attempt.
“Shut the door behind you.” Nicholas’s soft voice cut
through her thoughts like a whip. She tried to quell the rising
dread as the footman did so. He had never sounded so dangerous,
so cold.
In one of those impossibly quick movements that still
surprised her, he turned. His eyes blazed in a face absolutely
drained of color. He looked like a man who had just escaped
the rack and, now armed, faced his torturer.
“You met a man at dawn. You embraced him. You knelt to
him. You kissed his hands. You gave him my betrothal gift,
damn you! And now you’re going to tell me why.”
She looked into his beloved, tormented face and raised her
hand in a plea—for this not to be happening, for some softening
in the icy fire of his gaze—but he just stood there, his hands
curling and uncurling into fists. She wondered wildly whether
he would hurt her. He certainly looked as though he would like
to. “I cannot tell you.”
He was on her before she could even cry out, his hands
gripping her shoulders, shaking her hard once, twice, and then
he shoved her away from him and covered his face with his
hands. “God! You make me into a beast.”
He lowered his hands, and she backed away until she stood
against the wall. His burning eyes pinned her there. She could
feel the silk of the wall covering against her back, the only thing
in the room that had any softness to it at all.
“You don’t trust me enough to tell me who that damnable
god was and why you loved him so much that you’d give him
my necklace. You put me through hell, and all because you
don’t trust me. What is it? Do you think I can’t keep your secrets
safe?” He took a jagged breath. “Or is it that I can’t keep you
safe, Sera?” His voice was desolate and dry as a desert.
She stood there, her back clinging to the wall like a brand,
while her thoughts whirled madly. She shook her head back
and forth and shut her eyes. “You cannot keep me safe, Nicholas.
Not in this world. There is disease and violence, and no one can
protect me from those.”
His laugh was a harsh groan. “Considering the number of
times you saved my hide, I should think you’d occasionally
want me to return the compliment.”
“You rescued me from Hadar. From Dawson twice. Why
do you torment yourself?” She hated his bleak humor, knowing
that it hid a self-condemnation that went soul deep. “I cannot
tell you who the man was. I cannot tell you why I gave him the
necklace. I cannot tell you anything that you want to know, and
still, I ask you to trust me. You say that I do not trust you, but on
this you must trust me. Trust me when I tell you that I love you,
Nicholas, for it is holy truth. Trust me that I stay here because
my happiness is here, with you.”
Expressions chased over his face—misery, fury, cynicism
warring with hope. She hung on his gaze, willing him to believe
her. He turned away from her, shaking his head.
“How can I trust you if you won’t give me answers?” he
asked softly.
A sharp rap on the door jolted her from the wall. “Nikki!”
Andre swept into the room with Carlsohnn and young Oblomov
before the footman could announce them. “There’s trouble. The
Brotherhood camp—something’s brewing there.”
“Men have been arriving for the last three days, Sire,”
Carlsohnn said. “Their numbers reach the thousands now. We
believe…” Carlsohnn cast a cautious look at Sera.
Nicholas nodded curtly to her. “ Kindly leave us,” he said,
without a hint of inflection in his voice.
Sera bent her head and walked to the door. He was beyond
her for now, impervious to the truth of her argument. She could
only pray that with time, he would choose to believe not what
he had seen, but what his heart knew to be true. She was so
afraid her prayers would not be answered.
That night, she crept up the secret stairway to Nicholas’s
chamber. He had not come to her, but she had no pride where
he was concerned. His door was closed. She tried the handle,
only to find it locked.
“Nicholas,” she said softly and knew somehow, from the
dead stillness in the air, that he wasn’t there. “Nicholas,” she
whispered, while a numbing dread began to envelop her. “Don’t
do this to us.”
Empty silence greeted her plea. Sera wrapped her arms
around her stomach and curled over, bracing against the pain.
Slowly, she sank to her knees and leaned her head against the
door. After a long, long time, she rose and walked blindly down
the stairway.
***
“I told you to remain at home, Andre. Damn it, man, who
will lead the country should something happen to me?” Nicholas
sat his mount, in a black mood from two sleepless nights—the
first spent in his study with a bottle of brandy for company, the
second on the road.
The army had marched for two days and crossed the border
before Andre presented himself. In the gray hour before dawn,
he now rode the forest path beside Nicholas with one of those
maddeningly cheerful smiles just visible on his face. Nicholas
knew just one perfect right to the jaw would erase that grin and
leave Andre safely asleep in the forest until the battle was over.
He wished he could use it.
“You were under orders, you idiot! You and Katherine were
to remain at home. When the time came, you were to rule and
keep her safe.”
“I keep her safe by protecting you, old man. And lower
your voice, Nikki. We’re coming in on them soon.”
Indeed, the first scouts slipped back like silent ghosts in
the chill December mist to report a few moments later.
Carlsohnn, among them, wore a look of deep concern.
“From the number of campfires, it looks to be as many as
eight thousand troops, twice our number.”
Nicholas tapped his fingers against his saddle, his mind
sorting out the information against what he knew of Galerien
and the Brotherhood.
“It will be difficult to win against so many of them,” said
General Oblomov, who rode up beside them. The other generals
clustered about Nicholas, all of them wearing expressions of
doubt.
“We must,” said Nicholas. “They’re gathering in force to
march on Laurentia. There’s no other explanation for such
numbers when their normal method of operation is infiltration
in small, deadly gangs. If we refuse to engage, we’ll face them
and Galerien’s forces together soon, and Laurentia will fall.
We must move now, gentlemen, while the element of surprise
is with us.”
“In the darkness?” asked Andre.
“No,” said Nicholas. “The darkness will confuse us as well
as them. We’ll follow the original plan. Gather above them to
the east and wait until sunrise. The cavalry will charge the camp,
followed closely by the infan
try. Pray the sun blinds them. Once
down, we fight like hell. If we succeed, we fan out in legions
and surround their army.”
General Oblomov nodded once, smartly. “It just might work,
Nicholas Andreyevitch.” The others, though still grave, nodded
as well.
“Gentlemen. Kindly send the order along the ranks and
move the men into position.”
An hour later, Nicholas shut his spyglass and replaced it in
his pocket. “I want you at the back, Andre,” he murmured. “You
must return alive to Montanyard. Marry Katherine and name
your first son after me, eh?”
Andre’s hand pressed his shoulder. “You will not die in this
battle, Nikki. Do you understand me? You will not die.”
Nicholas tried to smile, but the effort was too difficult. “I
don’t want to make an end of it, you dunce,” he said. “I simply
want to justify my taking up space on this earth. If I make it
back, I’ll go on to solve the next problem, and the next.”
“Damnit, Nikki,” Andre began as the first rays of the sun
struck the hills behind them.
“Save your breath, my friend. You’ll need it.”
***
“What is it, Grandfather?” Jacob Augustus entered
Emmanuel Aestron’s study and sat down across the table from
the Mage.
Jacob peered into the scrying glass. Across the smooth
surface, the sun rose above hilltops surrounded by forest. A band
of horsemen gathered at the top. A tall, dark-haired rider who
sat straight as a Hillman in his saddle raised his sword. It flashed
in the sunlight and the band charged downward to a plain
teeming with black-clad soldiers.
“Nicholas Rostov goes to battle,” said Emmanuel. “Sera
will never forgive us if we do not watch carefully.”
***
Nicholas whipped his sword arm upward once more,
meeting the jarring stroke of steel yet again. His horse had been
shot out from under him eons ago. He had managed to jump
free, only to come up against one of the black clad soldiers. A
ball from a pistol to his right had downed the soldier and saved
him. The sun, now past the zenith by a good, long time, revealed
a field strewn with bodies, both in the blue and red of Laurentia
and the black of the Brotherhood. Still the fighting went on, to
the cries of the wounded and the metallic stench of blood. He
pressed on, backing a man toward a steep drop in the land,
somehow aware of where he stepped, when to turn, although
conscious thought had disappeared hours ago.
He had lost sight of Andre when he lost his horse. He could
only pray that his friend made it through this hell. The enemy
sliced at him from the left. Nicholas parried, stepped aside to
the right, and readied. The soldier, wild for the kill, lunged, and
Nicholas speared him cleanly. The soldier fell, never knowing
what had hit him.
He sensed a lull in the battle and stopped for an instant,
breathing heavily and wiping the grimy sweat from his forehead
with his sword arm. And heard, very distinctly, a deep, powerful
voice shout inside his head.
“Rostov! Behind you!”
Nicholas whirled to find a tall, spectral man caped in black,
whose sword rose to slice through his neck. He blinked and
leaped aside in time to feel the cold steel cut through the flesh
on his side. The wound was bad, but he still had strength to lift
the sword and back away.
“Count Vladimir Laslow, at your service.” The black-caped
creature bowed, a mocking, graceful movement. “Why don’t
you give it up, Rostov?” The spectre’s voice was cold as the
gates of Hell. “You are dying, just as Catherine Elizabeth will
die, just as your sister, your friend, and the rest of these men
will die.”
Laslow grinned, a tight, feral baring of teeth. “In a day,
maybe two, I shall get the ruby from the witch’s daughter. Oh,
yes, we know she wears it now. As we speak, there are men
inside Montanyard to bring her and the jewel to me. And with
it, the Hills will belong to Galerien, and Laurentia will belong
to us. Your time is up, Rostov.”
The spectre came closer, sword glittering against the sun,
eyes gleaming. “I didn’t make it easy for the chit’s mother, I
can tell you. I enjoyed her screams. Do you believe I’ll give
your mistress an easy death, Rostov? Oh, yes, I can see I’ve got
your full attention at last. I shall allow Galerien to watch while
I cut her, bit by bit. I shall cut out her heart last of all, and give
it to Galerien still beating. Won’t that be a pretty sight?”
Nicholas spun away from the bright flash of the sword. His
head felt light and dizzy. He blinked his eyes to clear them and
swayed on his feet. He must have lost a lot of blood. He probably
wouldn’t survive much longer.
“That is what you must remember, Rostov, as you hurtle
toward death. The picture of the witch’s daughter butchered,
her body desecrated. Our victory over the Devil and his whore.”
Again, his body was jolted by a shock of electric
recognition, as though a soul had just touched his own. “To the
left,” said a voice, deep and compelling, and Nicholas jumped.
The spectre took a step, stumbled over a hidden root, and
Nicholas lunged as Laslow tried to right himself. His sword
slid deeply into flesh, between ribs, and struck the very heart of
the beast.
“No,” whispered the spectre. “I planned it all perfectly. I
shall not die.” Even as he spoke, the cruel light drained from
his eyes, and the beast fell forward on the sword, his venom
drained forever.
Nicholas swayed above the prone figure from Sera’s deepest
nightmares. He had done this much, anyway. “Thank you,” he
whispered to whatever saint or touch of magic had given him
warning.
“Nikki!”
Nicholas blinked to clear his vision. Andre hurtled toward
him with a division of soldiers at his back. Within seconds, they
surrounded him in a protective phalanx, and two men half-
carried, half-supported him off the field of battle.
Andre bent over him, his mouth a grim line in a face lined
with soot and sweat.
“I need you to. . .” Nicholas could barely hear his own voice.
“What the hell do you want me to do, Nikki?” Andre leaned
his ear close to Nicholas’s mouth.
Nicholas grabbed his arm. “Go home,” he told Andre. “Save
Sera. You have to save her.”
“All right, old fellow. Tell me how to do it.”
Nicholas fought the rising darkness while he gave Andre
the details of the plan that would destroy the one chance of
happiness he was ever to have. At least, he thought, he got it all
said.
“Good,” he muttered. “Leave now. Not a mom’nt t’ lose.”
Darkness rolled in and took him under.
Fourteen
At the rap on the door of Nicholas’s study, Andre stopped
pacing and took his place behind the desk. I
t would be an
understatement to say he was not at all happy to inform Sera of
her fate, particularly after speaking to Katherine earlier that day.
But there had been no time to argue with Nikki. The fierce
intensity in his drawn face, as well as the gravity of his wound,
compelled Andre. He had to do it, and do it right.
Andre took a deep breath. “Enter.”
Sera preceded the footman, who quietly closed the door
behind her. She crossed the room in quick steps. “How is he?”
she asked him breathlessly. “Terrible rumors are flying through
the palace this morning. I don’t know what to believe. How
badly is he wounded? You must take me with you, quickly, for
he needs me.”
Sera looked like hell, Andre thought. Her shadowed eyes
were too big in a face gone pale and thin. The realization of just
how much Nikki meant to her hit him hard, and he inwardly
cursed fate and duty. But still, he forced his voice to come out
in a clipped, impersonal tone.
“The wound is grave, but the doctor believes he has a good
chance of pulling through, as long as he is not disturbed. The
king expressly does not wish you with him, not now, and not in
future.” He unrolled a thick parchment and forced his hands
not to tremble.
“In this year of our Lord 1812, His Majesty Nicholas
Alexander Andreyivitch Rostov, tenth of that line by the Grace
of God, Ruler of Laurentia, and of the counties of the eastern
Arkadian range, hereby deems it fit and worthy to banish Lady
Sera, of those mountains, from Lauentia now and forever.”
Sera made a sound, a choked whisper, really. Her face,
already pale, now looked as white as the parchment he had been
reading. Andre rounded the desk in a hurry. He was afraid she’d
faint and he wouldn’t be there in time to catch her. But she
waved him off and clutched at the high back of a wing chair.
He watched her struggle for control and silently cursed.
“The king has ordered that soldiers take you to the
mountains. He reminds you that this is what you wanted for a
long time. He tells you to keep the ruby as a…” Damn Nikki,
he thought, choking on the word. “douceur. You may give it to
anyone you please.”
She raised eyes that were tragic blue pools. “A douceur,”
she said in a voice devoid of all emotion.
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