Vow Unto Me I

[maderr]

Last knight story, at least for now. ^^; It has full approval from the deciding parties, and much love to them for reading it for me <3

Vow Unto Me

The snow was unending.

To describe the world as turned to white was so vast an understatement that Yvain near laughed. The past few winters had been mild, with snows never reaching a depth greater than his knees.

Around him now the snow came well to waist level, with every promise of ne'er stopping afore spring at last drove winter back. As the winter solstice was yet two weeks away, meaning they were still in autumn and not true winter—

The world was not turned to white, but had been devoured whole by white.

If not for the crest of the Grand Duke stamped into the wax which sealed the missive brought to him by no less than a Beauclerc, Yvain would have told the messenger to bugger off and enjoy his perilous return through the unending snow.

Unfortunately, he was a peer of the realm, one of the highest, and so must answer the summons of the Grand Duke no matter the time or weather.

His progress was slow, his horse as pleased as he to be stuck in the thrice-cursed weather. Just as he was beginning to despair of having stepped wrong somewhere along the way, through the falling snow he spied the walls of the capital.

Chieldorona, the very heart of Chieldor, Kingdom of the Sun.

On a clear day the towers of the keep were visible at great distance. At the moment, he could scarce see his fingers before his nose. His frozen nose, and the fingers no better even within their gloves.

Yvain reached the great drawbridge which spanned the river that formed a natural moat for the great capital. On most days, so long as the sun was up the city was open. Once the sun set, the massive double portcullis were closed and no one could go in or out save with express permission. In especially bad times, the drawbridge was raised as well.

Drawing close, he halted as guards stepped forward to demand his identity. Normally he might have taken offense, for 'twas their duty to know as well as any herald the crests and blazons which sought entrance to the city. However, he doubted they could see it any better than he could see his icicle fingers.

He lifted his frozen arms in a gesture of peace, and dismounted at their bidding. Calmly, ignoring the crossbows leveled upon him – making note to commend these men to their superior – he threw back the hood of his fur-trimmed cloak.

"Your Grace," the men promptly replied, lowering their crossbows and dropping to their knees. "Forgive us, please."

"Aye," Yvain said lightly, touching their shoulders. He reached into the cumbersome folds of his heavy winter cloak and withdrew the missive, displaying the seal upon it. "I come at the bidding of his grace the Grand Duke."

The men nodded as they rose, one vanishing into the guard tower to give orders for the portcullis to be raised.

"You guard the city well," Yvain said. "Continue your good work."

"Aye, your Grace," the remaining man said, sweeping him a bow as Yvain mounted his horse and rose through the gates as they were raised.

Scarcely had he cleared them when they were again lowered, and he was well sealed within the city.

The snow was not so heavy here, for the inhabitants fought against it where they could, sweeping it from the streets, carrying away much of it to be melted down for fresh water as he doubted many of the public wells remained unfrozen.

'Twas near quiet as a graveyard as he rode along the cobblestone streets, for those who might have loitered about to enjoy a bit of fun in the night had been driven indoors to seek what amusements they may with a fire and warm ale.

His breaths were misted puffs where not swallowed by the still-falling flakes of heavy snow. It muffled the clomping of his horse's hooves, but not overmuch, and the silence all around them only made the rhythmic noise all the louder.

Here and there torches fought the weather, but he could see where more than a few had lost the battle. Guards were posted at regular intervals, and he did not doubt the lot of them were being punished for some offense or another. He nodded to each one, offering what little sympathy he could.

At long last he reached the keep itself, and here light blazed as though in an effort to drive back the grim black and white world which had been brought upon by winter.

As he reached the gate, guards rushed forward – but here they could see more clearly, and knew him on sight, moving swiftly to take his horse and offer assistance. He waved them aside with thanks, moving stiffly at first as he attempted to regain feeling in his limbs.

Just inside the keep, at the far end of the great hall, he shook his cloak free of snow, pushing back the hood, shaking his head to free it of stray flakes, combing a hand through his light brown hair.

Free of snow, the deep, rich green of his wool cloak was visible, a splash of fine color in the dimly lit gray hall, though the rich black sable which lined it was near invisible. Even here, all had sought the warmth of their beds rather than continue to endure the miserable cold. 'Twas like a strange dream, to see a place normally overflowing with people so stark and quiet.

Moving forward, stripping off his gloves and tucking them into his belt, he traveled down the length of the enormous great hall and through passages he could travel with his eyes closed, until he reached the southern tower. He took the stairs rapidly, arriving at last at the private chamber of the Grand Duke of Chieldor.

He nodded to the guards who stood on either side of the door, murmuring absent greetings as he passed by them.

Inside, his breath abruptly lodged in his chest, refusing to move any further.

Then a deep, familiar ache blossomed and only long years of practice kept his emotions from his face.

Corentin was as pale and beautiful as the snow consuming the world. He seemed a child of winter come to life – pale blonde hair and soft blue eyes, tall and broad, dressed in a deep blue surcoat trimmed in gray, the crescent moon crest of the House de Capre emblazoned on the chest. Around his shoulders was a full cloak equal in measure to Yvain's, blue rather than green, lined with white fur. Both had been gifts last winter from the Grand Duke.

Always had Yvain loved him, always from afar, for how dare he confess such feelings to a man whose House had ever been locked in hostilities with his own. So many times had the words been upon the tip of his tongue, only to die there as their fathers renewed the animosity that was too-many decades entrenched for Yvain to easily overcome.

Then his wistful, distant watching had revealed to him Corentin's secret lover, and he had finally given up all hope that he might find some way to bridge the chasm between their families.

Even then, the worst had not yet come. When the worst did come, Yvain could not comprehend it – only that he would rather die than have Corentin learn the truth. It killed him, to know Corentin's hatred was entirely personal and now eternal…but he would rather that, even now, than see the pain etched so deeply into Corentin's handsome face. A year and half now had passed, but it may as well have been a day.

No hope had he now of having his love returned, and while it was a fact to which he should long be accustomed…'twas more like the ache in his thigh, a relic of a battle fought when he was young and reckless and thought himself immortal. It would be there forever, worse on some days, more tolerable on others, but never truly gone or eased.

It had been more bearable when Corentin believed the hatred mutual…ever since that awful day at tourney, when the Grand Duke had forced him to speak the truth of the matter…he had avoided them both as much as possible.

Now…now he was called late in the night, in awful weather, to private conference with the Grand Duke and, it would appear, Corentin. What did one say to a man who hated him, when that man knew he was loved by the man he hated?

Yvain moved to the Grand Duke's chair before the fireplace, and dropped to one knee before him, head bowed low.

The Grand Duke touched his shoulder lightly, and Yvain obediently stood.

"I am sorry to have called you here at so late an hour and in such miserable weather," the Grand Duke said. "However, the matter is one which cannot wait. I want you well on your way come the dawn." He looked at both of them, and only long years of association allowed Yvain to pick out the unspoken concern and…amusement…in the Grand Duke's eyes.

The man was old, but not half so lost to his age as he liked people to think. He knew where matters stood between them, and if he had summoned them both here, something about that situation figured into this strange conference.

But what?

The Grand Duke relaxed in his chair, smoothing out the blanket draped over his legs. "I am sending you to the monastery on Castle Rosa," he said, sly eyes looking between them.

"Why?" Corentin demanded, even as Yvain started to say the same.

"I will explain," the Grand Duke said calmly. "Bring some of those chairs over, and that chit I called should be coming with mulled wine shortly. Food as well, for I know you both traveled hard. Fetch those chairs and sit, my Dukes, and we shall talk."

The mulled wine, when it came, did much to ease his increased tension. Ne'er would he be calm around Corentin, but the wine dulled his urge to flee – or at least reminded him 'twas better to be warm and miserable than cold and miserable.

"So why would you have us travel to the Mount Rosa Monastery?" Corentin asked.

Since the moment of his arrival, Corentin had not looked upon him. Yvain missed the days not so very long ago when Corentin cast glares and frowns in his direction, for 'twas better by far to be hated than invisible.

Not that he had much right to complain. He constantly stole fleeting glances of Corentin, but ever was he careful not to catch his eyes, deathly afraid of what would be lurking within them.

"The good brothers are plagued by brigands," the Grand Duke said, "though the monastery be a fortress to rival even the King's keep." He rapped the arm of his chair as though indicating the castle itself. "How the brigands gain entrance, the brothers do not know. They are confounded. Four of their number have taken injury, one quite serious. They are not seriously cowed, our brothers of Rosa, yet they have sent for help and requested most great help indeed. They would not specify why, something unlike Father Drogo."

"You suspect 'tis more than brigands afoot," Yvain said. Indeed, it would have to be. As the Grand Duke had said, the monastery at the top of Mount Rosa was a fortress. He had not been there in more than a decade, for 'twas a place most sacred and not to be treated casually.

Ever would he remember those three days, for had been the day of his formal Knighting Day, eleven years ago now…and the day he had realized what precisely it was he felt for the pale and pretty son of the family he had ever been instructed to detest.

"Aye," the Grand Duke agreed. "Father Drogo is no fool. The matter is most serious, and so I am sending my two finest knights to address the matter."

Corentin frowned and shook his head. "Nay, there is something more to it. 'Twould make more sense by far to send one of the Delacroix or Legrand."

"Nay," the Grand Duke replied, shaking his head, bringing his hands together, steepling the fingers, and Yvain was reminded briefly of how notorious this man had once been with sword and lance. "My reasons for sending you, my Dukes, is twofold."

Yvain tensed, disliking the sudden shift in tone, the look in the Grand Duke's eyes – that he knew very well that he was about to upset them, but had no choice, and it was for their own good. He knew that look quite well.

"It has not gone unnoticed by all and sundry that your two Houses share an even greater tension than before, and that tension was already higher than the King finds pleasing. After myself, you two men are the highest peers in the realm. You kneel to none but the King, myself, and the heavens. Even your sires, my Dukes, managed a polite conversation when duty dictated they must. Since the day of which you will not speak, this is the longest I have seen you so much as stand in the same room."

Desperately wishing he were somewhere else, or dead, Yvain stared hard at a spot on the floor. What would the man have him do? Act as though all were well? 'Twas not. Ne'er would Corentin forgive him…ne'er would he forgive himself. Better to have gone to his grave that day than obey the Grand Duke and reveal the truth of the matter.

He wished sometimes he had killed that confounded peasant. The man had been blessed enough to hold Corentin's heart, so loved that Corentin had been prepared to give up the title to which his family had laid claim for eleven generations…and the fool had killed himself because he would rather Corentin remain a Duke.

More than that, he wished he could simply take his own life. He should have been able to prevent the peasant's terrible deed, and arrogantly thought he had…only for the man to have played him for a fool the whole of the conversation.

The Grand Duke sighed. "Even now, you look everywhere but at each other. Such behavior cannot continue, my Dukes. This silence between you is known by all, and such poor behavior reflects back upon the throne which bestowed unto you those titles. Vows have you made unto your King, your kingdom, and the heavens. The throne commands you go to the Mount Rosa Monastery and there rid it of brigands and yourselves of the problems between you. Remain there until spring, and return no longer at odds."

"The spring?" Yvain exclaimed. "Your Grace, we cannot—"

"Matters will be attended in your place," the Grand Duke said, holding up his hand. "His Majesty and myself have been planning this for some months. The brigands are an additional difficulty, for you were going to the monastery regardless. Winter Solstice is but days away, and your faces I will not tolerate seeing until the Spring Equinox. Show me your obedience, knights, or show me your defiance."

Yvain stood, and Corentin did the same beside him – and then both knelt, as though one, identical from the very way they knelt to the bowing of their heads, one hand splayed for balance on the thick rug before the fire. "Unto crown and heaven, by the will of crown and heaven, ever do we serve crown and heaven."

"Good," the Grand Duke said. "Then you are dismissed, and god speed on your journey, and by the grace and mercy of heaven return to me the men you once used to be."

"Aye, your Grace," they replied. Yvain stood and turned, and almost glanced toward Corentin. At the last he could not quite bring himself to do it, dreading as ever what he might see in Corentin's eyes. Pain? Hate? Nothing at all?

Some part of him wanted to know so that he need not keep wondering…but most of him preferred ignorance, for was it not honesty which had brought this final misery upon him?

Outside the Grand Duke's chambers, he slowly descended the tower stairs. Behind him, the occasional scuff of boots was all that gave away Corentin's presence.

He drew up short at the foot of the stairs, momentarily surprised to see a monk awaiting them. He was dressed in the plain brown robes Yvain still recalled from his brief time at the Monastery, with naught but rope for a belt, a small pouch at his waist. His cloak was sturdy and well made, however, for the monks knew better than any the terrible ravages of a hard winter.

"Your Graces," the monk said, sweeping them a bow but not kneeling. "I am honored to make your acquaintance, and hope I prove a worthy escort up the mountain."

Coming up to stand beside Yvain, Corentin snorted. "You will prove most worthy, assuredly, for were I to try the endeavor upon my own, I would find myself lost within a moment."

Yvain nodded in agreement. "Aye. Tis a miracle I reached the capital without difficulty, for a certainty."

"The horses await us, your Graces," the monk said. "I hope I am not impertinent in saying that I hope you are well rested or this journey will be a trial most great indeed."

"We are well-rested, and better to face the trial of snow than return to his Grace and tell him we must tarry here longer for want of a nap."

Beside him Corentin made a sound that suggested he was struggling not to laugh. 'Twas pleasing to know he had coaxed a laugh from Corentin, especially given the rift between them. Mayhap…nay, 'twas foolish to let his hopes build over a laugh, especially when Corentin had struggled not to release it.

The Grand Duke might be ordering them to heal the breach between them, but that did not mean it could be done. He would try, though he knew not how yet…but it would take them both to heal it truly, and Corentin had never cared for him before that dreadful day.

Ne'er would he forget the look upon Corentin's face as the truth was told…both of his lover's death, and the reason Yvain had kept that truth hidden. He could not imagine himself in Corentin's place; hard enough to endure his own part in it. Corentin had left the room on a barely-muffled sob, and Yvain could not forgive himself for causing so deep a pain.

If he could not forgive himself, how could he ask such from Corentin?

He could not, and yet they had been commanded to heal the rift. Truly Yvain hated it when the impossible was asked of him.

In silence the monk turned and led the way through the keep, out to where their horses waited, with three more to carry additional supplies. Yvain dreaded the arduous journey ahead of them. That it would be too difficult a journey to permit conversation was empty comfort.

*~*~*

The Mount Rosa Monastery was beautiful. Much of it was carved from the very mountain itself, the rest of costly marble hauled long distance and with greatest difficulty up the mountain. Many centuries ago had it been built, by a King most pious. Upon the monastery's completion, he had given the crown over to his son and become the first Father.

At the heart of the monastery was the primary worship hall, more beautiful still. Marble tile, pale red-pink in color, made up the floor. Nothing rest upon it; during times of prayer each monk would unroll his prayer mat. Early afternoon sunlight, or what of it had managed to break through the snow-laden clouds, spilled through the stained glass windows that ran across every wall but that which contained the altar.

The altar itself was decorated with a mural painted by those monks who had first taken vows alongside the former king. It depicted one holy story after another, each blending into the scene before and after it, a wondrous work that ever encouraged the eye to gaze upon it. Before the mural was a low table set with candles and silver dishes for offerings. At the very center, between the candles, was a book at least as old as the kingdom. Precious few copies of it existed, yet here it rest always for those who desired to read it and find whatever wisdom they sought, whatever comfort they needed.

He remembered he had knelt upon a great mat composed of symbols and crests that at the time he had been too young and nervous to appreciate. Yvain had knelt beside him, he remembered that. 'Twould be hard to forget. Envy had been strong in him that day, for ever had he been reprimanded for wearing too many of his emotions upon his face. Beside him, Yvain had been implacable, unreadable. If he had endured his own anxiety, Corentin had not been able to identify it.

Over the years, 'twould seem Yvain had only improved his ability to be unreadable. He stood not more than two steps away, yet it seemed to Corentin to be a wide, deep chasm. What did he say? What could he say? A thousand times he had prepared and discarded pretty speeches, humble apologies, expressions of his own stupidity and regret…none was fit or worthy.

Naught he could say would ever compare to all that Yvain had confessed, all that he had endured.

By his will, Yvain had lost several men and nearly his own life. Corentin regretted his stupidity, for a certainty, but he did not wholly regret his actions. If Yvain had proved to be a murderer, he would have felt most justified…yet he had not proven wise from the very start.

Nay, he had done naught but commit one knavery after another. How many times had it been impressed upon him to trust no eyes but his own, to doubt any word which could not be unfailingly confirmed. He had known Nash was frightened by his declaration to surrender his title…but to take his own life…

Ne'er had he suspected Nash would take such recourse; the thought never passed for so much as a moment through his mind. He should not have so readily believed Yvain a cold murderer, however. 'Twas not in Yvain's nature and had he been thinking rationally…

He recoiled from dwelling upon his wretched behavior. 'Twas only the discretion and mercy of the Grand Duke which had kept his head upon his shoulders.

Loyalty and honor, two of the most important qualities for a knight to master. He had proven himself to contain neither by his actions…

Yvain…had proven to be wholly the opposite. Loyal, honorable…and humble.

Humility, too, was something a knight must always remember. Even a Duke was not above kneeling and bowing his head. Neither was he above fault.

Corentin was most certainly humble now, and ever would he be with those words forever echoing in his head, the memory of Yvain's face that day.

"I would rather you think me a murderer, and slay me for the crime, and find some measure of peace, than be burdened with the truth that now you have heard. Better to die than cause you that pain."

How long had Yvain loved him? Why had he never realized? He had thought their dislike wholly mutual…

Yet, since that day, oft had he pondered heavily all the reasons for his own dislike of Yvain…and all he could find had the strength of a snowflake afore a great flame. Instructed by his family had he ever been, to dislike the House of Lons. Ever had he and Yvain bickered and glared from afar for that very reason. At least, ever had he thought Yvain glared. Now he wondered.

His own personal dislike, for a murder Yvain did not commit, had died that day. All emotion had died that day, save for a deep feeling of self-loathing he would ne'er overcome. Nash had died for love of him, and Yvain had been willing to die a murderer for love of him.

What part of him was so worthy of either?

At least, he had acknowledged often and miserably, his penance and punishment fit his terrible crimes. Now he knew true how Yvain regarded him, he could do naught but steal all the glances he dared.

Free of the dislike his family had draped over him, seeing Yvain truly for the first time this past year and a half…he was plagued by what ifs and might have beens. He had loved Nash truly, but mayhap Nash had ever known something Corentin had willfully missed. Would he have managed life as a peasant true?

The Beauclerc had done it, as well as his son, which was what had given Corentin the idea and determination…yet Nash had not been happy to hear it, as he had anticipated. Instead he had taken his own life. Mayhap the heavens had never intended them to be one. It was hard to admit, but he had willfully ignored far too much already.

Yvain…seen through eyes unclouded, he was far from the arrogant, reserved knave for which Corentin ever had taken him. Beneath the handsome exterior was not but a knight most worthy and true, and Corentin wished with all he knew how to bridge the gap that lay between them.

Never was it to be, though, no matter the orders of the Grand Duke. It would be the height of everything despicable and wretched to declare after all that had passed that he thought he might be capable of returning Yvain's affections…if still those affections he held, which Corentin could not entirely believe. How could he? If Yvain's actions in the affair had proven him to be a man worthy of much, they had also proven Corentin to be a man worthy of nothing.

He was taken from his thoughts by the sound of movement, and looked up to see a large man swathed in plain brown robes ambling down the hall toward him.

"Duke Lons, Duke de Capre, 'tis an honor to have you both here again," Father Drogo said.

Corentin knelt, seeing Yvain do the same from the corner of his eye.

"Stand, stand," Father Drogo said lightly. "I wish your visit here was under happier circumstances." He smiled at both of them, dark eyes filled with approval. "Mere youths were you, nervous and restless, when last you stood in this hall. Knights grown I see now, men fully come into their strengths. I am happy. No doubt your fathers died proud and confident in their sons."

Corentin rather thought his father was howling down epithets from the heavens right now, but did not voice the opinion. "Thank you, Father. You are far too gracious."

"Nay," Father Drogo said. He looked between them. "Though I begin to understand what precisely the Grand Duke said in his letters." He looked at them each again, the silence stretching on into awkwardness, to the point that Corentin was painfully aware every time Yvain so much as shifted.

He would never survive to the Spring Equinox. If this continued, he did not doubt he would throw himself off the cliffs in a fit of madness.

"Come," Father Drogo said at last, turning to lead the way back out of the prayer hall. Beyond it, the Monastery was much like a maze, and Corentin made a mental note to later explore the place until he had its twisted ways committed well to memory.

Some minutes later they reached Father Drogo's office. It was simply appointed, naught more than would strictly be needed, but beautiful for all that. A rug upon the floor to fight against the cold, a tapestry upon the wall that portrayed Mount Rosa, and an enormous desk.

Corentin admired it absently; his own desk was never so neat, not even by half.

Then his eyes fell upon the chest set in the center of it. Not great in size, perhaps half his arm in length, and half again as wide. Carved upon the top was a great phoenix, a rose in its beak. No crest with which he was familiar, though the manner of the artistry was Rothlandic in origin.

What caught him, however, was the lack of a keyhole, the lack of hinges. Naught was there to indicate the chest was more than a decorative box. "A Rothland puzzle box," he said excitedly, stepping forward and stripping off his gloves, setting them absently upon the desk as he reached out to examine the box. "The craftsmanship is exquisite." He hefted the box and turned it over in his arms, trailing one finger over the small runic mark on the bottom of the chest. "Yes, a master mark. This one would be the very devil to open, I should think."

He set it back down and looked up at Father Drogo. "Have you solved the riddle of it?"

Father Drogo snorted. "Ha! I can scarce find my slippers every morning, and you think me capable of finding hidden locks and keys?" He laughed. "Nay, I have attempted it, but 'tis far beyond my capabilities and I know it."

"You collect those," Yvain said.

It took Corentin a moment to realize he was being directly addressed, and he was startled enough to look toward Yvain – and immediately looked away again, unnerved as ever by those brown eyes, unwilling to gaze long enough to determine what emotions were held within them.

"Aye," he said in reply to Yvain's comment, eyes drawn once more to the puzzle box. "I've twenty of them, six by Rothland Masters." He reached out to touch it again, incapable of resisting, trailing his fingers slowly over every bit of wood, every nuance of the carving. "How did you come to obtain it, Father?"

Father Drogo sighed and sat down in his chair. "I suspect 'tis this which is the source of our troubles. A month ago Knights of Chieldor took refuge here after they were badly wounded in a border skirmish."

Not unusual; the border between Chieldor and Rothland was only two days away from the Monastery, and ever did Rothland press its hostilities – especially since the entire affair surrounding Princess Winifred. They also liked to deny they were doing anything.

"They were ambushed, but managed a victory. When they arrived here to heal and recover, they brought with them some spoils of victory. The matter was of course brought to the attention of Rothland, but they claim no knowledge of the matter, that the attackers were rogues who wrongly wore the crests and colors of Rothland.

Yvain rapped lightly upon the chest. "You think proof to the contrary lies within the chest, that the brigands know you have it and seek to reclaim ere their identity is discovered for certain and one king or another takes their heads for it."

"Aye," Father Drogo replied. "The knights left the spoils here, in thanks and because 'twas easier to travel without the additional burden. Not more than a week after they had departed, the attacks here began. I keep the goods the knights brought well-scattered about the Monastery, and ne'er keep this box in the same location twice. Neither do I share its locations with another. You would grant me a great boon by removing the burden of it from my shoulders."

Corentin bowed his head, as did Yvain. "We will take responsibility for the chest, Father."

"Think you there be a chance of solving the riddle of the box?" Yvain asked.

"Aye," Corentin said. "I recognize the Maker Mark; six of my three are his work. He is notorious for puzzles which cannot be opened by one person alone." He frowned thoughtfully as he continued to examine the box, smiling faintly as he picked out likely bits of it. It was beautifully carved with whorls and flowers, so perfectly done 'twas near impossible to tell the box was not carved from one piece of wood.

"Father," he said, indicating a portion of the chest, "place your fingers here." He moved on as Father Drogo did as he asked. "Yvain, here and here."

Yvain moved promptly to obey, and Corentin struggled to ignore the way their fingers ever so briefly brushed together.

Biting his tongue, scarce aware he did so, he felt slowly around the box for more of the telltale difference that gave away the chest's tricksome release.

"Now, press altogether, and see if that is the trick," he said as he found two more – and hoped that was all of them. At his signal, they pressed – and he crowed as something clicked ever so faintly, and he saw that a rose carved into the front side of the chest had risen slightly from the wood.

Gently he tugged upon it, until it lifted upon some hidden hinge to reveal the lock beneath.

"Now you must find the key," Yvain said.

"Aye," Corentin agreed, thoughtfully stroking one of the panels he had pressed. "I think that rather than press the panels all together, we must press them in a particular order. I have seen a similar trick before; it took me near a month to solve that one, for I thought the answer would be something else entirely, and not the same thing done a different way."

Father Drogo looked at him with a smile. "You solve it so simply, and make the answers seem so plain, when I know that many a man has resorted to his sword to open such boxes."

"My mind is good for very little," Corentin said with a shrug. "Mayhap I spent too much time with such puzzles as a child, for they make sense to me where little else does."

"Hmm," Father Drogo said thoughtfully, but did not say anything further. "Very well, let us attempt your proposed solution."

Yvain shook his head. "There are innumerable combinations possible. This could take us but a moment or days upon days."

"Aye," Father Drogo said. "So there is no time like the present to begin."

By the time they finally found the key, night had fallen and all their stomachs rumbled for food. Wearily Corentin leaned against the desk, holding the key in his fist. "Truly this box is evil," he said. "I should like it for my collection, if that someday be possible."

"Certainly I do not want to keep it," Father Drogo said with a grimace. "Unless the King or Grand Duke command otherwise, the box is yours and gladly."

Corentin smiled faintly, and set the key upon the table. "Unlock it, then, and let us have done with the mystery."

It was Yvain who took up the key and unlocked the chest, throwing back the lid – and all three fell silent at what was revealed to be within.

Jewels, coins, common enough stuff for such a box. One jewel, however, stood out above all the rest. A ring – gold, set with a square cut sapphire…and upon that, an ornate gold 'R'. A royal ring of Rothland. Not the ring of the king, or even the crown prince…but the ring of his second son. He who would inherit the throne should his brother die.

Irrefutable proof that the King of Rothland knew full well that assaults were being made upon the Chieldor border. They were not the work of mere brigands wearing false colors.

"The ring needs to be taken to Chieldorona," Corentin said.

"Aye," Yvain agreed, picking it up and balling his hand into a fist around it, then holding it up to the light. "With the weather now clearing, however, they will be able to assault any who ventures far from the monastery – especially any who is making his way down the mountain. That aside…we should not take the Grand Duke a mere ring."

Corentin looked toward him, unable to resist the hard but almost playful tone in Yvain's voice. He skittered away from the eyes, but did not look entirely away.

"I think 'twould be more fitting to take back the owner of the ring as well. What say you, Corentin?"

"I say 'tis a fine idea, for a certainty. How plan you to go about obtaining the owner?"

"'Twould be foolish for so powerful a man to raid the monastery himself," Yvain said thoughtfully. "Yet 'twould be harder still for raiders to carry off such a box as this. Nay, ultimately the wisest recourse would be for his Highness to join the raid, locate the box, and take the ring from it."

Corentin nodded in agreement. "So you think to capture him during one of the raids."

"Aye," Yvain agreed. "He will be caught in the act, and the evidence damning."

"So we put the box where it might be found, but keep the ring." He looked again in Yvain's direction. "We should take it in turns to guard the ring, that it is never easily found, on the chance not all within the monastery are to be trusted."

Father Drogo grimaced. "Aye. If one among my children is so dishonest, 'twould grieve me, but I am not so ignorant as to think them all innocent. I reserve blind faith for the heavens."

"Hopefully all will prove faithful," Yvain said.

"Aye," Corentin agreed. "Yvain, take the ring for now. Give it to me when you feel we should switch. Now I beg humbly for food, good Father."

"For that," Father Drogo said with a laugh, "you need not beg." Come, let us find food and I will assure my no doubt agitated monks that I have not been devoured by my office." Hefting himself up from his seat, he ambled to the door and motioned for them to follow.

Corentin waited for Yvain to precede him, trailing along behind them both, wishing he could walk alongside Yvain but not daring. 'Twas easier to steal glances this way, and he did not risk catching Yvain's eyes.

Once in the dining hall, however, it became impossible to do aught but sit beside him. 'Twas crowded, and monks made no distinction in rank in their dining hall, which left him uncomfortably pressed between a monk on his right and Yvain on his left.

These monks took no vow of silence, and the near-deafening chatter around him made him wonder if they took instead a vow to be as noisy possible. He wished they might take a vow of stillness, for 'twas difficult in the extreme to eat or even think when every other breath he was jostled so that he near dropped his tea or spoon, or pressed against Yvain for fear of taking an elbow to his ribs.

They had arrived in the earliest hours of the morning after near two days of hard travel, and had slept another to recover from the ordeal. Minus a bit of bread and cheese upon first waking, this was his first meal proper – and the only he had eaten in the hall.

He was yet again accosted by the monk to his right, who spoke with confounded enthusiasm to his fellows over something to do with wheat, and grit his teeth as the movement pressed him firmly against Yvain, who faired not much better with the monk to his left.

Across the table, Father Drogo laughed and finally gave the monks a few gentle words of reprove.

Corentin silently made note to wear full armor to all future meals.

*~*~*

Yvain walked the halls of the monastery, relishing the silence. Only a week had passed, yet it felt like months. Mayhap because for all that his days were filled with the noise of the monks, a particular silence rang out above the din.

Truly he was not certain what drove him maddest – that Corentin was so impermeable a wall, or that his own tongue was too locked in place to even attempt a siege. He did not know what to say, the rift was too great.

Did he apologize for failing to stop the peasant?

Did he apologize for keeping the secret?

Was it his love for which he should be most sorry? If so, then that was an apology he could not, would not offer.

He turned his thoughts away from Corentin as best he could, and attempted to focus on the matter of the monastery.

Not since their arrival had the brigands attacked, and Yvain wondered if perhaps their presence was too great a threat for the brigands to risk. Yet that did not make sense. If anything, the brigands should be more fearful and desperate than they were before. There was no guarantee that any of the monks would recognize a crest ring of Rothland, even assuming they had managed to get the box open.

A knight of Chieldor would recognize it, however, and that should make the need to regain the ring all the more urgent.

Mayhap they were taking more care to plan a better assault, and if that were the case then these nightly wanderings of his may prove to ease more than his wretched tossing and turning and tormenting dreams.

Dreams of smiles like those coaxed out by a mere puzzle box. If he had known so simple a thing would make Corentin smile thus again, he would have emptied his coffers to obtain them.

His one brief touch had been enough to near destroy the smiles, and that certainly gave him no reason to smile. Sighing at himself, Yvain once more put his mind on those matters which needed attending. Monks would not live or die based upon whether or not he and Corentin resolved their private matters.

They would die if this matter continued to worsen, as it seemed likely to now that he and Corentin were here, and the brigands very likely knew it. If any monks had turned traitor, and like as he would to believe none would dare he was not so naïve, then the brigands for a certainty knew the Dukes of Lons and de Capre were in residence.

He shivered as the winds increased, for the hallway he walked was composed primarily of archways which led to a long stretch of balcony that overlooked the mountain and the valley far below. Often did the monks come here to meditate, to contemplate the world far below. What wisdoms they found doing thus, he knew not. Every night since his arrival he had not slept properly, and his wanderings invariably brought him here.

Pulling his cloak shut, he drew up his hood and stepped through the central archway out onto the wide balcony. Venturing to the railing, he stared down at the white world below. High in the sky the moon was fat and full, making the snow seem to glow. 'Twas so bright 'twas nigh on painful to look upon, but he could not tear his eyes away.

Far below and well away, Chieldorona may as well be an ocean away. He wished he were there, with duties and obligations and the occasional amusement to whittle away his time and drive his deeper troubles from his mind.

At present, he was not certain what he feared more – that he would do nothing, or that he would do something foolish.

He wondered what Corentin was doing at present. The fact that the brigands had managed more than once to gain entrance to a monastery that was nigh on a fortress – for it had been built by a king who had spent the majority of his life at war – meant at least one of two things.

The first was that one or more monks were assisting the brigands, though that created plenty more questions and problems. The second, likely unhappily related to the first, was that some secret entrance existed which the monks had forgotten about and the brigands had discovered.

Yvain watched the monks. Corentin explored the monastery in the same fashion he had explored the puzzle box. One or the both of them would discover something. Part of his nightly walks was, indeed, in hopes of discovering monks wandering about after curfew.

If they were breaking curfew, they were likely smart enough not to get caught at it, but he would watch nonetheless.

The walks also gave him the perfect excuse to avoid breakfast. He swore sometimes Father Drogo forced them to sit so close together on purpose, and if he got shoved into Corentin one more time he would not be held responsible for his actions.

A man could only endure so much, and he rather thought 'twas fair to say he had endured more than he ought.

He supposed he should consider it progress that Corentin appeared to see him again, except their eyes never quite met and Corentin never appeared anything but distraught at the sight of him. Was theirs a problem which could be repaired? He rather thought not…every time he dwelt upon their problems, they seemed insurmountable.

Were he Corentin, how would he feel? How was one supposed to feel about a man he had ever hated, who had been the last to see his lover alive and had not kept that lover from suicide…and admitted the truth of the suicide in the same breath as his love.

As ever, thinking upon it all made his head ache something fierce. Heaving another long sigh, he folded his arms upon the balcony railing and rest his head upon them. Ever had he been an obedient knight, loyal and dutiful…but he did not see how he could follow this latest order.

It seemed more likely that he would fail, and have his spurs taken for it, and end the affair with naught but his misery for company.

What did one say to break so great a silence? 'Twas progress they spoke to each other directly at all, though only ever in regards to the problem of the brigands. What more could he say that he had not already said? He had confessed his heart once, and that had sent Corentin from the room sobbing.

He could lie, mayhap, and say that his feelings had eased. That he would settle for camaraderie…which really only proved, at least to himself, that mending the rift was not good enough for him.

It should be; to expect more than that was the height of foolishness. Corentin had not held him in anything but contempt before his lover died, and after that…nay, to think they could be more than comrades was the sort of boyish fancy he would do better to leave well behind.

What, then, should be his focus? If he could answer that question, mayhap there was yet chance for some happy resolution. As happy, at least, as he could dare to hope.

His mind was blank; it refused to think upon any idea that did not involve kissing Corentin deeply and begging upon his knees to be given a chance at being the object of Corentin's deepest affection.

Beyond explaining that he had been besotted upon first sighting the pale beauty Corentin ever had been, the way infatuation had taken root and blossomed into something far deeper and stronger as they grew. Ever had he been captive to the quiet strength Corentin carried. He was not as strong as some knights, but neither was he easily defeated.

Precious few nobility would be willing to give up all they possessed for a peasant, yet Corentin had been willing to give up one of the most powerful titles in the kingdom for precisely that.

Only the antagonism between their families had kept him at a distance, from seeking more than casual acquaintance with the man he had been told he must dislike… He wished he had been less obedient, that he had dared to make a friendship where all said 'twas impossible to find it.

If he had, mayhap their present situation would be something else entirely.

Dwelling on such things accomplished nothing, and so he tried again to put his mind to where it could do some good. Rising back to his full height, he gave the bright, white valley below one last look before turning and going back inside, continuing his walk through the winding hall.

Two days had it taken him to memorize the layout, and he had felt the slattern indeed for it when he saw that it had taken Corentin mere hours to do the same. Truly his mind seemed made for all manner of puzzles. 'Twas something he had appreciated in passing, but never witnessed so close. He appreciated it truly, now, and wondered sadly what else he did not know about a man he professed to love.

He wondered what Corentin knew of him. Thought of him, other than hate.

Oh, this would not do. 'Twas nights like this he wished he could simply return to his room and drown his thoughts and sorrows in a healthy dose of brandy.

Instead he turned down a dark stretch of hallway, one that contained naught but meditation chambers along one side, another stretch of balcony opposite, and the massive doors to the library at the far end.

Voices.

He stilled, hand going immediately to the sword he ever wore – then he was yanked roughly to the side, near colliding with the archway before he was pulled around and then pushed up against it.

A leather glove covered his mouth, and Corentin pressed a finger to his own mouth.

Yvain nodded, torn between the voices he could still ever so faintly hear and Corentin pressed up against him. Vexing in the extreme to force him to focus upon duty when desire could scarcely be more distracting.

The glove over his mouth slid away, and the press of Corentin's body against his own eased as he realized Yvain would not thrash about and struggle.

Swallowing a sigh of mingled relief and disappointment, Yvain lifted his brows in silent query.

Corentin shook his head, mouthing only the word 'monks'.

Going still, Yvain rested his head against the wall, grateful for what protection his hood and cloak could offer from the cold, for it seemed they might be here for some time. He wished he knew what was about, and why Corentin had not seen fit to share the knowledge with him.

Putting a finger once more to his lips, Corentin pulled entirely away and moved toward the door from which the voices emanated, pressing himself up against the wall. Yvain waited a moment, frowning, then followed him, taking up position on the opposite side of the barely-open doorway.

Voices spilled out, but they were too low for Yvain to make sense of the words. A brief glance told him that Corentin faired no better.

They could, however, hear when the voices shifted, were accompanied by the telltale sounds of activity being finished. Yvain looked to Corentin, and lightly touched fingers to the hilt of his sword.

Corentin shook his head, and again put a finger to his lips.

Secrecy, then. Aye, Yvain tended to agree. Reckless, unwitting monks were far more useful than scared, caught monks. Nearly as one they moved back to the balcony, precisely where they had hidden before, and if Yvain happened to wind up once more trapped between Corentin and the wall, well…no one but he and the heavens need know he had done it on purpose.

They waited in silence as the monks emerged from the room, still talking in their low voices and he would have to learn that trick from them, for he knew he was never so hard to hear when he spoke in low tones.

The voices abruptly cut off, and then Yvain heard one of them whisper furiously as at least two more unmistakably bolted.

What…?

A shadow moved toward them, stark against the pale tile beneath the full moon, and he realized too late their own shadows were equally plain.

Stupid.

He reacted with only the thought of preserving the true purpose of their presence, reaching up to grasp the sides of Corentin's head and draw him down, taking his mouth and using his surprise to immediately take the kiss deep.

Only faintly did he hear the monk gasp, the scuff of his slippers as he turned and bolted, and as silence fell he could only hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears as he tried and failed to break the kiss.

'Twas beyond his powers. Corentin tasted liked mulled wine and some faint hint of salt, and all warmth and male beneath that. So hot, all the more when the world around them was frozen.

Corentin was kissing him back, and Yvain thought hazily that he must be lost to some wondrous dream, and wished that all of them were so pleasant.

He might have stayed that way eternally, but for the sound of his own voice moaning deep and low. 'Twas jarring, and he realized abruptly this was no dream – and he had just made a great mistake.

Tearing away, he pushed Corentin back. "Forgive my impertinence," he said hoarsely, fleeing the balcony and –

Except he could not flee to his room. Duty before all else, and they must know what the monks had been about. Only a coward would run and leave the rest of the work to his comrade.

With an effort, he pushed open the door to the room recently vacated by the monks. The smell of smoke was still sharp and pungent in the air, and relighting the recently doused torch in the far corner required little effort.

Light filled the room, casting shadows on…nothing. There was not even a prayer mat upon the floor.

"I was—" Corentin stopped short, and cleared his throat, and when he spoke again his voice was nearly normal rather than rough. Almost. Yvain had spent too many years obtaining every crumb he could from Corentin, from the way he smiled to the sound of his voice, not to know it was not quite right at the moment.

He wondered what damage he had caused with his ill-thought kiss. Furiously he pushed thoughts of it aside, for he would have entirely too much of that later when he finally found his bed.

"I was here earlier today," Corentin said, "and thought briefly that I had found an anomaly in the floor. However, monks interrupted my explorations and I did not want to give away that I had found something on the chance I had, indeed, found something. I declared the room contained nothing, and moved on."

Yvain frowned. "You did not think to tell me that you had very likely chanced upon something?"

"How was I to tell you?" Corentin asked, voice sharp, but eyes upon the floor. "The few times we were together, I could not capture your attention to convey there was something we needed to discuss. When finally I ventured to your room to seek you out, I found it deserted."

"Aye," Yvain conceded with a wince. "I wander at nights, and I should have mentioned to you I did thus. My apologies."

Corentin shrugged. "There is fault on both sides; it makes no difference now. Look here." Gingerly he lifted up a tile in the floor.

Yvain knelt opposite him on the floor, and reached down into the dark hole once the tile had been well cleared. He explored hesitantly, wary of tricks…and laughed softly at what his fingers finally struck upon.

Getting a firm grip, he lifted out the heavy – well filled –earthenware jug.

Corentin groaned. "We have wasted the night spying upon monks devoted to entirely the wrong manner of spirits?"

"Aye," Yvain replied, torn between aggravation and amusement. "Well devoted, indeed, if in the middle of all this mess they still indulge in it. I wonder if we dare wake the good Father for this matter, or let it wait 'til morning."

Corentin reached down into the hole and extracted another jug. From the way he hefted it, 'twas not near so full as Yvain's. His expression was grim, and Yvain wished suddenly and painfully that he had thought to look upon Corentin when he had been well kissed.

He swore silently at himself. What was wrong with his mind tonight, that it lacked any manner of focus? Truly he needed to run himself through and have done with the madness.

"I say we wake the good Father," Corentin said. "They would not be able to brew this on the premises, which means they must do so far enough not to be seen by the others, but close enough they would not be missed."

Yvain nodded and slid the tile back into place, then once more hefted his jar. "Come, then, let us wake Father Drogo and put the fear of the heavens back into a handful of monks."

"Aye," Corentin agreed, carrying the other jug as he led the way from the room.

Following close behind him, Yvain struggled to bury thoughts he should not be having, and an urge to taste the contents from the jug in vain hope it might banish the taste of Corentin which lingered still and, he feared, ever would.