by Jocelyn Fox
The last of the sunlight faded from the cave, leaving them in rapidly diminishing gray twilight. Rye took a deep breath and then sighed, her body slackening. Finn pressed a hand to her hair briefly.
“You have been braver than any Knight,” he murmured. “I would have given up hope long ago if not for you.”
“I’m just stubborn,” she replied sleepily. “And you are far stronger than you think, Finn.”
He stared into the darkness long after her breathing evened into the steady rhythm of sleep, wondering if her words were true.
Chapter 33
When Ramel heard the crashing through the forest, he drew his sword and focused all his energy on holding the blade steady. Behind him, he felt Guinna shift her weight, ready to swing her bow off her shoulder as she slid off Midnight’s back. They’d killed one other small garrelnost in the seven days that they’d been traveling back toward Darkhill, Ramel fighting from astride Midnight and Guinna landing several shots with her arrows when the charger danced aside.
Despite their use of the herbs in the healing kit, Ramel’s wounds had worsened considerably. The cuts on his chest refused to heal; after a scab formed, each claw mark swelled and burst open again in a vicious cycle. The punctures on his arm never pretended to heal at all. Two days ago, he’d noticed the first signs of fever, but there was nothing to do except press onward. Guinna sometimes looped an arm about his waist as they rode, especially in the afternoon as he began to show signs of fatigue.
Now, Ramel took a deep breath and gathered up all the pain of his wounds, pressing it down into a small space somewhere in the back of his chest. He couldn’t afford to spare any thought to it when Guinna’s life depended on his ability to fight this creature, and it sounded monstrous in size. He nodded without taking his eyes off the path before them, and Guinna silently slid down from Midnight’s back. She landed lightly and disappeared into the shadow of a tree, an arrow already nocked to her bow.
Midnight tossed his head and pranced a small distance forward in anticipation. The clamor drew nearer, and the war steed suddenly stopped and cocked his head as he listened. Ramel straightened, trying to discern what had given the faehal pause. And then he realized that the disturbance was not a garrelnost crashing through the forest. It was a group of riders on the path. Hope surged within him so suddenly that it sliced into his chest with exquisite pain. He thought of calling out but held his tongue until the first rider emerged around the curve of the sun-dappled path. Ramel’s hand suddenly shook as he sheathed his blade and raised his hand.
“Well met, Knights of the Unseelie Court!” he called out.
The rider turned and spoke to those in the column behind him, light catching his armor. He spurred his steed and thundered toward Ramel. Midnight neighed in greeting and challenge to the Knight’s faehal. Ramel turned and said toward the shadows, “Guinna, it’s a patrol from Darkhill!”
Lady Guinna stepped back onto the path and walked over to stand with one hand on Midnight’s neck, her bow still held in her other hand. She stood carefully still and straight as the leader of the patrol drew up his mount.
“Well met, Squire Ramel,” said Knight Balaron, his scarred face the nearest to smiling that Ramel had ever recalled.
The patrol of Knights and Guards, fully armored just as Ramel had imagined, was a dozen strong, twice the size of a normal patrol and bearing more weapons than the squire had ever seen in one place. A few of the Knights even had one of the new crossbows strapped to their saddles. Knight Balaron barked orders, and most of the other Knights quickly formed a defensive circle around Ramel and Guinna, guiding their mounts through the trees. One of the Knights brought forward a spare mount for Guinna, but she wordlessly shook her head. Her hand slid from Midnight’s neck to Ramel’s boot, as though even that small contact with him settled her nerves.
Knight Balaron waved away the spare mount at Guinna’s refusal. He dismounted, his sharp eyes evaluating the travel-worn squire and lady. Ramel realized with a sinking feeling how filthy they were from their days of travel. They’d found a stream several days ago and attempted to wash, but they’d both agreed that speed was more important than a proper bath.
“Off that charger and let us have a look at you, lad,” Knight Balaron said to Ramel, his voice a low rumble. Ramel found that his body instinctively obeyed his training master. Guinna steadied him with a discreet hand at his elbow when he swayed. She hadn’t said a word since the appearance of the Knights, her dirt-streaked face pale but her eyes watching their every movement alertly.
One of the other Knights walked forward. Ramel recognized him vaguely as one of the Knights who had taught them the rudimentary classes on healing when they were pages.
“And you, my lady?” Knight Balaron asked.
“I’m unharmed,” said Guinna shortly. She tensed but then relented as the healer approached. “He will not speak a word of complaint, but Ramel has wounds on his chest and his left arm from the claws of those creatures.”
“You should continue on,” said Ramel, his voice sounding strangely hoarse to his own ears. “Knight Finnead and the Princess need your help more than me.”
“Noble, lad, but unnecessary,” said Knight Balaron. “We are not the phalanx sent out to search for the Princess. We were sent for you.”
“How?” Ramel managed.
“Never mind that, lad,” said Balaron almost gently.
The ground shifted oddly beneath Ramel’s feet. The healer glanced at Balaron wordlessly. The scarred Knight nodded.
“We’ll be making camp here for the night,” roared Balaron.
“Aye,” came the chorus from the other Knights. The forest suddenly teemed with activity as the defensive perimeter was reduced to four Knights standing the first watch, and the rest began efficiently constructing a camp right there on the path.
Ramel took a breath to protest but found that it took most of his concentration to stay upright.
“Don’t try to argue,” said Guinna softly into his ear. “You need rest and proper care. There’s no shame at all in that.”
“Make sure they take care of Midnight,” he said to her.
“It’s you I’m worried about, not the faehal,” she said, pressing her mouth into a thin line, but at his pleading look she nodded. “I’ll take care of him myself.” She turned and patted Midnight’s neck. The great black charger meekly followed the slender woman toward the makeshift paddock already established on one side of the camp. One of the Knights moved to help her but stopped at Knight Balaron’s almost imperceptible signal.
As Guinna released her firm hold on his elbow, Ramel took a deep breath and tried not to sway. The healer quickly guided him to the ground, and he didn’t have the voice to argue.
“Knight Valence,” the healer said as he knelt by Ramel’s side and began cutting away the squire’s shirt without hesitation. Ramel settled for a sigh of protest. “Don’t worry, we have spare clothing, and this shirt should be burned anyway.” Ramel rolled his eyes and Valence smiled. “Let’s see what we have here.”
Valence examined Ramel thoroughly, and the squire was too exhausted and feverish to be embarrassed at all the attention focused around him. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision when Valence pressed experimentally on one of the swollen edges of the longest claw mark on his chest. The healer hissed through his teeth at the shockingly green pus that slithered out of Ramel’s skin like a slug. Ramel glimpsed it and had to look away, convincing himself he wasn’t going to be sick.
“It would be best if I gave you something to sleep while I attended to these,” said Valence to Ramel.
“Are you asking me or telling me?” Ramel said wearily.
Valence put a brotherly hand on Ramel’s shoulder. “Just telling you what I think is best. It’s your decision.”
Ramel nodded. He looked up and searched the figures moving through camp until he found Balaron. “I should tell Knight Balaron the details of the battle.”
“The Queen cal
led it up in her mirror of shadows,” said Valence quietly. “It’s said she didn’t see everything, but enough. And the location as well.”
“That was the main thing,” Ramel said. He shivered and felt his skin rising into goose bumps. Why was it suddenly so cold in the forest?
“It must be difficult after what you’ve endured,” said Valence as he deftly mixed drops of different colored liquids into a cup of water, “but try not to worry. You’ve done more than your part, more than we could have expected any squire to do.”
“Why is it more than expected?” Ramel asked bluntly. “I followed my master’s orders. I protected Lady Guinna as best I could.”
“Aye, lad, and that is more than some could have done,” said Valence in a quiet voice. He pressed the cup into Ramel’s hand.
“I’ll sleep?” said Ramel.
“Yes.”
“Will I dream?”
Valence shook his head. “No.”
“Perhaps ask Lady Guinna if she would like something to sleep without dreaming,” said Ramel.
Knight Valence nodded as he spread a sleeping roll on the ground behind Ramel and covered it with a cloak. “I’ll be sure to speak to the lady after I’m finished my work with you.”
“And tell Knight Balaron that he can wake me if he needs to know any details of the battle,” the squire added, the cup halfway to his mouth. He felt as though there were too many things for him to do, too many things to worry about for him to surrender so easily to sleep. But his wounds pulsed with a hot ache and he quickly downed the draft, wincing at its bitterness. At Valence’s prompt, he laid back, gazing up at the latticework of the tree branches overhead as he waited for sleep to claim him. The darkness rose swiftly and suddenly like an unexpected tide, and he was swept away into blessed oblivion.
When Ramel awoke, he squinted in confusion at the late afternoon light. He remembered the healer giving him a sleeping draught. Why had he awoken so soon?
“Don’t look so confused, lad,” said Knight Balaron, sitting to his left. “You slept a whole day.” The scarred Knight raised an eyebrow, looking up from sharpening a dagger to give Ramel a baleful look. “I didn’t know I trained my squires to be lay-abeds.” Then the training master smiled, though the expression on his face was more like a grimace.
Ramel found himself smiling slightly in response. “You could have woken me up, sir.”
Balaron chuckled. “I doubt that, lad.” He shook his head and sobered. “Valence was not optimistic for most of last night.”
Ramel blinked as he realized the meaning of Balaron’s words. He took quick inventory of his body: he felt wrung out and weak, but the strange feverish feeling of the past few days had disappeared.
“Your fever broke early this morning,” continued Balaron. He motioned with one hand. “The lady wouldn’t sleep until you were out of danger.”
Though the movement jarred his still-painful wounds, Ramel shifted and looked in the direction that Balaron had pointed. Guinna lay asleep a short distance away, curled underneath the same cloak that she had taken from her dead mount the day that Ramel had found her in the forest.
“She hasn’t spoken much,” said the older Knight quietly, “but I know that she has seen more than any lady should ever see.”
“She has seen more than any should ever see,” replied Ramel. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and then slowly sat up, aware that his training master watched his every movement. He found a water skin laid by his pallet, along with a wrapped packet of bread and cheese. The water skin felt strangely heavy as he lifted it, but he drank his fill and then made quick work of the food. He and Guinna hadn’t wanted for rations, since most of Knight Finnead’s provisions had survived the battle behind Midnight’s saddle, but they hadn’t had much appetite in the tense, anxious days of their flight toward Darkhill.
“What now?” he murmured, half to himself.
“Now we travel back to Darkhill. You heal. I expect the Queen will summon you,” said Knight Balaron.
Ramel nodded. These all seemed like logical things, but he somehow couldn’t grasp the reality of his and Guinna’s deliverance from their dangerous, headlong flight back to Darkhill. Guinna stirred and muttered in her sleep. He turned toward her and watched until she settled back into stillness.
“Do you still wish to be a Knight, Squire Ramel?” Balaron asked in a low voice.
Ramel turned so sharply that he gave a grunt of pain at the wrenching of the cuts on his chest. “Yes.” He stared at Knight Balaron, his mind now racing. Would the Knights refuse to let him join their ranks because of his part in the failure to protect the Princess? Would the Queen throw him into a cell in the dungeons as punishment for his inability to fend off the creatures? But they had been so large and so fierce, and the onslaught had been unending, and Knight Finnead had ordered him, he’d had no choice…
“Breathe, lad,” commanded Balaron, his voice cutting into Ramel’s racing thoughts. “Slowly. In and out.” He nodded in satisfaction as Ramel obeyed, struggling to calm his racing heart. “I did not mean to imply that you could not become a Knight, lad. That is the farthest from the truth.” He paused and then continued. “This was your first taste of battle, and you have seen and done more than some who have been Knights for decades. It would be no shame if you decided that this path was not yours to walk.”
“Far from it,” said Ramel, his voice shaking slightly with the depth of his emotion. “I want nothing more than to earn my Knight’s sword…except to honor the memory of Knight Finnead in earning it.”
“You speak of him as though he is dead,” said Balaron neutrally.
Ramel swallowed. “To allow myself to hope is too painful right now.”
“When your body has healed, perhaps let yourself think about it,” replied the grizzled Knight.
Ramel nodded. “Aye, sir.”
Balaron returned to sharpening his dagger. Ramel knew from a healing standpoint that he should probably go back to sleep, but he felt strangely restless. He moved through a few simple stretches, gently pushing his body until he had discovered most of the sore muscles.
“I lost my training sword,” he said into the silence.
Knight Balaron paused and said gruffly, “I imagine that’s because you were busy using your real blade.”
Ramel nodded. “I killed one of them in the glade during the battle, and Guinna and I killed two ourselves.”
“The lady looked like she knew how to hold a bow,” said Balaron.
“When I found her, she was fighting one of them on her own. She’d already put two arrows into it. It had killed her mount.” Ramel pulled up his sleeve and traced his thumb over the clean bandages that wrapped his forearm. “I put my sword into its neck, and got caught beneath it as it fell. The beast had my arm in its mouth and she killed it.” He flexed the fingers of his injured arm. “If she hadn’t had the courage to plunge a dagger into it, I’d probably be dead.”
“Or just missing an arm,” said Balaron with black humor.
Ramel looked at his training master in surprise, but then realized that the Knight had been jesting. Balaron had never joked with him before. He smiled and then sobered. “Do you want the whole story?”
“We have so many on patrol that I’ve nothing else to do,” replied the grizzled Knight.
Ramel took a deep breath and thought of where to begin, deciding to tell the tale from the very beginning, from when they’d left Darkhill, the Guards in their gleaming ceremonial armor sounding the black horn for the Princess. At first, he spoke haltingly, but then the words came faster and faster until the story poured out of him, like a cut artery, like a dam had broken within him and the floodwaters rushed through his chest. Knight Balaron sat and listened.
“After I found Lady Guinna, we were traveling back to Darkhill as fast as we could. I don’t know how much longer I would have been able to protect her against the creatures that were hunting us. And then we found you,” Ramel said. “Or you found us,” he am
ended. He sat silently, staring down at his empty hands. Then he finally scraped together what remained of his composure and looked up at Knight Balaron. “Did I do the right thing, sir?” His words came out low and hoarse. He remembered the last time he’d seen Knight Finnead, the moment seared into his memory with breathtaking clarity. His chest ached. He should have stayed, he should have helped Finnead defend the Princess against the monsters. Perhaps with one more sword they could have prevailed…
“You did the only thing an honorable squire could have done,” replied Knight Balaron firmly, leaning forward. “You obeyed your master, Ramel. He knew that asking such a thing of you would be difficult, but he trusted you to fulfill your duty.” Balaron nodded. “You Walked to Darkhill and delivered the news of the attack. Without your message, we would not have known anything had befallen the Princess for a fortnight or more, until she did not arrive in the White City as planned.” The Knight reached over to Ramel and placed his hand on the squire’s shoulder. Ramel glimpsed the delicate silver threads of the scars across Balaron’s knuckles. “Lad, you’ve done me proud. You’ll make a fine Knight.”
Ramel nodded. Only a few weeks ago, such words from his training master would have reduced him to speechless awe, but he felt nothing. He felt empty. He thought that he would have given up making a fine Knight for a few years more if only he could still be Knight Finnead’s squire. He wondered numbly if orphans felt this odd, frozen detachment after losing their parents. Or perhaps he was more akin to a younger brother who had lost an older brother…or like Knight Finnead after he’d lost Squire Kieran.
He smiled humorlessly as Balaron sat back, still watching him. “I want to ask Knight Finnead his advice on how to deal with all this,” Ramel said slowly.