Fortress of Mist (7 page)

A
council of war had been called. Gathered in a small circle beneath the shade of a towering oak stood fourteen of the most powerful earls and barons in the north of England. Among them, Thomas.

“David, will you permit a snot-nosed boy to remain with us in council?” The questioner, a fat middle-aged man whose chubby fingers were studded with massive gold rings, did not hide his contempt and surprise to see Thomas.

“Aye, Frederick, the lord of Magnus remains,” replied the Earl of York.

“But these are matters of war!” exploded the fat man, spraying spittle on those nearest him.

Some nodded agreement. Others waited for the Earl of York to respond again. All stared at Thomas.

The fat man yelled to repeat his challenge. “These are matters of war!”

Part of his mind noted the festive hum beyond the circle of barons, but despite the malice of the fat man in front of Thomas, another part of his thoughts also held sadness.
Before the army’s return, many men will die, to leave behind widows or orphans
.

Thinking of the lives that faced destruction and determined to ensure as few died as possible in the upcoming days, Thomas surveyed the
other men in the circle. His only friend—if someone carrying the symbol could be a friend—might be the Earl of York.

Show no fear. Lose respect here and your own men will never follow. Lose your men, and you lose control of Magnus
.

Thomas fought the impulse to lick his suddenly dry lips. If the Earl of York did not vouch for him, he would be forced to prove himself immediately. A fight, perhaps. These were solid, grown men who had scrabbled for power on the strength of steel nerves and iron willpower. Would Robert of Uleran’s training be enough for him to survive a fight here and now?

The Earl of York delayed the answer to that question by replying with the quietness of authority. “Frederick, this ‘snot-nose’ you so casually address had the intelligence to conquer the ultimate fortress, Magnus. Could you have done the same, even with an army of a thousand? Could you have done it without the loss of a single life and managed to obtain the loyalty and gratitude of its people?”

That brought respectful silence from all of them.

The Earl of York laughed to break the discomfort of his rebuke. “Besides, Frederick, this ‘boy’ is already taller than you. When he fills to match the size of his hands, he’ll be a terrible enemy. Treat him well while you can.”

The others joined in the laughter.

Thomas realized that if this meeting were to end now, he would simply be regarded as a special pet favored by the Earl of York. Yet could he risk the earl’s anger?

The laughter continued.

“I need no special treatment,” Thomas suddenly declared, then felt the thud of his heart in the immediate silence.

Was it too early to reveal the weapons his men had practiced in secrecy?

Thomas hoped the narrowing of the Earl of York’s eyes meant curiosity, not anger at the insult of publicly casting aside his approval.

You’ve gone too far to turn back
.

“Tomorrow, when we rest at midday from the march,” Thomas said, “I propose a contest.”

S
leep came upon Thomas quickly that night.

He dreamed of his mother, who had taught him through his childhood, had given him the quest of conquering Magnus, and had prepared him for an earldom before dying of the pox.

He dreamed of Katherine, dirty bandages around the horribly scarred flesh of her face, and how she, at the end, had made it possible for him to conquer Magnus.

And slowly, he woke to perfume and the softness of hair falling across his face.
Isabelle? Again?

He drew breath to challenge the intruder, but a light finger across his lips and a gentle shushing stopped him from speaking.

“Dress quickly, Thomas. Follow without protest,” the voice whispered.

Thomas saw only the darkness of silhouette in the dimness of the tent.

Could this be Isabelle?

“You’ve returned,” Thomas said.

“Returned? There is no time for your riddles and nonsense.”

“Then who are you?” Thomas reached for his sword, a movement that the intruder must have noticed, even in the darkness.

“Fear not,” the voice continued. “You don’t need to defend yourself. An old man wishes to see you. He asks if you remember the gallows.”

Old man! Gallows! In a rush of memory as bright as daylight, Thomas felt himself at the gallows. The knight who might win Magnus for him about to be hung, and Thomas in front, attempting a rescue through disguise and trickery. Then the arrival of an old man, one who knew it was Thomas behind the disguise and knew of his quest, one who commanded the sun into darkness. One who had never appeared again.

“As you wish,” Thomas whispered in return with as much dignity as he could muster, despite the sudden trembling in his stomach. No mystery—not even the evil terror of the strange symbol—was more important to him than discovering the old man’s identity.

The silhouette backed away slowly, beckoning Thomas with a single crooked finger. He rose quickly, wrapped his cloak around him, and shuffled into his shoes.

How had she avoided the sentries outside his tent?

Thomas pushed aside the flap of the tent and followed. Her perfume hung in the heavy night air.

Moonlight showed that both sentries sat crookedly against the base of a nearby tree. Asleep! It was within his rights as lord to have them executed.

“Forgive them,” the voice whispered as if reading his mind. “Their suppers contained potions of drowsiness.”

He strained to see the face of the silhouette in the light of the large pale moon. In response, she pulled the flaps of her hood across her face. All he saw was a tall and slender figure, leading him slowly along a trail that avoided all tents and campsites.

Ghost-white snakes of mist hung heavy among the solitary trees of the moor valley.

It felt too much like a dream to Thomas. Still, he did not fear to
follow. Only one person had knowledge of what had transpired in front of the gallows. Only he, then, could have sent the silhouette to his tent.

At the farthest edge of the camp, she stopped to turn and wait.

When Thomas arrived, she took his right hand and clasped it with her left.

“Who are you?” Thomas asked. “Show me your face.”

“Hush, Thomas,” she whispered.

“You know my name. You know my face. Yet you hide from me.”

“Hush,” she repeated.

“No,” he said with determination. “Not a step farther will I take. The old man wishes to see me badly enough to drug my sentries. He will be angry if you do not succeed in your mission.”

She did not answer. Instead, she lifted her free hand slowly, pulled the hood from her face, and shook her hair loose to her shoulders.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for that moment.

The sudden ache of joy to see her face hit him like a blow. For a timeless moment, it took from him all breath. He had never seen this woman before, but somehow, deep in his soul, it seemed as if he had known her his entire life.

It was not her beauty that brought him such joy, even though the curved shadows of her face would be forever seared in his mind. No. Thomas had learned not to trust appearances; beauty consisted of heart joining heart, not eyes to eyes. Isabelle, somewhere lurking within Magnus, had used her exquisite features to deceive, while gentle Katherine—horribly burned and masked by bandages—had proven the true worth of friendship.

Thomas struggled for composure. What, then, drew him to this woman? Why did it seem as if he had been long-pledged for this very moment?

She stared back, as if knowing completely how he felt, yet fearless of what was passing between them.

“Your name,” Thomas said. “What is your name?”

“I don’t have a name.”

“Everyone has a name.”

“Everyone of this world,” she answered. “What if I am nothing more than a spirit? A walking dream?”

“You toy with me. As if you already know me. Who are you?”

“Someone who wants to believe that you are one of us,” she answered.

“One of you? A spirit? A walking dream?”

As answer, she took his hand, lifted it to her mouth, and kissed the back of his hand so gently that he wondered if he had imagined her lips brushing against his skin.

She dropped his hand again. “I have already said too much. Follow me. The old man wishes to see you.”

Abruptly, she turned, and he had no choice but to follow as she picked faultless footsteps on ground shadowed from the moon by the trees along the stream of the valley.

Thomas bit his lip to keep inside a cry of emotion he could barely comprehend. Isabelle’s betrayal at Magnus now seemed a childish pain. He drew dignity around him like armor.

They walked—it could have been only a heartbeat, he felt so distant from the movement of time—until reaching a hill that rose steeply into the black of the night.

An owl called.

She turned to the sound and walked directly into the side of the hill. As if parting the solid rock by magic, she slipped sideways into an invisible cleft between monstrous boulders. Thomas followed.

They stood completely surrounded by the granite walls of a cave long hollowed smooth by eons of rainwater. The air seemed to press down upon him and away from the light of the moon; Thomas saw only velvet black.

He heard the returning call of an owl leave her lips, and before he could react to the noise, there was a small spark. His eyes adjusted to see an old man holding the small light of a torch, which grew as the pitch caught fire.

Light gradually licked upward around them to reveal a bent old man, wrapped in a shawl. Thomas could distinguish no features beyond deep wrinkles. Shadows leaped and danced in eerie circles from beneath his chin.

“Greetings, Thomas of Magnus.” The voice was a slow whisper. “Congratulations on succeeding in your first task, the conquering of the castle.”

“My first task? Who are you?”

“Such impatience. One who is lord of Magnus would do well to temper his words among strangers.”

“I will not apologize,” Thomas said, filled with indignation. “Each day I am haunted by memory of you. Impossible that you should know my quest at the hanging. Impossible that the sun should fail that morning at your command.”

The old man shrugged and continued in the same strained whisper. “Impossible is often merely a perception. Surely by now you have been able to ascertain the darkness was no sorcery, but merely a trick of astronomy as the moon moves past the sun. Your books would inform a careful reader that such eclipses may be predicted.”

“What do you know of my books?”

That mystery gripped Thomas so tightly he could almost forget the presence of the other in the cave. The young woman.

The old man ignored the urgency in Thomas’s words. “My message is the same as when we last spoke after the gallows. You must bring the winds of light into this age and resist the forces of darkness poised to take from you the kingdom of Magnus. Yet what assistance I may offer is little. The decisions to be made are yours.”

Thomas clenched his fists and in frustration exhaled a blast of air. “You talk in circles. Tell me who you are. Tell me clearly what you want of me. And tell me the secret of Magnus.”

The old man turned away from Thomas, disappearing and reappearing in the shadows of the cave.

“Druids, Thomas. Beware those barbarians from the isle. They will attempt to conquer you through force. Or through bribery.”

Yet another layer of cryptic answers. “Tell me how you knew of my quest that day at the hanging. Tell me how you know of the books. Tell me how you know of the barbarians.”

“To tell you is to risk all.”

Thomas pounded his thigh in anger. “The risk is shrouded and hidden from me. I am given a task that is unexplained, with no reason to fulfill it beyond my vow to my mother. And then you imply it is but the first of more tasks. Give me answers. No more circles!”

Even in his frustration, Thomas sensed sadness from the old man.

“The knowledge you already have is worth the world, Thomas. Use it wisely to save your own men from the Scots. That is all I can say in that regard.”

“No,” Thomas pleaded. “Who belongs to the strange symbol of conspiracy? Is the Earl of York friend or enemy?”

The old man shook his head. “Thomas, I pray there will come a day when we can trust you and reveal your destiny.”

“We? At least tell me who you are!”

“Thomas, give us a reason to trust. Very soon, you will be offered a prize that will seem far greater than the kingdom of Magnus.”

The torch flared once before dying, and Thomas read deep concern in the old man’s eyes.

From the sudden darkness came his final whispered words. “It is worth your soul to refuse.”