Part 13 (2/2)

Perhaps the monk understood, for he turned away, offering his back to the room. Wrapped in robes of midnight blue, the monk drifted toward the shuttered window. Lifting the latch, he eased the shutters open, admitting a cold wind, a bitter breath of winter.

No one complained.

The sudden cold suited the chill of the room.

Candles flickered against the wind, casting an uneven light. The king's great sword gleamed upon the tabletop, a promise and a threat.

No one spoke.

Minutes seemed like hours.

A knock at the door broke the spell, a bustle of noise from the hallway. Prince Griffin was first to arrive, followed by G.o.dfrey. Bold and confident, the two princes mimicked their father, blond-haired warriors dressed in fighting leathers, maroon cloaks at their shoulders. Griffin started to speak but one look at his father's face silenced him. The grim mood proved contagious. Wood sc.r.a.pped against stone as the two princes took seats at the table.

The others came by ones and twos, the captains and the champions, big men bristling with weapons, maroon cloaks spattered with mud, answering the call of their king. Sir Dalt, the captain of Ice Tower, Sir Rannock, the champion of the morning star, Sir Odis, the champion of the lance, they tramped into the chamber, mud on their boots, the smells of sweat and horse clinging to their wool cloaks. Eighteen men answered the summons. Caught by the grim mood, they asked no questions. Veterans of many battles, they crowded into the chamber, standing behind their king, taking sides against the stranger.

The marshal knew them all, some of them friends, all of them brothers-in-arms, warrior-knights dedicated to the maroon. He studied their faces, wondering if a demon lurked among them, but the monk's accusation seemed hard to believe, a stain against their honor.

Sir Lothar flashed a questioning glance his way, but the marshal kept his face impa.s.sive, better to let the king explain.

Silence prevailed, like a lull before the battle. The fireplace snapped and crackled, spitting sparks onto the stone floor. Knights fingered their weapons, every stare locked on the monk.

Alone, on the far side of the chamber, the monk stared out the window, his dark hair ruffled by the winter wind.

The king spoke, ”My council is a.s.sembled.”

The monk turned, his face pale in the candlelight. ”All of them?”

”All save three captains who remain at their posts along the Domain; Ulrich is at Cragnoth, Boris at Holdfast, and Clemet at Castlegard.”

”So be it.” The monk's gaze circled the chamber, as if searching the soul of each man. Raising his right hand, he revealed the tattoo of the Seeing Eye. ”Seek knowledge, Protect knowledge, Share knowledge. My name is Aeroth, a sworn monk of the Kiralynn Order. I come to you on the brink of war, bringing warning of a dire plot by the Dark Lord, a deceit designed to defeat the Octagon.”

A murmur of anger ripped through the chamber.

The monk reached into his pocket, revealing the crystalline shard. ”A prophecy warns of a harlequin hidden among you, a servant of the Dark Lord wearing the face of a knight.” He raised the crystal aloft, candlelight reflecting off the milk-white facets. ”I ask each of you to hold this crystal in your naked hand. If it remains dormant, it proves you walk in the Light. If it glows bright red, it proves a harlequin hides beneath your face, a demon disguised as a knight.”

”Demons!” Sir Dalt made the hand sign against evil.

A murmur of outrage rippled through the room. The captains cast uneasy glances at the monk, their hands at their weapons.

King Ursus leaned forward, stretching his open hand across the table. ”I will be the first.”

The monk had the grace to look embarra.s.sed. ”Majesty, it is not necessary.”

The king's fist banged the tabletop, his voice a roar. ”Of course it's necessary! You come here speaking of treachery. Your words stain the honor of us all.” The king skewered the monk with his stare, his voice a command. ”Give me the shard.”

The monk moved to the table. Leaning forward, he offered the crystal to the king. Their hands met over the sapphire sword. The king took the crystal and held it aloft. The shard remained dormant. A sigh of relief rippled around the chamber.

G.o.dfrey was the first to speak. The youngest among them, his voice burned with righteous indignation. ”How dare you test our king! How dare you come here and impugn the honor of the Octagon!”

The king turned toward his third-born son, a glint of approval in his eyes. ”You'll soon learn the monks dare much. But if the Octagon is to be tested, it's fitting the king be first.”

But the prince was not mollified. His voice brimmed with outrage. ”We spill our blood guarding the southern kingdoms!” He stabbed an accusing finger at the monk. ”By what right does a weaponless monk dare judge us?”

The marshal stared at the prince, fearing he protested too much.

”Enough!” The king's roar echoed through the chamber. ”By my order, each of you will take this test, but never speak of it past these walls.” His stare scoured his captains, slaying any protest. He turned towards, his third-born son. ”We lead by example.”

G.o.dfrey glowered, but then bowed under the weight of his father's stare. He accepted the crystal, holding it aloft. The marshal held his breath, but the shard remained dormant, a dagger-length of milk-white crystal held in the prince's fist.

The king said, ”And now Griffin.”

G.o.dfrey pa.s.sed the crystal to his older brother. Griffin took the shard and held it aloft. ”It sleeps.” He turned to pa.s.s it to the next man.

The monk intervened. ”Remove your glove.”

Griffin shrugged. ”It matters not.”

”Remove your glove.”

A snarl filled the prince face. ”Curse your crystal.” Erupting from his chair, he hurled the shard at the monk. Quick as lightning, he unsheathed a dagger and held it to his brother's throat. ”Back, all of you!”

The marshal drew his sword, a stab of horror at his heart. Not the king's son!

Weapons sprang from scabbards, a thicket of steel surrounding the prince.

G.o.dfrey struggled, a wild look in his eyes, but the dagger drew a line of blood at his throat. ”Father!”

”G.o.dfrey!” The king stood, knocking over his chair, his face a blaze of disbelief. ”Don't harm my son!”

The knights growled, tightening the cage.

The demon retreated, setting its back to a wall, holding the younger brother like a s.h.i.+eld. ”Keep back, or I'll kill him.”

”Do as he says.” At the king's command, the knights came to a stop, their weapons raised in a ring of steel.

Only the marshal inched forward, seeking a way to save the younger son.

”All of you keep back.” The demon glared at the marshal. ”You too, old man.” Holding the dagger to G.o.dfrey's throat, it shuffled toward the door, its back pressed to the wall. ”Drop your weapons.”

The king gestured and the captains complied, a rain of steel hitting the stone floor.

Empty-handed, the marshal sidled to toward the door, desperate to stop the demon.

The king took a step toward his sons, his hands spread wide in entreaty. ”Griffin don't do this. Fight this monster and release your brother. I know you're strong...”

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