Roses & Thorns

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."

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 pillar, 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.