by K. M. Grant
“Brees! My Brees! Brees! My Brees!” Nothing, except, in moments, Aimery in the passageway.
“What a din! Is the Flame found? What on earth’s going on?”
She ran to him, thumping her head against his chest. “They’ve killed Brees. They’ve killed Brees. I just know they have.”
“Who’s killed Brees?”
“The soldiers at the graveyards! Who else?”
Aimery grasped her shoulders. “What soldiers?”
“Soldiers sent by Uncle Girald. He’s a wicked man, Aimery.”
Aimery shook her. “What on earth were you doing down at the cemeteries at this time of night—and in weather that could drown a duck?”
She shook her head and buried it back in his chest.
He peeled her away. “Yolanda, you must tell me.” His voice was harsh as his grip tightened.
“You’re hurting me. Let go.”
“I’ll let go when you tell me. What were you doing by the graveyards?”
“What do you think I was doing? I was at Mistress Belot’s funeral. You should have been there and so should Father. She was our friend. I’m going back right now. I should never have left without Brees.”
“Don’t be so stupid, Yolanda. You’re not going anywhere.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“I think you’ll find that I can.” He began to shove her back into her room. “You shouldn’t get mixed up in any of this.”
“This? This, Aimery? What on earth do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.” She was wriggling and struggling so he pinned her arms by her sides. “Leave things to do with Uncle Girald to Uncle Girald.”
“Never,” she cried. “Never, and nor should you.”
“Let go of her, Aimery.” A deeper voice cut through, and Aimery whipped around so fast that Yolanda lost her balance and fell straight into Hugh’s arms. Rather more gently than Aimery, he half carried her to her bed and set her down. “You look as though you’ve had a mud bath! And you’re soaked to the skin again. That’s not good for you.”
“What do I care? I just want Brees. Find him for me. Get him back.” She held onto Hugh’s hand, which was warm and reassuring.
“We’ll go and look, Yolanda, I promise.” He soothed her and petted her and listened to her outpourings, agreeing and nodding until she ran out of words. It was he who told her that a search party would be sent. It was he who ordered hot water and eventually persuaded her to get out of her wet clothes, scrupulously waiting outside the door as she did so. It was he who arranged for a posset and sleeping potion to be brought and who sat with her while she drank it. It was he who was holding her when, though her tears continued to fall and her chest occasionally heaved, she fell quiet. It was he who laid her down, smiling a little at the bits of old tansy and lavender and other girlish fripperies muddled into her sheets amid the detritus of dog. And his smile, usually only a half-smile, widened into something quite whole. This had really been much easier than he thought. When he finally left her, he leaned against the door for a moment then strode back to his own quarters with the confidence of a man who has gotten what he came for.
9
Parsifal and Raimon
No search party was sent out for Brees, and even if people had gone they would have found nothing, not unless they looked far beyond the cemeteries. It was not to Hugh that Brees owed his life, nor even to Raimon. It was to Parsifal.
He had watched Raimon for a long time after Yolanda left him in the rain, wondering if he might go down to him. The boy’s grief stirred him deeply. It was like looking at himself in the years after Chalus Chabrol. But as had become his way, instead of advancing he retreated, returning to the cave under the scree. The Flame seemed very heavy today, even though when he put it down, he saw that it had sunk to a pinprick, more white than blue.
“A pinprick of lead,” he murmured. It seemed to sit on his conscience. He turned his back on it and tried to light a fire in a hollow at the side of the cave but the kindling was wet. And though he struck his flint again and again, the spark just died away. So intent was he that he did not notice his visitor at first.
Raimon had gone to the cave with barely a thought. He needed somewhere to wait before going to the graveyard that night and though he had not forgotten the Knight Magician, he did not imagine that he would still be hanging about. It was a shock to find the cave so openly occupied. When he saw Parsifal still there, he drew his knife and all the emotions of his heart suddenly hardened into one vast bubble of anger. Whoever this man was, be it a friend of the perfectus, a scout for King Louis, or a bandit knight, he shouldn’t be here, not in this cave, not where Raimon wanted to spend the time alone before his mother’s funeral and his last night under my skies.
It was something about Parsifal’s utter inability to light the fire that stayed Raimon’s hand. Again and again, as Parsifal fumbled and gently cursed, Raimon could have killed him. But though his anger still bubbled and frothed, it was impossible for him to kill somebody who seemed so helpless. The man had a lantern. Why didn’t he use that? Nevertheless, remembering that Parsifal had floored him the last time they’d met, Raimon crept up behind him and seized him around the neck.
Parsifal choked as he struggled and they rocked together until Parsifal hooked his leg under Raimon’s and tilted them both over. They hit the filigree box as they went down and the Flame, like an affronted snake, unrolled into the kindling, then rolled back again. At once the kindling caught and the fire was lit.
Raimon and Parsifal parted and picked themselves up. Parsifal watched Raimon, who was absolutely transfixed by the fire. Though it was fast turning smoky yellow, it had not been to start with. Raimon’s arms were up to ward off his adversary but he was slowly turning his head from fire to lantern, back to the fire, and again toward the lantern. Only now that he looked at it closely, he saw it was not a lantern. It was a box.
“You,” his voice was a breath, “you have the Blue Flame.”
“Yes,” said Parsifal, for there seemed little point in denying it. “I have the Flame.”
There was a very long silence, then Raimon repeated again, “The Flame, the Blue Flame.” He did not know if he was talking to himself or Parsifal or the Flame itself. At last, and with a supreme effort, he frowned, broke his gaze, and took out his knife again. “Are you a Cathar?” he asked, his voice very shaky, “or are you a Catholic?”
Parsifal stared at the fire, the box, at Raimon, and finally at his hands. “I am Parsifal, son of Sir Bertrand de Maurand,” he said. “And I believe I am just an Occitanian.”
Raimon lowered his knife a little. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“I don’t know any other answer.”
“Sir Parsifal de Maurand. I’ve never heard of you. Are you a brigand knight?”
Parsifal almost laughed. “Just Parsifal, please. No ‘sir.’ With no armor, no sword, and no battles to my name I’m hardly a knight at all. Although,” and his voice became wistful, “sometimes I think that being a brigand of any kind might have been a less lonely fate.” He moved one leg, then the other. Raimon’s knife remained still so he moved cautiously all the way to the fire. “That dog left a rabbit a few days ago. It’s a bit old, but still edible, I think. I was going to cook it.” The boy looked half starved, his face made even more pallid by the blackness of his hair.
“I can’t eat,” Raimon said abruptly. He could see his mother again.
“But you could sit.”
Raimon shook his head and hovered. It was impossible to tell if Parsifal was friend or foe, the Flame’s rightful guardian or a lucky thief, and all the while he was unable to tear his eyes from the Flame itself for more than a moment or two. It was so small, so much smaller than he ever expected. How could that tiny lick of blue light up the whole region? And could it really be true that he, Raimon Belot, was so close to it that he could touch it? He wished, very fiercely, that Yolanda were beside him. It was where she was meant to
be.
“You’re trying to work out whether I’m a good person or a bad person,” Parsifal said, passing the rabbit from hand to hand.
Raimon jumped. He didn’t deny it.
“The thing is,” said Parsifal slowly, “I don’t know myself. I only got the Flame by chance.” He would have to get out his own knife, if he was to cook. He wondered if Raimon would let him.
“How long have you had it?”
“Oh, awhile.”
“And what have you been doing with it?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve had the Blue Flame and done nothing?”
“What would you have done?”
“I don’t know, but something—lots of things.”
Parsifal nodded. “Yes, I expect you would.”
“And I don’t understand. If you’ve done nothing all this time, why did you choose to show it now?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” said Parsifal. “I didn’t choose. It chose.”
“Flames can’t choose.”
“This one can.”
Raimon looked at the Flame again. It flared a little and he heard it hiss.
Parsifal quickly took out his knife and set about the rabbit without further ado. It was strange, to be cooking for someone else after all this time and he could feel Raimon’s eyes boring into his back.
“When, exactly, did you get the Flame?” Raimon asked again. “I mean, how did it come to you? Why you?” He was still highly agitated, but he put his own knife away.
There was nothing to be gained by evasion so Parsifal told the unvarnished truth. “I got it at Chalus Chabrol, the day King Richard the Lionheart met his death.”
He could almost hear Raimon’s astonishment and waited for the response. Although when it came, it was not quite what he was expecting. “You must be very old indeed,” Raimon said.
It broke something between them, and, rather haltingly, for he had never told it before, Parsifal told Raimon his story—or most of it. Over forty years easily condensed into four minutes. It was hardly a tale of glory.
But even as his story unfolded, Raimon heard less and less of Parsifal and more and more of a voice coming from himself. This man had had the Flame and done nothing with it. Raimon would not make that mistake. Fate must have drawn him here, here to where the Flame was waiting for him. And he certainly knew what to do with it, now that he had found it. He would not waste this extraordinary opportunity. He would take the Flame to the cemetery tonight and set the White Wolf alight. The Flame would make the White Wolf suffer as his mother had suffered. He moved toward the box, hardly aware of Parsifal anymore, hardly aware of himself, aware only that the perfect means of revenge was right in front of him. And had he not earned it? When the Flame had called to him in the dawn, he had danced for it. Now it could do something for him.
Parsifal stopped skinning the rabbit. He had known the exact moment that Raimon had ceased to listen, and when he saw two spots of color brighten the boy’s cheeks and his knuckles whiten, he knew what was in his mind. When Raimon moved, he moved himself. Raimon should not take the Flame. It was not his Flame to take. Before Raimon even noticed, Parsifal dropped the rabbit and his knife, then snatched up the box and held it tightly. Raimon gave a sharp gasp and whipped out his knife again. Parsifal was now the enemy. They glared at each other.
“Give the Flame to me, Sir Parsifal. I have a use for it.” Raimon stood.
“Just Parsifal, please. And I will not. I’m still the Flame’s guardian.”
Raimon continued to glare. “But you had no use for it. I have a use for it. Give it to me.”
Parsifal held the box even more tightly but now the Flame snaked out again, away from him and toward Raimon. Though Parsifal tipped the silver salver backward, he was powerless to control it. Yet he stubbornly clung to the box, willing the Flame back to him, and as he clung, a feeling quite new almost stifled him. It took him more than a moment to identify it and when he did, he could hardly believe it. He was jealous! And so jealous. The jealousy crackled beneath his skin, in his ears, under his eyelids, and on the hardened skin of his white hands. How dare the Flame leak out toward this boy? How dare it desert him after he had tended it all this time? How dare it abandon him now? Though he had hardly brandished it like a hero, he had at least nurtured it and kept it safe. And with his jealousy came fear. What on earth would he do without it? He could see his future—a vast hole with nothing to fill it. A blast of temper, quite equal to anything that had ever risen in Raimon, blew through him. How dare the Flame be so capricious? He gathered himself up just as Raimon lunged at him, and the two of them found themselves entangled in bizarrely careful combat, with neither wanting to damage the Flame but neither wanting to give it up.
Eventually, the inevitable happened. The box fell. At once Parsifal froze, horrified. Not so Raimon. He bent down and seized it, running his fingers over the chips in the filigree and biting his lip. He backed away from Parsifal as he peered inside. Nothing. Then a spark. Then a flicker, and finally the Flame was burning like an angry firefly.
Parsifal, wiping the sweat from his brow, was at the front of the cave and Raimon near the back.
“Well,” Parsifal said, “here’s a sight. Now you have the Flame, precisely what are you going to do with it?”
“I know exactly,” Raimon replied, his voice hard and triumphant. The spots in his cheeks were very bright. “First I am going to the cemetery to kill the man who killed my mother. Then I’m going to raise an army to see off King Louis and free the Occitan forever. Then I’m going to hunt down the inquisitors and all the perfecti and then—” He stopped. Parsifal waited. “And then,” he finished, his eyes glittering, “then I’m going to get rid of God. If people must worship something, they can worship the mountains. The mountains don’t have perfecti or inquisitors, they just are.”
“I see, I see,” Parsifal said. “But the Flame was lit by God.”
“Who cares about that?”
Parsifal was silent for a moment. “I suppose I do.”
“And so do Inquisitor Girald and the perfectus called the White Wolf. Are they your friends?” Raimon felt quite reckless with the Blue Flame in his hands. “Which one of them do you prefer?”
“I don’t know either of them,” Parsifal said, trying to keep his voice at least a little measured, “but I think you should remember that the mountains kill people as well.”
“Not on purpose.”
“How do you know?”
“They don’t burn people or starve them. People die on the mountains, but the mountains don’t do anything.”
“I have lived nearly all my life in the mountains,” Parsifal said, “and I’m not so sure. I’ve seen men burn from the sun on the high slopes, and I’ve seen the corpses of those who have starved to death trying to cross the passes in the snow. The mountains show no mercy.”
“My mother was forbidden food by a Cathar perfectus. She had been ill, but she was getting better.”
“Would that be the White Wolf? You mentioned him earlier,” said Parsifal, and Raimon’s tight, stricken expression told him the answer. “Oh.” His temper was flattened with pity as he imagined the scene. He coughed to give himself a little time, for though his anger was diminished, his jealousy still crackled.
“I must ask you this, though. When you’ve killed the perfectus and raised your army, I suppose you’ll know just how to deploy, organize, and feed it.” Raimon’s face, though still shot through with defiance, lost some of its certainty. “And you’ll know how to stop a war once it has started and how to control men when the panic of battle closes their ears and clouds their eyes.” Parsifal could hear his father’s voice echoing through.
“But I must do something, don’t you see? I must go to the cemetery. And the White Wolf is a wicked man. He deserves to die.”
“Yes,” said Parsifal. “I can see how you’d think that and perhaps,” he said in more subdued tones, “if I’d acted earlier, we’d have no White Wolves a
nd no inquisitors. I’ve completely failed.” He threw up his white hands, moved toward the fire, now merrily blazing yellow and orange, and sat down. “I’m sorry for grabbing the box,” he said, shaking his head, “it’s just that I’ve had the Flame for so long, I can’t think what I shall do without it—not that I’ve done much with it.”
Raimon hesitated, still suspicious, but then came to the fire himself. “I’m sorry too,” he said. He was moved by the sagging of the knight’s shoulders and his apologetic uncertainty. It had never occurred before to Raimon that uncertainty could be so soothing. And the man was due some respect as the Flame’s guardian. Raimon felt he should remember that. Keeping the Flame always by his side, he sat down. He was calmer now but had still not given up his plan, and in the long pause that followed, he began to calculate how many hours until nightfall, how the burial party might approach the cemetery, and most important, when would be the best moment to catch the perfectus. Raimon agonized over that, for he did not want the man to be unaware of his fate. He should suffer at least some agony. He shifted. He had never contemplated doing anything like this before and had never expected to. “You do understand that I can’t do nothing, Sir Parsifal, don’t you?”
“Just Parsifal, please. Yes, my dear boy, perhaps I do.”
Silence again. Parsifal was glad to find his jealousy less crackly. It was sitting in his diaphragm now, but it had left his eyes and ears. “It does occur to me,” he said to Raimon, with a look Raimon couldn’t interpret, “that maybe the Flame does want you for something special. I don’t know. But I think it must, or you wouldn’t be here. Perhaps it’s fed up with me. I couldn’t blame it. The real question, now that it has shown itself, is what we’re supposed to do next.”
He got up. Raimon at once pulled the Flame closer to him. Parsifal put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “One thing I do think,” he said, “is that it shouldn’t be used to settle personal scores. If you take it tonight, I shan’t help you, and I doubt whether the outcome will be as you desire.”