Unicorn Vengeance (7 page)

Less consolation was it that he considered a lie to the Master to be a reasonable solution. Truly his resolve was slipping these days, and he could not imagine the source of that.

Nay. Wolfram knew precisely the source, though he refused to even give it voice in his mind.

* * *

Though Genevieve quickly lost sight of her attackers, still she could hear them cavorting ahead of her. She doggedly followed the sound of their voices through the darkening streets despite the ache in her ankle.

Surprisingly, though she moved not at her usual speed, they drew no farther ahead of her. Had Genevieve not known better, she might have believed that they kept a constant distance before her that she might indeed follow them to their lair. Nonsense that was, for surely they wanted only her lute. ‘Twas clear the instrument alone had more value than all their meager garments and possessions collectively might fetch.

If they sold her lute, how would she purchase it again or acquire another? How would she earn coin that she might eat? How would she lure the stranger closer? ‘Twas clear the music drew him, and without that, Genevieve had naught on her side.

Too cruel ‘twas to have tasted a modicum of success only to have everything stolen away. Already Genevieve felt bereft without the instrument that she had played for as long as she could remember. Well it seemed that the chill of the night troubled her more than before, and she felt suddenly vulnerable in this great, strange city.

She wished suddenly that she had never left the familiarity of home. She must recover the lute. Voices laughed harshly ahead, and when she saw the flicker of light playing on the stone walls, Genevieve dashed into the square without thinking. Fire! To sell her lute was one thing; to destroy it quite another!

A band of beggars applauded as she burst into the square. The unexpected welcome brought Genevieve up short, and she halted to stare at them.

Her lute was nowhere to be seen.

Otherworldly they appeared in the orange glow cast by flaming torches, especially as the applause fell silent. Their faces were dirty, their clothing was worn and torn, their features were gaunt. She readily spotted the man in her cloak and the woman in her shoes, though their dance halted as they watched her with the others. ‘Twas clear the band that had attacked her were but part of the whole, for Genevieve could not even guess how many stood in the flickering light.

A man in the center drew something from behind his back, a coy smile playing over his lips. As soon as Genevieve spotted the lute, she gasped, and well it seemed that he turned the instrument slightly in acknowledgment of the sound.

Tall he was and no less lanky than the one who had addressed her, though his hair was an uncommon orange shade. Long ‘twas and fell past his shoulders, the torchlight making it look to be a river of flame. His expression was sardonic at best, but the hands that held her lute were long of finger and gentle with their burden.

Genevieve recognized him as the one she had heard singing some days past. Fear rose in her chest as she recalled the gleam of avarice that had lit his eyes and she wondered whether he coveted her lute. ‘Twas a fine one, for her grandfather had seen fit to fetch her the best. As she watched those long hands slide over the rose engraved on the lute's face, she knew a fear stronger than any she had ever experienced.

“I have come to fetch what is mine,” she declared with bravado, determined to retrieve the lute at all costs.

The man with her lute smiled. The others chuckled.

“Naught is yours but what is on your back, and even that we may take, should we so desire,” he said confidently. Genevieve's chin rose high.

“Wrong you are,” she told him, her tone challenging. “The lute is mine, as is the cloak, blanket and shoes you stole from me. I would have them returned immediately.”

The crowd laughed to themselves, the man with her cloak pirouetting that the others might admire his new acquisition.

“I say you are wrong,” the leader said smoothly. “And I am Odo. What I say is so.”

“But what you say here is wrong,” Genevieve asserted stubbornly. “My possessions were stolen from me and I would have them returned. No right have any of you to what I have earned.”

“You played without permission,” Odo claimed. “Your possessions are forfeit for your crime.”

“Crime?” Genevieve demanded. “No crime have I committed. I but played my lute to earn a few coins that I might eat.”

“Surrender the coin or we shall keep your belongings as ours,” said Odo. Genevieve gaped at him. Surely he did not intend to keep her lute? No right had he to it.

But she had no coin. The only one she had earned this day she had cast at the stranger. And the coin the stranger had granted her the day before had been spent on food and lodging the night before.

“But ‘tis spent,” she admitted weakly. The assembly gasped with mock horror and clicked their tongues chidingly. Odo grinned.

“Well have I been needing a new lute,” he said, and gave the strings a savage pluck. It seemed to Genevieve that her precious lute cried out for mercy with the plaintive sound and she sprang forward.

“Nay! You must not abuse it so!” She halted just before Odo when he granted her a chilling glance. Too far had she gone, and well she knew it, though ‘twas too late to change that. The crowd's manner became watchful and expectant. “It must be coaxed, gently,” Genevieve said in a much milder tone. Odo arched a skeptical brow.

“You can play?” he demanded archly. Genevieve saw the glint of interest in his eye and dared to be bold.

“Only when I have my lute,” she asserted. Several onlookers gasped at her audacity, but Odo very slowly smiled. ‘Twas not a pretty smile, for something about it told Genevieve that he was interested in her ability solely for his own ends, but nonetheless, it reassured her.

Abruptly he shoved the lute in her direction.

“Then play,” he commanded.

Genevieve barely noted his startling change of manner. Naught could she see but the lute. She grasped it the instant ‘twas offered and clasped it close. She ran her hands over it, finding no damage, and heaved a sigh of relief at the discovery before she remembered his order. She looked up to find every hostile eye upon her, swallowed carefully and began to play.

* * *

When finally sleep came to Wolfram that night, ‘twas an agitated slumber that would leave him more exhausted than he had been before. His lips yet burned, his body strained, he twisted beneath the tangled embrace of a blanket that had never troubled him before.

And then Wolfram heard the hoofbeats.

He was in a fortress, standing in the bailey, watching transfixed as the wind rising from the sea shredded the fog before him. The fog reminded him of Montsalvat and he wondered if ‘twas that keep that haunted him. No way had he of knowing, for even when the fog cleared, it revealed a fortress he could not have recognized. Montsalvat had remained hidden from him throughout that night.

In his mind's eye, Wolfram saw a high keep looming above him, its summit still lost in the fog, and ancient walls stretching away to either side to similarly disappear into the mist. Thunder echoed in the distance, and the dark sky suddenly held the portent of a storm. The air was thick and heavy, and Wolfram knew the rain was coming.

Light hoofbeats echoed again in the eerie silence and he turned in place, seeking out the sound. To his surprise, he stood alone with no horse and naught but the garments upon his back.

The keep was abandoned and so was he.

A beast whinnied, and he turned to find a small goat running toward him. Its coat was startlingly white against the unexpectedly verdant green of the grass in the bailey. It lifted its head as it drew near and held his gaze with otherworldly yellow eyes in a manner distinctly alien to most domestic creatures. Wolfram fancied its gaze was knowing, and he took a step back, certain the beast had read his very thoughts.

Impossible that a creature could understand what he had done.

The beast came closer, and he saw that it had but one horn. An opalescent spire twined from its forehead, and when the lightning flashed, that horn caught the light.

A unicorn's horn. An elixir for poison. ‘Twas a message for him alone. Suddenly Wolfram was certain the beast knew his secret occupation and that the gleam in its eyes was far from friendly.

It lunged after him and, like a shameless coward, he ran from the truth.

Lightning rent the sky, the flash nearly blinding. The crack of its impact lifted Wolfram to his toes and made the hair rise all over his flesh. He shivered as the sky rumbled and knew relief, even in his dream, that he was safe.

No pursuing hoofbeats did Wolfram hear. Trepidation replaced relief in a heartbeat.

He dared to glance back, only to find the unicorn lying dead on the grass just steps behind him. Wolfram caught his breath in surprise.

Beside the fallen creature knelt a woman, a woman Wolfram knew had not been there before. Whence had she come, so swiftly and silently? She bent low as though stricken by sorrow at the creature's demise, and her hair obscured her features.

Wolfram noted the ebony color of that hair and its wavy nature. He swallowed in recognition, barely having time to brace himself before she glanced up and impaled him with those green eyes.

Wolfram felt that his feet suddenly took root and he was fixed to the spot. Too late he saw that his tormentress was nude and marveled that he could have missed that salient fact for any interval, however short. Her skin was such an even, creamy hue that he longed to touch her. His body responded as he might have expected, though still he could not tear his gaze away from her perfection. His lips burned with renewed vigor, as if daring him to recall her embrace.

When she lifted her hand as though in offering to him, his eyes widened in shock at the bloody ruby resting in her palm. Wolfram glanced unwillingly to the dead beast, knowing all the while what he would see, yet hoping he would not.

His heart sank at the evidence before him. She had retrieved the red carbuncle from the base of the creature's horn. All the old tales Wolfram had heard flooded into his mind as he stared incredulously at the stone.

‘Twas a gemstone reputed to reveal the presence of poison.

That she offered the gem to him was not a sign that could be missed. Too readily did he recall his first impression that she knew who and what he was. Was she the knowing unicorn? Was she the one who would reveal him? Did she hold his fate in her graceful hands as surely as she cradled that ruby? Wolfram's fear of being discovered redoubled at the awareness that another whose motives he did not know could reveal him, but he could not keep himself from meeting her gaze once more.

Her eyes were filled with hatred.

Something went cold within Wolfram, and his gut twisted at the unexpected change. She stood deliberately, her gaze unwavering, her expression resolute, and the unicorn's blood ran freely from the stone in her hand. Still he could not deny her beauty or his own cursed desire for the soft fullness of her form.

He could think of naught but having her, even now. Those ruddy lips that he longed to taste again parted and suddenly he feared that she would voice an accusation he did not want to hear.

His vows he had broken! The Rule he had denied! This woman he had tasted, his very life he had betrayed. And she would turn against him and despise him. She would reveal him; she would betray him as he had been betrayed once before. Too much ‘twas, too much to bear beside the burden of guilt he already willingly bore.

Wolfram wrenched his neck to turn away from her and awakened with a snap.

His eyes flew open and he stared uncomprehendingly at the ceiling of the dormitory for long moments. The lamp's golden light danced across the fitted stone; his brethren snored contentedly around him, untroubled by dreams. His heart pounded like thunder and he willed his pulse to slow its erratic pace. He felt as though he had run several leagues without pause. A cold trickle of sweat wound its way down his back and still his body was taut from his vision of the lute player.

When his heart had calmed, Wolfram closed his eyes and forced himself to exhale slowly. He licked his lips and cursed their tingling.

Only too easy ‘twas to recall. When last had he been so distracted? When last had he dreamed? When last had he broken the Rule?

Never. And Wolfram liked the change not. ‘Twas clear he could not afford to listen to her lute's music again.

Yet even as he lay and his determination grew resolute, it seemed that a lilting tune carried faintly to his ears from the streets outside the Temple. Wolfram squeezed his eyes tightly closed and clapped his hands over his ears as he rolled toward the wall, but still the insidious tune tempted and tormented him.

Well it seemed that there was no escape from either the music or his own traitorous thoughts.

And ‘twas she alone who knew he had broken the Rule. ‘Twas she alone who could reveal him. Helpless Wolfram felt, caught in a web not of his own making, though he knew his conclusion was inescapable.

He held his position because he was perfectly trustworthy. Too much was there to lose by revealing his error. No intention had Wolfram of confessing his lapse, and ‘twas true that a more damning penance would he grant himself than any chaplain might give him. Which led to a single terrifying and exhilarating conclusion.

A promise had he to extract from the lutenist that she would not reveal him. Wolfram caught his breath at the bold skip his pulse took.

‘Twas only logical that he knot every loose end and ensure his own security. Logical, naught else. ‘Twas perfectly logical for a man to protect himself.

There was naught else at work here. No anticipation was there of seeing the lutenist herself, only of seeing this matter resolved. No trepidation had he of hearing her music again, no fear had he of seeing her gleaming tresses unbound over her shoulder, no danger was there of being tempted to touch her again.