Unicorn Vengeance (27 page)

The Master pushed to his feet and offered Genevieve his hand imperiously. She stared at his fingers for a moment and frowned.

Genevieve supposed a woman of sense would choose the path that would ensure her own safety. Her companions had abandoned her. ‘Twas clear Wolfram had not only spurned her but left her to her own resources. She eyed the Master, and his lips drew into a hard line at her indecision.

Genevieve had always followed impulse and could do no less now.

“I do not believe you,” she whispered, and the Master's eyes turned cold.

“It matters naught what you believe,” he declared. His hand fell to the hilt of his dagger and he snapped his fingers imperiously. Too late Genevieve considered the possibility that he was not alone. The stamp of heavy feet outside the tavern shadowed her heart with dread.

“The king is expecting you,” he said with a thread of steel in his tone. “My patience wears thin, Genevieve de Pereille.”

Still Genevieve refused to take his hand to rise, and the Master's brow darkened. The door to the courtyard opened, emitting the cold fingers of the winter wind and a dozen grim-faced men-at-arms. Genevieve's heart skipped a beat.

Where was Wolfram?

Wolfram was gone, she reminded herself savagely. Had that man not declared that he cared naught for her? The recollection of his denial stung and fortified Genevieve's will as naught else could.

Alone she was, and upon no one could she rely but herself.

Genevieve looked back to the Master in time to see him smile thinly. “Surely you are not a foolish woman,” he whispered.

Nay, Genevieve had never been a fool. And well it seemed that she had no choice in this matter. She lifted her chin and accepted the Master's aid in rising, knowing that she alone could see herself free of this situation.

* * *

The troupe was gone.

Wolfram stood at the gate of the city and stared off into the distance. He squinted against the glare of the fresh snow, but not a sign of movement could he see on the entire visible rippling length of the road.

Odo was gone.

“Did a group of people leave by this gate this morn?” he asked the gatekeeper. The man glanced in Wolfram's direction, his features creasing into a grin as he waggled one finger at him.

“One of those were you with the foreign minstrels at Heinrich's last night, are you not?” he demanded genially. Wolfram nodded and the man nodded appreciatively. “Aye, a fine show that was, the like of which we have not seen in these parts of late.” The man appeared to lose himself in recollection of the night before, and Wolfram cleared his throat pointedly.

“Did the troupe pass this way this morn?” he asked again. The man glanced up with a start and smiled encouragingly.

“Aye, that they did. Lively a group as you could hope to see, to be so wide awake as to beat me to the gates this morn.”

“Do you know where they went?”

The man appeared surprised by the question. “Nay. None of my business ‘tis where one goes when they leave. I but assumed they went to another town to busk.”

“Where does this road lead?” Wolfram demanded impatiently.

The man shrugged. “To Nancy. Is that not the way of these types, to move continually?” The man slapped his forehead in an exaggerated parody of recollection. “But indeed, why do I ask you such a thing? Are they not your friends? Surely you know best where ‘tis they are headed.”

“Nay, I know not.” Wolfram admitted heavily.

“Stole from you, did they?” the keeper asked with enthusiastic relish.

Wolfram regarded him with thinly veiled horror. “Nay. Fine people are they.”

The keeper
tsk
ed under his breath and leaned close to whisper confidentially. “One hears tales, you know, about these traveling types, and well did my mother teach me never to trust a man whose door you could not find two nights in a row.” The gatekeeper regarded Wolfram brightly, as though expecting to be entrusted with a bold secret at any moment. Wolfram held his regard for a long moment, having no idea what to say, and finally simply turned away.

“I thank you for your aid,” he said flatly. The gatekeeper, undeterred, granted him a cheerful wave. Wolfram was not surprised to catch a last glimpse of the man peering down a narrow alley with avid curiosity.

He stalked back in the direction of the tavern, letting his sour mood take the reins. Never had he imagined that Odo would part paths with him and Genevieve with nary a word. Wolfram scowled and kicked aside the fresh dusting of snow as the purse of coins jingled discordantly within his pocket.

The keeper of the tavern might know more about Odo's departure than he realized. Experience had shown that that man's memory oft needed some prompting. Truly there was nowhere else Wolfram could turn. He strode purposefully back to the tavern, knowing all the while the certainty that he would soon see Genevieve again could not be what was buoying his step.

* * *

But when Wolfram reached the tavern long moments later, Genevieve was gone.

He searched the common room, but not a sign of her was there remaining. When he noted that her lute was gone, his heart stilled with trepidation.

“Where is the lady who slept at the hearth?” he demanded of the keeper, who was still in the kitchen. That man looked up with surprise.

“Sleeping she was when last I looked,” he said, his blank expression all the assurance Wolfram needed that the man told the truth.

“And no one else came while I was gone?” he asked.

The keeper shrugged as he rolled another batch of dough into round loaves. “The lord there was who sought a room, but none other.”

“A lord?” Wolfram's throat caught in his chest. The keeper nodded amiably.

“Aye,” he agreed with a wave. “One of those types filled with their own import was he, with his staff and his dogs. Last night he was here, but I had not a room for him and his men on account of the space taken up by your little troupe.”

Wolfram's mouth went dry. Surely ‘twas just coincidence that someone had stopped in last night after their arrival. Surely his past had made him too suspicious of every turn of events. “And you told him as much?” he inquired mildly.

The keeper grinned. “Aye, for well I guessed his purse was well lined. Indeed, I thought he might stop for a tankard of ale and attend their skills, for he seemed truly interested to hear the news, but he merely popped his head into the common room for a moment afore he left.”

Too much did that sound like the behavior of a man on a trail for Wolfram's taste. Surely he was seeing fault where there was none, but he could not let the matter be.

“Had he an accent, perchance?” he asked. The keeper wagged a finger at him good-naturedly.

“Oho! With your aid, I recall more than I thought,” he said with an enthusiastic nod. “Aye, an accent he had, and ‘twas a Parisian one, unless I miss my guess. Hasty speakers are that lot, yet very crisp in their speech. Enough of them have I had passing through here to know my business in that. Exacting folk, they are, frustrating no end in their certainty that they alone know what is what—”

Wolfram leaned across the table and interrupted the keeper, willing the man to discredit his unruly thoughts. “Do you recall his features?” he demanded abruptly.

“Oh, aye.” The keeper rolled his eyes and missed not a beat in his chat. “A handsome man he was, for all his somber mood, and, despite his age, he stood straight and tall. Silver of mane and imperious of manner was that one, and had me doing his bidding afore I thought twice. Made me glad my sisters are off at the convent this winter to take their lessons, it did, for this one would stir trouble without a doubt.”

Wolfram was immediately put in mind of the Master of the Temple. He felt the color drain from his face, but the keeper seemed to notice naught. Surely that man could not have pursued him this far? To have broken his oath to the house was no small thing, but to have the Master himself give chase was far beyond typical.

Or, more ominously and infinitely more likely, did the Master intend to complete unfinished business with Genevieve?

Had Wolfram not seen that very man arrested in Paris? Surely the Master could not have gained freedom
and
lent chase this far? Surely that was unlikely at best?

But Genevieve was gone. That much was beyond dispute. Wherever she had gone, she had chosen to leave Wolfram and that he could not deny.

Genevieve had abandoned him. That he had feared—nay,
anticipated
—the very same did naught to reassure him, and he stood in the kitchen of the tavern with the smell of fresh bread filling his lungs even as emptiness filled his heart. Bereft he was in that moment, alone as he had been all of his life.

But this time, the pain was more than Wolfram thought he could bear.

Had he erred in refusing to trust Genevieve? Too late to matter, the possibility tempted him, and he wondered if he could have done anything different from the way he had.

Genevieve was gone. And Wolfram was alone once again. Though this time, he had not the security of the Order to regiment his days.

He had naught at all to call his own. Well it seemed that he had not appreciated what lay within his grasp until ‘twas gone, though the revelation came too late to reassure him at all.

* * *

The lute summoned Wolfram as he wandered blindly that night.

He heard the faint whisperings of its music wafting to his ears through the deserted streets of Metz. He knew not whether the strains of the tune were real or imagined, but he fancied they would lead him directly to Genevieve.

Whimsy it was, and Wolfram knew it. For the first time in his days, solitude was barren and empty for him, and he marveled at the change. He jingled Odo's coins in his pocket as he paced the snow-dusted streets of Metz and considered the lure of the tune yet again.

Whimsy indeed, but what else had he? Nowhere was there for him to go, and pursuit of a fetching tune was as worthy a goal as anything else. Wolfram turned and followed the sound as intently as a hound bent on tracking a scent. His footsteps carried him up one twisted street and down another, past a bakery, a butcher's, a cloth merchant's, a candlemaker's.

And brought him to a halt before a modest tavern.

The music was real here, its muted strains filtering through the frame of the wooden portal to escape into the street. ‘Twas not Genevieve's playing, for ‘twas less skillful, but still its magic taunted Wolfram with lost memories.

He knew instinctively that he had been summoned here and did not dare to wonder why. Before he questioned his impulse overmuch, Wolfram opened the door and stepped into the warm glow of the tavern.

Deserted ‘twas—too late for most of its patrons, evidently. The smell of roast meat lingered in the air and wet rings from crocks of beer marked the trestle tables. Benches were left askew and the fire burned down to embers in the grate.

Wolfram had not realized that he had walked so long.

Yet one occupant of the room was there. ‘Twas a woman who sat on a stool afore the hearth and fingered a lute. Older she was, a thick braid of silver cast over her shoulder and glinting in the firelight. Her fingers moved in a manner that suggested a deftness lost with youth, but something there was about her that nudged Wolfram's memory. He stepped fully into the room before he thought, and when the woman looked up, he knew her identity all too well.

Eyes of soft silver met his own, and wonder widened them immediately.

“Wolfram,” she whispered, and he caught his breath at the familiarity of her voice.

Wolfram closed his eyes, a primitive urge deep within him telling him to turn tail and run from this tavern as quickly as he was able. And once he would have turned away with nary a second thought. Three moons past, afore the seductive fog of Montsalvat had shown the weaknesses in his defenses, afore Genevieve had stormed his ramparts, afore those walls he had once thought indestructible had tumbled to rubble, he might well have done so.

But now he could not. His dam she was, and there was something he would know of her. Genevieve's abandonment weighed heavily upon his mind, and Wolfram would hear from this woman's lips what ‘twas about him that urged those he cared about to desert him.

He needed to know the truth.

“Wolfram,” she whispered once more, though there was no question lingering in her tone. Neither of them could pretend any longer that they were not who they were.

“You left me,” Wolfram said stonily without moving from the threshold. Still the chill of the night was at his back and he heard, to his own disgust, all the hurt and uncertainty of that long-lost child in his voice.

His mother smiled to herself and dropped her gaze for a moment. Left before him was a woman of such dejection that a voice deep within Wolfram urged him to console her. That he could not do, though he knew not what else to do. He stood silently, motionless in the doorway and waited.

She brushed away what might have been a tear, but then her shoulders straightened so proudly that Wolfram thought he had but imagined any dismay in her expression. She set the lute deliberately aside and stood up, her gaze rising to lock, unwavering, with his. His mouth went dry when she walked toward him, but his own gaze danced over her questioningly.

‘Twas her, there could be no doubt in his mind. Smaller she was than he had recalled, and more delicate of bone. A new tracery of lines was there on a visage he remembered smooth and unblemished; a more resolute set was there to a mouth he recalled soft with laughter. When he met her eyes again, he saw that she had traveled far in those intervening years, mayhap farther than he, and that not all she learned had been sweet.

“Aye,” she said finally when they stood toe-to-toe. “Aye, I left you, and this I do not deny.” Wolfram's heart lurched at her admission and she took a breath as though she sorely needed to steady herself. “Would you not hear the tale?”