by Jocelyn Fox
“Sorry, not enough room in the tent for you,” said Ramel, patting the charger’s neck.
He found Sayre walking a circuit about their small camp. The other Knight greeted him with a silent nod.
“Anything?” Ramel asked.
“No sign,” Sayre replied. “Perhaps the storm threw them off our scent.”
“Perhaps,” he replied noncommittally. “We should be ready to travel in a few hours at most. Finnead is in better shape than I expected, but I think we should head for one of the outposts.”
Sayre nodded. “I agree. We can summon a Walker to take a message to the Queen.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you feel like doing the honors again.”
Ramel shook his head. “I leave the Walking to guild members when I have a choice.” He stood for a moment and then nodded. “I’ll go saddle the mounts.”
Sayre resumed his watch, and Ramel prepared their faehal for the day’s journey. He had just finished loading his packs onto Midnight when Morcant silently appeared with his own packs. They split Sayre’s saddlebags between their two mounts, aware that Sayre’s mount would bear the body of the Vaelanbrigh.
They did not travel as far or as fast as a typical patrol that day, or any other day after that. While Finnead displayed a surprising amount of resilience and strength for one who had been held in captivity for over a year, he still tired easily. On the second day, Ramel had to catch him as he fainted rather than ask for a rest. The younger Knight declared that they’d take an hour of rest for every three hours of travel. Sayre and Morcant didn’t argue, and Finnead only sighed wearily in acceptance. Thus, it took them nearly twice as long to retrace their steps and reach the farthest outpost in the forest, but all the same Ramel felt a glow of pride in their little patrol when he sighted the little rough-hewn cabin through the trees.
He traced the opening rune on the door and pushed it open. Other runes of protection flared to life on the doorframe, flowing beneath the surface of the wood. A fire lit itself in the hearth as they entered. Morcant helped Sayre to carry the Vaelanbrigh’s body inside. They’d chalked runes of preservation on the blanket bound about the corpse, but all the same Ramel would have preferred to burn the body with all honor at some point on their journey. Morcant and Sayre, however, told him firmly that the Queen would want to set the torch to her fallen Vaelanbrigh’s pyre herself.
“I’ll tend to the mounts,” said Sayre. Morcant wordlessly began to prepare their evening meal. Finnead crossed the threshold and looked dazedly about the room. Ramel pointed firmly toward one of the chairs, and though he pressed his lips together, Finn obeyed and sat down.
Ramel opened the gleaming black wood box that stood to the side of the hearth at all the Knights’ outposts. It contained a small supply of preserved food and water, a healing kit, a few spare cloaks and two blades. Ramel pushed the cloaks aside and found the small globe that looked much like the globe that had once sat on his desk in the squire’s barracks. That taebramh-light had been linked to one in Knight Finnead’s quarters. This taebramh-light was linked to one in the Walker’s Guildhall. He set it carefully on the table and summoned his own taebramh to light it. The globe flared hotly for a moment, like a flame suddenly catching a bone-dry piece of tinder, but then it settled into a rosy flicker.
“Now we wait,” said Ramel, more to fill the silence than to tell the other Knights anything they didn’t already know. He settled into the chair beside Finnead. Morcant didn’t look up from his food preparation as Ramel examined Finnead’s back. The other two Knights had taken it upon themselves to offer Finnead that courtesy. Only Ramel saw Finnead’s wounds, most of which were now healing into scars. He delicately applied a salve to help with the pliability and sensitivity of the new skin, and then he pulled Finnead’s shirt down again.
Morcant mutely handed them bowls of stew. He’d developed the habit of using their rest times to hunt, and they’d all had fresh meat for most of the travel back toward Darkhill. Sayre returned just in time to accept his own bowl.
“This is surprisingly good,” Sayre announced, raising his eyebrows. Morcant stared at him for a moment, shook his head and turned his attention to his own food. Sayre grinned at Ramel, who felt an answering smile on his own lips. As they finished their meal, the taebramh-light began to pulse, slowly at first and then faster. Morcant gathered up their bowls and then stood watching the globe with crossed arms. Sayre leaned back in his chair and put his boots on the table. Finnead sat straight and silent.
The air by the hearth shimmered and the outline of a man appeared. Ramel stood as he recognized the Walker before he had even completely arrived.
“Murtagh,” he said with genuine happiness.
“The former page,” said Finnead from the table.
Murtagh pulled himself fully into the outpost. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Ramel, and then his gaze traveled beyond his friend to Finnead. “Walker Murtagh, reporting as requested,” he said automatically, and then he grinned at Ramel. “Stars, you found him!”
“Yes,” said Ramel.
“And the Princess?”
“That’s the message we need to send,” said Finnead, standing and walking over to join Ramel. Murtagh waited silently. The flames flickered through his transparent Walker-form.
“Please bring the message to the Queen that the Princess and the rest of her party are dead,” said Finnead steadily. “I will relay the story myself when I arrive.”
“Do you wish me to say anything about…you?” Murtagh asked. Ramel winced as they all understood Murtagh’s true question: Why had Finnead lived and the Princess died?
“I resisted until I saw the Princess’s dead body with my own eyes. Then I escaped,” said Finnead, his voice hardening.
Murtagh nodded once. He hesitated, looking behind them at Morcant and Sayre. Ramel frowned.
“I trust them,” he said, hoping that would be enough for his friend.
Murtagh nodded. “I should not tell you this,” he said quickly, “but much has happened since you left.”
“What’s happened?” Ramel asked. Murtagh’s agitation made him uneasy.
“Tyr the bard,” said Murtagh in a low voice, “led a rebellion. The Queen had just felt the loss of the Vaelanbrigh – she was in the courtyard and swooned. The rebels took advantage of the moment.”
“And did they succeed?” asked Sayre, his brows drawn down over his eyes.
Murtagh shook his head. “No. Of course not. They failed. And they were banished.”
“Banished? They should be hanged as traitors,” said Morcant. The other three Knights looked at him in surprise at the sound of his voice.
“More than that I cannot say because I do not know,” said Murtagh. He glanced over his shoulder. Ramel wasn’t sure whether he was seeing the outpost or the Walker’s Guildhall. “And beware, this news of the Princess’s death will not sit well with the Queen.”
“Of course not,” said Ramel. “She loved the Princess.”
“She loved the Princess,” agreed Murtagh, “and she also loved those who rebelled against her. Now she sees threats in every shadow, hears traitors whispering at every meal. Or so I have been told.”
“The blood oath,” said Sayre.
Murtagh nodded. “Some say that it is blood magic, but it is the Queen.”
“It is the Queen,” agreed Finnead heavily.
“Tread lightly,” urged Murtagh. “I’ve said all I can.”
“Thank you,” said Ramel with a nod.
Murtagh nodded in reply and then stood straighter. “I shall relay your message as reported,” he said formally.
“The Knights thank the Walkers for their service,” replied Ramel. Murtagh faded, and the taebramh-light went dark.
“Well,” said Sayre, “let’s rest up. It sounds as though we will have a lot to catch up on when we return to Darkhill.”
As they pressed onward on the last leg of their journey, Ramel began to worry about Finnead. The other Knight had withdrawn into
silence, in contrast to the easy conversations they’d shared during the first weeks of travel. The news of the rebellion and the prospect of the blood oath dampened all their spirits. Sayre and Ramel discussed the different outcomes of a blood oath in low voices. Finnead remained silent and Morcant gave no sign that he cared one way or another.
“We’ll have to take it,” said Sayre.
“Of course,” replied Ramel. Morcant had chosen to walk for a while, and Finnead rode his faehal, leaving Ramel free to ride alongside Sayre. “It’s just a matter of what exactly that entails.”
“Will the Queen take certain memories, I wonder?” said Sayre.
Ramel tried not to let his unease show on his face. He’d pondered the same question at night and during quiet moments on the trail. It didn’t escape him that the leader of the rebellion had been Rye’s twin. Would the Queen take his memories of Rye? Was she even capable of such a thing? “Why would she do that?” he said aloud.
“If she fears another rebellion,” said Sayre, “it would only make sense for her to obliterate the memories of the first.”
“She used to laugh so prettily during our tournaments,” said Ramel.
“Beneath her beauty there is something frozen,” said Sayre in a low voice.
Ramel shook his head. “I can only hope that these events will not harden our Queen’s heart.”
“Was it not already hardened, I wonder?” Sayre said. Without waiting for an answer to his question, he urged his mount ahead.
When they emerged from the edge of the forest and Ramel saw Darkhill again for the first time, his heart beat hard in his chest. He couldn’t rightly say if it was happiness at seeing his home again, or fear at the cold pall that lay over the land, so pervasive that they could feel it in the forest. They halted their mounts and looked at each other.
“We will speak no more of what has been said during these travels,” said Sayre. Morcant nodded wordlessly. The two Knights rode forward together, leaving Ramel and Finnead at the tree line.
Finnead gazed steadily at Ramel. “Whatever the Queen chooses to do to me, you must not protest.”
Ramel clenched his jaw. Midnight pawed the ground as he sensed his rider’s anger. “I’ll respectfully remind you that I’m no longer your squire.”
“I cannot give you an order as a Knight-master,” said Finnead, “but I can ask this of you as a friend.”
Ramel swallowed hard. “I will not abandon you. You asked me to do that once, and I cannot do it again.”
Finnead gave a long sigh and then nodded. “Then let us go and meet our fate.”
They rode up the hill and a horn sounded from the tower. A column of Guards rode out to greet them – no, Ramel realized at their grim, set faces, not to greet them. The Guards were riding out to arrest them.
He held his tongue when the leader of the Guards read out the charges against Finnead: aiding and abetting a traitor in the form of Rye the Northsworn, and failing in his duty to protect the Princess Andraste at all costs.
“You are not charged, Knight Ramel,” said the Guard.
“Where he goes, so I go,” said Ramel staunchly.
The Guard stared at him for a moment and then said, “You are not under arrest. You may follow, but I will not order my men to arrest you.”
Ramel took a breath, but Finnead shook his head sharply. Four Guards surrounded him, separating him from Ramel, but they allowed Ramel to ride beside them. Ramel thought he saw something like sympathy on the Guard’s face as he ordered, “By the Queen’s orders, take him to the dungeons.” The Guard looked at Ramel. “You will both take the blood oath immediately, accepting any and all punishments deemed appropriate by the Queen.”
Ramel’s heart sank even as he felt a fierce pride in Finnead’s stoic acceptance of the sentence. He glanced up at the banner bearing the Queen’s sigil, waving over the tower in the wind, and he wondered with bitterness if their world would ever be the same.
Epilogue
Finnead stared at the frosted walls of the cell. “I spent too much time in a dungeon,” he said, “those centuries ago.”
He touched the sword at his waist and felt the High Queen in the back of his mind, a calm and steady presence so unlike the icy claws of Queen Mab.
“I know the loneliness of imprisonment,” he said. “Though I have been fortunate to have friends who stood by me even then.”
He stepped closer to the silver bars. The chains sounded almost musical as the slender figure in the cell shifted. He couldn’t ever tell if she was listening to him.
“I can’t count the number of days that Ramel spent with me in that dungeon in Darkhill,” he continued. “He berated the Guards until they gave in and let me have a proper bed and a rug on the floor. He’d even bring me hot tea, like he was still my squire.” He smiled fondly at the recollection and then looked up at her again. “And I know what it is to lose memories. I still don’t quite know what I lost when I took the Blood Oath. But that matters little.”
A cold breeze wafted through the cell. Finn forced himself not to shiver. With Ramel and Molly gone with Tess in the mortal world, he’d been visiting by himself. Liam had accompanied him a few times, but Tess’s brother, good-hearted though he was, only saw the creature behind the bars. He couldn’t see what she had once been.
“What matters,” Finn said slowly, touching one of the silver bars, “is that I will never abandon you.”
The figure in silver chains looked up at him, meeting his eyes, as she so seldom did. He searched for any spark of recognition, any hint that she understood his words.
“I swear to you,” he said, “by all the gods, old and new, that I will never abandon you, Andraste.”
The Princess stared at him. One of her hands drifted to her chest and pulled down the neck of her shirt, revealing a jagged black scar on the center of her breastbone. She traced the brutal scar with one finger and Finn had to lean closer, not believing his own eyes. A tear slid down the Princess’s cheek as she pressed her palm over the scar on her chest, and for the first time since he had carried her from Malravenar’s fortress, Finnead dared to hope.
Find all the novels in the Fae War Chronicles here:
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01LZ22C40
Other novels by Jocelyn A. Fox, available on Kindle and in paperback:
The Iron Sword
The Crown of Bones
The Dark Throne
The Lethe Stone
The first three novels are also collected in a special edition, available on Kindle:
The Fae War Chronicles Omnibus Edition
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my wonderful team of social media ninjas (Ilana Harkavy and her team at Nailed It! Media); fantastic artists who create stunning covers (Peter and Caroline at Bespoke Book Covers); formatting wizards (Maureen Cutajar at Go Published Formatting Services); and the ever-friendly suppliers of caffeine to their resident writer (the baristas at my local coffee shop). Last but not least, thank you to my indefatigable grammar warrior and dispenser of life wisdom (Ronn Dula, editor extraordinaire.)
Thank you to my faithful band of friends from far and wide, who are so patient with my “book talk” and promote my work to their coworkers and random passersby with a passion that always makes me blush: Erin, David, Brynn, Amanda and Amy, Megan, Jason, Quinn and everyone else who has ever encouraged me to pursue my love of creating worlds.
My first book was dedicated to my parents. Mom and Dad, without your unquestioning support in the earliest years of my creative endeavors, none of this would be happening now. All of my success is a reflection of your love and your unwavering ability to serve as our family’s foundation and our North Star throughout all the storms of life. The words thank you are still not sufficient to express my love and admiration.
Lastly and always, I thank all my amazing readers. I loved writing before I embarked on this publishing journey, but all of you have made the trek such a fantastic experience. This novel came to
gether in record time, and that was sparked in no small part by the passion that you display for the characters and the world of the Fae War Chronicles. Some of you know that Midnight’s Knight was originally planned as a novella, but one cannot argue with characters as complex and important as Finnead and Ramel when they tell you that this part of their story is going to take much more than a novella to tell. It was a pure joy and a labor of love, and I hope you have enjoyed it as well. As long as you keep reading, I’ll keep writing. Pinky swear.
Now go out and do something that scares you. Chase your dreams. Never give up. Live the adventure.
Jocelyn A. Fox, March 2017
About the Author
Jocelyn A. Fox is the bestselling author of the epic fantasy novels The Iron Sword, The Crown of Bones, The Dark Throne, and The Lethe Stone, the first four books in The Fae War Chronicles. Midnight’s Knight is her fifth novel. She is in the military by day and an author by night; she likes dogs more than she likes most people, drinks too much coffee for her own good and is constantly looking for her next adventure in real life or in a good book.
She is constantly awed and humbled by the courage, tenacity and sacrifice of the men and women with whom she has the privilege of serving. Their fighting spirit and sense of fellowship inspire her every day, and her military experiences provide her with ample material to ground her fantasy world in the reality of the modern warrior.
You can find her at www.jocelynafox.com, or on the following platforms:
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