Chateau of Passion

by Monica Bentley

  Why didn’t she leave him alone?!

  The firefly was tapping at the waterfall surrounding him on all sides. Tap, tap, tap. This water that encased him, like a cage. Tap, tap, tap. Bouncing again and again on the flowing water that cascaded downward to pool at his feet like a sheet of molten glass fired by artisans that he had once seen in the Il de la Cité. Tap, tap, tap.

  Calling him.

  Could he resist her charms?

  He steeled his mind. Just as he felt her touch. Him.

  He groaned.

  Damn her!

  Why wouldn’t she leave him alone?

  * 12 *

  He sat up.

  That’s impossible, he thought, alarmed. Still, he took some deep breaths. Saint Denis, that hurt! Yet, she had healed him. He should be dead. He knew that. Nobody dives in front of three descending broadsword blades and lives to tell the tale. Nobody he had ever heard of.

  Looking about him by small torchlight, he saw Phoebe lying on a cot nearby, deeply asleep, Lela in her arms. It was pitch dark outside the window. Not even a hunter’s moon to guide him. Well, he thought, the old campaigning spirit firmly awakening within even as he slowly crept out of bed while suppressing a groan, that’s what Destrey was for. He looked long on them, wondering if he would ever see them again. Finally, he decided against a farewell kiss since Phoebe would certainly cry, and he couldn’t deal with that just now. He settled for blowing a kiss and turned to go.

  Saddling Destrey, who was very happy to see him, it made him suddenly regret how much he had been ignoring his old friend for palace politics. He would have to talk with the Commander about that when he returned. If he returned.

  He wasn’t certain what he was heading into, just that the witch was imprisoned in some sort of glass waterfall or something. Or he was. Or something. Until he rescued her. From some sort of blue monster that could strike him dead with a glance. Or something. A quest. Like his namesake from the old King Arthur stories. And fireflies may or may not be part of it. Did he miss anything?

  Oh, and he would be dead right now without her healing him.

  That was enough for him.

  Was it? It was the witch, after all. What if she tried to fuck him again? Drink nothing she hands you, he thought firmly. And especially don’t start licking her nipples, since she has that odd milk that comes out and makes you instantly hard, your eyes glaze over, you stop thinking and...

  He shivered. Don’t drink anything she hands you.

  Brittany. It was a long ride. On a normal horse, four or five days. On Destrey, three and a half. Where the Tower was, he didn’t really remember, somewhere around Saint Mont. Not too far from the borders of Brionde. That was all he cared to remember. Maybe Destrey would. In any case, a long ride and best to get started.

  *****

  The second morning, exhaustedly walking Destrey since his so-called healing could no longer handle even so much as a trot, Tristen was surprised to find a lane that looked vaguely familiar. Or maybe it was the hairs rising on the back of his neck. He was lying along Destrey’s neck, singing to himself. Or trying to.

  It was taking all of his courage to keep going. This couldn’t be some elaborate trick to imprison him again, could it?

  The previous night, he had allowed himself a few hourglasses of sleep, since they were clearly making really good time. He was wearing only his leathers and his rapier. (What good was armor, helm, shield and broadsword against a blue demon that could kill with a look? Besides, he reasoned, agility might be key.) And he was not carrying anything more than a small bag of dried oats, for Destrey. He had honestly forgotten how much armor and supplies can tire a horse, even if he judiciously alternated shorter trots with longer walks. His nap had been scary. The same glass waterfall. The same firefly tapping at it, trying to get in. The same singing voice he head heard the very first night that he had met her. The same messages about a blue monster who killed with a glance, of her imprisoned, of her answering his call to heal his sword wounds in his chest, would he answer hers?

  How does a knight refuse that request? After tossing and turning for some time, he had finally gotten up, walked back and forth a while, then reasoned that any blue devil that can kill with a glance would finally help him nap all too soon anyway.

  He had saddled Destrey.

  Now, here was that original lane. The one that Destrey had wanted to turn into, all those moons ago. At the time, Tristen had thought his charger smelled a bed of clover. Instead they had run into the firefly. Or so he remembered. Regardless, stalling was not furthering his quest. He turned Destrey into the lane. He followed it for some time, then sensed rather than recognized, as they were rounding a bend that they had turned off the lane into the brush somewhere around here. He let Destrey have the lead. And wonder of wonders, his charger did take them off the lane into the woods. He thought he recognized various features, but woods were woods and it had been well over a year ago. He continued to lay on his horse’s neck and wait upon events.

  Instead, he allowed his mind to dwell on the coming battle. For battle it must be. How did one fight a monster, however? He had heard of them, of course. Such as giants or ogres or what did the Duke of Normandy call him? A manticore. He grinned at that. He wondered briefly again how things had turned out. Leaving the room, he had recognized it in the hall as one of a series that Brionde-Anjou had withdrawn from in preparing for the siege. A sign of ultimate victory? Also, he had recognized the King’s Guard just outside – forsooth, all the Guards in the surrounding hallways – to be among the number mostly highly trusted by the Commander. Still... Never a challenge, however. Just a very surprised nod, a deeply respectful one, too. What did that portend? He didn’t pause to gossip, at first because he didn’t want to push his luck. Later, out of he wonder as he passed guard after guard after man-at-arms with the same result. Respect. Obeisance. Odd.

  Back to monsters. A blue one that could kill with a glance? There was that woman. He couldn’t remember her name, but she had a head of snakes. If you looked into her eyes, she turned you into stone. So, if you ever ran into her, simple: thrust for the kill quick while avoiding her eyes. Much like when you were cumming.

  But kill you with a glance? Whether you were looking at it or not? That scared him. The only thing that he had ever heard of like that was a basilisk, a lizard the size of a fawn that you trailed by the slime of bright green venom it left in its wake in the bush. You also lured it out of its hole with a live ferret, or a weasel. Coneys were also said to work in a pinch. In any case, you were supposed to wait atop the hole and stab down quick – again, the quick kill thrust – before it even knew you were there.

  Or so he had heard.

  Fair enough. A quick kill thrust.

  Where, he wondered? The breast, he soon shrugged. No matter the beast, it had a heart. If it had a heart, you could kill it.

  He nodded, feeling better.

  Destrey was stopping in a bed of clover. He let him chew for a bit, the noisy chomping making him rest easier. The day was passing. It was late morning. Last time he was here – if this was that same bed of clover – it was late evening. He had arrived at the black tower late at night. Well, some reconnaissance was probably the best thing anyway. And, it would not hurt to arrive at night.

  After a period of time, Destrey almost seemed to sense his rider’s urgency, so he ripped out several last bunches, then moved on, chewing. Tristen let him. Soon, he spotted a large boulder that he did recognize for certain. Yes, he relaxed, realizing that he had been tense for some time now. His shoulders eased as he forced himself into calm. It did not pay to enter battle with his muscles all tightly wound up. It was odd to be here. Again. Odder yet that he was more afraid of the basilisk than he was of the witch who had fucked him nearly to death.

  What a surreal world this was.

  Why was he here? He abruptly stopped Destrey. He needed to think, and he knew from experience that thinking came far harder for him than, say, drawing to parry at
lightning speed.

  Unfinished business? That damn weeping at night that she did, that had stayed with him long after all memories of horror of near-death fucking had faded. And Saint Denis! Those damn chuckles! Leave him alone! Yes. He wanted to say that. He had been wanting to say that for well over a year now. One of these days, one of those damn chuckles would show up in the middle of a fight, he would freeze just an instant and that would be that.

  Except that it finally had. And he hadn’t. No, it hadn’t! He shook his head, irritated. Didn’t she chuckle right before he threw himself as a shield to protect the Master? Why he had done such an asinine thing, he could never say. He could say that he was going to hear loads about the utter lunacy of such a move from the Commander. When he got back.

  But the fact that he was even here, sitting astride Destrey in the middle of some copse, he owed to the witch who had saved his life. Right? Only to kill him by fucking him to death? He shivered, reminding himself not to drink anything she handed him.

  Tis fair, he allowed. Two things, then. Appreciation for saving his life, and leave him the hell alone. Three things. Stop with the damn chuckles.

  Feeling better. Yes, it was unfinished business. His cock twitched. He groaned. No, no, no! This was not the time to be thinking about that. Giving himself an annoyed shake, he kneed Destrey on. His pointless debate following in his wake.

  *****

  There it was. He recognized the surrounding hedge, even if it was dark. The new moon was casting just the faintest of glows, but his hunter’s gaze took it in, just the same. Over it, at a distance, standing as before in the center of its own demesne loomed the tower. Merde.

  He silently slipped off Destrey and hobbled him. No cursed blue monster was getting his war charger. His hand stilling his rapier from making any noise scraping against a stone, he dropped to his knees and crawled to the hedge.

  There, he crawled along it until he found an opening that he could slip through. Feeling some sort of security, he lay there, quietly breathing. Wondering. The tower looked much the same in the moonlight. The last time he had seen it was in the midst of some chill storm with lightning and driving rain. This time all was quiet in the glen. He even spotted a trio of deer quietly munching on some twigs on a shrub in the distance.

  The stairs were certainly still there. Bricked right onto the circular edge, rounding from the bottom right up to the fucking room. Literally. The fucking room. Where he had realized that he would die if he didn’t get out of there. He swallowed nervously. His cock gave another twitch.

  Saint Denis! This would not stand. Yes, he got it! She was the best lover he had ever had. And that was saying something, given the ladies of the Palais. But, now? Honestly?! He was like some deer wanting to rut, having realized it was finally the season. He chuffed, then froze.

  He must never do that again.

  Battle plan? Well, find her, of course. She was in some kind of waterfall prison. Or glass prison. Or something. Get her out. If he saw anything that looked like a blue lizard, stab it with a killing thrust. If he got it wrong, apologize later.

  Simple enough.

  Still, he lingered. He did not know why. Was she in the fucking room? He didn’t know any other room in the tower. Why so tall then? She had just whirled in there each morning, witch-like. She hadn’t even used the door. He clucked at how little he knew. Well?! There were other battles where they had known little. There was that small chateau outside of Aix where they had been spotted by some boy herding his pigs in the woods. He had cried the alarm, and rather than sound the retreat, the Commander had sounded the charge. They had come through all right.

  The night moved on. The moon moved on. It abruptly dawned on him at one point that it was setting just above the one window in the fucking room that he suddenly remembered. It was over the table. The one that had the gem-encrusted goblet. Don’t drink anything, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time.

  All at once feeling silly, it dawned on him that he was wasting moonlight. So after one last long searching look and listen, he moved.

  Quiet as a crypt, he slipped across the glen, waiting for death to strike him at any moment, coming to rest against the stairs. Directly above was the archway at the top of the stairs, which meant he had to follow the curve of the tower back several degrees of the circle before finding steps low enough. He was panting. He was sweating through. When had that happened last? His first battle?

  Really annoyed at himself now – after all, when the basilisk killed him with a glance it wasn’t like he was going to feel anything. Right? Regardless, he moved on. Silently stepping, following the curve, watching the steps descend. Until he could leap up with one hand, still his rapier with the other.

  Saint Denis! What would the Commander say? “Following your prick unto death.”

  He grinned at that, suddenly feeling better, lighter. Jauntier, even. Ah, his old friend had finally arrived – the thrill of battle.

  He swiftly made his way to the top, pausing outside the wooden door. This would be easy, he thought. Like killing the Duke’s Men. Just as fast, too. Only there it was a score of them. Here there would be only one. So much, much faster.

  His fingers reached for the latch, he softly turned it and opened it to his doom.

  There, inside, she lay on her bed, encased in some kind of shimmering prison that lightly reflected the moonlight. The table was there and, he gulped, the goblet. The window, the fireplace. A bunch of dresses were hung around the circular walls, with slippers stowed neatly below them. Other than the clothing, it looked precisely the same. Except. Oh. That odd stone cauldron that she used to mess with at night. Its vapors reaching up from the waters while she stared down into it, muttering to herself. Which had always made her weep. Which made him automatically reach out to her and hold her, much like he did Twig in the old days, even if he was the witch’s prisoner. Anyway, it was missing. Well, that’s good he thought. Right?

  And there certainly was no lizard lying around in some hole. Even better.

  Returning his attention to her, he drew closer. The shimmering...curtain gave way to his touch, slightly. But she...he gasped. She was dead. The moonlight picked up the details, softening them, but looking more closely, it was unmistakable.

  When he had known her before, her hair was thick, luxurious, voluptuous. So darkly black it had a blue sheen to it. She used to trail it over his chest again and again when mounting him. He used to guess that she delighted in his chest and arms, hardened over the years into the taut musculature needed to ride a horse or swing a broadsword in battle for glasses at a time.

  Now, her hair lay lank, spiritless on the pillow, framing her face. The only sheen came from grime that had stained the pillow with sweat.

  Her skin had been flawless, milky white, pleasantly round cheeks decorated with blood-red lips and eyes that were seductively – and later terrifyingly – shrouded in some sort of shadowy mist. Now they were simply closed. The cheeks were emaciated, the skin, dry and flaking. She stank. Of death. Before, she had smelled fabulously of roses and other scents that he didn’t know. Even her fine velvet gem-toned gown was gone, replaced with some sort of raggedy, grimey smock, stained with God knew what. Her hands were clasped in the death pose, laid upon her breasts. Even those...he closed his eyes.

  Now what?

  He had the darkly amusing thought that Gaspard would be tickled pink by this. To rise from his deathbed, plunge madly into some quest of his own free will, facing near certain death from some fearsomely magical fiend, all to rescue the witch that had nearly killed him, all because she had saved him, only to find that he had arrived too late?

  Some quest! The Commander would have a few choice words for it.

  Well. Thinking of Phoebe – and resolutely not thinking about what she would have to say about it – he decided that maybe he should pray. Or something.

  He didn’t really know how.

  Instead, he opted for kneeling by her side, quietly.

&nbs
p; A vigil! That made sense. That was quest-like. Yes, he decided on a vigil.

  He noted that the moonbeams were moving across the room, thus the moon continued its nightly journey. Before long, he began to hear the first birdsong. Dawn was approaching. His mind having long since wandered afar, he returned to simply looking at her, wondering how her appearance would change as the sun came up. He just stared at her. And, surprise of surprise, he sensed that her chest had moved. His hand darted to his rapier hilt as the rest of him went completely slack. Ready. For anything.

  He waited. It moved again. Slightly. She was breathing! Torturously slowly. Yet, breathing nonetheless. Well.

  Now what?

  He also noted that with the increasing gray of twilight in the room, the shimmer of the prison was slightly fading into something clearer. Not quite crystal yet but definitely headed there. He reached out slowly to give it a nudge.

  And her eyes fluttered. Her eyes! She was breathing more deeply. They fluttered again. They looked bright blue, he thought, and wondered at that. She was opening them now and looking at him. Was he dreaming? There was so much love for him in those eyes that he stopped breathing himself. Only Phoebe looked at him like that. And only when she was so young, when she was Twig. Tempeste started to smile then froze.

  He was instantly on his feet spinning around and drawing. There was a cloud whirling in the room, a colossal sized cloud, like that of a very large man, almost a giant. Not a lizard, that was for certain. He paused wondering what to do. The first rays of the sun were entering the room at just that moment, lighting up the whirl, and he saw it just as he stabbed it. A dark blue.

  His rapier whipped out of his hand and banged against the wall. He himself was being thrown across the room to crash painfully into the fireplace, banging his head on the stones. He had the lunatic happy thought that at least the monster hadn’t thrown him at the goblet. But then, the cloud was resolving into a head of golden hair, dark blue eyes...