by Megan Derr
Corentin was taken from his thoughts by the sound of movement, and looked up to see a large man swathed in plain brown robes ambling down the hall toward him.
"Duke of Lons, Duke de Capre, 'tis an honor to have you both here again," Father Drogo said.
Corentin knelt, seeing Yvain do the same from the corner of his eye.
"Stand, stand," Father Drogo said lightly. "I wish your visit here was under happier circumstances." He smiled at both of them, dark eyes filled with approval. "Mere youths were you, nervous and restless, when last you stood in this hall. Knights grown I see now, men fully come into their strengths. I am happy. No doubt your fathers died proud and confident in their sons."
Corentin rather thought his father was howling down epithets from the heavens right now, but did not voice the opinion. "Thank you, Father. You are far too gracious."
"Nay," Father Drogo said. He looked between them. "Although I begin to understand what precisely the grand duke said in his letters." He looked at them each again, the silence stretching on into awkwardness, to the point that Corentin was painfully aware every time Yvain so much as shifted.
He would never survive to the Spring Equinox. If this continued, he did not doubt he would throw himself off the cliffs in a fit of madness.
"Come," Father Drogo said at last, turning to lead the way back out of the prayer hall. Beyond it, the monastery was much like a maze and Corentin made a mental note to later explore the place until he had its twisted ways committed well to memory.
Some minutes later they reached Father Drogo's office. It was simply appointed, naught more than would strictly be needed, but beautiful for all that—a rug upon the floor to fight against the cold, a tapestry upon the wall that portrayed Mount Rosa, and an enormous desk. Corentin admired it absently; his own desk was never so neat, not even by half. Then his eyes fell upon the chest set in the center of it: not great in size, perhaps half his arm in length and half again as wide. Carved upon the top was a great phoenix, a rose in its beak. No crest with which he was familiar, although the manner of the artistry was Rothlandic in origin. What caught him, however, was the lack of a keyhole, the lack of hinges. Naught was there to indicate the chest was more than a decorative box.
"A Rothland puzzle box," he said excitedly, stepping forward and stripping off his gloves. He set them absently upon the desk as he reached out to examine the box. "The craftsmanship is exquisite." He hefted the box and turned it over in his arms, trailing one finger over the small runic mark on the bottom of the chest. "Yes, a master mark. This one would be the very devil to open, I should think." He set it back down and looked up at Father Drogo. "Have you solved the riddle of it?"
Father Drogo snorted. "Ha! I can scarce find my slippers every morning and you think me capable of finding hidden locks and keys?" He laughed. "Nay, I have attempted it, but 'tis far beyond my capabilities and I know it."
"You collect those," Yvain said.
It took Corentin a moment to realize he was being directly addressed and he was startled enough to look toward Yvain—and immediately look away again, unnerved as ever by those brown eyes and unwilling to gaze long enough to determine what emotions were held within them.
"Aye," he said in reply to Yvain's comment, eyes drawn once more to the puzzle box. "I've twenty of them, six by Rothland Masters." He reached out to touch it again, incapable of resisting, trailing his fingers slowly over every bit of wood, every nuance of the carving. "How did you come to obtain it, Father?"
Father Drogo sighed and sat down in his chair. "I suspect 'tis this which is the source of our troubles. A month ago, knights of Chieldor took refuge here after they were badly wounded in a border skirmish." Not unusual; the border between Chieldor and Rothland was only two days away from the monastery and ever did Rothland press its hostilities—especially since the entire affair surrounding Princess Winifred. They also liked to deny they were doing anything. "They were ambushed, but managed a victory. When they arrived here to heal and recover, they brought with them some spoils of victory. The matter was of course brought to the attention of Rothland, but they claim no knowledge of the matter, that the attackers were rogues who wrongly wore the crests and colors of Rothland. Yvain rapped lightly upon the chest. "You think proof to the contrary lies within the chest, that the brigands know you have it and seek to reclaim, ere their identity is discovered for certain and one king or another takes their heads for it."
"Aye," Father Drogo replied. "The knights left the spoils here, in thanks and because 'twas easier to travel without the additional burden. Not more than a week after they had departed, the attacks here began. I keep the goods the knights brought well scattered about the monastery, and ne'er keep this box in the same location twice—neither do I share its locations with another. You would grant me a great boon by removing the burden of it from my shoulders."
Corentin bowed his head, as did Yvain. "We will take responsibility for the chest, Father."
"Think you there be a chance of solving the riddle of the box?" Yvain asked.
"Aye," Corentin said. "I recognize the maker mark; three of my six are his work. He is notorious for puzzles which cannot be opened by one person alone." He frowned thoughtfully as he continued to examine the box, smiling faintly as he picked out likely bits of it. It was beautifully carved with whorls and flowers, so perfectly done 'twas near impossible to tell the box was not carved from one piece of wood.
"Father," he said, indicating a portion of the chest, "place your fingers here." He moved on as Father Drogo did as he asked. "Yvain, here and here." Yvain moved promptly to obey and Corentin struggled to ignore the way their fingers ever so briefly brushed together.
Biting his tongue, scarce aware he did so, Corentin felt slowly around the box for more of the telltale difference that gave away the chest's tricksome release. "Now, press altogether and see if that is the trick," he said as he found two more—and hoped that was all of them. At his signal, they pressed—and he crowed as something clicked ever so faintly, then saw that a rose carved into the front side of the chest had risen slightly from the wood. Gently he tugged upon it, until it lifted upon some hidden hinge to reveal the lock beneath.
"Now you must find the key," Yvain said.
"Aye," Corentin agreed, thoughtfully stroking one of the panels he had pressed. "I think that rather than press the panels all together, we must press them in a particular order. I have seen a similar trick before; it took me near a month to solve that one, for I thought the answer would be something else entirely and not the same thing done a different way."
Father Drogo looked at him with a smile. "You solve it so simply and make the answers seem so plain, when I know that many a man has resorted to his sword to open such boxes."
"My mind is good for very little," Corentin said with a shrug. "Mayhap I spent too much time with such puzzles as a child, for they make sense to me where little else does."
"Hmm," Father Drogo said thoughtfully, but did not say anything further. "Very well, let us attempt your proposed solution."
Yvain shook his head. "There are innumerable combinations possible. This could take us but a moment or days upon days."
"Aye," Father Drogo said. "So there is no time like the present to begin."
By the time they finally found the key, night had fallen and all of their stomachs rumbled for food. Corentin wearily leaned against the desk, holding the key in his fist. "Truly this box is evil," he said. "I should like it for my collection, if that someday be possible."
"Certainly I do not want to keep it," Father Drogo said with a grimace. "Unless the king or grand duke command otherwise, the box is yours, and gladly."
Corentin smiled faintly and set the key upon the table. "Unlock it, then, and let us have done with the mystery."
It was Yvain who took up the key and unlocked the chest, throwing back the lid—and all three fell silent at what was revealed to be within. Jewels and coins, common enough stuff for such a box; one jewel, however,
stood out above all the rest. A ring—gold, set with a square cut sapphire … and upon that, an ornate gold 'R'—a royal ring of Rothland. Not the ring of the king or even the crown prince … but the ring of his second son, he who would inherit the throne should his brother die; irrefutable proof that the King of Rothland knew full well that assaults were being made upon the Chieldor border. They were not the work of mere brigands wearing false colors.
"The ring needs to be taken to Chieldorona," Corentin said.
"Aye," Yvain agreed, picking it up and balling his hand into a fist around it, then holding it up to the light. "With the weather now clearing, however, they will be able to assault any who ventures far from the monastery—especially any who is making his way down the mountain. That aside, we should not take the grand duke a mere ring."
Corentin looked toward him, unable to resist the hard but almost playful tone in Yvain's voice. He skittered away from the eyes, but did not look entirely away.
"I think 'twould be more fitting to take back the owner of the ring as well. What say you, Corentin?"
"I say 'tis a fine idea, for a certainty. How plan you to go about obtaining the owner?"
"'Twould be foolish for so powerful a man to raid the monastery himself," Yvain remarked thoughtfully. "Yet 'twould be harder still for raiders to carry off such a box as this. Nay, ultimately the wisest recourse would be for His Highness to join the raid, locate the box, and take the ring from it."
Corentin nodded in agreement. "So you think to capture him during one of the raids."
"Aye," Yvain agreed. "He will be caught in the act and the evidence damning."
"So we put the box where it might be found, but keep the ring." He looked again in Yvain's direction. "We should take it in turns to guard the ring, that it is never easily found, on the chance that not all within the monastery are to be trusted."
Father Drogo grimaced. "Aye. If one among my children is so dishonest, 'twould grieve me, but I am not so ignorant as to think them all innocent. I reserve blind faith for the heavens."
"Hopefully all will prove faithful," Yvain said.
"Aye," Corentin agreed. "Yvain, take the ring for now; give it to me when you feel we should switch. Now I beg humbly for food, good Father."
"For that," Father Drogo said with a laugh, "you need not beg. Come, let us find food and I will assure my no doubt agitated monks that I have not been devoured by my office." Hefting himself up from his seat, he ambled to the door and motioned for them to follow.
Corentin waited for Yvain to precede him and trailed along behind them both, wishing he could walk alongside Yvain, but not daring. 'Twas easier to steal glances this way and he did not risk catching Yvain's eyes. Once in the dining hall, however, it became impossible to do aught but sit beside him. 'Twas crowded and monks made no distinction in rank in their dining hall, which left him uncomfortably pressed between a monk on his right and Yvain on his left. These monks took no vow of silence, and the near-deafening chatter around Corentin made him wonder if they took instead a vow to be as noisy possible. He wished they might take a vow of stillness, for 'twas difficult in the extreme to eat or even think when with every other breath he was jostled so that he near dropped his tea or spoon, or pressed against Yvain for fear of taking an elbow to his ribs.
They had arrived in the earliest hours of the morning after near two days of hard travel and had slept another to recover from the ordeal. Minus a bit of bread and cheese upon first waking, this was his first meal proper—and the only he had eaten in the hall.
He was yet again accosted by the monk to his right, who spoke with confounded enthusiasm to his fellows over something to do with wheat, and grit his teeth as the movement pressed him firmly against Yvain, who fared not much better with the monk to his left. Across the table, Father Drogo laughed and finally gave the monks a few gentle words of reprove.
Corentin silently made note to wear full armor to all future meals.
Yvain walked the halls of the monastery, relishing the silence. Only a week had passed, yet it felt like months. Mayhap because for all that his days were filled with the noise of the monks, a particular silence rang out above the din. Truly he was not certain what drove him most mad—that Corentin was so impermeable a wall or that his own tongue was too locked in place to even attempt a siege. He did not know what to say; the rift was too great. Did he apologize for failing to stop the peasant? Did he apologize for keeping the secret? Was it his love for which he should be most sorry? If so, then that was an apology he could not, would not offer.
He turned his thoughts away from Corentin as best he could and attempted to focus on the matter of the monastery. Not since their arrival had the brigands attacked and Yvain wondered if perhaps their presence was too great a threat for the brigands to risk. Yet that did not make sense—if anything, the brigands should be more fearful and desperate than they were before. There was no guarantee that any of the monks would recognize a crest ring of Rothland, even assuming they had managed to get the box open. A knight of Chieldor would recognize it, however, and that should make the need to regain the ring all the more urgent.
Mayhap they were taking more care to plan a better assault, and if that were the case, then these nightly wanderings of his might prove to ease more than his wretched tossing and turning and tormenting dreams; dreams of smiles like those coaxed out by a mere puzzle box. If he had known so simple a thing would make Corentin smile thus again, he would have emptied his coffers to obtain them. Yvain's one brief touch had been enough to near destroy Corentin's smiles and that certainly gave Yvain no reason for happiness.
Sighing at himself, Yvain once more put his mind on those matters which needed attending; monks would not live or die based upon whether or not he and Corentin resolved their private matters—they would die if this matter continued to worsen, as it seemed would happen now that he and Corentin were there, and the brigands very likely knew it. If any monks had turned traitor (and like as he would to believe none would dare, Yvain was not so naïve), then the brigands for a certainty knew that the Dukes of Lons and de Capre were in residence.
Yvain shivered as the winds increased, the hallway he walked composed primarily of archways leading to a long balcony that overlooked the mountain and the valley far below. Often did the monks come here to meditate, to contemplate the world far below. What wisdoms they found doing thus, he knew not, but every night since his arrival he had not slept properly and his wanderings invariably brought him here.
Pulling his cloak shut, Yvain drew up his hood and stepped through the central archway out onto the wide balcony. Venturing to the railing, he stared down at the white world below. High in the sky the moon was fat and full, making the snow seem to glow, almost too bright to look upon. Far below and well away, Chieldorona might as well be across an ocean. Yvain wished he were there, with duties and obligations and the occasional amusement to whittle away his time and drive his deeper troubles from his mind. At present, he was not certain what he feared more: that he would do nothing or that he would do something foolish.
He wondered what Corentin was doing at the moment. The fact that the brigands had managed more than once to gain entrance to a monastery that was nigh on a fortress—for it had been built by a king who had spent the majority of his life at war—meant at least one of two things: one or more monks were assisting the brigands (although that created plenty more questions and problems) or that some secret entrance existed about which the monks had forgotten and the brigands had discovered.
Yvain watched the monks, while Corentin explored the monastery in the same fashion he had explored the puzzle box. One or both of them would discover something. Part of his nightly walks was, indeed, in hopes of discovering monks wandering about after curfew—if they were breaking curfew, then they were likely smart enough not to get caught at it, but he would watch nonetheless. The walks also gave him the perfect excuse to avoid breakfast. He swore sometimes that Father Drogo forced them to sit so close toge
ther on purpose, and if he got shoved into Corentin one more time, then he would not be held responsible for his actions. A man could only endure so much and he rather thought 'twas fair to say he had endured more than he ought.
Yvain supposed that he should consider it progress that Corentin appeared to see him again .. except their eyes never quite met and Corentin never appeared anything but distraught at the sight of him. Was theirs a problem which could be repaired? He rather thought not; every time he dwelt upon their problems, they seemed insurmountable. Were he Corentin, how would he feel? How was one supposed to feel about a man he had ever hated, who had been the last to see his lover alive and had not kept that lover from suicide … and admitted the truth of the suicide in the same breath as his love?
As ever, thinking upon it all made his head ache something fierce. Heaving another long sigh, he folded his arms upon the balcony railing and rested his head upon them. Ever had he been an obedient knight, loyal and dutiful … but he did not see how he could follow this latest order. It seemed more likely that he would fail and have his spurs taken for it, and end the affair with naught but his misery for company. What did one say to break so great a silence? 'Twas progress they spoke to each other directly at all, although only ever in regards to the problem of the brigands. What more could he say that he had not already said? He had confessed his heart once and that had sent Corentin from the room sobbing.