by Megan Derr
His half-hidden face was stunning: a high cheekbone and small nose, full lips slightly parted and curved in a soft smile, as if the same person who had turned his head had interrupted some happy thought. Trey thought it strange that Dunstan had been struck down while smiling. Surely he must have been consumed by worry and fear. Yet he smiled.
Unthinkingly, Trey reached out to stroke the bared stone cheek. It was warm, his sensitive hands feeling the faintest thrumming of life beneath the stone. He let out a sigh of relief, not willing to admit until then that he had worried he would be too late.
Dunstan yet lived, though he would not live much longer. It was a matter of days, not weeks as Montaine believed, before the roses grew unable to sustain and protect Dunstan. He caressed the stone cheek once more, hand lingering before he forced himself back to work.
His eyes flashed silver, and the mist around him shimmered. The shimmer spread out, like a ripple in a pond, absorbed where it lapped against the thorns. The wall shivered, shook, and then seemed to strengthen.
Shuddering, uncomfortable with his powers but determined to save Dunstan, Trey's eyes flashed once more. He closed them, then opened them again. Satisfied that he had bought himself some extra time, he reached out once more to touch the statue, caressing its cheek, thumb brushing across stone lips.
Eventually he forced himself to turn away, leaving the garden until he could return to free Dunstan.
But to do that, and all else that must first be accomplished, he would need his magic at its strongest—when the moon was full.
*~*~*
"I do not like those two men at all, my lord." Victor rubbed at his cheek, which was covered in a livid black and purple bruise. "They fight dirty."
Trey laughed softly and motioned Victor closer. "Perhaps you should have held your tongue, lad." He pushed Victor's hands away and held him still while he examined the bruise.
"They were slandering milady!" Victor said indignantly.
Laughing harder, Trey pointed toward a leather satchel on the floor near his wardrobe. "Fetch my bag, brave squire."
Muttering, Victor did as he bid. Rifling through it for a moment, Trey at last pulled out a small glass container. Uncapping it, he motioned Victor to stand close to him again.
"Hold still," he said quietly. Dipping his fingers into a soft, pale yellow cream, he spread it gingerly over the large bruise and carefully rubbed it in. Victor winced at the cold sting but did not move. "There." Trey recapped the container. "Barring your mouth getting you into further trouble, that should speed the healing. You will be back to your usual handsome, finicky self in no time at all."
"I am not finicky. It is not my fault you are messy."
"What would you do with your time if I did not give you things to clean and a room to tidy?"
Victor rolled his eyes. "Spend more time either practicing or getting my feathers bitten off by your demon horse."
"Whisper is not a demon."
"Well not to you, Lord of the Demon."
Trey gave him a reproving glance, though his eyes sparkled with amusement. "Now, Victor. This is why Lord Farshire hit you."
Victor glowered, not needing the reminder. "I suppose I should be grateful he did not do more."
"I am surprised he did not. Perhaps he is not quite as foolish as I thought." He returned the container to its place, coming up this time with a vial the size of his smallest finger. "But on to business. Know you what this is?"
Victor nodded, expression turning puzzled. "What…?"
Trey raised a finger to his lips, then handed the tiny glass vial to Victor. "We are going to rescue Lady Beatrice tonight, you and I."
"Rescue her? From what?"
"You will see." Trey curled Victor's fingers around the vial. "Brandon and Frederick have grown used to your visiting her in the evenings for stories and mulled wine. So they will not think twice of it tonight. Slip that into her wine and make sure she is comfortable. Leave her room, then double back and stay there until I arrive."
Victor nodded, excitement, trepidation, and confusion warring on his face. He slipped the vial into a hidden pocket of his tunic.
"Do you have the two daggers still?"
"Yes, my lord." Victor looked offended that Trey would even ask.
"Good." Trey stood to leave. "Then keep a low profile the rest of the day. Go practice your drills in the yard—if they appear beat a hasty retreat. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lord."
Trey tousled his hair, tugged affectionately at one stray curl, then strode from the room.
He made his way along the castle wall, breathing deeply of the salty air, smelling a storm on the wind. Several minutes later, Beatrice joined him, her long, dark red dress and light cloak whipping in the wind.
"My Lady, you look as lovely as ever."
Beatrice smiled, despite the exhaustion and pain that were ever present in her face and eyes. She brushed a stray curl from her cheek. "My lord, you are as stunning as ever. Thank you for agreeing to meet me here. I wish we did not have to come all the way out here to converse." She moved to stand beside him, taking his arm and gazing out at the ocean. "It is beautiful, is it not? The water. Yet I am sick of the sight of it. Is that wrong?" She turned to look at him, tears in her eyes. "I feel so guilty, so awful, to want to leave when my brother's life is hanging by a thread."
"You have every right—as much right as he—to long for freedom. You are both trapped here. The only difference is that you are aware of it every moment of every day. Your brother, at least, is more or less asleep." Trey told the lie with ease, knowing it would bring her some comfort to think her brother was not suffering. "You have been stronger than anyone I have ever met. Have faith, soon it will all be over."
Beatrice nodded, gathering herself together. She opened her eyes. "Thank you, Trey. Just having you here has done much to soothe us. Father is finally sleeping at night, and even I am finding it easier to rest."
"That is no doubt because Victor tires you with his endless need for those silly stories."
"You only think they are silly because you do not want to admit you like them." Beatrice tugged playfully at his arm. "I saw it in you even when we were children, Trey. You thrive on being a knight, on protecting people. Tell me you do not wish to be a knight errant, declaring your love and loyalty to some poor sage in need of protection."
Trey snorted. "I think not."
Beatrice laughed softly for a moment, the sound of it carried away all too soon by the wind as she once more turned somber. "I am surprised you are alone, after all these years. I thought you would have settled down by now with one beauty or another." She looked at him. "You treat Victor so kindly, despite your attempts to be strict. More like a brother or son than a squire. It seems strange that you do not have a companion." She looked back out at the sea.
Trey started to respond with a flippant remark but instead shrugged. His eyes flitted for the briefest moment to the rose garden; Beatrice did not notice. "I have had offers, from fathers eager to settle their daughters and sons. But I prefer to be alone rather than settle for someone when my heart was long ago lost to one I could not have."
"Could not have?" Beatrice's brows went up. "Who in the world could you not have? You were adored by the late king and from what I hear, are fast friends with the new king. You are a knight captain known throughout the country and even by some of our neighbors. Who in the world could you not have?" She made him turn to look at her and poked him in the chest. "Every summer and winter we came to visit, and every summer and winter I had to watch two things. One was more people than I could stand chasing after you—and you always oblivious."
"No one was chasing after me," Trey protested. "Unless it was to beat me senseless for causing some offense."
"Men," Beatrice said in exasperation.
"What was the second?"
Beatrice shifted her gaze to the thorny tangle off in the distance, eyes dim. "I visit him every morning, no matter what. I am n
o fool. My father says we have plenty of time." She turned her tired gaze to Trey. "But the roses are nearly dead, and the thorns begin to die. No life exists anywhere in or near that garden. We have only days, do we not?"
Trey hesitated.
"Do not lie to me!"
"Days only," he conceded reluctantly. "But I tell you there is nothing to fear."
"You cannot know that," Beatrice said tiredly. "You have not been waiting five years for this nightmare to end—one way or the other."
"If I had known, I would have come sooner."
Beatrice's face softened. "I know. I try to be angry that no one came, but the sad truth is that we did our best to ensure no one did. Even now we would have borne our fate in silence, except that in the end we could not bear to just quietly give up." She squared her shoulders and looked him in the face. "But Dunstant may not come back, and that is why I tell you what I am about to say. I do not want him to die without your ever knowing." She faltered. "He asked me to tell you before he left that night. I knew he was up to something but did nothing!" Beatrice started to cry. "It was what he wanted, but what kind of sister am I? To let my little brother suffer so much?"
"Brothers want nothing more than for their sisters to be safe," Trey said softly, embracing her. "You did what he wanted, so do not worry about it."
Beatrice pulled away. "Now I am going to fulfill his one request."
"Which was?"
"To tell you that he loved you."
Trey drew a sharp breath. "That is impossible."
"Hardly," Beatrice said tartly. "Or did you never notice the way he shadowed you? Probably not. You were so preoccupied with causing trouble or attempting to escape punishment." She gave a half smile at some memory. "It was the strangest thing, the summer he was ten. You had disappeared as you often did, and he ran off to find you. When he came back…he was a different person. Did you know that until that summer, he was only vaguely interested in magic? Whatever happened that day, he was obsessed with becoming a great sage. Magic became his passion, his life. Only the roses and you could break him away from his studies."
Trey's brow furrowed. "What in the world…?"
Beatrice shook her head. "I know not. He said only that he had gotten lost in that valley, the one always filled with mist."
Trey was silent, unable to wrap his mind around what Beatrice had just told him. All that time…it was incomprehensible. "I will save Dunstant," he said at last. "Thank you for telling me. I wish I had known sooner."
"What would you have done?" Beatrice asked.
"I guess we will see when I free him." Trey lifted her hand and kissed it softly. "When this is all over, I've a friend I would like you to meet. Morgan is much like Victor, but older and wiser."
Beatrice looked at him suspiciously. "Are you attempting to foist a husband upon me? In the midst of this wretched mess?"
"It is the least I can do," Trey said with a soft smile, "as you have just given me what I thought I could not have."
It was Beatrice's turn to gasp and stare in shock as Trey turned and began to head back toward the castle and his room. Then she laughed, loudly and in pure delight—the first truly happy sound Trey had heard since his arrival. He smothered a smile, determined to finish things once and for all.
*~*~*
The first order of business was the matter of Beatrice's curse. Such a curse could not be destroyed—it could only be delayed by the caster.
Or, for those with the knowledge, it could be transferred. It was a tricky and painful endeavor, but it could be done.
Trey crept soundlessly from his room, making use of the servants' stairs and passages to reach Beatrice's room. Outside, the mist blanketed everything; even the sound of the bell was muffled as it chimed the first hour after midnight. He held his sheathed sword tight against his side so that it did not make a sound as he walked.
He knocked softly on the door of Beatrice's room, whispering to Victor. A moment later, Victor opened the door a crack, then pulled it wide when he saw it was indeed Trey. "Sir Trey…"
"Is she all right?"
Victor worried his bottom lip and nodded. "She is sleeping like the dead but still breathing."
"Good lad" Trey nodded and locked the door behind him.
"What exactly are we doing, my lord?"
Trey did not reply, focused on the task before him. He approached the bed, where Beatrice did indeed sleep like the dead. Slowly, carefully, he undid the top buttons of her sleeping gown. Baring the flesh between throat and breast, Trey hissed as he finally saw the mark of the curse. A fleur-de-lis, dark purple and hot to the touch.
"What is that?" Victor asked softly. The mark looked like some sort of lurid bruise, painful just to look at. He unconsciously touched the faded bruise on his own face.
"Shh," Trey said. He held his hand relaxed just slightly above the mark, closing his eyes a moment and drawing a deep breath in preparation. Never had he done such thing, but his mind, his blood, thrummed with instinctive knowledge. Opening his eyes, he focused his thoughts exclusively on transferring the curse.
He did not hear Victor's gasp from the opposite side of the bed, nor the way Victor froze in shock for a moment before backing away from the silver haze that had formed around Trey, shimmering much like moonlight—much like Trey's eyes.
Crying out in pain, Trey stumbled back and fell to the floor. He clutched his chest, breathing in short, ragged bursts. His chest burned and ached, his entire body felt heavier, more tired. That Beatrice had endured such a burden for years held him in awe. When all was well again he would do all he could to ensure she found the life she dreamed of.
"Lord Trey, are you all right?" Victor hesitantly touched his shoulder, kneeling beside him, face full of worry.
"I am fine, Victor." Trey removed his hand and held it firmly for a second in reassurance. "I was merely overwhelmed for a moment."
"What were you doing?"
"Freeing her," Trey said simply. "Now I am charging you with a most important task."
Victor nodded, expression turning grave.
"I am off to take care of the mercenaries and rescue Lord Dunstan—" Trey cut Victor off before he could ask the obvious questions. "Later, I will explain it all to you. For now, I want you to remain here and watch over Lady Beatrice. She will not wake before late morning, and while she is under the influence of the potion, she is completely defenseless. Should my plans go awry, she will need protection."
Though Victor was clearly dying to ask several questions, he had long ago learned to obey first and ask questions later. Trey wished more of his knights had taken to the lesson as Victor had—they might still be alive.
"Good lad. When she wakes, it will be safe to come and find me." Trey departed without a backward glance.
He did not bother to move quietly as he made his way out of the castle and to the door to the rose garden. His boots scuffed against stone and grass, the leather of his sword belt creaking, metal jangling. The mist curled around him, petting and stroking, shimmering ever so slightly when it touched him.
The voices echoed in his head, whispers in the black stone and the silver mist. Voices of those that had chosen to give themselves over to the mist rather than try to live amongst the humans, mere shadows now that no one else could hear.
Trey did not want that fate, did not want to become a voice that no one could hear. He did not want to lose himself in the mist, become part of it.
Yet he did not feel complete when it was not present.
He forced his thoughts away as human voices became audible and he could make out shadows by the wooden door.
"Well, well. What have we here?" Brandon said as Trey stepped into view. "Are you having trouble sleeping? Or are you off to visit the statue yet again?"
Trey smirked. "Have you been following me all along?"
"No, we merely guessed." Frederick spoke almost lazily from where he leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest. "It is not as though we ever re
ally thought you were simply Montaine's guest. None of us is that foolish."
"Perhaps not that foolish," Trey sneered, "but you are still fools."
"You would do well to watch your words," Brandon said. "If you are here to rescue the fair damsel and her unfortunate family, you would do well to keep in mind that fair damsel dies at the snap of my fingers."
Trey grinned in challenge. "By all means, good sir, snap your fingers."
Brandon narrowed his eyes.
"Oh, but you are unable. Because the moment you do, nothing will keep me from killing you. We appear to be at a stalemate." Trey sneered, and steel hissed against leather as he drew his sword. Around them the mist thickened to a dense fog. The mercenaries lost sight of Trey as he drew back into the folds of the mist.
Brandon drew his sword, cursing softly. "Frederick, kill her. We shall simply—" his words dissolved into a choking sound, then into silence as he was shoved roughly forward off Trey's blade.
Frederick chuckled, whispering the words of a spell that offered him some light in the thick grey mist. "I always heard you were noble, Knight Captain. But is it not the way of cowards to stab a man in the back? And to hide in the mist?"
Trey pressed the edge of his blade to Frederick's throat and spoke softly in his ear. "Is it not the way of cowards to curse an old man, an untried sage, and a defenseless woman? Real men do not slink around in the dark and cast forbidden spells to avoid dirtying their hands."
"What are you doing," Frederick replied, "if not slinking around in the dark?"
Trey laughed, low and cold. "I am no man." The dagger slid from Frederick's throat, leaving a thin line of blood. "Cast your curse, cowardly sage."
"Do you want the woman to die?" Frederick demanded. He spun around, but Trey had already vanished back into the mist.