The storm was letting up when Royce guided his horse into the courtyard of the monastery. Old stone, wet from the storm, shimmered and flashed bright with the last few flickers of lightning. Three monks were waiting at the front gate with mournful faces and soaked habits. None looked surprised to see them.

“In here. In here!” The oldest of the three waved Royce toward the warm glow of interior light. “How is she? When the storm arrived we knew something was wrong.”

By the time they reached the abbey, Nysa’s eyes had closed and she had gone limp. “Take her,” Royce said, not trusting himself to get down without dropping her.

One of the younger monks reached up and took her from his arms. Royce felt relief followed by loss. He didn’t understand half of what Nysa’s corpse had told him, and believed less than that.

He didn’t think she lied. She wasn’t the sort, and the lack of breathing and cold skin backed up her story better than an eyewitness, but such things were hard for Royce to accept. He’d met his share of preachers, priests, and hermits, each selling their version of life and death, trying to convince new recruits. Royce never saw a reason to invest in their opinion when he had his own, especially when his worked and theirs didn’t. But Nysa — or whoever it was — wasn’t asking for his faith, his support, or his money. Still, that didn’t mean she wasn’t after something. No reason for her to spin such a yarn without a point. As he handed her down and watched them take her inside, he knew he was missing that point.

What does she want from me?

“You’re the other one?” the oldest monk asked.

Took a moment for Royce to realize what he meant. “Yes. You must have met Hadrian.”

He nodded. “I’m Abbot Augustine. Thank you for bringing her. We’ll handle things from here.”

If by that he meant for Royce to leave, he was mistaken. Risking his life for someone wasn’t normal for him, and he wanted to know why he’d done it. Royce had heard a fairy tale, but not his place in it. She had a reason behind asking him to bring her.

Because I’m elvish? Maybe. But there’s something more.

Royce was a man of few beliefs. He relied on the bedrock constant of man’s propensity for greed and hate. No one did anything except to help themselves. This axiom had proved a sure bet so often, it ranked right alongside water running downhill.

She wants something, but what?

Royce dropped down and followed the rest of them into the big ivy-covered building. The monks made no move to stop him. One even held the door.

“Have you ever seen such weather?” the young man asked.

Royce nodded. The storm was bad, but not unusual for summer.

The monk continued to linger at the door, looking up at the sky. “I’ve only ever seen a storm once before. When old Maddie Oldcorn died, we had one of these.”

“That was the last bad storm?”

The monk shook his head. “The last storm. The last time I saw it rain in daylight.”

They carried Nysa through a large open room — the nave of the church — toward the altar. Royce had poked his head into Mares Cathedral in Medford; this abbey wouldn’t be suitable as its privy. There were no seats, kneelers, statues, nor any marble or carved mahogany. And no hint of gold, just a stone floor and high wooden roof. Open-fire braziers and racks of candles gave the interior light, and the altar was nothing but a raised platform with a podium where a book might rest.

Royce saw no books. The place could have been a Medford stable, with two exceptions: the walls and ceiling. These were covered in painted frescoes. Mares Cathedral had paintings on its walls, too, pictures of a white-bearded man placing a crown on a young, handsome man’s head while streams of light shone down — Maribor anointing Novron.

The pictures here were different. They had cracks, tiny spidery lines where the paint had turned brittle, and the wall itself had also cracked in places, leaving great fissures running through the images. The colors were muted and dull; in some places the lines were completely lost. These paintings were created by artists with less talent than those at the cathedral. As a result, the images were crude — flat, with no sense of depth or perspective.

The handsome man was nowhere to be seen; neither was the old bearded guy. Instead, a raven-haired woman sat on a big chair. Behind her, lost partially to shadows, stood a crudely dressed man with a violent black beard. To her right was a beautiful woman holding a longbow and wearing a wry smile. On the other side stood a crippled man leaning on a mousy woman who had her hands stuffed into the pockets of a smock. In the foreground, two more figures were seated on pillows — both young girls. One wore a silly-looking hat, held a staff, and had a wolf curled at her feet. The other clutched a book on her lap and held a quill between her fingers. There were no shafts of light shining on their faces and no glowing radiance. On their far right was painted a flat landscape of lush fields that led to a shining city. Royce had never seen such a place. Tall, elegant towers and grand avenues faded into the distance, where a massive gold-domed building stood. At the city’s entrance, two great statues of lions loomed. Scaffolding held workers building additional structures.

Royce couldn’t make sense of the image. This was more of a family portrait, like those he saw in merchants’ homes. Moreover, in the dim light of the nave, few without his keen sight would be able to see the frescoes. He guessed they must have been painted by torchlight or before the roof was constructed.

The monks, who didn’t pause to look at the paintings, took Nysa’s body down a set of stairs. Royce was about to follow when he spotted something else in the painting — a small and seemingly insignificant village stood on the far left. Primitive beyond anything Royce had ever seen, the community was a collection of huts surrounded by an earthwork-and-wood wall. At the center was a big house; the entire place nestled in a niche of a great and seemingly endless forest. The contrast between the great shining city and the little village was what stopped Royce.

Who were these people? Why would anyone make a painting of them? They don’t look like kings or nobility. Did she want me to see this? She knew I would be able to because I’m elvish. Is this important somehow?

The ivy that covered the monastery was densest around the nave. Some had even slipped in through the windows, the door, and cracks in the walls.

He tilted his head up to see the other painting. It was farther away, harder to see than the one on the wall. Even Royce had to squint. This long image depicted three realms with doorways leading from one to the next. Before the first was a long river with a hut beside it. The river flowed to a pair of great gates. The first realm was filled with people and ruled by a man on a mountain throne. The next was a dark place of shadow and flame ruled by a sinister-looking queen. Across a narrow bridge was another door that led to a beautiful place of flowering trees and green, rolling hills. This last place had no throne or castle, just a modest cottage. One more door led out of the realm to another place, a dark, walled area impossible to see into.

Royce stared up for several minutes, trying to make sense of this image, of this place. He felt the eyes of those on the wall watching him, the woman with the dark hair most of all. There was something about her that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

The pounding of horses’ hooves entering the courtyard caught his attention.

Finally! What took you so long?

Royce waited.

Good thing I didn’t need help, he planned to say. Then Lord Fawkes opened the door.

Soaked and windblown, His Lordship ducked inside, throwing his hood back and wiping the wet from his face. “There you are!” he said, spotting Royce. “And where is she?” His eyes shifted to the stairs. “Down there?”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Fawkes made no immediate move to cross the room. He took his time, shaking the rain out of his hair and squeezing it from his shirt, stomping his feet. “I hate water in my shoes. Gurgles when you step, and your feet blister in them.”

“Where’s Hadrian?”

Fawkes looked up as if unfamiliar with the name. “Oh, your partner in crime, yes — he’s dead. Killed him on the way up. Him and his girlfriend.”

“You killed Hadrian? You killed him?”

“He’s a big man, I know, but also wounded. I was there when the slavers beat him, remember. Bruised, maybe busted ribs, I’m guessing. You, on the other hand . . .” Fawkes peered across at Royce. “How are they? Your hands, that is. They stomped them pretty good. That must hurt.”

Royce reached for Alverstone, only to remember he’d lost it somewhere in Castle Dulgath’s courtyard.

Fawkes grinned at him as he threw off his sodden cloak. He drew his sword and made two wide practice swings that sprayed the floor with rainwater. “Not even a knife?”

Royce imagined throwing Alverstone at Fawkes’s throat, saw him clawing at his neck in fear and agony, and he hated the dead man with the crossbow for the loss of his blade. Fawkes had risen from a mere target to an enemy and then to an adversary worth taking Royce’s time with. He wanted so badly to kill the man that he might drool at the sight of him — so close, so alone. The world was rarely this accommodating — but, of course, it wasn’t. His hands were busted and his dagger miles away. Life was filled with cruel ironies.

Royce didn’t buy the story of Hadrian’s death. But if it was true, dagger or no dagger, hands or no hands, Fawkes would never leave this room alive.

I’ll tear his throat out with my teeth if I have to.

Two things bothered Royce — besides his hands and the missing dagger. First, he still didn’t know what Nysa wanted from him. Why she’d told that crazy story. Second, if Hadrian wasn’t dead, then why hadn’t Fawkes attacked? He’d taken off his cloak, shaken out his hair, wiped his face, and seemed content to take practice swings.

If Hadrian could come up the trail, why wait? What is he waiting for?

The answer came through the door a moment later.

“Have you killed her?” Knox asked. The sheriff looked across the hall at Royce and pulled his two blades. One had blood on it.

Hadrian’s?

Royce felt rage ignite. As it did, his eyes narrowed, fixing on the two of them.

“Not yet. Was waiting for you. Kill this one. He’s unarmed and his hands are broken. Should be easy.”

“Then why didn’t you kill him?”

“Can’t afford to make mistakes this time,” Fawkes said. “I think you can appreciate that. You’re better with a blade, and he can’t be allowed to get away.”

The two moved forward. They spread out, forcing Royce toward the corner. Both Fawkes and the sheriff swung at him. Royce leapt back, giving them control of the room.

“See,” Fawkes said. “He’s harmless, and this is a butcher’s work. You deal with it. I’m going after Nysa.”

Royce could do nothing as Fawkes went down the steps, his sword still out.

Knox came at Royce with eager eyes. He swung again, and once more Royce dodged.

“You’re quick,” the sheriff said.

From the stairway came the sound of a door slamming shut.

“He’s killing her, you know,” Knox said. “Bitch has a nasty habit of living. He’s going to cut off her head this time to make sure. We’ll blame you for it.” Knox moved closer, creeping in on bent legs, his eyes fixed on Royce. “I know your kind. Stabbing folk in the back is your style. Not very sporting.”

Knox took another swing, first with his left saber and then with his right.

Royce wasn’t there either time.

“You really are fast. I’ll give you that.”

Knox drove him back. Forced him into the corner to limit his ability to move. Royce tried to dodge, to pivot away from the walls, but Knox had been waiting. Two experienced swords were more than Royce could safely dodge, and he retreated again until his back was against the wall with the mural. He found himself standing between the girl with the book and the one with the wolf.

I bet neither of you ever had a day like this.

“Knox! Put the sword down!” Racing out of the rain, Hadrian crashed through the door with both swords drawn.

“About time!” Royce snapped. “Kill him and let’s go.”

Hadrian advanced without comment, his jaw set, his eyes locked on the sheriff, who shuffled back, raising his swords. Hadrian struck with his bastard blade. Metal met metal with a dull ring as the swords locked at the guards. Knox brought his second blade around, but a saber was slower than a short sword, and before the ring of the first clash faded, Hadrian had thrust two feet of dull metal under the sheriff’s rib cage. He drew it out with an uncharacteristically cruel slicing motion. Knox let out a grunt that might have been a word, then folded over. He dropped his sword and grabbed at his torn stomach, trying to hold his bowels in. He fell with a wet slap.

Royce stared at the dead man, surprised. “What? No argument?”

Hadrian shook his head. “Not this time. Where’s Nysa?”

Royce led the way down the steps. At the bottom was a closed door. He hit it with his shoulder and bounced off. “Locked.”

“So? Pick it!” Hadrian shouted.

“Can’t.” Royce stepped aside to show him. The door had a handle, but lacked a latch and keyhole. “Bolted from the inside.”

Hadrian pulled his big sword from his back and hammered the wood with the pommel. He hit it three times. “Open, damn you!”

The door ignored him.

----------------------------------------

Christopher was quick to bolt the door behind him. Not that he didn’t think Knox could handle an unarmed thief, but he didn’t want anyone coming in or going out. He’d spent the better part of the spring and summer trying to kill Nysa Dulgath, and this time he was determined to succeed.

I took you in, paid your debts, fed, clothed, and protected you. Now is the time of your reckoning. Your chance to repay my kindness. Fail, and I won’t know you. Do you understand?

Christopher understood perfectly. This was his moment for the taking or the losing. As far as make-it-or-break-it moments went, they didn’t come any clearer than this.

He was in some sort of grotto beneath the monastery, a small stone chamber dressed up to look important. A shaft of daylight came in at a slant from an overhead opening. The light was muted by a cloudy sky, but still bright in that otherwise dark place. It illuminated a gaudy chest.

That looks promising.

Next to it lay Nysa Dulgath. She was on the floor, hands folded over her breasts, gown smoothed out. Her eyes were closed. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. The only other people in the chamber were two young monks and an old man with a ridiculously long white beard, all of whom cowered on the far side of the chest and Nysa’s prone body.

No, it doesn’t get easier than this.

“You’re the abbot here?” he asked the bearded one. He still held his sword but let it rest against his thigh. “Augustine, isn’t it?”

The man nodded.

The chest was open and Christopher walked over. No gold.

I guess that was asking a bit much.

Instead, he saw only a bit of plaid cloth. “What’s with the rag?”

The abbot didn’t answer, but his old eyes watched every move Christopher made.

“I’m lucky to find you. A pair of rogues — the same ones that tried to kill Lady Dulgath and abducted her for ransom — have come here. You’re in great danger. They were hired by Sheriff Knox, who had some crazy notion put in his head by the lady’s handmaiden that Nysa is a demon. The man is obviously insane, but capable. I figured it out — because I’m smart that way.” He smiled.

The abbot and his cohorts didn’t smile back. Christopher was certain the two younger monks would start crying soon.

He glanced back at the still-barred door then added in a softer voice, “I’ll kill the treasonous sheriff when I leave here, ensuring justice is done.”

Christopher moved to Lady Dulgath, causing the monks to retreat.

Such brave guards.

He studied Nysa as she lay on the stone floor. Such smooth skin, lovely cheeks, flowing hair, and that narrow waist. Even pale with death and splattered with dried blood, she was beautiful. Normally he couldn’t stare, wouldn’t dare ogle the countess, but nothing stopped him now.

Her breasts, normally something he would be eager to inspect, repelled him. He refused to look at the wound, that dark ugly depression near where her hands were folded. Christopher wasn’t squeamish, but that hole in her chest was disturbing.

What a waste.

He sighed. “Looks like I raced all this way for nothing. I’m too late. She’s already dead.”

“No. I’m not.” Lady Dulgath’s eyes opened slowly, as if they weighed many pounds.

Christopher stepped back, squeezing the handle of his sword.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Lady Dulgath said. Her voice sounded calm, relaxed, but he noted a strange reediness. She spoke as if from a hollow place, with a breathless quality that — in another time and place — might have been interpreted as seductive. “I was hoping you’d get here soon.”

“You — you knew I was coming?” Christopher glanced at Augustine who looked guilty of something, but Fawkes didn’t know what that might be.

“Of course,” Lady Dulgath said in her strangely normal, nearly lighthearted tone, the odd, airy flutter still present in her words.

Christopher didn’t like that sound, that queer hum like blowing across the mouth of a bottle.

“I invited you,” Nysa said.

Behind him, Christopher heard the door jiggle and a thump as someone threw themselves against it.

Good luck with that, Knox. The door is six inches of oak.

“You didn’t invite me. You ran here thinking you could get away, trying to find help.”

“I told Hadrian where to take me — right in front of you,” she said. “I knew you’d hear and come to help.”

Christopher laughed. He liked the sound of it, how it filled the little room and pushed back against that windy voice that didn’t sound the least bit normal. “You misunderstand, milady. I’m not here to help you; I’m here to kill you.”

“I know.” Came the words in that same awful voice.

Christopher knew something was wrong, something absolutely unnatural about her. The sound raised the hairs on his arms.

“In case you’re wondering why I chose you, it’s because you killed Sherwood. I like to think his murder will be seen as justification. I want to believe that my decision is as coolly reached and as pure as that, but I can’t deny that I do hate you, Christopher Fawkes. I saw his painting only after it was too late. I hate you for depriving me of the chance to speak to him about it. The gods know you deserve to die. I just wanted you to know that what you did to Sherwood made this easier.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m so glad you got here while I could still move these fingers and speak through this mouth. I didn’t come here for help, Christopher,” she said with a terrible, pitying tone. “I came here so there wouldn’t be any witnesses. Tell me, Lord Fawkes, do you know what Miralyith means? In Fhrey — what you call elvish — it means Artist. You killed the wrong one.”