh observed quietly.

  “Yes.” Ramel nodded again and took a deep breath; there was no use in denying something so obvious.

  A dozen of the youngest pages started a game of tackleball farther down the hillside. Ramel shifted his weight from foot to foot and tamped down the urge to stride down the hill, seize their ball, and puncture it with his belt-dagger.

  “Easy,” murmured Murtagh as he noticed Ramel’s shoulders tighten. “I can go tell them to take their revelry somewhere else.”

  “No,” said Ramel grudgingly. “They’re just too young to appreciate what’s about to happen.”

  “We were the same when we were first-years,” pointed out Murtagh gently.

  “I don’t need you to remind me,” said Ramel with something close to a growl in his voice. They stood silently and watched the forest. The fog gleamed whitely in the fading light of the moon. The senior pages shifted on the hillside. They didn’t discuss what squires they would assist beforehand, but somehow every year it worked out.

  A slender cloaked page slid over to stand beside Murtagh. The apprentice Walker glanced at the page and then gave him a second, longer look.

  “Do they wait until the sun is over the horizon to come out of the forest?” the cloaked page asked, his voice still high and youthful.

  Murtagh still studied the page as he answered. “Yes, but not all of them will emerge at once. It’s more of one by one whenever they finish their final trials.”

  “And what happens after they emerge from the forest?” the younger page pressed.

  “Then the senior pages assist the squires who’ve made it through,” replied Murtagh. “Is this your first year?”

  “You could say that,” said the young page. He fell silent for a moment, peering out over the forest. “Are the squires usually very badly injured?”

  “Why do you think they need senior pages to assist them?” said Ramel, his words clipped with irritation. “Look, you’d be better off running along and playing tackleball with your friends down the hill.” />
  “Ramel,” Murtagh said with a note of warning in his voice.

  “What? If he can’t see what happens with his own two eyes, then he shouldn’t be here. Better for him to traipse off and play than bother us with his…”

  Murtagh reached out and tugged the hood of the young page’s cloak away from his face. Princess Andraste scowled at the apprentice Walker.

  “…questions,” finished Ramel faintly. “Gods preserve us,” he groaned, “why do you insist on doing this, my lady?”

  Princess Andraste hastily opened her belt-purse and tugged out a cap shimmering with embroidered silver runes. She passed her hand over the cap and murmured beneath her breath. Her fingertips glowed for an instant with taebramh and then the runes flared to life, swimming and circling on the black fabric. She tugged the cap over her hair, tucking her long black braid beneath it, and the air shimmered around her. Ramel blinked. He had to remind himself of what he’d just seen with his own eyes, because a slim young page with close-shorn dark hair and solemn gray eyes stood before him now.

  “I was hoping to save that for after dawn,” Andraste said with a sigh. “But never mind that.”

  “I…what are you doing here?” Ramel asked in a low voice.

  “Same as you,” she said with a hint of defensiveness. “I want to see the squires emerge from the gauntlet.”

  “You want to see a certain squire emerge from the gauntlet,” Murtagh said quietly. Then he pressed his lips together and looked a bit shocked at his own audacity.

  Even in her pageboy disguise, the princess’s reddening cheeks were visible in the strengthening light of dawn. “Perhaps.”

  Murtagh smiled. “Your runes don’t cover your blush, my lady.”

  She scowled at him again half-heartedly. “I’m sure I could make them disguise it if I wanted to.”

  The apprentice Walker chuckled. “No offense meant, princess.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she hissed. “Someone might hear.”

  “Most of the senior pages who would care are otherwise occupied,” said Murtagh, motioning to Ramel.

  “He’s watching for Squire Finnead, isn’t he?” Andraste asked.

  “Yes. And I’m guessing that’s why you sought us out.”

  Princess Andraste looked silently out over the forest for a moment. She glanced at the eastern horizon, now painted a delicate pink by the dawn. “I thought to send a messenger, but I couldn’t stand the waiting. So, I came myself.”

  “Don’t think you’ll be able to run down and help when he comes out of the forest,” cautioned Ramel. He realized peripherally that his words sounded harsh, but he couldn’t spare the attention to couch his concern in courtly language. “Balaron or one of the other Knights would chase you off or worse, recognize you. Only senior pages will go down, and they know all of us by sight.”

  To his surprise, Andraste nodded. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I just…wanted to see.” She swallowed and looked at him. Her gray eyes still retained their long dark lashes in her pageboy guise. If it hadn’t been so serious a time, Ramel would have joked about it. Instead he merely listened silently as she repeated her earlier question. “Are the squires usually very badly hurt?”

  “In one way or another,” replied Ramel grimly.

  The young pages halted their game of tackleball as a figure staggered from the edge of the trees. The Knight escorting the stumbling squire called out his name in a ringing voice.

  “Squire Eilan has completed the gauntlet!”

  A great cheer went up from the assembled pages. Some of the younger squires had also joined them on the hill. They chanted the squire’s name and then a pair of older pages trotted down the hill to help Squire Eilan make his way back to his quarters. Ramel picked up the healing pack he’d assembled, pulling its strap across his chest. Princess Andraste turned to him in the lull between the third and fourth squires emerging from the forest, her eyes wide and earnest.

  “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  He took a deep breath. Part of him wanted to tell her that she could help by keeping her distance, that nothing good would come of the Queen’s sister disguising herself as a pageboy and running about the barracks. But instead he reminded himself of what it felt like to want to help, to want to be useful, without any avenue to accomplish it. “One of us will meet you by the southern entrance to the Queen’s Courtyard after the evening meal,” he said.

  “Should I bring anything?”

  “Your disguise,” replied Murtagh promptly.

  “And if you’re any good at healing, whatever you can scavenge for that as well,” said Ramel.

  A worried crease appeared on her brow. “Why don’t they take the squires to the healing ward? It seems very…” She trailed off and looked down guiltily.

  Ramel chuckled mirthlessly. “It seems very unlucky that they have us for nursemaids?” He shook his head. “You’re not wrong, Princess. But we all must be able to take care of wounds after a battle, and Darkhill is a much kinder setting than the wilds of the North or a desolate reach of the plains by the Darinwel.”

  Another squire walked out from the forest. It wasn’t Finnead. That made five out of the twenty-four who had followed Balaron into the darkness two nights ago. Ramel took a breath and crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to give his uneasiness any purchase in his thoughts.

  “It all seems very…brutal,” said the princess softly as they watched the sixth squire collapse before the pages reached him. The two pages worked industriously over him for a few moments, the squire’s master observing impassively from a few paces away.

  “No more brutal than the reality of the life that awaits us,” said Ramel.

  Princess Andraste blinked and then nodded slightly, drawing her shoulders back as she turned back to watch the forest.

  “Serving the Queen with honor comes at a cost sometimes,” Murtagh said.

  The princess stiffened but remained silent.

  Two more squires emerged from the forest and two more sets of pages raced down the hill to assist them. The Knights and Guards following their squires out of the trees stood in a tight group, speaking quietly to each other every now and again. Ramel realized that they, too, had to be exhausted after orchestrating the gauntlet. Then another Knight and squire appeared in the red wash of the rising sun, and Ramel sprang down the hill before the Knight even finished his announcement.

  “Squire Finnead has completed the gauntlet!”

  Ramel couldn’t be sure but he thought that the cheer from the pages was louder than for any of the other squires. He focused on making it down the hill as fast as possible without falling. Risking a quick glance over his shoulder, he confirmed that Murtagh was following him, and he didn’t know if the princess, disguised as a pageboy, still watched from the hilltop.

  Knight Arian leveled a severe look at Murtagh. “You’re no longer a page.”

  Ramel tactfully ignored the Knight, leaving Murtagh to fend for himself as he visually assessed Squire Finnead. Blood crusted the squire’s left shoulder in a thick gleaming patch; so much dirt and gore marred his skin that Ramel couldn’t rightfully see any other injuries. A cut across Finnead’s face still bled sluggishly, and he guessed the squire’s nose was broken, from the bruises beginning to gather under his eyes. Recognition sparked in his gaze when he looked at Ramel. Finnead smiled.

  “You’re my page, Ramel?” he rasped.

  Ramel twisted the cap off a skin of water and offered it to the squire. “Hopefully your squire soon, sir,” he replied with a cheeky smile.

  Finnead coughed as he laughed in the middle of a swallow of water, and a wince of pain flashed across his face. Ramel quickly rescued the water skin and replaced the cap, slinging the strap over his shoulder.

  “Your ribs?” he asked. Finnead nodded slightly. Whatever logic Murtagh had used to sway Knight Arian, the apprentice Walker had won the argument; he appeared at Ramel’s side.

  “What do you need?” Murtagh asked. R
amel handed him the water skin and dipped his hand into the healing pack briefly before handing that off as well.

  “Here.” Ramel pressed a roll of herbs into Finnead’s hand. “Tuck that into your cheek. It’ll help with the pain.” To his slight surprise, the squire obeyed without hesitation. “Come on then, let’s get you to the barracks.” He inserted himself under Finnead’s right shoulder and moved them forward, gripping the squire’s belt for extra leverage. Knight Arian followed for a few paces, and then nodded to Ramel as he turned to join the other Knights and Guards standing solemnly in the long grass.

  Murtagh walked ahead of them as they trekked up the hill, through the throngs of pages congratulating Finnead. After the third time he saw Finnead close his eyes at a particularly loud shout, Ramel glared at the younger pages and Murtagh scowled at them until they ran off down the hill to watch for the next squire.

  “Thank you,” said Finnead with a weary smile. He stumbled, and Ramel braced him until he found his balance again. A slight frown passed over Finnead’s face. “Did Kieran already come out of the forest?”

  Ramel glanced at Murtagh, who shook his head, lips pressed in a thin line.

  “Not yet,” Ramel said lightly, “but you were the eighth to come out of the forest. Plenty of time still.”

  Finnead seemed to accept that logic, turning his focus back to walking. Ramel risked a glance around the hilltop, but the slender page had disappeared. He breathed a sigh of relief. They maneuvered Finnead to his barracks room without incident, although the squire stumbled more often as they entered the barracks and nearly lost consciousness near the end. Murtagh uncorked a vial of smelling salts and waved it under Finnead’s nose; Ramel winced when the squire jerked to the side and slammed their skulls together.

  “Of the two of us, I think you could afford that the least,” Ramel muttered as the ringing in his ears receded. Finnead chuckled hoarsely.