Blackguards

by J. M. Martin

  “Thank you.”

  “But first to serious matters,” the Nix said. “Why are you here?”

  The stone creature’s sharp gaze daggered into her. Rosenwyn found it difficult to look away. “I am merely traveling. My grandfather would tell stories of Caer Dathal of Old’s grandeur. The beauty. The prestige. The stories he told had been passed down from his fathers before him. I was hoping to view you as well as see…something…of that famous castle, to know those stories were real. You are more than I could ever have imagined.”

  “Stories have power.” The Nix ignored her platitudes. “And shared stories grow in the telling, especially when those stories are told over centuries. Caer Dathal was beautiful, once. No longer. That beauty has vanished with time,” the Nix said with a hint of anger. “And I am not a mindless beast as some of those stories make me out to be. I do not take kindly to strangers. Men and women and Seelie and Unseelie are all alike—they trespass to dig for imagined treasure or magical artifacts. I trust no one.”

  Rosenwyn returned her crwth and bow to their case. Pulling her cloak close, she stood much as she had against Audeph Klestmark—tall and strong. “I am not here to dig for artifacts,” she said.

  “My question remains unanswered with true honesty.”

  “There is beauty here,” she said, looking toward Saith yn Col. “Even one such as you would seek it out.”

  The Nix squinted. “Go on.”

  “You are right about one thing: you are more than the stories suggest, a powerful presence amongst the bones of sorrow. And you are lonely,” she said, hoping beyond hope she was correct. If she wasn’t, she’d be soon dead. “Music brought you from your home, returned you to the light, my life’s blood calling you from the shadows. I only wish to see your home and what remains of the beauty of Caer Dathal. If you wish to hear me play again, you will grant me this small request.”

  Rosenwyn had a hard time not holding her breath. If she lived. If she died. If the curse that had been upon her since she was a child could be lifted. Everything hinged on the next few moments. She had never been so reckless.

  She had never so much to gain.

  Eyes thoughtful, the Nix mulled it over. Rosenwyn prepared for the guardian to turn her away or, worse, kill her.

  “It is a small price to pay for a song,” the Nix mused.

  She nodded. “True.”

  “I require your oath, your word, your promise, that your intent is not ill.”

  Rosenwyn had expected as much. “You have my oath as a musician,” she promised, hating the sour taste of thief falsity on her tongue.

  “What is your name, Woman of Many Talents?”

  “Rosenwyn Whyte,” she said. “And yours?”

  The Nix bowed his head and then turned, ignoring the question.

  “Follow me.”

  He moved toward the entrance to the bowels of Saith yn Col, as silent upon the Everwinter as Rosenwyn had been. Giving Wennyl a last look, she followed. Rosenwyn marveled at the massive stone dragon, the fluidity of the rock that composed his body, the power in every silent stride. She had a hard time imagining how Caer Dathal of Old could fall with several dozen similar entities warding it. She suddenly wished she had met the Nix before the fall of the great Druid castle, unbroken by war and failure.

  The grotesque did not look back to see if she followed. He simply vanished down his large staircase into darkness. Worried she would be unable to see where even the faintest light could not penetrate, she was surprised to find that every sixth stone comprising both walls and floors began to glow with a faint bluish-white light. The Nix strode in front of her, the illumination coming to life as he passed. Magic, most likely, of a kind she had only seen in the wealthiest houses. The hallway quickly opened into a grand hall, where massive pillars supported a ceiling lost to gloom. The Nix had brought her to his home, once a long banquet hall. She shivered. The ancient part of the keep had likely not been seen with human eyes for centuries.

  A scent of parchment and ink mingled with the must of ages. With thief eyes, she began searching for the Grimoires of the rebel Druids. It would not be easy. Shelves as high as the ceiling stretched the length of the great room, filled with books, baubles, and items Rosenwyn had never seen before.

  The grimoires were here. Somewhere.

  “You need not wear the glass over your eyes, Rosenwyn Whyte,” the Nix said, observing her. “You are safe from day and night’s light here.”

  She hid her surprise. “How did you know?”

  “It merely takes eyes to see.”

  She removed her goggles, thinking. The Nix could tell she possessed magic. He had deduced that and its trigger.

  All of a sudden, she felt very transparent.

  “I am Nicodemys Rothyn, First Warden of Caer Dathal,” the Nix said, appraising her anew as if he could read her mind. “And I know there is more to you, Rosenwyn Whyte, than you have thus shared. Dragons covet their treasure. Trolls, the trinkets they gather from wayward travellers crossing bridges. Me? I was designed to cherish beauty in all of its forms, to keep it safe, no matter the cost. What do you treasure?” He paused, looking about him. “Despite these ruined halls, I still see beauty here. I protect it. I possess terrible secrets that should never leave these ruins, secrets so intrinsically powerful they could destroy Annwn and beyond. I protect as I was created—able to sense magic when it is close.” He paused, looking down on her with sad eyes. “But I truly do miss from those former days of Caer Dathal’s glory the music that filled these halls. The revelry. The joy. The laughter that kept the darkness at bay. And you, my dear, possess beautiful music.”

  “You know my secret,” she said. “You know of the magic I carry in my blood.”

  “It weighs on you heavy, an anvil.”

  “I want nothing more than to be normal, to be whole,” she said, unable to believe that she was opening up to one such as the Nix. “I suspect you know a thing or two about that. Wanting to be normal. Returning to what was once known.”

  The Nix glanced down where his arm should have been and then around the hall.

  “Perhaps.”

  All of a sudden, she questioned the oath she had given to gain entrance to this ancient room of Caer Dathal of Old.

  Could a person become more damned?

  “This is your home now?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “It is. Mine and mine alone, sadly. Once I lorded upon rooftops. Now?” the Nix dropped his head and looked away. “Long has guilt been my only companion. But guilt is not a true companion, is it? I am cursed with memory and it is filled with dragonfire and terrible shadows.” He sat upon his haunches. “I suspect you know of this past of which I speak. Not everyone who walked these halls were evil. My kin and I were unable to keep safe those innocents who lived here. Now only I remain, evidence of past defeat.”

  “That must have been truly painful,” she said, the other’s pain tearing at her heart.

  The Nix said nothing. Long moments passed.

  The silence stretched and Rosenwyn became very aware of the other’s scrutiny. She gazed about the room, letting her thief senses learn all aspects of it. She had a sudden thought—and a plan formed that she knew would damn her.

  “You mentioned a book by a poet. A poet named John Keats, I believe?”

  “Yes, yes I did,” the Nix rumbled. He strode deeper into the hall. Rosenwyn followed. “The library under my care is a pittance compared to the grandeur of the Druid collection housed here eons ago. But I have managed to save a number of those volumes from their graveyard and acquire more by…outside means. I am fond of reading. When one lives eternally, reading can be the only solace.”

  With bluish-white light from the ceiling illuminating their way, the gargoyle and thief entered a part of the hall where one large shelf contained volume after volume. Rosenwyn was impressed. Books were not easily come by throughout Annwn, a privilege of wealth and, while she had seen larger libraries, this one held at least several
thousand tomes. They came in various sizes and colors, all of them kept neat and orderly.

  The First Warden of Caer Dathal of Old grabbed a book unlike any of the others, well made and bound in crimson leather, its cover filigreed with silver.

  The Nix opened the book to a ribbon-marked page.

  And read:

  “Darkling, I listen; and, for many a time

  I have been half in love with easeful Death,

  Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

  To take into the air my quiet breath;”

  As the Nix recited from the poem, Rosenwyn sought the grimoires, books that would be like none of the others. She hoped they were here and she could end her search before he finished. It did not take long. High upon the shelf sat the objects of her hunt as described by Lady Audeph Klestmark—five books bound in black leather, their spines thick and left unadorned by text or title, the blank exteriors hiding powerful knowledge inside. They could be none other than what she sought.

  The Grimoires of the rebel Druids.

  “Beautiful,” she whispered as the Nix finished reading.

  “I continually return to this passage,” the gargoyle said. “It seems John Keats knows me quite well. Although I am incapable of breath.”

  “And death, it seems,” she offered.

  The massive stone dragon said nothing.

  “You have an impressive library here, Nicodemys Rothyn,” she added.

  “Thank you, Rosenwyn Whyte.”

  “You mentioned that you required ‘outside means’ to get some of these,” she said hoping to keep her interest in the grimoires secret as her mind raced with how to steal them. “What did you mean by that? Can you not venture from Saith yn Col?”

  The Nix grunted. “I am tied to the stone. I cannot venture abroad without leave from the Arch Druid of Caer Dathal. I will remain as long as this stone remains.”

  “We have a great deal in common,” Rosenwyn found herself admitting.

  “A great sorrow hangs upon you, a past where pain mingles with guilt,” the Nix said. “It is easy to recognize because I know its source all too well. Did a lover do this to you? Or is this something else entirely, Rosenwyn Whyte?”

  She shook her head, remembering her childhood.

  “A man did hurt me. But he is nothing to me now.”

  “Something before this man then. When you were a child.”

  The Nix said it as though he already knew. Rosenwyn thought back to the day her family died. The lightning. The fire. The smoke. The screams. She alone had survived. The destruction of her home and her inability to stop it had created a guilt so deep it would always be there, right beneath the surface. Some memories could be carved into stone and hearts equally, for eternity.

  “I will never be free of it,” she said. “Like your own pain.”

  “But music helps.”

  It was not a question. Rosenwyn nodded.

  “Then I hope you play music until your heart is healed,” the Nix said.

  Rosenwyn didn’t have the heart to tell the Nix there was no amount of music in the world to do that.

  “A song now, perhaps?” the gargoyle asked, all too eager.

  Rosenwyn smiled, putting the past where it belonged. She needed time to devise her next few moves and the Nix offered her time to do so. She grabbed the padded case from her back and pulled forth the crwth and its bow, moved to a block of stone that had fallen from the ceiling, sat, and began to play. She let the music flow through her and into her instrument, a continuous recycling of notes and emotion, each feeding on the other in a wave of creativity. Usually playing for dozens if not hundreds of people, Rosenwyn now played for only one and let the music take her elsewhere even as she tried to discover a way to be free of her greatest and worst curse.

  The Nix closed his eyes, listening, his strong presence at peace.

  In the middle of playing a third song, a light-hearted tune called Fly, Fairy, Fly, the Nix rose up suddenly on his hind legs, towering over Rosenwyn who stopped playing immediately, the peace he had found while she played replaced by a fire of anger so potent she could feel it vibrating the air.

  “Thief!” the Nix roared.

  And the very ruins shook with his fury.

  #

  Rosenwyn cringed, waiting for a massive clawed fist to deliver death.

  It took her a moment to realize she yet lived, that the gargoyle had not killed her outright, that he hadn’t finally discovered her secret in coming to Saith yn Col. Instead, the Nix frantically probed his subterranean home, every shadow and nook, ignoring her entirely and incensed beyond any rage she could believe the stone dragon to possess.

  Thrusting her crwth and bow into their case, she madly scanned the area.

  She saw nothing of what threatened the Nix or his home.

  “What’s going on?” she screamed.

  “Thief, I know you are here,” the Nix snarled, not looking at her. “I sense your magic. You dare enter my home, to steal. Show yourself and end this now, before Death becomes your assured reward.”

  Nothing. No one answered.

  Not that Rosenwyn would think anyone that stupid.

  The ruined gargoyle swiveled toward her then, suddenly dwarfing her, a stone cliff ready to collapse and kill.

  “Accomplice! You know of what transpires!”

  Rosenwyn shrunk to the floor, hands up and placating. “No! I am not! I have no idea what is going on right now!”

  “Conspirator!” the Nix hissed. “Liar!”

  Rosenwyn cringed and furiously tried to discover what was going on. The stone dragon cocked his head as if trying to discover a sound that was just beyond hearing. He gazed back at the library then toward the exit of the hall that led to the world above. His eyes sweeping the shadows, the gargoyle finally settled on Rosenwyn for a moment—a moment that frightened her more than any moment in her life before it—and he bunched like a cat about to pounce, the stone of his muscles filled with sheer power.

  Then the Nix leapt at her.

  No, not at her.

  Over her.

  In a single bound, the Nix tore toward the opening that led back to the surface. Rosenwyn inspected the shelves where the grimoires had been.

  The books were gone.

  And she had been used like a pawn in a chess game.

  Cursing, she chased after the Nix, already replacing her goggles, the thief part of her become icy certainty seeking a reckoning. She now knew stealing the grimoires had never been her role. The books were gone, taken by someone else. She had been a mere diversion, put in direct conflict with the Nix to draw attention away from the real thief. She had been used. And she hated that more than even Vrace Erryn. Anger bolstered her resolve as she ran through the hall, up the steps, and returned to the Everwinter.

  The snow of the previous day had given way to dark clouds wandering in an azure sky, allowing patches of early morning sunlight to reach Annwn. Rosenwyn found tracks almost immediately. They led hastily away from Saith yn Col, to the south where the forest thinned over a series of slowly rising hills. Rosenwyn could not see the Nix but she could hear him; it sounded like the gargoyle was tearing every icy limb free in the forest in his hunt. She wanted the stone dragon to find the thief. She knew what would happen.

  She knelt. It was easy to follow the other thief; the fresh snow that had fallen more than aided her. The tracks were distinctive.

  A small foot. Pointed boot.

  Another woman had entered Saith yn Col and fled into the surrounding forest.

  “Beautiful, did you miss me?”

  She spun aside, turning to find the voice’s owner. It took Rosenwyn a moment to place the young man from the Raging Drunk. Aron McManus. He had dressed more warmly during his travels from Mur Castell but the sly, arrogant smile remained.

  He held a sword and, based upon his stance, knew how to use it.

  “What the hellfire are you doing here?” she spat.

  “You’ll find out,
” he snarled and attacked.

  Rosenwyn bounded backwards, her knives filling her hands as if by magic. McManus circled her calmly after his initial swipe, never taking his eyes off her, his footwork precise and practiced. He feinted. She ignored it. He thrust. She stepped lightly to the side. He was testing her, but she knew it. She held the knives with skillful purpose, the blades deadly extensions of her will. In her line of work, carrying a sword hindered her movements. She had been in many fights, most of them while Lleidr Corryn, and she knew she would have to be fast and precise to best the younger foe.

  Already annoyed, his arrogance driving him forward, he attacked then, the sword a blur of efficiency. She backpedaled, waiting for the opportunity to strike back. It didn’t take long. In his fury, he overextended his reach, if by a moment. She filled the void and slashed back, aiming for his neck.

  But the blade caught his cheek instead, opening it wide.

  She tried to escape his reach but he backhanded her to the ground, causing black spots to dance before her eyes.

  He stood over her, his tongue able to stick through the bloody cut in his face.

  “Bitch!” McManus roared.

  Thunder drowned out the killer’s anger then, filling the forest.

  He barely had time to look up before Wennyl struck him with the galloping full force of his barrel chest, the fey horse maddened in his protection of Rosenwyn. The attacker flew through the air, bones broken. McManus’ pain did not last long. He screamed once, then died bloodily beneath the fall of the Rhedewyr’s flashing hooves.

  Rosenwyn didn’t spare the fool a second thought. She leapt onto the stallion’s back and together they tore through the forest, seeking the Nix. He was not hard to follow. The path of destruction the stone dragon had left in his wake—the forest floor torn and shattered trees as big around as her waste—made it easy. She kept her wits about her though. She did not want to fall prey to another attack if Lady Audeph Klestmark had hired more than a killer and a thief.

  Wennyl cleared the forest, following the havoc, until both woman and horse burst from the trees into a long meadow that rolled over hills into the distance.