Heart of the Flame Read online

  "That too."

  Braedon seemed to be enjoying a somewhat private smile now, his gaze following the horizon as though lost in his own thoughts. "Easily the most bothersome female you have had the misfortune of knowing, is she?"

  Kenrick felt himself nodding his head in total agreement. "Yes and yes. You understand me, at least."

  Again the enigmatic grin, only this time it was turned on Kenrick. Braedon reached over and clapped him on the shoulder. "Oh, I understand you, brother. No doubt more than you can know."

  "She is becoming a...problem for me."

  "Women are a complication, to be sure."

  "Aye, well, this one affords no easy solution."

  "I thought you enjoyed a challenge?"

  "I find I have plenty of that without the added distraction of Haven." He navigated his mount around a deep rut in the track of the road. "If you found yourself in my situation, what would you do?"

  "You mean forced into close quarters with a woman who tempted me toward outright madness when I wasn't looking for ways to entice her into my bed?"

  "Precisely."

  Braedon looked askance at him, his mouth tugging into a wolfish grin. "Why, I married her."

  It was difficult to share in his friend's humor when the solution to Kenrick's own trouble was so far out of reach.

  Marry her, indeed. Wedded bliss was for people like Braedon and Ariana.

  For Rand and Elspeth.

  Not for him.

  He was not the sort to dream of simple days around the hearth and home. He had no skill with people and the making of pleasant conversation. Nor had he the patience to immerse himself in the trivialities of everyday life. His mind yearned for greater challenges, bigger quests.

  Regardless of how happy he saw his sister and her husband--or even the joy he had witnessed between Rand and Elspeth, Kenrick could not imagine that same light shining one day on him.

  And as for love...?

  Well, save that notion for the bards and poets. To him, love was simply the grandest myth of all: intangible, immeasurable, insubstantial. An illusion he had no intention of grasping for on faith alone.

  He was a man driven by proof and evidence--principles that had not served him well in his aspirations toward the church and his service as a Knight of the Temple.

  Faith was a concept he found difficult to embrace...like love.

  If something could not be held or weighed or measured, how could it exist?

  The Dragon Chalice was real enough; his quest for the treasure was all he could truly embrace now. He had devoted years to finding it, and so he would continue that quest until the cup was safely in his hands, or until he breathed his last. He could ill afford to let thoughts of lust--or love--distract him from his course.

  "I should let her go."

  He had not been aware he'd spoken the words aloud until he glanced up and saw Braedon looking at him.

  "She has not fully regained her memory about the attack on Greycliff. Do you not need the information she may have trapped in the corners of her recall?"

  "I will manage without it."

  "When you brought her to Clairmont, you were adamant that you needed whatever secrets she might hold."

  "And now I say I will fare better without her underfoot. She has become an unwanted distraction."

  "Not so unwanted, I wager."

  "All the more reason for her to be gone at once."

  "Ah, naturally." Braedon's tone suggested wry amusement. "And I suppose this makes logical sense to you?"

  Kenrick glared over his shoulder, well aware that he was hemming himself into a corner with all this talk of women and feelings. "I am glad to keep you entertained, brother, but the ride to Devon will pass much faster if we cease our prattle and instead look to the road."

  Braedon's grin widened. "I see no problem here. I can ride and talk at the same time. Can you not?"

  But Kenrick was already giving his mount a nudge of his spurs, leaving the party of knights to ride ahead on his own.

  The last thing he needed on today's sortie was to be distracted with thoughts of Haven and what he should or should not do about her. Bed her, wed her...neither was a solution he was willing to entertain, despite that there was a degree of temptation in both ideas. Kenrick shut it out, however, training his mind on the task at hand.

  That task became all the more consuming as the hours of travel passed and the riding party came upon the quiet village of Devon.

  A small farming burgh plunked down in the middle of a shallow valley, the town had no fortress to guard it. The smattering of huts and cottages lined the road on either side, squat buildings made of dark timber and wattle-and-daub. Humble villeins came out of their homes and in from the fields to greet the retinue, their expressions of worry battling with flickering hope as the party of armed knights advanced into their midst.

  Kenrick nodded to them as he rode past, a sober greeting that let them know there was naught to fear from this band of strangers garbed for war. He and his retinue cantered on, to the head of the settlement where stood the chapel and abbey.

  Little seemed out of place until Kenrick and his company neared the small stone church and monks' quarters. The thick oak door of the chapel was closed tight, but it bore the deep, punishing grooves of a battle ax's blade. Its iron latch had been smashed from its fixtures, the meager security breached by the invaders who had trampled so carelessly on this hallowed ground.

  They were met by a priest of middling age, whose kindly face and pale hands bore evidence of the struggle recently endured. Other village men had similar defensive scrapes and cuts, and all looked ready to fight again should they need to.

  "Good morrow," Kenrick said as the holy man and two of the townsfolk approached. He made summary introductions, then cut straight to the business at hand. "What can you tell me about the men who did this?"

  The priest gave a somber shake of his head. "There were several of them--five, if I counted aright. It was too dark to get a good look and they did not linger long."

  "Was anyone hurt?"

  "Nay, milord. They did not seem bent on murder, thank Providence."

  "They was demons, do you ask me," cut in one of the village men. "Who else would ride in at dead of night and sack a place of worship?"

  "What did they take?"

  "We are a poor parish, milord," said the priest. "There is little of value to be had in our small chapel, save a golden cross that stood on our altar. 'Tis gone now, regrettably."

  Kenrick studied the holy man and the lamentable state of his domain. "I would like to look around."

  "As you wish, milord." The priest gestured toward the church grounds and began leading the way. "If you like, I will show you where the cross had been in the chapel."

  Kenrick drew off his gauntlets and dismounted. He paused there, pivoting to address a handful of his men with low-voiced orders. "Ride out and search the outlying area. Bring word to me here if you find anything telling."

  Half a dozen knights formed a group and fanned out to fulfill his command.

  Braedon leaped down from his horse, his expression grim with understanding as he came to stand beside Kenrick. "This had to be le Nantres' work."

  "I would credit no one else, save de Mortaine himself."

  Braedon's lip curved into an almost animal sneer. "Silas prefers not to get his hands dirty with petty raids and thievery. Draec, however, has no such qualms. Nothing is below his grasp."

  He would know better than most, Kenrick thought, seeing the animosity gleam in his brother-by-marriage's eyes. Braedon had once been associated with Draec le Nantres, although it was years ago. Draec had been a trusted friend of the warrior once known as The Hunter--until greed for the Dragon Chalice bred a betrayal that in the end had spilled much blood and delivered many deaths. Braedon had barely escaped the slaughter; most of his accompanying knights were not so fortunate.

  It was le Nantres again, scarcely three months ago in France, whose rele
ntless pursuit of the Chalice treasure ended with Ariana lying wounded and dying in Braedon's arms. They had needed a miracle to save her, and so, by what could only be explained by the magic of the Chalice itself, they had received one. Kenrick was far too practical to think they might be so fortunate again.

  "This way, sirs," the priest called from the blade-scarred door of his church.

  Kenrick and Braedon followed, leaving the rest of the men to stand guard outside.

  The chapel was quiet and dark, lit only by the flames of a dozen candles that burned in a modest iron candelabra in the nave. The altar cloth was scorched on one end, but it had been carefully smoothed out and replaced where it belonged. The priest genuflected, then strode serenely to the front of the chapel.

  "It was here, you see?" He pointed to the vacant center of the altar, his tonsured head shaking in slow remorse. "I am not a man to be swayed by material things, but this cross had been a special gift to our humble parish, which makes its loss all the more troubling. The cross was presented to us by the abbot of Saint Michael’s Mount some years ago."

  A knot of coldness began to ball in Kenrick's gut at the mention of the island abbey off England's southern coast.

  "'Twas that alone which the brigands stole. Can you fathom such a thing?"

  Yes, he could.

  Saint Michael's Mount had been the very place where Silas de Mortaine obtained the first part of the Dragon Chalice--Avosaar, the Stone of Prosperity.

  It hardly seemed coincidence that his minions would have now stolen an artifact related to that holy site. For what was not the first time, Kenrick cursed himself for the prolonged imprisonment that cost him so much of his work on the Chalice lore. And to have lost his findings to de Mortaine and his soulless henchman, Draec le Nantres--the thought seethed inside him like poison.

  Scowling with the folly of his past mistakes, Kenrick slanted a look in Braedon's direction. He spoke in low tones, paused some distance from the altar and well out of the cleric's range of hearing. "These raids had a purpose, and this theft was not random at all."

  "No," Braedon agreed. "How long do you think it will take them to find the path that will lead them to more of the treasure?"

  "When they search like this--sacking every abbey and chapel in the realm--they can count on luck alone to guide them."

  "Sooner or later, even a fool will strike true. These are no fools."

  "But they are desperate, and desperation makes a man careless. Their carelessness will buy us time to head them off before they find another of the stones."

  "How much time?"

  "A week or two." Kenrick hissed an oath between gritted teeth. "Likely not enough."

  "That is a slim tether on which to tie one's hope."

  "Slim indeed, but it's all we've got right now, my friend."

  "And if, as you suspect, they have the key you hid at Greycliff? How long then?"

  His mood growing more grave by the moment, Kenrick had no answer for this inevitable question. As it was, he had no chance to contemplate it, for outside the open door of the chapel came the steady pound of a horse's hooves. One of his dispatched knights jogged into the dim confines of the church, urgency written in the taut line of his mouth.

  "What have you found?"

  "A campsite, my lord. It appears to have been recently used."

  Kenrick stalked the length of the chapel aisle, his every muscle primed for confrontation. "Where is it?"

  "Not far from the village, in a forest to the west."

  "Show me."

  With Braedon close behind him, Kenrick followed his man to the horses waiting outside. The group mounted up and set off at a gallop, heading for a strand of pine and oak a short ride from the village square.

  As the young knight had said, the campsite appeared to have been only lately abandoned. And in some haste, Kenrick thought as he jumped down to inspect it. Although it seemed unlikely, perhaps its makers had fled in the midst of a struggle. The trod earth bore the scars of horses' hooves, the indentations bearing the deep scoring of rearing beasts and the chaotic scuffle of spurred boots.

  Braedon was already dismounted as well and crouched on his haunches near the still-smoldering remains of the small campfire. He picked up a stick and jabbed it into the smoking embers. "They're not long gone. An hour at most."

  Kenrick raked a hand through his hair, scarcely able to bite back his oath of anger.

  So close.

  To have missed them by so slim an amount of time grated against the logic that assured him they could not have gotten far.

  "There is blood here," he remarked idly, his gaze drawn to a trail of dark droplet stains soaking into the hard-packed sand of the campsite perimeter. "At least one of them is wounded. And from the tracks they left, it appears the party has divided to ride in separate directions."

  Kenrick pivoted his head to scan the outlying areas beyond the small forest clearing, searching for further signs of the brigands' departure. They might have taken any one of the paths through the towering conifer woods, although none would have been an easy escape.

  "We could split up, and try to catch up to them." Braedon stood up and met Kenrick's stare. "Injuries will slow them down and we've still several good hours of light. Even without the aid of my old skills, I can pick up a trail this fresh."

  Kenrick did not doubt it. Braedon le Chasseur--once known as The Hunter for his uncanny ability to track and retrieve anything, or anyone, that had gone missing--did not make idle boasts when it came to his gift. Despite that he had forfeited his skills some months past, he was yet a formidable warrior.

  But as much as Kenrick relished the idea of apprehending any one of de Mortaine's minions, he felt their efforts would be better spent elsewhere. The discovery at the village church had given him another thought. One that just might put him a few steps closer to claiming one of the two remaining Chalice stones.

  "Shall I tell the men to prepare to ride?" Braedon asked, breaking into Kenrick's already deep concentration.

  "Yes. We ride, but for Clairmont, not into a chase our enemies might well be expecting."

  Braedon gave him a quizzical look, his dark brows knit in a frown. He was a man of action; no doubt his hands itched for the confrontation they might find after a day of searching for de Mortaine's men. Kenrick's did too, but he was patient, calculating the value of a satisfying skirmish versus the benefit of time he could use in gaining firmer hold on the Dragon Chalice.

  Very likely Braedon recognized the direction of his thoughts. Though quick to strike, the warrior was reasonable when he needed to be, and he trusted Kenrick's judgment. That much was clear in his answering nod of agreement.

  "We return to Clairmont," he said, then turned and shouted the order to the rest of the knights who stood by awaiting command.

  With Kenrick on his white charger leading the way, the retinue prepared to depart the glade.

  * * *

  As the party assembled and turned back onto the road, a pair of keen eyes watched in stealthy silence from deep within the cover of the woods. The large figure blended in well with the darkness surrounding him, aided by drab attire and a face grizzled by a shadowy growth of beard.

  Quiet as the tomb, as still as stone, he waited.

  He watched, one hand curled around the cold hilt of his sword. The weapon had been drawn without a sound, held low but ready to strike with swift, lethal purpose.

  Every breath he took was measured and unhurried. Everything about him bespoke of calm reason and the assured patience of death itself.

  Everything, save his eyes, which burned like the embers of a banked fire...quietly smoldering, waiting for the opportunity to ignite and consume all in his path.

  Chapter 16

  Kenrick ignored the first few quiet raps on his solar door. He had sequestered himself in his tower quarters upon arriving back at Clairmont, knowing with a renewed sense of clarity how much work he had to do--and what little time in which to do it. De Mortaine'
s men were getting closer. They were getting desperate, if the ruination he saw that day were any indication.

  All their searching would eventually bring them to Clairmont.

  Part of what they sought was here in Kenrick's keeping--a crucial part--and it would not take Draec le Nantres long to figure that out once he learned that Kenrick, Ariana, and Braedon had escaped France whole and hale a few months ago.

  Tuning out a further knock that sounded on his door, Kenrick continued transcribing his current set of figures and diagrams.

  Usually his silence was indication enough to the servants that he wished not to be disturbed. Tonight, whichever page or scullery maid it was who waited in the corridor beyond was disinclined to take the hint.

  Overbold and persistent, another rap sounded on the thick oak panel.

  "I do not wish to be disturbed," he growled at last, impatience biting in every clipped syllable.

  To his vexation and surprise, the latch on the unlocked door began to open. Irritated, Kenrick looked up from his work on the desk as the panel pushed inward, groaning on its hinges.

  "You did not come down to the hall tonight. I thought you might be hungry."

  Any impatience he felt at the intrusion was lost the moment he saw that it was Haven standing in the doorway of his solar. She held a tray of food and slim decanter of wine. The aromas of roasted meat and creamed vegetables drifted into the room.

  "What's this?"

  "Supper, if you want it."

  "Supper," he mused, setting down his quill. "This is an unexpected gift. After the way we left things between us yesterday, I shouldn't think you'd mind if I starved up here."

  "If you don't want it--" She started to edge back into the corridor.

  "Nay, don't go." Kenrick got up from his desk and walked around to the front of it. "I appreciate your consideration, Haven. And find I do have an appetite after all."

  Gesturing to where she could set down the tray, he waited as she complied, then leaned against the large table and casually inspected what she had brought him.

  The trencher contained a tempting array of the evening's fine fare: a large chunk of gravy-drenched beef, green beans and onions thick with a rich cream sauce, a wedge of cheese, a half loaf of bread, and a flagon of spiced warmed wine. Kenrick stirred through the lot of it with the accompanying poniard Haven had supplied. He poked the slender knife into a piece of the meat and lifted it to his nose. It smelled as it should, rich with herbs and slow-simmered juices. Nothing of note beyond Cook's usual flair with a sauce.