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

by Jocelyn Fox

  “No. I’ll see you at table,” replied Finn. He gave his squire a nod and Ramel pivoted smartly, already intent on accomplishing his mission. As the door to his chambers clicked shut, Finn sighed and ran his hands through his hair again. He found another small errant oak leaf hiding behind his ear. Rather than make him feel guilty or ashamed, he found that it brought a smile to his lips. He slid the little leaf under his inkwell, a spot of brightness on his otherwise ascetic desk. His mind wandered from the problem of the Princess to the prospect of seeing Shaleh again. He let himself daydream for a few moments of her strong dark hands and the dappling of sunlight on her muscular body, and then he sighed, bringing his attention back to the present and thinking about what words would best convince the headstrong Princess to stop her foolishness before disaster befell them all.

  Chapter 17

  Ramel had been dreading speaking to Knight Finnead about the Princess. More than anything, he despised the prospect of disappointing his fair and even-handed master. Knight Finnead hadn’t formally announced his coat-of-arms yet, which happened occasionally when Knights had no family shield to inherit. But Ramel wore the blank silver shield as proudly as if it were the coat-of-arms of one of the Queen’s Three. He quickly transited back to his barracks room and donned his squire’s vest for the evening meal, checking himself over cursorily before leaving the room. For reasons beyond his knowledge, Knight Balaron hadn’t given him a new roommate as a squire. Sometimes it made Ramel a bit lonely, but it did force him to interact more with the other squires, which sounded counter-intuitive until he’d thought about it. He needed to seek out the other squires when he had a question about study material or wanted to practice a drill that required two people. Perhaps Knight Balaron had seen Knight Finnead struggle with his grief for Kieran and was somehow attempting to spare Ramel. He didn’t pretend to understand it.

  Tucking the missive from Knight Finnead into his belt pouch, Ramel headed toward the wing of Darkhill where the Princess and her favored ladies kept their quarters. A pair of Guards kept watch at the arched doorway that separated the Princess’s wing from the rest of the palace.

  “Ramel, squire to Knight Finnead,” he said with a bow, though the Guards probably already recognized him. Finnead was the only Knight or Guard right now without a formal insignia. “I have a message for one of the Princess’s ladies.”

  That should have been enough, but one of the Guards – a younger one that Ramel vaguely recognized as having been a squire only a decade or so before – asked, “Which lady?”

  “You will have to ask Knight Finnead yourself, sir, as I am not at liberty to divulge his private affairs,” said Ramel courteously, though he inwardly cringed at the implication that the Guard could draw from his choice of words. Perhaps it wasn’t his finest moment of diplomacy, but he was sure that saying which lady he was bringing the message would only ignite more speculation.

  “No one can accuse you of a lack of loyalty to your Knight, squire,” said the Guard with the hint of a smile. He motioned for Ramel to pass. The squire ducked his head and slipped away down the hall. The taebramh in the walls twined in intricate patterns, its beauty and complexity increasing as he continued deeper into unknown territory. He put on his best innocent face as a lady emerged from one of the white doors that interrupted the smoothness of the walls at regularly spaced intervals.

  “My lady,” he said with a gallant bow. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to Lady Rye’s quarters? I have a message for her.”

  The lady eyed Ramel bemusedly. “Such a chivalrous squire. I’ll escort you myself…or rather, you may escort me.”

  Ramel took her cue and offered her his arm, trying to keep his face politely expressionless. She placed her pale fingers delicately on his forearm, though as they walked she slid her hand around his elbow and linked her arm through his own. The scent of roses wafted over him, though it was a bit too strong for his liking.

  “You are Knight Finnead’s squire, are you not?” the lady asked, raising an eyebrow as she discreetly steered them toward another passageway.

  “Yes, my lady,” Ramel answered politely.

  She hummed in approval. “The pair of you are well matched.”

  Ramel didn’t quite know what she meant, and his confusion must have shown in his eyes, for the lady laughed musically and patted his arm with her other hand.

  “Oh, don’t mind me,” she said. She leaned a little closer and her voice took on a conspiratorial air. “Sometimes we ladies forget our well-bred manners, and we rank the pairs of Knights and squires on their beauty. You and your master usually come out near the top of the list.”

  Ramel swallowed and risked a glance at her; her smile was catlike. Once he’d seen one of the stable cats batting a mouse around before it killed it. Now he appreciated the little creature’s confusion as the cat played with it.

  “Such a pity, the vows the squires must take,” the lady purred in his ear. Ramel tried not to tense his body, sure she’d take it as an insult. He tried to force his mind to come up with a courteous reply, but his thoughts seemed to be scrambled at this new avenue of assault. But he was saved from his struggle as they halted by an embellished white door, golden scrollwork gleaming on the pale wood. The lady daintily pulled a gray silk cord, and Ramel heard a sweet bell chime behind the door. The sound of footsteps soon followed, and the door opened.

  “Good evening, Rye,” said the lady amiably. She tilted her head slightly and smiled. “I found this morsel wandering the halls searching for you.” The lady plainly evaluated Rye’s attire: a white shirt with gleaming pearl buttons, tucked into diaphanous gray trousers. Rye was barefoot, her toenails painted a shocking scarlet. Ramel’s escort raised one delicate eyebrow. “Should I return him to you when you are more suitably dressed?”

  “I am sure the young squire is not scandalized by the sight of my feet,” returned Rye with a wolfish smile. “He is welcome to come in.”

  “Without an escort?” The other lady tightened her hold on Ramel’s arm, gripping him hard enough that he could feel her nails through his shirt. He gritted his teeth. Now he understood what the little mouse felt when two cats fought over it. Perhaps Finnead could offer him some words of wisdom on dealing with these ladies; though they weren’t trained to hold a sword, they were plainly adept in a much more subtle form of warfare.

  “I am sure that Mira would be happy to serve as my escort,” replied Rye smoothly. “And the squire’s honor ensures that he will uphold his vows.”

  Ramel glimpsed the flash of dissatisfaction that crossed his escort’s face for a brief moment; she was unhappy at being bested by Rye in their little word-duel. He wondered what foreign battle lines he’d blundered over in his attempt to deliver his master’s message. Then he felt a strange relief as the lady grudgingly relinquished him, releasing her hold and smiling tightly at Rye.

  “Lady Rye,” she said with a little nod.

  “Lady Emilia,” replied Rye with an answering but stiff nod.

  As soon as Lady Emilia turned to leave, Ramel shot forward past Rye into the relative safety of her chambers. She shut the door behind him with a little chuckle.

  “Ah, young knight-to-be, we meet again,” she said, but her smile was sincere and lacked the predatory intent of Lady Emilia’s. She padded across the room. Furs covered most of the floor in a patchwork of supple splendor. “This is why I am barefoot. Nothing better than to feel the soft pelts of the quarry you have killed beneath your feet, eh?”

  “I wouldn’t know, my lady,” replied Ramel honestly. He felt like he was catching his breath after a particularly arduous training session.

  Rye chuckled again. “It is a dizzying experience, the first time Emilia gets her claws into you. Or so I think it would be, since I do not interest her.” She poured tea into two intricately patterned but mismatched teacups. “Take off your boots and come sit down.”

  “I just…have a message,” Ramel said, blinking. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected,
but this easy hospitality caught him off guard perhaps more than Lady Emilia’s velvety insinuations.

  “I know,” replied Rye, “but we are old friends, are we not?” She smiled a bit sadly. “I count my friends fewer and fewer these days.”

  Ramel found himself tugging off his boots and, after a moment’s hesitation, his socks. His feet felt oddly cold as he stepped forward onto the tapestry of pelts. One of the pelts stirred and stood, revealing itself to be, in fact, a large black hound. Ramel carefully stopped moving as the hound paced toward him, its pale eyes watching him intelligently.

  “This is Mira,” said Rye with a smile. She spoke to the hound in the Northern tongue. Mira looked like a cross between a wolf and one of the Queen’s dark hunting hounds, Ramel realized. As if Rye had read his mind, she explained, “One of the ulfdrengr wolves visited the royal kennels, apparently. Mira was the runt of the litter. I may have stolen her before the Master of Hounds decided to drown her.”

  The casual cruelty implied by Rye’s words struck Ramel. He was used to the thought of killing in the course of his duties as a Knight, but to kill a pup because it was too small for someone’s liking? The thought turned his stomach. Mira sniffed delicately at his hand, regarded him with consideration, and then pressed her large head against his leg. Ramel obligingly scratched behind her ears, and her pink tongue lolled in satisfaction.

  “All right, Mira, let him come sit down,” said Rye with a fond smile. After another moment, the black dog shook herself thoroughly, gave Ramel’s hand a brief lick and padded back over to the hearth. Ramel walked over to the small table and took the offered seat.

  “You’ve grown since we last talked,” Rye commented, tilting her head as she looked at him.

  Ramel cleared his throat. “Well, it has been five years.”

  “Indeed, it has.” Rye picked up her teacup in both hands and sipped at it without taking her gaze from Ramel.

  “You still braid your hair like the Northerners,” said Ramel. He didn’t know why he offered such an intimate observation mere moments after the start of the conversation, and he felt his face heat in embarrassment. “I apologize, my lady, I…”

  “Don’t apologize,” said Rye, leaning forward slightly. “You only said something that was true.”

  “It wasn’t exactly polite,” muttered Ramel.

  “We have such restrictive notions of courtesy,” Rye said dismissively, arching an eyebrow. “Why should I be offended that you took the time to notice how I braid my hair?” She smiled. “On the contrary, I take it as a compliment.”

  “That’s…good,” managed Ramel. All his words seemed to desert him in the presence of this woman who was so familiar and yet so foreign. She brought his memories of the Northern delegation back to the front of his mind. He remembered the tall, broad-shouldered men with furs draped over their shoulders, and the lithe, fierce women each with their hair braided a different way, like a signature or a fingerprint.

  “I take it as a compliment that I remind you of those I hold dear to my heart,” said Rye in a quieter voice. She sounded almost somber.

  “Aren’t you happy as one of Princess Andraste’s ladies?” Ramel asked.

  “Oh, the Princess would run away to the North herself if she knew it wouldn’t start a war,” replied Rye with a grin. “She scandalizes the other ladies regularly, though they can’t say much since she’s, well…”

  “The Princess,” finished Ramel. He paused. Did Rye know of her mistress’ excursions in disguise? Would it be a betrayal of trust to ask her? Perhaps he didn’t have to mention it outright. He took a breath. “Did you learn to fight during your time with the ulfdrengr?”

  Rye went very still, gazing at him over the rim of her steaming teacup. Mira raised her head and watched her mistress. For a long moment, the only sound in the chamber was the crackle of the fire as the flames merrily consumed the logs. Rye carefully set down her cup on the table. Ramel watched Mira warily and tried to gauge how long it would take him to reach the door if the dog decided that she didn’t like him anymore…which he guessed was based on whether Rye liked him.

  Then Rye grinned widely. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Yes,” said Ramel immediately. He didn’t quite know why but he felt his heart beat suddenly faster.

  Rye stood and crossed the room, her silken pants moving in fascinating ways around her legs. Ramel blinked and took a swallow of his tea. She tapped a complicated pattern on the door of her wardrobe; a rune flared briefly and then the lock clicked open. Rye pulled the door open and pushed aside her clothes, muttering a few foreign words under her breath. Her gowns slid neatly into the wall of the wardrobe, disappearing entirely. Ramel forgot not to stare.

  “The Northerners are particularly good at rearranging the limitations of small spaces,” said Rye over her shoulder. She faced the now-empty wardrobe and licked one of her thumbs. Then she pressed the same thumb to the wood of the wardrobe, and the air shimmered a bit. When Ramel could see the wardrobe clearly again, he gaped. Rye’s wardrobe was actually a small but very well stocked armory.

  “I need to learn that spell,” he said appreciatively, standing and walking over to admire the array of gleaming weapons. Rye reached in and took a small double-headed axe off its pegs. She hefted it fondly in her hand. Silvery Northern runes gleamed on the blade, and the grip was skillfully wrapped in leather dyed a shocking azure. As suddenly as a snake striking, Rye spun and sent the axe whirling through the air, the blade landing with a quiet thunk in one of the logs stacked by the fireplace. Mira, who hadn’t so much as flinched, grinned and panted from her place by the hearth.

  “I need to learn how to do that too,” Ramel said breathlessly. He wasn’t sure what love was supposed to feel like, but he thought that maybe he fell in love with Rye in that moment, watching her hurl a deadly weapon with such grace and precision.

  “Does that answer your question?” she said with a smile.

  “Well, I think it would have been ridiculous for you to have all this and not know how to use them,” Ramel replied, gesturing to the array of blades. He took a breath and considered his next words. “Have you…told anyone else?”

  Rye chuckled. “A secret is not so sweet if it isn’t yours alone, eh?” She padded across the room and retrieved her axe from the firewood.

  “That’s not what I mean,” said Ramel. He pressed his lips together and decided to leap off the cliff. Metaphorically speaking, anyway. “Have you taught the Princess anything of what you learned in the North?”

  Rye’s sharp look gave him his answer before her careful words. “What passes between the Princess and I is the same as what passes between you and your Knight-master. I would not expect you to answer questions about that.”

  “I am not asking you to break your mistress’ trust,” said Ramel quickly. “I understand the sacred nature of such a bond. I will just say…the Princess’ thirst for knowledge of subjects and skills that are normally not afforded to women is very…similar…to your own. I think that all should have the opportunity to learn what they will, but that is not the way of the Court yet. If you can, I would counsel your lady to be careful. There are many who do not want to see her hurt in any way, just as there are many who would revel in any scandal surrounding her.”

  “Ah, there is your silver tongue, young Knight-to-be,” Rye said with a smile. She took a breath and nodded. “I think I understand what you mean. The Princess does not take counsel from many, though sometimes I think I am one of the fortunate few that she truly trusts.” Her pale gaze sharpened. “That is what your message concerns, yes?”

  “I cannot rightly say,” said Ramel in a carefully neutral voice. Rye nodded slightly. He opened his belt pouch and produced the folded missive. She took it and slipped it into a little drawer at her desk.

  “I will make sure it is delivered discreetly,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Ramel said with a nod.

  “It serves both your master and my mistress to be tactful,
” replied Rye. She smiled a little. “We will have to guard them against sharper tongues than ours.”

  Ramel chuckled. He caught a trace of Rye’s wintry scent as she replaced her axe in the wardrobe and restored it to nothing more than a closet full of gowns and other Court accouterments. He found he didn’t want to leave, even if he’d already delivered the message as he had been bidden.

  “Come and finish your tea,” said Rye after she locked the wardrobe. They took their seats again at the table. “So, Ramel, how much longer do you have as a squire?”

  Hearing Rye say his name for the first time sent a little shock of pleasure down his spine. He blinked and summoned an answer. “Maybe another ten years. Knight Finnead was a squire for fifteen, so I think at least as long as that.”

  Rye hummed noncommittally and smiled as she took a sip of tea. “I see.”

  Ramel cleared his throat again. “Do you still wish to travel north?”

  “Yes.” Her answer was instantaneous, even as her gaze lost focus, as though she watched something in the distance. “If the Princess hadn’t taken me as one of her ladies, I think the Queen would have banished me.” Her mouth thinned. “She might still banish my brother.”

  “Your twin, yes?” said Ramel, remembering the young man who had served as a foil to Rye at the Solstice feast.

  “Tyr.” Rye smiled fondly. “He has such a beautiful voice, you know, so it is difficult for Mab to banish him. She hates to think of any other Court possessing such a talented bard.”

  “He sings sometimes in the Queen’s Courtyard, and I think I have heard him at evening meal,” said Ramel, nodding.

  “Yes. And he tells such peerless tales as well,” said Rye. Her face darkened. “It is both his blessing and his curse. I think perhaps that someday he will speak too beautifully, too convincingly about things that will anger the Queen.”

  “Things like the chains of servitude?” asked Ramel quietly.

  “Things such as that,” agreed Rye in the same low voice. She sighed. “We are blades to be used against each other. Our love for each other is all that holds us back sometimes.”