Roses and Thorns
Chris Anne Wolfe
Prologue
A woman's hand, strong and lean in its tapering lines, passed over the ripples of the fountain's lowest pool. The words of her spell breathed again, and the splay of dancing waters stilled. Within the calm, a rich garland of black velvet and stars reflected the night of a moonless sky.
"I still see nothing," the man beside her murmured. His remark voiced more puzzlement than concern. "Not even us."
"Patience, Culdun."
The starry images began to swirl. Inky whorls of blackness grew, and a muted crack of thunder loosed.
"There — do you see the forest road?"
Shadows became shapes and took on lighter hues. The figure of a lone horseman appeared. The winds and gathering late-winter storm promised to spare him little on that wooded lane.
"Looks lost enough. He's a merchant of some kind, you said?"
"Aloysius by name."
"Al-o-ish-us." He tongued the odd sounds. But then Culdun found many things strange about these Continent folk. "How did you learn that?"
"What? His name and business?" A dry humor colored the woman's tone. "He mutters to himself."
A weary sigh was Culdun's only response.
"I know. More work for us all, I'm afraid."
"Well," Culdun began grudgingly, "with the storm brewing and wolves prowling, he'd not survive the night unsheltered. If we set the palace wards to ignore him, he should be protected enough against any mumbled follies."
"Aye," the other agreed, even though the mere thought of entertaining any outsider was tiresome. Still, Culdun was correct: this Aloysius wouldn't live to see the dawn without aid.
Her hand swept away the vision of rider and road, returning the fountain to its gurgling play. She turned hard on a booted heel, voice curt. "Come — we'd best prepare his welcome."
Chapter 1
There was no moon that night, not even the merest sliver of one. Clouds crowded above, unseen blankets that smothered whatever bright light the stars would have given, and in the distance thunder stirred. The forest air was chill and damp. Icy tendrils, the claws of viler winds, slipped through the trees to torment the lonesome traveler.
Aloysius shuddered at the baleful cry of a wolf. His horse shied at a twig snapping under hoof. With a curse, the man brought the riding crop down across the animal's withers. The horse tossed his head, squealing, and danced aside, but the merchant had once been a fine horseman.
"It'll take more than a skittering step to unseat me, you brainless old nag!"
With a snorting protest, the horse straightened his step and the merchant rode on.
Aloysius was lost, but he was not about to admit it. If he did, he might begin to believe it. Then he might be tempted to stop for the night and wait for dawn and the sun in order to get his bearings.
The wolf cried. Others answered.
"No, I think not," he muttered, casting a glance behind. The whites of his eyes rolled with the same fear as his horse's now. "A fire and rest? It'd be sheer folly, I think. And this storm, so late in the season —"
Again, the wolves howled.
Thunder shouted suddenly. The horse began to bolt, but a stern tug on the reins broke the impulse in mid-stride. The animal's ears flicked nervously.
Aloysius shivered. The late-winter’s daylight was gone now, and the coming storm promised sleet at best and a sudden snow at worst. "I'd almost welcome sleet in this eerie gloom. At least it'd be a tangible sort of thing to suffer."
The horse snorted. The man struck it quiet with his crop.
The wind blew harder, carrying a wailing echo. It was like the mourning cry of a woman — or a dying animal, and Aloysius found himself swallowing hard. He gathered the heavy folds of his cloak around him as his hand strayed to the pistol tucked into his belt. It was loaded with ball and powder, but he was not fool enough to ride with it cocked.
It was rumored that these woods were haunted by magickal, horrible things. That was why he had chosen the route. Ordinarily a man of few superstitions, Aloysius had hoped others' fears would keep him from being followed. He carried relatively little of value from this last trailing venture — a single pouch of small, very flawed gems. But he knew at least a dozen pot-bellied fools in the rural regions who would pay far more than they were worth. It would net him a tidy profit, although certainly not a large enough one to squander by engaging a bodyguard. Besides, Aloysius had always held the opinion that guards were not trustworthy. To him, they were a public announcement that the traveler carried money.
He liked to think about the cowards who had periodically betrayed him by abandoning his caravans when finding themselves outnumbered by their assailants. It was not in his nature, however, to ponder the more uncomfortable memories of the times they had not fled.
Still, on a night like this one, Aloysius did rethink the wisdom of his decision to travel alone. Perhaps he should at least have stayed to the main roads and the inns. It was obvious that his shorter route was not proving to be so very short this eve.
Another thunderclap broke. The horse screamed, rearing high, and then everything was suddenly silent. Before the merchant, billows of steamy whiteness shimmered, lifting only slowly. As they dispersed, a shadowy figure was revealed.
The horse froze in place, his hooves planted wide and flat.
There was a whoosh of sound and two torches abruptly sprang to life on either side of the stranger, each set high in a brick pillar. The man could now see that he stood before a gate straddling the leaf-strewn road. The wrought iron doors stood open.
Aloysius bent low, clinging to his horse's neck as he peered forward at that cloaked figure. Clad mostly in black, from polished boots to satin shirt and trousers, little else was discernible save the obvious wealth reflected in the quality of those garments. Even the stranger's hands were sheathed in black leather. Both vest and face were hidden beneath the shadows and drape of the blood crimson cloak.
The figure lifted a gloved hand. A breeze circled horse and rider, a warm, scented breeze that teased both Aloysius' cloak and his horse's mane. Then, with a single-finger gesture, the stranger sent the warm wind rushing back through the gates. As it danced up the lane, a string of hanging lanterns appeared, revealing a cobblestone road. The light brightened and Aloysius could now see that the lane was lined with neatly trimmed hedges. The hanging lanterns creaked and swayed in the aftermath of the breeze. Beyond and above the lanterns, spirals of glittering stars, whirling in majestic-swirls of light, appeared in the clear, moonless sky. Aloysius was lost in awe.
The merchant straightened in his saddle, barely daring to look around and test his sanity. His horse neighed anxiously, his hoof pawing the ground as the figure stepped to the side of the gate. There was a satisfyingly real clack of boot upon stone with each step.
"No, I am not a ghost." There was humor in the quiet voice.
Aloysius squinted, leaning forward again in an attempt to pierce the dark shadows which hid the cloaked face. As if in defiant response to the merchant's desire, the stranger tossed the cloak's hem over a shoulder, creating deeper shadows. The crimson sheen caught the torchlight, the finely worked velvet and satin caught Aloysius trained merchant eye, and he momentarily forgot his predicament and fear. But the renewed howling of nearby wolves brought him back to the present moment. Aloysius folded his reins anxiously as he twisted to search the forest behind.
"Now you must choose, Merchant. Me — or them?"
He spun forward, disliking the mocking lilt to that faceless voice.
"You are a demon, not a man!" he shouted rebelliously. He had never heard that sort of light tenor from a mortal male.
The other leaned insolently back against a p
illar, arms crossed.
"You laugh at me," Aloysius growled.
"As would you, if you saw yourself looking so hesitant in this dilemma." The low tone of mockery still teased him... dared him. "Come now, is there really a choice?"
Something stirred in the bushes behind Aloysius and he jumped as his horse sidestepped a pace or two.
"Ah," the figure straightened. "Perhaps I have forgotten my manners. I do tend to forget what magic mortals fear."
Aloysius did not miss the emphasis in the stranger's choice of words.
"An honorable invitation then? You are chilled, in danger, and — I would also venture to guess — hungry. Good traveler, let me offer you the hospitality of fine wine and warm cheer. Come morning, you may continue on your way. Nothing will be taken from you but a bit of conversation in payment for lodging and good food. You have my word. No, you have my solemn oath." The figure bent in a low, sweeping bow. "What say you, then?"
But the teasing tone that crept into the last question was more infectious this time. The ridiculousness of Aloysius' circumstances dawned on him. With a sudden burst of laughter, the merchant nudged his horse forward.
"Dare I believe you see the jest?" The stranger's head tipped, bemused. "Or is there something comical in my speech?"
"Aye — nay!" Aloysius reined in beside his host, laughing still. "You have the right of it. The jest is indeed on me, good sir— ."
"My Liege."
"Pardon?"
"The proper address is not 'sir.' It is 'my Liege.' Go on."
"Yes. Well." His humor reasserted itself quickly. "Of the two, which would any court, my Liege? A wicked end with the wolves, an empty stomach and frostbitten fingers? Or a wicked, magicked end with supper and warm toes?"
A gracious nod and a hand waved him forward.
Aloysius gave a broad, satisfied sigh, pulling the thin stem of the clay pipe from his mouth. For the moment, he was alone in the drawing room as his strange host had been called away to tend to some business.
The merchant took pleasure in finding himself so thoroughly pampered; it had been years since his own merchant's house had flourished. There'd been a few too many bad investments, not enough loyal customers and, eventually, his family had been nearly bankrupt. But, even in his prime, when things had gone exceedingly well, this kind of luxury had been something he had only dreamed about.
His thick fingers caressed the silk embroidery of the ankle-length coat his host had given him to ward off the evening’s chill. It was of finer workmanship than he had ever seen, and Aloysius was certain that it had come from the Orient's farthest corners.
His hand moved across the white ruffled silk shirt — also a gift — his fingers delighting in the feel of the fine fabric, and he looked appreciatively again at the woolen breeches and handworked vest. The waistcoat, too, was a gorgeous piece of workmanship, with its red satin lining and delicate, exquisite stitching. He sighed. Just the feel of the fabrics reminded him of all that should have been his.
As his business had declined, he had been forced to forgo replacing anything made of silk. Aloysius wondered how he had forgotten the very deliciousness of wearing such proper garments. Drawing on his pipe, he admitted there was little to be done about his circumstances now. The responsibility for that fell to his boys. They would have to do the adventuring. He was growing too old for journeys such as these. And besides, wasn't it about time that his sons began caring for him a little? Yes, he thought. It was. Aloysius turned to bask in the welcoming heat of the hearth as he comfortably assured himself this would be his last journey.
"Sir, your brandy."
The merchant started, shocked to find the servant had come so close without him sensing it. Aloysius, however, was more than surprised when he raised his eyes and met Culdun’s steady gaze. He was unnerved. Culdun did not fit his idea of a servant. The man was built as squarely as any burly, hired guard, yet he stood only four feet in height. A small braid hung before his left ear, and the rest of his fine hair, which fell just beyond his collar, was graying.
He did not dress like a servant either. His waistcoat was embroidered in woolen crewel stitch and his shirt was as fine a silk weave as the one Aloysius wore. He wore his collar buttons undone, which was unheard of in any servant Aloysius knew. And if the fact that his burnished brown boots never made a sound when he walked was not enough, the merchant found the blue, green and red tattoos which covered Culdun’s forearms indeed confirmed that he was a creature from the netherworld. As the man extended the brandy tray, Aloysius realized that the entwining patterns of vines and snakes were the very same as the ones that were embroidered onto Culdun's waistcoat. Culdun was a most unpleasant reminder that this place was not built entirely for mortals.
"Ah, you do not like brandy then?"
Aloysius jumped, startled again, this time at the sudden appearance of his host. "No," he said quickly, taking one of two glasses on the silver tray. "Brandy after dinner is quite a pleasure."
"Thank you, Culdun."
Aloysius watched as his host, hand still sheathed in fine black leather, took the other brandy.
"You're welcome, my Liege."
Aloysius stirred uncomfortably as the cloaked figure bent in a slight bow. He had never heard of bowing to one's servants.
"Forgive me for my absence." The other straightened, half-turning towards him. "You were telling me of your family at dinner. You sound very proud of your two sons."
"Aye, I am." Aloysius felt his tension ease as the conversation turned to a familiar topic. His shoulders pushed back as he boasted, "The youngest's something of a rake yet. Still into the wine a bit too often. Hasn't grasped a proper sense of responsibility. But that will come. Now my older one —"
"Yes," the faintest touch of mockery resurfaced, "the one that reminds you of yourself in younger years."
"Similar, yes, similar. But more daring, and maybe even more clever. Needs to rein in his temper a tad more, though. Still, that wisdom comes with age, doesn't it?"
"Sometimes."
Aloysius wasn't certain he liked the way that sounded.
"And you mentioned a wife, did you not? Angelique?"
At that the merchant chuckled, again shrugging off his discomfort. "I have a wife, aye, but Angelique is my daughter."
"Ah, forgive me. When you'd mentioned her tending the cooking, I thought —"
"Natural mistake, natural mistake. No, my wife is an invalid, an illness of the bones, you see. She's been bedridden since the birth of our last child. He was... stillborn."
"My condolences."
Aloysius waved his hand. "No need. That's many years past. And I have my boys."
"And your daughter."
"And my daughter. Good lass," he paused and then added with a small smile, "Well, mostly. Only need to take the strap to her now and again. Don't know what I would have done about the household without her. Raised her younger brother more than my wife did. Still, she's got a wee streak of independence that runs away with her once in a while."
"A mind of her own?" the other offered, voice suddenly tight.
"Aye, you could say that at the very least!" He chuckled, not noticing the change. "Mind you, it's nothing a firm handling can't dissuade. Most of the time, you'd never notice it!"
Aloysius blinked in shock and surprise as the brandy glass shattered in his host's black-gloved fist. He stood warily, wondering what had caused such a reaction, wondering if this place was indeed safer than the woods and the wolves. He was even more shocked when his host said, "Tell me, sir. Is she of a marrying age?"
Aloysius dropped his own glass.
His host looked down at the two broken glasses as if seeing the shards and splinters of crystal for the first time. Before Aloysius could voice an apology, his host waved a gloved-hand toward the floor and the glistening shards and brandy stains disappeared from the rug and flagstones.
Aloysius groped behind him, knees buckling. The gloved-hand moved again. A heavy chair slid
forward silently and Aloysius sat with a bump. His eyes were wide with terror.
Quite unperturbed, his host leaned casually against the mantel stone, arms crossed. The cloak's crimson threads shimmered in the dancing firelight, like glinting eyes of watching serpents.
Aloysius shut his mouth with a snap, then cleared his throat and attempted, awkwardly, to settle more securely into his chair.
"If I have insulted you, sir, I can only plead ignorance," his host began. "We are so isolated here. I thought that a merchant of your ambitions would surely have hoped to arrange a... profitable marriage for your daughter?"
Aloysius gaped. A hundred thoughts swirled in his head. After a moment, he swallowed hard before asking, "Am I to understand you are in need of a wife?"
Sarcasm tainted the reply. "So surprising, but true."
"And... and you wish to marry Angelique?"
"Perhaps." The poisonous taint vanished from the voice. "I wish to explore the possibility."
The merchant said nothing. The other continued quite matter-of-factly. "I am in a position to offer you quite a good contract, Aloysius."
"Contract?"
"Is that not the proper term for it? What do you call it then, a bride price?"
Opportunity awakened greed in the pit of Aloysius' stomach. He thought again of the fine garments that now clothed his body and had a momentary vision of retiring into a life of luxury. Licking his lips nervously, he shifted his gaze quickly to the fire. Opposing thoughts warred within him as part of him shouted that this was too preposterous even to contemplate.
"Come now," the host's voice cajoled gently. "It would be a good life for any woman. My father was a Count as was his father and his father before him. My lineage is impeccable. And, as I'm sure you've noticed, I am not poverty stricken."
The merchant nodded slowly. He was intrigued, true, but unconvinced.
"The palace, the village, indeed, the entire valley has prospered by my hand."
The man shuddered. While his host's words were true, he'd heard stories of the surrounding woods his whole life. Many of them were frightening and — given what he'd already seen here tonight — more true than he had imagined.
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