The next morning, Sherwood waited in Lady Dulgath’s private study, playing out a hunch. In many ways, he felt dishonest, even despicable given the circumstances, but he had to know. Sherwood went about his usual routine: adjusting the easel, setting the canvas, mixing his paints. He marveled at the exactness of his palette. He never cleaned the thing. The new oil kept the paint workable for days, and cleaning it would be a terrible waste — one of the other advantages of oil over egg, which dried up in minutes. Even with the oil, an inevitable buildup formed as paint dried beyond his ability to reclaim, but palettes were cheap and eventually he would replace the whole thing. He’d had this one for a while; none of the original wood was visible on the paint side. Even the backside was a mess of smudges and multicolored fingerprints — and every one was exactly the same as it had been. Sherwood didn’t know how, but he was certain Lady Dulgath was responsible.
I consider it my failure. I’m responsible, and I’ll make it right again.
Maybe it had been a coincidence that she’d said that, but deep down he was so certain. A feeling wasn’t the same as the truth, though, so Sherwood waited while watching the sunrise, its light creeping across the ceiling and down the wall.
If she’d had nothing to do with it, Nysa wouldn’t expect a session. No one else knew about the miracle except Melborn, and Sherwood was convinced he didn’t care enough to say anything. So if Lady Dulgath came to the study, it would prove her involvement.
And what will that mean? He didn’t know, didn’t care. One thing at a time.
He finished mixing, then set the palette knife down. Hopping onto the stool, he wiped his hands on a rag, then returned to watching the sun creep while he waited.
He didn’t hear her walking; he never did, at least not her feet. The dress was what he heard, that familiar swish, swish. Lady Dulgath entered, as she always did, without a word or glance. She wore the same gold silk-brocade dress, had the fox stole wrapped around her shoulders, and held the riding gloves. Moving to her mark on the floor, she turned, lifted her chin, and looked at the chandelier.
“Thank you,” he said.
The two words just came out. Sherwood had run through a dozen different conversations in his head, everything from pointing an accusing paintbrush at her to kneeling at the lady’s feet and weeping. He’d been undecided on what he would really do if she came. Now he knew and was pleased with the simplicity — so much better than weeping.
“For what?” Her words were aloof, her eyes still on the chandelier.
“I honestly don’t know.”
This made her look at him.
“You don’t know why you’re thanking me?”
“For restoring my property, certainly, but . . . I don’t know what you did or — perhaps more to the point — how you did it. So, while I thank you for the gift, I’m not really sure what exactly I’m thanking you for. Does that make sense?”
“It does not.”
“But you did repair my easel, brushes, and paints.”
She looked down at his tools with squeezed lips and squinted eyes. “Oh, that’s right. Are those new?”
“No, they aren’t. They are the same ones that were destroyed. Somehow you managed to put them back together for me, down to the last sable hair in this brush.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“If it wasn’t you, how did you know to come here this morning?”
She resumed looking at the chandelier. “Habit.”
“Habit?”
“Yes. To be honest, I’d forgotten about your mishap of yesterday. You’ve had me doing this for so long, I act by rote now, which, as I think on it, is most disturbing. You need to finish this foolish painting so I can have my mornings back. This has gone on far too long.”
She lifted her chin and blanked her face.
“I know you,” he said. Once more, the words came out without thought, as if a pipe ran directly from his mind to his mouth and someone had flipped open the spigot.
“No, you don’t,” she said.
“Oh, but I do. I can see who you really are. I can see what you’re so desperately struggling to hide from everyone. I can see it clearly — and it’s beautiful.”
“If you knew the real me, you wouldn’t think me beautiful.”
“But I do, and you are — beautiful and wonderful and wise and . . . and I —” Sherwood caught himself. He looked at the restored easel, at the miracle before him, and threw caution to the wind. “I love you, Nysa.”
There. Sherwood felt as if he’d expelled some kind of poison that had sickened him for weeks. Saying it filled him with relief and joy. The euphoric sensation lasted all of a second; then reality crashed down.
What have I done?
He expected either outrage or laughter. If the former, guards would be throwing him out of the castle. If the latter, his heart would break. Instead, Nysa Dulgath slowly shifted her gaze to him. Pity was in her eyes, a deep, mournful sadness so pained that Sherwood trembled.
A tiny almost-smile stole over her lips, a bitter, painful face. “You don’t know me, Sherwood. No one does, and no one ever will. Just paint. Can you do that?”
He nodded, a terrible emptiness filling him.
----------------------------------------
Sherwood took his noon meal outside, sitting in the grass of the courtyard. The day was perfect, as every day in Dulgath had been since he’d arrived.
It never rains.
He only then realized this and found it odd he hadn’t noticed before. The skies were perpetually blue. There was always a light, warm breeze, never hot. He sat in the shade along the south wall near an overgrown area where the scattered stones of the crumbled tower made scything the grass too much trouble to bother. He had his back to one of the great blocks and his legs outstretched toward the statue of a man and a woman kissing. Of the many wonderful pieces of artwork at Castle Dulgath, this was Sherwood’s favorite. The two figures intertwined and blended at the base, as if they were part of a tree trunk. Then, as the torso twisted up, a man and woman appeared like the frayed ends of a rope. The two embraced on the edge of a kiss, their lips a hairsbreadth apart, eyes closed, ecstasy on their faces.
The statue stood partially hidden in the tall grass, behind a wild bush and maverick tree. No one came there. No one visited that side of the castle, and at first he’d lamented the statue’s isolation. He felt others should see its beauty and incredible artistry, which went beyond depicting the human form, lifting it above reality into the scope of what ought to be. Raw emotion formed from cold stone, the sculpture captured a moment of longing and triumph, passion and love.
What else is there to hope for with any art? To capture not just truth but a truth worthy of display, one that provides comfort, joy, or understanding, and moves the heart or makes it pause.
As the weeks had gone by, Sherwood came to see this neglected corner of the courtyard, this tranquil place of quiet solitude, as his. He appreciated its seclusion. The statue — those inspirational lovers lost in the forgotten weeds of a fallen past — gave him hope for the future. At times, when the shadows were just right, he thought the woman looked vaguely like Nysa. The cheeks were far too high and sharp, the face too long, but he obviously wasn’t seeing with just his eyes.
He heard feet swishing through grass and was surprised to see Rissa Lyn coming toward him. No buckets this time. Instead, she carried a curled-up bit of parchment.
“Pardon me, sir.” She halted the moment he turned her way and gave a curtsy. “I have a message for you.”
“From whom?”
“Chamberlain Wells gave it to me, sir, but he says it’s from Her Ladyship.”
“Lady Dulgath?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sherwood nearly toppled his plate in an effort to stand. “Let’s have it then.”
He reached out, but Rissa Lyn hesitated. She had a troubled look in her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Sir, I seen your easel. I seen your paints and brushes there in the study this morning, and . . .” Her face reddened. “I was outside the door and heard you speaking to Her Ladyship — about her knowing — about her having something to do with it and all.”
“Yes?” he asked impatiently. Sherwood liked Rissa Lyn well enough. but if Lady Dulgath had sent him a message — for the first time ever — he wanted to know what it said.
“Well, I think you’re right, sir. I think she does know — I think she was the one who did it.”
“Thank you, Rissa Lyn, I appreciate you telling me, but —”
“Sir . . .” She bit her lip and looked at her feet. “I don’t just think she did it. I know she did.”
“What do you mean? Did you see her do something?”
Rissa Lyn shook her head.
“Then how do you know?”
“On account of how I’ve been Lady Dulgath’s handmaiden for the last ten years. Served her since she was twelve years old, sir. I was there when she was carried in after falling off Derby’s back. There was no saving her, sir. Poor Nysa. Her back was broken, neck too. She was dead before they got her to the castle.”
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“What?” Sherwood was so focused on the note in Rissa Lyn’s hand he hadn’t paid attention, but those last words were impossible to ignore. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the Countess Nysa Dulgath, daughter of Earl Beadle Dulgath, died two years ago. His Lordship was crying and wailing like I’d never seen him. She was his only child, the last link he had to his Lady Raychelle. He couldn’t let her die. He had Abbot Augustine bring in that witch, Maddie Oldcorn. Was just His Lordship, the abbot, and me there when Maddie told him his daughter was dead and nothing could be done.”
“Rissa Lyn, Lady Dulgath is alive. She’s right up — You’re holding a note she wrote to me!”
“That’s not Her Ladyship. That’s someone else — something else. I’m telling you because I know you’ll believe me. You can see her for what she is. A mere lady couldn’t have fixed your easel and paints, could she? A mere lady couldn’t have survived being poisoned. And I was there that day when the stone fell. It didn’t miss her, sir.”
“What are you talking about? She would’ve been crushed. The stone was” — he pointed at one of the huge blocks half buried in the grass — “as big as these.”
“And I watched her swat it away like a fly,” the maid said.
Sherwood narrowed his eyes. “Rissa Lyn, have you been drinking?”
She scowled, then frowned. “I have not, sir! And I don’t understand why you act as if you don’t believe me.”
“Because I don’t!” He nearly shouted the words, but part of him was inwardly nodding and whispering, Yes.
“I thought . . .” Rissa Lyn folded her lips tight to her teeth. “I thought you were different.” Her lower lip quivered. “I thought you’d understand.”
She turned and started to walk away.
“The note!” he cried.
She spun. Tears were in her eyes as she threw the parchment at him. “You’d love a monster when . . . I’m . . . I’m right in front of you — damn you! Damn you, Sherwood Stow! Go on. Go to it. Let the demon drag you to Phyre. I don’t care anymore.”
With that, Rissa Lyn ran away in tears, leaving the note fluttering in the grass, blown by the perfect breeze.
----------------------------------------
Sherwood had memorized the note and replayed the words in his head as he dug his sword out of a pile in the corner of his room. No rust on the metal, but plenty on the man. Sherwood had taken better care of the blade than he had of himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used it, or when he’d done anything more strenuous than a long walk.
Like everything else, he’d inherited the blade from Yardley; where Yardley had gotten it, no living soul knew. Nothing too fancy, the sword had a straight guard and a hawk’s-head pommel, but the work was of high quality and the blade professional, not merely decorative. Traveling artists didn’t carry much, so whatever they kept long enough to hand down was worth the effort. In most kingdoms of Avryn, able-bodied men were required by their lords to own a weapon and use it if called upon. But only nobles and those so authorized, such as soldiers and sheriffs, openly carried. As a result, he, like his predecessors, kept the weapon in his bedroll — out of sight, but close at hand.
Sherwood had been accosted on several occasions. Mostly, one or two toughs came at him, usually armed with only a single knife between them. Pulling the sword from his bedroll nearly always ended the encounter. But there had been times when he’d faced thieves brandishing their own weapons — true highwaymen who weren’t deterred by the show of a long blade — and Sherwood had been forced to fight for his life.
He’d done well. Sherwood was certain he’d killed at least one man but hadn’t lingered to make certain. In another fight, he’d stabbed a young tough, no more than seventeen, through the stomach. He, too, probably died. In more than six fights, Sherwood had survived, suffering just three wounds, and only one of those could be considered serious. Luckily, Yardley had also taught him how to sew up a cut.
Sherwood harbored no illusions of his prowess. He only hoped that if Lady Dulgath required his blade, his skills would be equal to the task. He waited, watching the sun sink into the ocean. It was only three-quarters set, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He wanted to arrive before she did.
Strapping the sword to his waist, he took the stairs two at a time and sprinted out of the castle.
Sherwood, the note had read. Meet me at the cliffs on the west side of the castle at sunset. I need help, and you’re the only one I can trust.
His emotions were a volatile mix of jubilation and terror. The revelation that she both trusted and needed him was a blast of pure joy. That she was so desperate to meet outside the castle, in such a secluded place made him dread what she might say.
Perhaps she wants to come away with me?
No. That would be too much to hope for. He was letting his emotions override reason. Likely she needed him to pass a message to King Vincent, something she couldn’t trust going through Wells or Rissa Lyn.
Sherwood ran across the courtyard and out the gate, making a quick left and hugging the wall before veering off into the grassy bluffs on the blind side of the castle. The wind was stronger there as it came off the ocean with a damp salty blast that permanently bent the hip-deep grass.
She’s scared of someone in the castle — maybe everyone . . . “You’re the only one I can trust.”
Clearly, she couldn’t trust Rissa Lyn, but did she know her handmaiden believed she was a demon?
No, he realized then, saw it clearly. You’d love a monster when . . . I’m . . . I’m right in front of you . . . Rissa Lyn was jealous and either making things up or suffering from some form of delusion. Regardless of her feelings, she had to realize that wild accusations weren’t going to keep him from Nysa. I’ll talk to her later . . . let her down easy.
He ripped through the tall, wind-battered grass, which lashed at his feet and legs. The sounds of the surf grew louder; overhead, gulls cried. On the western side, the sunset tower of Castle Dulgath stood on the very edge of the promontory’s sea-worn tip. The eight-story stone pillar, which appeared to be an extension of the cliffs, had no windows on that side. Some sixty feet below, relentless waves crashed against the stubborn stone.
Someone was near the base of the tower — a dark figure standing in the shadowed gap between two of the tower’s massive carved feet. Sherwood slowed his run to a hesitant trot when he realized it wasn’t Nysa, not even a woman. It was a man in a black cloak, the hood up.
“What are you doing here?” Sherwood asked, stopping short.
“Why, waiting for you, of course,” Lord Fawkes replied. The wind on top of the cliffs was chaotic and violent, forcing Fawkes to grip the edges of his cloak to keep it from whipping like a flag. Despite his effort, the lower edges flapped behind him like a startled bird.
“You sent the message?” Sherwood kept his distance. He was out of breath, tired, and sweating from the run.
“Yes, I needed to speak with you privately, and I didn’t think you’d come at my request.” Fawkes stepped forward one stride. Maybe he was trying to get out of the wind or felt uncomfortable between the tower’s claws. “You’ve actually succeeded in getting Nysa to fall for you.”
“Fall?”
“Don’t be modest, boy. I spoke to her this morning and explained how the king might be uncomfortable with her appointment, her being the last of the Dulgath line and all. I offered my hand in marriage but was rebuffed. Apparently she’s found someone else. I know she has high standards — and I couldn’t imagine you had inexplicably leapt that bar.”
Sherwood wanted to believe. “She said there was someone else? Maybe she just wasn’t interested in you.”
“She was quite sincere and rather specific.”
“What exactly did she say? Did she mention me by name?”
“No, but she spoke of a man who visits her regularly. Someone she’s getting to know better each day, and the more she learns about him, the more she has come to believe that she has found someone she could be with.”
“She . . . she said that?”
“Yes, but don’t get your hopes up. You aren’t going to live happily ever after. I invited you to leave, but you didn’t take the hint. Now I must insist.” He let go of his cloak, freeing it to fly behind him and fall to the grass, exposing his sword.
Sherwood fell back, drawing his own. “I won’t leave. I’d rather die.”
Fawkes looked at the blade, puzzled. “What’s a painter doing with a sword? Was that a gift? Do you even know how to hold it?”
Sherwood grinned. “I’ve killed men with this — men who’d attacked me. How about you? Done a lot of exhibitions, I suspect. Performed pretty dances before courtly audiences with tipped blades, perhaps? I don’t think many draw steel against the king’s cousin and mean it.”
“Oh, they’ve meant it,” Fawkes said, striding toward him and drawing his blade. “I’m not well liked by many in Mehan. People have lost limbs and some have died in exhibitions. Are you sure you want to do this? I’m giving you one last chance. You can simply leave.”
“And I’ll extend you the same courtesy. Leave now. Nysa has made her choice.”
“I’ll stay. This should be fun; don’t you think?”
“For one of us,” Sherwood retorted.
Lord Fawkes swung first. Sherwood danced back, letting the blade sing through the air.
He had most of his wind back, but he’d burned energy rushing to the the cliff. Fawkes had the advantage of rest. On the other hand, the trip had warmed Sherwood, loosening his muscles. Fawkes could have been standing in the cool wind for who knew how long.
Sherwood let him swing again. The same move, right to left with a downward angle. A power stroke, attempting to take advantage of Sherwood’s weak side. Or maybe the lord was just testing him, trying to get a feel for his ability.
A good fight is a short fight, Yardley always had said. Show him nothing. Conserve your energy while burning his. Then, at the first opportunity, end it.
Sherwood and Fawkes crashed blades, hard. Then, as fast as the artist could, he backstroked at an angle to catch Fawkes at the neck.
The lord ducked.
Damn!
Sherwood was afraid Fawkes might take that moment of exposed chest to stab upward. That’s what he would’ve done, but Fawkes retreated three steps, bouncing on his feet.
That’s the difference between an exhibition fighter and a survivalist, Sherwood thought.
Fawkes was going for points, trying to look good: engage, withdraw, reset, circle left, circle right, lunge again. It made for a pretty show, but on a lonely cliff with lives on the line, and only seagulls and grass for an audience, no one fought that way.
This might be Christopher Fawkes’s first real battle. That was Sherwood’s advantage.
He’s never done this. I have him. But Sherwood had more than one voice in his head. The other one mused over how well Fawkes handled his blade. He has a lot more experience, He has held that sword as often as I’ve held a paintbrush. And his teachers were skilled swordsmen, not aging portrait artists.
But he’s never killed. That reassuring rationalization was followed by a nagging thought. First time for everything.
Another attack. This time Fawkes employed more finesse. He began with the same swing — and Sherwood saw now that he’d done it twice to set expectations — then he spun left and brought the sword blade up, hoping either to slice across Sherwood’s torso or — if he were really lucky — to catch the tip on his stomach and then thrust.
Sherwood foiled Fawkes’s plan by spinning to his right. This wasn’t skill. He had no idea Fawkes was trying something clever. Sherwood had merely decided that if he tried the same swing again, he’d catch it on the other side and try to get in behind the man. As it turned out, they outsmarted each other, and each bobbed away, trying to conceal the surprise and concern they felt.
“Impressive,” Fawkes said, selling a sense of confidence that Sherwood wasn’t buying.
Earlier he might have been intimidated, but he realized that Fawkes was mostly bluster and wasn’t actually very good. In that instant, he realized he’d won.
Believing you will be victorious, Yardley used to say, knowing it — not just in your head, but in your heart — is what will give you the ability to succeed. You lose the fear, and it’s the fear that kills you. Believe in yourself and you’ll triumph.
Sherwood knew now that he was better than Fawkes. More importantly, he could see the fear in the lord’s eyes.
Fawkes knew it, too.
To look at Lord Christopher Fawkes was to see a dead man.
Sherwood advanced this time. He held the sword more comfortably. He felt his muscles relax, his breathing slow. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
The two voices in his head went silent, and he found his balance. The wind was in his hair, gulls were crying, the surf crashed below, but Sherwood focused on Fawkes, who had his back to the cliff. He took a shuffled step forward and raised his swo —
Pain exploded across Sherwood’s back.
Every muscle in his body seized. His breathing stopped. His eyes went wide.
In front of him, Fawkes’s attention darted to something behind Sherwood, and His Lordship smiled. Not with sinister supremacy, but with relief.
The tension in Sherwood’s muscles disappeared along with every ounce of his strength. He crumpled to the grass, limp, as if every bone in his body had dissolved. He needed air but couldn’t breathe through the unbearable pain.
He wasn’t sure how long he lay there before footsteps approached.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Sheriff Knox said. “I got the crossbow you asked for. It’s huge, but it’s the only one I could find. I just wanted to see how well it worked.”
“Not at all,” Fawkes said. “That thing is — it’s amazing.”
“Isn’t it? Heavy as a boulder and not meant to be held while fired. Crossbows really aren’t my thing. I was aiming for dead center, and it should have killed him instantly. Little bugger is still wheezing.”
“Made an incredible hole,” Fawkes said, his voice catching in his throat. “Help me throw what’s left of him off the cliff.”
Sherwood couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, as they dragged him. He wondered what it would be like to fall from such a height.
Will the impact kill me or will I drown?
As it turned out, it was neither. Sherwood Stow died while still en route to the edge.