by Sally Slater
Tristan stared at her as if dazed. “You remind me of someone, but I can’t place who.”
Sam shifted on her feet uneasily. “I’ve been told I have a familiar face.” She prayed he didn’t press the issue.
“That must be it,” Tristan said. He rubbed at his eyes and blinked. “Are you ready for tonight?”
Thank the Gods, he didn’t recognize her. Braeden answered, “Aye, we’re ready.”
Tristan adjusted the sword at his hip and fastened the brooch of his cloak. “Sam, I’ll see you in an hour, and Braeden, make sure the horses are saddled.” He turned to leave, his hand on the door.
She couldn’t shake a nagging doubt. “Tristan,” she called, and he spun around. “What happens if the plan doesn’t work?”
“The High Commander told us at whatever cost.” Tristan’s cobalt blue eyes raked her over from head to toe. “You best have a dagger hidden underneath those skirts.”
Sam patted the small lump on the right side of her hip, the bulge on her left, and then felt for a long ridge by her ankles.
She had three.
CHAPTER 32
After making a few inquiries, Tristan arranged to meet with Sander Branimir over dinner in the singular marble castle overlooking the city. The Beyaz Kale—translated as “the white castle” in the modern tongue—was an amazing feat of architecture, as old as Luca itself. In the early days of Thule, the castle was home to the King and Queen of Thule, till they were forced east by the first and only recorded breach of the Afterlight and the subsequent onset of demons. Now the Beyaz Kale belonged to the Uriel.
Tristan rode his horse up the steep ascent to the ancient castle. Up close, the Beyaz Kale glowed in the fading evening light, and gemstones inlaid in the white marble walls twinkled like stars. A groom awaited him at the top of the path, and Tristan reluctantly handed him the reins. The stables were in a small, separate building, making a quick escape difficult.
The arched doorway to the main building was open, and Tristan let himself in, though not without trepidation. The vestibule was lit by soft torchlight, empty apart from a solitary man of above average height, his face half hidden in shadow. The man closed in on Tristan slowly, as if he were approaching a skittish cat.
Shadows shifted, and Tristan could see white teeth in a crooked grin and a misshapen nose that had been broken several times over. They belonged to a rough, handsome face, etched with the deep lines of a man who laughed regularly and often. Strands of silver and gray threaded through hair that was once dark red, tufts of white curling around his ears and temples. He wore simple but finely tailored clothes, elegant enough for polite company but not so elaborate that he couldn’t jump into action if the need arose.
The man extended a callused hand. “Sander Branimir.” His voice was low and gravelly, but not unpleasant.
Tristan blinked back his surprise and returned the man’s grip. He had expected to first meet with a servant or a lieutenant, not Sander straightaway. “Tristan Lyons.”
Hazel eyes searched the room. “Your trainees, they did not come?”
“No,” Tristan said, giving him no more than he had to. He’d never been a good liar.
“You distrust me.” It was a statement, not a question.
Tristan lifted his chin. “So I do.” That was no lie, not by half.
Sander chuckled. “Honesty is always appreciated.” And damn if Tristan didn’t feel a pang of guilt at that. Still smiling, Sander said, “Dinner awaits us in the tower, if you’ll believe my promise that the food isn’t poisoned. It’s a long way up, so we can chat while we walk.”
Together, they climbed the timber treads of the staircase to the upper levels of the castle. Sander had not exaggerated when he said the climb was lengthy; there must have been more than a thousand steps to the top.
While his leg muscles throbbed with a dull ache, Tristan had ample time to absorb his surroundings. He paused to look over the balustrade at the many floors below. “When I had heard last, the earl of Luca resided in this building.” A nastier man there had never been, too.
“The previous earl passed on eight years ago.”
“He had no heir?” Tristan asked, wanting to know how the Beyaz Kale had fallen into Uriel hands.
Sander’s eyes took on a faraway look. “He had a daughter.”
“Ah yes, I remember her.” Tristan had met the earl’s daughter only once, many years ago, when he was still a boy in Finchold. He recalled she was quite lovely and very kind. Nothing like her father. “A good woman.”
“Aye, it’s why I married her.”
Tristan froze against the railing. Sander was married to an earl’s daughter? He had been under the impression that the Uriel was peasant-born. “I wasn’t aware you were of the aristocracy.”
Sander barked a mirthless laugh, in sharp contrast to his previous good humor. “I’m not, not originally. Something her father never let us forget, not till the day she died.”
“I’m sorry,” Tristan said. “How did she die?”
Sander’s open face shuttered. “It was a long time ago.” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “You may as well know—she died in a demon attack, not long after we married.”
Tristan reeled at the revelation of their shared pasts. He did not want to feel sympathy for this man, not for any reason. “I also lost my family to demons,” he said stiffly.
Sander halted on the stairs. “I did not know that. You have my condolences.”
Tristan suspected there was little the Uriel didn’t know. He shrugged. “As you said, it was a long time ago.”
Sander resumed his climb. “Let us speak of happier things. We have much to discuss, you and I.”
Tristan followed Sander into the domed tower at the top of the stairway. A few men lingered just inside the entryway, including a familiar, scarred face. “Adelard.”
Adelard greeted him with a hearty backslap. “You came! Good to see you under less dire circumstances.”
“And you,” Tristan said politely, a little taken aback by the Uriel’s warm familiarity. “Will you be joining us for dinner?”
“Afraid I can’t. The wife will have my hide. I think she suspects I prefer Cook’s cooking to hers.”
The gruff, battle-hardened man was married? Tristan had difficulty picturing Adelard as a domesticated husband. “Another time.” Although if all went as planned tonight, the Uriel wouldn’t be so hospitable.
Adelard shook Tristan’s hand and headed for the stairs. “Stop by if you have a chance. Our rooms are on the third floor.” He gave Sander a shallow bow and waved his goodbye.
Tristan turned to Sander. “Adelard lives here, with you?”
“Aye, many of the men do. This castle is too damned big to live here by myself.” He led Tristan to the back of the circular room, where a small banquet awaited them. A beef roast, a stuffed piglet, and some veal sausages were laid out across an oak refectory table, along with quince bread and several types of fruit tart.
“Isn’t this excessive for two people?” Tristan asked.
“I thought your trainees might be joining us.” Sander grinned. “And this is a special occasion, is it not? I’ve never before hosted a Paladin.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” Tristan muttered.
“Sit, sit,” Sander said, as he did the same. He poured them both a glass of red wine and gestured at the banquet. “Eat.”
Tristan scooped a few helpings onto his plate, but did not move to eat. “Why did you invite me here?”
“You don’t mince your words, do you?” Sander remarked, with a small, amused smile.
“Nor do you,” he countered.
Sander dipped his head in acknowledgment. “It has been said that I am blunt. But I won’t apologize for it. I would begin our relationship on honest terms.”
Tristan’s eyebrows crept up. “Our relationship?”
Sander took a sip of his wine. “I’m interested in an alliance.”
He quickly hid his astonishme
nt. “With me?” he asked. “Or with all the Paladins?”
Sander tilted his head and gave another enigmatic smile. “You command a lot of respect, Tristan, and you are formidable with a sword, of that there is no doubt. But a war is not won on the shoulders of a single man.” His lips flattened into a self-deprecating line. “I promised you my candor. You have the High Commander’s ear, and I want him to hear me. I’ve tried to correspond with him directly, and he has yet to respond to any of my letters. But he did send me you.”
Sander had written to the High Commander? Had the messages never been received, or had the High Commander chosen to ignore them? Either way, it didn’t sit well with Tristan, and he suddenly felt ill-prepared for this encounter. “I’m sure the High Commander had his reasons,” he said icily. “Why should we ally ourselves with you? Who granted you permission to raise an army?”
Sander put down his wine glass. “May I continue to speak candidly?”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
“The West is dying, Tristan. Little by little, we’re being eaten away. Finchold and Valfort are gone, and you saw Pirama—the rest of the countryside is as bad or worse. I’ve been a Western man my whole life, and I refuse to abandon my home. But I’m an old man with my best years behind me—whether I live or die is inconsequential. There are others like me, stubborn and proud, and they’ll defend their land to their death. And they will die, hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children, like lambs to the slaughter.” He leaned forward, a dark gleam in his light eyes. “The demons are changing, Tristan, both in number and kind. There haven’t been attacks of this enormity since the Age of Shadows.”
Tristan wanted to protest, but the Uriel’s words rang true. He’d seen for himself what had happened to Finchold, and it had been less than a month ago that they’d had a run in with a Dreamwalker.
“Here in the West we know what you in the East only guess at. But it’s only a matter of time till you recognize the truth. And if we don’t band together, then the another Age of Shadows will be upon us.”
His warning ran exactly counter to what the High Commander had said. “And what truth is that?”
“The barrier to the Afterlight has been breached for a second time. The demons’ prison no longer stands. They’re free to come and go as they please. All of them.”
Tristan snorted. “Blather. No one can break those seals.”
Sander took another draught of his wine. “You had an attack on your fortress in Heartwine, did you not?”
“How do you know about that?”
Sander waved his hand. “Never mind that. How do you explain how the demons got past the wards?”
Tristan opened his mouth and shut it. “I can’t.”
“If those wards failed, is it so hard to believe that others might be failing too?”
Tristan shook his head. “I learned my history lessons same as anybody else. The breach that set demons loose upon the world was an accident of magic. That magic is long forgotten. Heartwine’s seals will hold.”
“Magic can be forgotten,” Sander said, “but it can never be stamped out. The wards didn’t fail because we forgot how we made them. They failed because someone remembered.”
“There hasn’t been a warder in over a thousand years,” Tristan said. “Where is your proof?”
The corner of Sander’s mouth twitched. “Pirama doesn’t stand as proof enough?”
Tristan folded his arms under his chest and gave him a non-committal look.
“There have been sightings of demons that haven’t been seen since the time of the first breach. Nightmares that bleed into reality. Dreamwalkers roam the earth again, and if they’re free, Teivel’s provosts are not far behind.” Sander ran a finger along the rim of his glass. “I do not blame you for your doubts, Tristan, you or your High Commander. What I’m suggesting is hard to swallow. But the Uriel have found something, Tristan, something important. Something I mentioned to the High Commander in my letters.”
“What’s that?”
“We found one of the seals to the Afterlight, buried in the rubble at the Diamond Coast.” Sander’s voice trembled with excitement. “Tristan, it’s cracked.”
“Impossible,” Tristan said flatly.
Sander sighed. “I wish it were so. But you can’t deny the truth when it’s staring you in the face.” He speared a piece of meat with his knife. “Something—or someone—is behind all this. We’re going to find out what.”
Tristan started to ask how, but he was interrupted by the clearing of a throat. A young man, a servant by his clothes, stood at the center of the dome, awaiting Sander’s attention. He bobbed in an awkward bow. “Excuse me, sir, but there’s a young lady here to see you. She claims it’s urgent.” The servant shifted his feet uncomfortably. “She did seem rather frantic.”
Gods, Tristan had nearly forgotten the real reason he had joined Sander for dinner. The servant’s message meant Sam was here, performing his part of the plan. “Shall we see to her together?” he asked Sander, forcing himself to remain calm.
“Sure, I’d appreciate the company.” Sander asked the servant, “Where is she?”
“I told her to wait in the vestibule,” the servant said. “Be forewarned, sir, the lady was crying hysterically when I left her to find you.”
In spite of the delicacy of the situation, Tristan felt a grin tug at his lips. Sam, in hysterics? This he would have to see.
It took Sander and Tristan half as long to descend the stairs as it had taken them to climb them. They did not converse on the way down, Sander driven by determined urgency and Tristan too edgy to pretend otherwise. Tristan’s heart beat like the tattoo of a drum, and his clammy palms slid easily along the balustrade, slick with his cold sweat. He couldn’t recall ever being so nervous or reluctant to follow the High Commander’s orders.
What if the High Commander was wrong? Could he have made a mistake in his judgment of Sander?
Appalled at the traitorous direction of his thoughts, Tristan shoved them aside and focused on the feminine figure in the vestibule of the Beyaz Kale. A hand lay flat against the chalk-white walls and dragged down, accompanied by a horrible wailing sound like that of a drowning cat. Delicate shoulders—funny how delicate they seemed when encased in women’s frippery—shook with apparent grief, and great, gulping sobs racked the gently curved frame.
Tristan rushed to the figure at once. “My lady, what is the cause of your distress?” He grabbed the hand on the wall and brought its fingers to his mouth, as if he were going to impart a kiss. In between the knuckles, he hissed, “Sam, you’re overdoing it. You’re supposed to be frightened, not mourning the dead.”
Wide green eyes glowered back at him, tears glistening on the edge of artificially-darkened lashes. “Oh, you’re good,” Tristan breathed, releasing his trainee’s hand. While the crying noises Sam made were out of a bad play, the tears at least looked real.
Sander moved by his side, and Sam resumed his ridiculous caterwauling. “My lady,” Sander said gently. “Can you tell us what the trouble is? I will help you if it is within my power.”
Sam made a show of sniveling, dabbing at his eyes with his dress sleeve. “I don’t mean to be any trouble,” he hiccupped, his voice pitched higher than Tristan was accustomed to. Sam sounded remarkably like a woman. “I’m traveling by myself, you see. I have no husband or brother, and I didn’t know where else to turn. I heard tell of the Uriel, that you might be able to help, and I saw this great big castle at the center of the city, and, well, here I am.” Sam sniffed loudly and blew his nose like a trumpet. Tristan shot him a covert glare—that was not feminine in the slightest.
Sander said, “You’ve managed to find the Uriel, my lady. But why have you sought us out?”
Sam let out a moan of despair. “ ’Tis a demon, milord. A terrible creature, with sharp teeth and great claws and glowing red eyes.” He shuddered, quite believably. “It almost killed me, but I got away, just barely.”
Sander put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You’re all right now, my lady. The danger has passed.”
Sam shook his head wildly, his black braid whipping behind him. “Nay, milord, the danger is still there! I’m staying at an inn, you see, and in my haste to get away, I locked the demon in the room behind me. What if it is still inside? And worse, if it escaped, I fear what it will do. I was so anxious to leave that I did not think to warn others in the inn.” Sam looked down at the floor, the picture of dismay.
“You did right to come to us,” Sander said. “A demon on the loose is a serious problem. I’ll take a few of my men and—”
“My lady, was it just the one demon?” Tristan cut in. Sam nodded tearfully. Tristan faced Sander. “Surely a single demon does not require more than two men. Why don’t you and I go together? We can resume our talk of”—he gritted his teeth—“an alliance after this matter has been dealt with.”
Sander beamed at him and said, “It would be my honor, Paladin.” He seemed genuinely pleased at the prospect.
Guilt settled over Tristan like a heavy blanket, but he forced a smile. “It’s settled, then. My lady, I assume you traveled here by horse?”
Sam mopped at his cheeks. “Aye, milord. I left him with the groom.” He dropped into a flawless curtsey, and Tristan was suitably impressed. Where had the boy learned to curtsey like a duchess? “I’m ever so grateful to you both,” Sam said, fluttering his eyelashes.
Tristan fought back an eye roll. “Sander, will you lead us to the stables?”
“Follow me.”
Tristan placed his hand firmly against the small of Sam’s back and guided his trainee out of the front archway. Underneath his hand, Tristan could feel the bones of the corset that cinched Sam’s waist to feminine proportions. Sam felt so much like a woman that Tristan’s mind began to play tricks on him, even though he knew the truth of it. He needed to clear his head and concentrate. “Is Braeden prepared?” he murmured against the boy’s wig.