Vow Unto Me II

[maderr]

*~*~*

Corentin could feel no pity as the monks received lashings for their misbehavior.

All men took vows at some stage in their life. Vows shaped a man, and his ability to keep those vows showed the measure of a man.

Which meant his own measure was all but vanished, for a certainty. 'Twas heavy a weight upon his chest, especially in the face of what Nash had done, what Yvain had done…

He oft wondered why the Grand Duke – the King – had not seen fit to punish him for his transgressions. His behavior had been disgraceful enough to warrant the loss of his spurs, the stripping of his title. Yet no one had done aught to him.

Despite the matter of his own leniency, he could not bring himself to feel pity for the monks. Their behavior broke the vows they had sworn to their Father, their brothers, and the heavens. Their reckless, foolish behavior put everyone at risk, most especially if 'twas true they did venture by way of secret means to some location beyond the monastery.

Mayhap he did not give it because he despised that it had been bestowed upon him. 'Twas a wonder for certain that Yvain managed to speak to him at all. He wondered constantly what Yvain saw in him, that he once – and perhaps even still, despite everything – had loved Corentin.

Free of the blinders he had worn for far too many years, forced to see that Yvain had never looked upon him with the same dislike…truly he wondered only that no one had managed to steal Yvain away.

The very epitome of a knight, willing to give everything and ne'er had he asked for aught in return. He had near scared Corentin half to death, before, when they spied upon the monks. So focused had he been upon the room, barely in time did he hear near-silent footsteps headed in his direction.

Around the corner had come a figure of black, though at the last moonlight had revealed the cloak was in fact deepest green. He did not need moonlight, however, to mark Yvain. Nay. Countless were the number of times he had stolen glances at the man he wished he might deserve, despite the guilt and shame and confusion which tore at him. He would know Yvain's stride, confident without being arrogant, every step made with a purpose even when his direction was aimless, anywhere.

Of course, thinking of that moment forced him to think upon others. He felt like some simpering twit from a bard's tale, to be so deeply affected by a mere kiss. Nash's kisses had ever left him longing for more…but he did not recall them leaving him so breathless.

Did it make him fickle? Untrue? To be so captivated by the kiss of one he could not have when his lover had been dead for only a year and a half?

Yet he would not compound his sins by lying to himself. Yvain's kiss, ruse though it had only been, had left a deep mark. He had liked far too much the press of their bodies, of knowing he held Yvain firmly captured, and though Yvain had initiated the kiss he had been utterly pliant beneath Corentin's reflexive response.

For all his compliance, however, Yvain's strength had been there. 'Twas humbling, that, great strength so sweetly offered up. A knight indeed. Yvain obviously had oft been made to bend through the years, yet never had strife broken him.

Yvain would not be so—

Corentin broke the thought off, refusing to dwell upon it here, now, when his attention should be upon other matters. He did not want to think upon it, hating himself for the thought, the emotions. Nay, he would not think that way.

He focused his attention upon the three monks who struggled not to make a sound as they were lashed by older brothers. Every face in the hall was downcast, and more than a few of the youngest looked near to tears.

Good. Mayhap it would teach them the importance of keeping their vows. Mayhap his own father had not cuffed him enough in his youth, though truly Corentin could not lay the blame for his sins at his father's feet.

Except, perhaps, that he had raised his son to hate a family without good cause, but Corentin was as guilty for blindly accepting the lesson as his father was for administering.

He wished he were as strong as Yvain had proven to be in overcoming meaningless dislike. It only spoke all the poorer of him that it had taken losing so much to make him see reason.

Wisdom, however, extracted too cruel a price.

At last the awful sound of leather against skin ceased, and monks rushed forward to assist their brutally beaten brothers.

Corentin wondered if they were properly grateful for the fact they were monks. Had they been knights, and so endangered the keep under their charge, they would not be walking.

He carefully avoided looking directly at any of the brothers, for they were not so filled with holy mercy and love that they would be above looking upon the visiting knights with vehement dislike. In their eyes, 'twas outsider brigands and knights which had brought all this upon them. Brothers struck down by sword and arrow, and now three more beaten.

There would be no assistance from those quarters, for a certainty. He and Yvain were well and truly on their own now. Father Drogo, of course, would assist, but he surely was none too pleased at the continued unhappiness brought down upon his normally peaceful monastery.

As the hall emptied, he stepped away from where he had stood just behind Father Drogo to stand before him, aware nearly to the point of pain that Yvain stood beside him, less than an arm's length away.

"What did you learn from them?" he asked, implacable and focused, at least on the surface.

Father Drogo grimaced. "That I have been too lax in many things, that they saw fit to do these things even beneath the danger looming over us. Aside from that, they related to me their knowledge of a secret passage, and where it lets out in a grove where they do their brewing. Come."

"I am sorry we bring this down upon you," Yvain said quietly, and Corentin could hear the sincerity of his words. He wondered how Yvain did it, and could only admire it – and hate himself all the more for missing it all these years.

He wondered what else he missed, and yearned to know – yet how could he ask? 'Twas hopeless.

"Nay," Father Drogo replied, lifting one hand in a show of peace. "These events are not your fault; you are here to do what we could not. If that includes drawing out those secrets my monks have kept from me…well, better to catch it now rather than later when it has grown much worse."

Corentin felt something in his chest ease, to know for a certainty they had not angered or upset Father Drogo overmuch.

They followed as Father Drogo moved past them and down the vast hall, leading them through the myriad hallways – and now Corentin knew every room they passed, which turns led where and how to get to where he needed to be. He felt easier for not being confused by his surroundings.

His companion caused more than enough of that.

"Here," Father Drogo said, voice near startling after the long minutes of silence, in a monastery that was far quieter than Corentin had ever heard it. He grabbed one of the torches from the wall and then pushed open the door to a storage room and led them past shelves filled with neatly arranged miscellany.

Behind the farthest shelf, Father Drogo knelt. "Did you not find this one, Sir Corentin?"

"Nay," Corentin said.

Yvain stirred beside him, laughing softly. "You have not explored this far, I would wager."

Corentin shrugged.

Father Drogo chuckled, and a faint click echoed through the small chamber.

Seeing what he was about, Corentin moved forward – and near collided with Yvain as he tried to do the same. He stumbled, attempting to both stop and move away, succeeding in neither, and feeling a thousand times foolish for such unusual clumsiness.

A hand landed on his back, catching and steadying, and it slid away slowly before Corentin was even certain it had been there. Stubbornly ignoring the moment, he motioned Father Drogo out of the way and knelt alongside the massive stone which now rest slightly askew in the floor.

Opposite him Yvain knelt, and at a nod they worked as one to lift the stone.

"How do monks manage this?" Yvain asked with a grunt as they lifted the stone from the floor.

Father Drogo laughed. "A man can manage much when he is into mischief, and we try to keep them from mischief by working them hard."

Corentin rolled his eyes, and stood up to take the torch Father Drogo still held. Moving back to the hole in the floor, he drew his sword and moved quickly down the steep stairs just revealed by wavering torchlight.

"You last," he heard Yvain command Father Drogo. "That you might flee back to safety should things go awry."

"Now see—"

"Nay," Corentin cut in, turning sharply around as they joined him in the dark tunnel. "In matters of heaven your counsel we take. In matters of war 'tis our words which you will take, Father. If so commanded, you will flee. Naught good will come of having your corpse to bury over this affair."

Father Drogo sighed. "Aye, as you say then. Let us make haste to finish this adventure."

"Aye," Corentin said fervently. He wanted an end of it, yet the end he sensed he would get was not the one he wanted. Well, that was his lot.

He forced himself to keep an even pace and not make haste, lest it turn to carelessness.

"Keep the torch aloft," Yvain said, and moved past him as the light revealed a door at the far end.

Nodding, Corentin kept the torch upon the door as Yvain shoved it open and stepped out.

A moment later he called that all was clear.

Outside the world was naught but black and white, set aglow by moonlight.

"I see no sign of trespassers, nor of monks," Yvain said from across the small grove. "A pretty place, and secluded. 'Twould be hard to come across it if you did not know of it."

"Aye," Father Drogo said. "I do not recognize it, save by location of the tunnel. 'Twould be hard to come across it, indeed."

Corentin shoved the torch into a brazier by the door, then moved further into the glen to help Yvain more thoroughly explore it. "A waste, this, unless those monks be duplicitous rather than merely young and foolish. Naught but duplicity would permit the brigands to enter by this path, for they could not lift the stone from above without raising some alarm."

"Unless the brigands slipped in unseen, quite impossible in this grove," Yvain said, nodding in agreement, "then there must be another way by which they gained entrance. A pity, for I had thought this riddle solved."

"No puzzle is so easily solved," Corentin replied absently, sheathing his sword and turning to head back inside. The cold was not worth enduring if no brigands were there to slay.

He came to an abrupt halt as the door slammed shut when he was a mere three steps away. Though he could not say for certain, he swore he could hear the sound of laughter. Entirely too smug laughter.

"I suppose that is the Father's subtle way of saying mayhap we should attempt to work upon the other problem that put us here."

"Aye," Corentin said irritably, sudden tension making his shoulders tight. "Naturally the best place for such a talk is out in the freezing cold in the dead of night."

Yvain said nothing.

Corentin strode to the door and tested it, unsurprised to find 'twas locked. He sighed softly and braced his hand upon the door, staring down at the trampled snow at the foot of it, wishing he were anywhere else but here – and that he might have Father Drogo's head upon a pike. Nay, the Grand Duke's head.

"Though I never intend it," Yvain said softly, "'twould seem that all I ever cause you is pain. To say I am sorry seems weak and insufficient, yet I know not what other words I might offer…"

Well, that was rather more direct than Corentin had anticipated. He turned from the door, but kept his back still to Yvain, gazing upon the nearer side of the grove. "Nay," he said roughly. "Any pain I feel I have brought up myself, by my choices and actions. If any apology is owed, 'tis mine and I give it, though it be feeble enough. My actions not so long ago were driven by anger and grief, but I never intended for your men to die."

"Oh," Yvain said, sounding startled. "Nay, 'twas not your fault entirely, and I knew it then. A bargain did you strike to have me killed, and to a man of honor it would not occur that another would act with such dishonor as to break the bargain that was struck. I mourn my men, but the risks were put baldly to them and they accepted."

Nay, that was not good enough. He should not be so easily forgiven. What right had he to that? He shook his head, wanting so badly to turn around, to see if Yvain spoke truly, if that truth was in his eyes. What would he do if it were?

Only hate himself all the more.

He heard Yvain move, then the footsteps stopped. Slowly Corentin tilted his head to look up at the sky. The silence was as deep as the snow, thick as the forest around them, and Corentin knew 'twas his place to speak.

What was he to say? That though he was a fool, cowardly and fickle, he would like desperately to earn the right to return the affections that Yvain professed to feel for him?

Nay, he had no right to say such things. No right to want such things.

Yvain sighed softly, and Corentin heard him move closer still. He did not turn, though the urge to was strong. "I—I wish I had kept my silence, that day. That I had been more willing to defy his Grace."

Corentin shook his head. "Nay, 'tis better I know the truth of the matter." He swallowed around the lump lodged suddenly in his throat. "I…'twas not your burden to bear, and I am sorry you had to bear it, and pay so terrible a price. He should have spoken to me."

Feelings he continuously fought against sprang up, and though he had been able to drive them back earlier in the hall…here he was not so lucky.

So many months later still it hurt, left him floundering. All he possessed he had been willing to surrender simply to spend his life with one man…and rather than speak with him, that man had killed himself.

Had Nash loved him so much? Or not as much as Corentin had believed? If he was worth dying for…why had Nash not thought he might be worth living for as well? Did he think this current state was so much better? Much rather a pauper would he be, than live every day with this turmoil and confusion.

It made him angry, despite all his efforts not to be, constant reminders that he had no right to that anger. 'Twas not he who had suffered most, for he lived, and retained his title, his spurs. Though he bemoaned his fate, he had of everyone come out of the affair the most unscathed.

Nash was dead, too many of Yvain's men dead…and Yvain who had done so much, endured in silence Corentin's cruel words and actions…the strength and devotion which those actions bespoke ever took his breath away, and left him feeling wholly unworthy.

Which meant there was naught he could say that might make him worthy.

He knew not what Father Drogo hoped they might accomplish here, what the Grand Duke had intended they accomplish…but it would not come to pass, because some things were not so easily mended. Those things he wanted to ask, he had no right.

Nash had died for love of him…yet what good did that love do him now? A few paces away stood another man who had been willing to die for the very same reasons…yet Corentin could not see what about him was worth so deep a love, or why they thought 'twas better to leave him cold and alone.

Yet it was precisely as he deserved, for failing to convey thus to a man he had professed to love, and then proving so fickle as to want to love the man who had seen Nash die…

Fie on it! The mess hurt his head, hurt the whole of him, and made him wish that he had been the one to tumble o'er the bridge. It seemed of the lot of them, 'twas his life which was the most useless.

He bit back the curses he wanted to hurl at the sky, struggling against the memory of a kiss that made him ache to steal more, beg for things to which he had no right.... A soft oath slipped free as he turned away and stalked once more to the door.

Though he had been prepared to pound upon it until someone let them inside or the monastery came crashing down upon them, the door gave way easily when he pulled upon the iron ring.

Ignoring the sound of Yvain calling his name, he strode down the dark hallway back toward the monastery proper, realizing belatedly that it would have been wiser to bring the torch with him.

Light flickered behind him in the very next breath, however, accompanied by the sound of boots on stone. He could all but feel Yvain at his back, and fisted his hands against the urge to turn and steal another kiss, see if 'twas only his mind which made that kiss so heady, or if 'twas in fact reality.

'Twould not be fair, however, to so misuse Yvain, whose feelings were true and loyal, not cowardly and fickle. A man so strong was too good to be used by one so weak, even if he likely would permit it.

Nay, Corentin could not, would not, settle for such. He wanted to be worthy, or nothing at all, and not even the heavens at their most merciful would ever find him worthy to return Yvain's affections…which left him with precisely what he deserved.

Nothing.

Inside, he lingered only just long enough to help Yvain replace the stone. As he stood, a hand latched to his arm, but Corentin tore free of it and bolted as quickly as dignity permitted from the storeroom, wending through the hallways back to his room.

Once safely inside, he sank down to sit upon the floor, back to the door, and buried his face in his hands.

*~*~*

Yvain glanced absently at the ring upon his hand as he strode through the halls, making his way slowly toward the great library. He wanted to wander, but feared a repeat of three nights ago when Corentin had not been able to find him.

Not that he would mind a situation in which he was forced to steal another kiss, but he feared much worse would come if he was not where he could be located.

So, mayhap this eve he would try to read. Unfortunate that in all his plotting the Grand Duke had not thought to pack such things as books…mayhap he had not anticipated their having so much free time.

He should be doing more to find the brigands, of course, but for the moment naught else could be done. Still Corentin searched the monastery for more secret passages, and thrice more had he found, but none proved to be the one they sought.

There appeared to be no recourse but to await the next appearance of the knaves, and waiting was a game Yvain had never favored though he had played it all his life.

Passing beneath a torch, he glanced again at the jewel that flashed whenever fire caught it. A beautiful sapphire, truly, but he longed to be rid of the foul thing. Bastard Rothlanders, always committing one dishonor after another. He wished they might be rid of the entire bloody lot of them…mayhap this affair would be the first step toward that happy circumstance.

He wished he might find some happy circumstance of his own, but he sensed 'twas not to be. Mayhap something had been accomplished during their time in the snow…but not once had Corentin looked upon him, nor had the unhappiness in his voice eased.

What would it take to ease that pain? To banish it and see Corentin happy?

Not that he was entirely altruistic in wanting him to be happy…nay, if Corentin was happy…mayhap…

He sighed softly as he turned a corner and wandered down what was one of the primary hallways. At the very center of it, directly across from a snow-drenched courtyard, was the main prayer hall. The monks had only recently departed from it, off to their cells or late night chores. Silence was falling, and the hall should have been mostly dark, naught but a few tapers to keep it lit through the night.

Yet bright light spilled out into the hallway, slipping through the not quite closed doors. Curious, or maybe bored enough to seek any distraction, Yvain pushed open one of the massive doors the slightest bit, taking care to remain quiet.

Corentin. He knelt before the altar, dark blue cloak spread out around and behind him, the white lining of the hood like snow against it, only slightly paler than the spun-silver of Corentin's hair.

His head was bowed low, likely over clasped hands, and if not for the fact he knew otherwise, Yvain might have thought Corentin naught but a statue. Candles flickered, prayer lights and additional tapers to drive back the dark, though not enough to fight back the terrible cold.

Yvain withdrew, loath to disturb Corentin.

Sighing softly, he continued on his way toward the library, taking the longest way possible even as he reminded himself he should not be dallying about. Far on the opposite end of the monastery, wrapping around a bit of the mountain into which it was built, was the balcony he had wandered only a few nights ago.

He strove to ignore his thoughts, the slowing of his steps, as he reached the portion of balcony where he had stolen a kiss that burned even now upon his lips, in his mind…

So badly that night in the snow had he wanted to steal another, pretend for a moment that a few apologies and a kiss were enough to heal the rift between them. If only…

Stifling another useless sigh, he finally reached the doors of the library and withdrew from his cloak the key which Father Drogo had given to him. Always the library was kept locked, save those few hours of the day when the monks wrote and copied the precious texts that were under their care.

Pushing open the door, he grabbed a torch from a sconce on the wall. Inside, he closed the door behind him and locked it, returning the key to his cloak.

A still deeper silence reigned here, punctuated by the smell of paper and ink. Not even incense was permitted within these walls, for fear of what damage it might do the costly paper.

Far to the back were the worktables, neatly arranged with the tools of the trade, tilted just so, with high chairs upon which the monks would sit for hours, writing and copying, inking everything from the words to the birds and ivy and all manner of other images that decorated each text.

He remembered being equally enthralled with it upon his only other visit. So wondrous a place, the great library, that the excitement of seeing it had nearly overwhelmed even his joy at finally being knighted.

Many a book graced his private collection, but none he owned could compare to what was upon these shelves. He would empty his coffers and gladly to own copies of even a small portion of the books upon these shelves.

Especially if even one of them could tell him how to solve the problems that lay so thick and solid between he and Corentin. If even a single sentence in a single book could offer the slightest bit of hope that they may some day close the distance between them…

Ah, he would give up all he possessed and more besides.

He paused at the last shelf, just short of the workspace and tables filling it, and trailed his fingers lightly along the spines of the neatly arranged books, murmuring the titles softly to himself. The torchlight made the gold foil of the lettering shine, almost seemed to bring it to life, and buried amongst the books it almost felt as though all his troubles and woes were distant, insignificant things.

Except he wished he were not here alone, or mayhap not here at all, for if he were fortunate enough to ever lay some true claim to Corentin he could think of much better ways to endure the miserable weather that kept them firmly indoors.

Rolling his eyes at himself, pointedly thinking of everything except the stolen kiss that would haunt him so long as a breath remained in his body, he pulled a book at random from the shelves and looked at it without truly reading.

A romantic tale, he thought, though he did not bother to confirm. Images of dragons and birds of fire, ladies in golden robes and knights in silver armor filled the pages alongside words written in a hand a thousand times better than his. He was quite steady with a sword, not so very with a quill.

Replacing the book, he moved to a different set of shelves and pulled down another, this one a history of some war or another. He skimmed it briefly, recognizing the battle, one oft admired for the beauty of the strategy devised by the King's advisors. His father had oft tried to beat a skill for such things into his head, and though Yvain knew he was no fool in the matters of war, he was no brilliant strategist either.

A pity, for he sensed such sharpness of mind would aid his current predicaments. Alas, he could do naught but wait and hope that fortune chose to favor him in a way it never truly had.

He returned the history book to its place and wandered to yet another shelf, this time pulling down a history of the monastery itself, flipping through the pages, reading a paragraph here and there, full of admiration for the king who had built it with such genuine devotion and belief.

When he realized he was reading rather than merely skimming, Yvain moved to one of the work tables and sat down, thrusting the torch into a nearby brazier before drawing his cloak close and bending to read.

Absently he recalled that he should be returning to his room, but the book proved to be too fascinating to trouble himself to stop reading and make his way back through the halls. Father Drogo and Corentin knew this to be his destination, and Corentin had not seemed inclined to leave behind his prayers.

His thoughts wandered briefly from the book as he pondered what prayers Corentin had been making, if he was receiving some answer. Yvain hoped so, if it eased the pain which Corentin wore like his cloak.

Shaking his head, letting slip a soft sigh, he returned his attention to the book before him, turning the page – his attention focused to a fine, sharp point as he realized what he had suddenly reached.

A section discussing the secret passages woven throughout the already maze-like monastery. The king may have been more interested in the holy life than the royal, but he had been a knight and ruler all his life.

The monastery was a holy place, but it was also an extremely valuable place, a veritable treasury. Books, paintings, all manner of goods given as offerings and atonements by passerby, men seeking to become monks, those so desperate for heavenly forgiveness they offered all they possessed in hopes of gaining it.

The king knew such would be the case, and he had deposited plenty of his own riches to give the monastery a solid foundation upon which to build and sustain itself. Bearing that in mind, the king had built his monastery the very same way he had built his capital – to be impenetrable. An insurmountable fortress built into and around a portion of the mountain.

However, he had not wanted to be trapped within the walls of his fortress should the worst occur. So in both places he had ensured secret passages were built, and limited knowledge of them to himself and as few others as possible.

Yvain was privy to knowledge of two of the secret passages within the Capital. He knew Corentin was privy to a different two, and Duke Delacroix would have knowledge of his own. Only the king and the Grand Duke held knowledge of every passage in and out of the capital.

Tragedy, however, had once struck the monastery by way of a deadly disease. Too many monks had been stuck down by it, including the Father at the time and the man who had been chosen to follow him.

With their deaths the secrets of the monastery were lost forever.

He read through the passage thrice over, searching anxiously for any hidden clues, for 'twould not be the first time some vital message had been hidden amongst text. Nothing caught his eye, however, and he closed the book with a frustrated sigh.

Mayhap Corentin would see what he could not, if anything was there to see.

Far off in the distance he could hear the bells tolling the hour, and startled when he realized the hour they tolled was the midnight. Heavens above, had he been in here so long? A glance at the torch, which he noticed now had grown quite low indeed, confirmed he had indeed spent more than a mere hour reading.

Swearing softly, he returned the book to its place and went back for the torch.

He froze in place at the sound of a key being turned in the lock. It echoed loudly in the tomblike silence of the library. Those who possessed library keys were few; naught but four existed and two of those had been taken from the monks to be used by he and Corentin in their efforts to locate the brigands. One remained with Father Drogo…the last with the monk appointed Head Librarian…

Reading about the secret passages had only confirmed what he and Corentin already knew – that the brigands must have inside assistance. Their chances of finding such a passage by scouring the mountain were near impossible. Yvain struggled simply to find them within the monastery.

That meant at least one monk knew of a few of them, and willingly or not was assisting the brigands.

Dousing the torch, Yvain moved on silent feet, trusting to memory and what little he could see in the dark to hide amongst the shelves. He secreted himself away only just in time, as the library door creaked open and someone slipped inside.

He recalled last time he and Corentin had been caught by their shadow, and was grateful that this time there was not enough light to give himself away. A dark blur moved past him, and he did not need light to pick out the tall, straw-thin figure of the Head Librarian.

Betrayal lodged like spoilt meat in his gullet. Nothing fouled the air like knowing a traitor was present, and only years of training and the fact that he needed to know more kept him crouched with sword sheathed.

The sound of stone grating against stone gave him enough noise to cover his own movements, and he crept slightly forward to better see what transpired.

Yvain had not explored the library, choosing instead other more likely locations, for the three of them had agreed the King would not likely have built a secret passage in a room which held precious objects that were all too easy to destroy.

'Twould seem they had been terribly, horribly wrong.

He watched, hands balled into tight fists, as the monk vanished into an entrance behind the massive desk that was his own. The entrance was in plain view, and yet not, for clearly no other had ever found it.

Why would the Head Librarian turn traitor? What motivated any man to behave in such despicable fashion? Yvain would never understand it; much better to die than betray.

Minutes passed, feeling like hours, and then the monk reappeared – and ten men followed behind him. Eleven dark blurs, murmuring in voices too low for him to catch the words, drowned out entirely as two of them restored the entrance to secrecy.

Yvain forced himself to stillness, but only with great effort. He must not move, must not give himself away. So many men would slay him ere he could learn anything of use, or verify the presence of the Rothland prince. Too much was at stake for him to act foolishly.

He wished Corentin were here, for a good man at his back would go a long way toward steadying him, easing his burning need to do something, anything.

At last the group moved toward the door, departing the library – and Yvain breathed a silent sigh of relief as he did not hear them lock the door. No doubt they feared lacking a key should they have to make a hasty departure, and the Head Librarian would risk being reprimanded for forgetting to lock the door should another chance upon the unlocked library before all was set again to rights.

Counting the seconds, giving the brigands some time to keep well ahead of him, Yvain stood and crossed to the door, opening it only as far as needed to slip out – then locked the door behind him.

If they should get away from him, at least they would have a more difficult time making their escape.

He could no longer see them, but saw the shadows vanishing from the very end of the hall. Walking swiftly, hoping distance would make up for any sound he could not entirely quell, he closed the space between them. His mind raced with all that he must do, must not do, how to both delay them and seek help.

Rousing the monks may cause more harm than good, if they were so foolish as to get close enough to drag themselves into the fight. Monks had already been harmed; Yvain did not want to be responsible for further injury.

'Twould seem he would have to go at this alone, and soon, for if they began to hunt for the puzzle box, that too may cause harm to the monks.

He reached the end of the hall and rounded the corner slowly – and nearly laughed in relief to see they were venturing down the staircase that led to the open field below, a shortcut to the lower level of the monastery.

Stairs made this much easier.

A great risk, for a certainty, to take them all on alone, yet he saw no other recourse. Surely someone would hear the racket sure to ensue and would seek help. Corentin would come at once.

Nodding, decided, Yvain strode to the stairs and waited until they were all at the base and moving well away.

"Good evening, my lords!" he called down, drawing his sword from its sheath, sparing a brief thought to wish for his armor. Then he dismissed the thought and brought the whole of his mind to a single, sharp focus – kill or otherwise delay the enemy. "Seek you a puzzle box? I can take you to it."

At the foot of the stairs the brigands swore, several moving toward him before a sharp command brought them to a halt.

Yvain smirked. "Of course, I can also save you a great deal of trouble." He brandished his hand, letting moon and torchlight catch the ring upon it. "Come and fetch your ring, Highness."

The man who obviously led the others swore loudly, then barked out a sharp command to the men he had ordered to stillness only a moment ago.

He met them head on, taking down one, throwing the second back into the third, sending them both tumbling down the stairs.

Against such odds he would not live long, but perhaps he could live long enough.

Bellowing the Lons war cry, he threw himself down the stairs to meet his adversaries head on, sending a last thought to the man he knew most likely still knelt in prayer.

*~*~*

The marble tiles were cold as ice, the room itself too massive to be aught but near-freezing, even through the layers of winter clothing and his gloves, but Corentin did not move. Could not move, for at least here he had something upon which to focus, some hope of finding an answer.

Often had his mother dragged him to the chapel of Castle de Capre to pray and meditate. As a boy he had loathed those hours lost to pointless endeavor when he could have been practicing his knightly arts…but as the years went by he began to appreciate them. Whether or not the heavens spoke, and if they had spoken never had he heard, he found the simple quiet soothing.

'Twas a soothing he desperately needed, when every waking moment of his life was filled with regret and grief and tumult. He wished just this once the heavens might give him a clear and simple answer – that they might say he had the right to ask for a chance to return in full all that Yvain offered.

A selfish thing to ask, a shameful thing to ask. What right did he have? None. To ask of Yvain such a boon would be to abuse feelings that he had no right to claim, no matter that Yvain said he was forgiven for the brutal deaths of his men.

Nay, he deserved no forgiveness, so matter how badly he sought it anyway. If the heavens were silent, 'twas because they and he both knew silence was all he deserved.

Still he knelt, still he prayed. Perhaps if he persisted enough, the heavens would at least grow aggravated enough to strike him down for impertinence.

When he completed the long prayer which he had been quietly reciting for the past half hour, he began it again anew. How many times he had recited it, he no longer knew, having lost track some time ago. At some point he had heard the bells for the eleventh hour ring, but if the midnight bells had rung he had missed them.

Despite the thick gloves he wore, his hands were near frozen, stiff from being so long clasped. He was hungry, tired, but not so badly that he felt like bestirring himself. If he received no answer to his questions, no balm for his agony, then at least there was comfort in the prayers themselves.

He wondered what Yvain was about, if he had come and gone from the library, what book he had selected, if he was bedded down to enjoy it…and thoughts of Yvain in his bed were not the sort he should be entertaining when he was kneeling before an altar and deep in prayer.

Were his mother here, he had no doubt she would sense the perverse nature of his thoughts and cuff him hard enough to make the world spin. Ever had she been too good at knowing when he was up to mischief, even if only in his thoughts.

Frowning, he attempted to regain his concentration, focusing on naught but his prayers and wishes, unattainable as those wishes were. What would it take, he asked hopelessly, for him to earn the right to return Yvain's affections? What would make him worthy? How did he overcome all the wrongs he had committed? Would he ever be worthy, when he was so fickle as to want to love another when Nash was not even two years buried?

He shook his head and raised his voice a bit as he continued the prayer, trying in vain to drive all else form his mind.

'Twas the shouting that drew him from his newly-regained focus some minutes later, and he might not have noted it but for the fear, for the monks oft shouted at one another no matter the time of day or night.

Even as he struggled to rise, legs stiff from cold and disuse, the doors to the prayer hall were thrown open and a monk stumbled and crashed to the ground with a pained cry.

Striding down the hallway, Corentin grabbed his arm and helped the monk stand. "Be calm," he said, much as he would soothe a new knight overanxious on the eve of battle. "What troubles you so?"

"Brigands!" the monk gasped out, eyes wide with fear and panic. "His Grace fights them alone. You must—"

"Where?" Corentin demanded, the word snapping out.

"Near the library—"

He did not wait to hear what else the monk might have said, unable to hold still as fear washed through him, colder than even the most bitter winter night. What in the heavens had transpired that Yvain would be so foolish as to take on the brigands alone?

Through the monastery he ran, despising the size of it, the length of the halls, the number of turns he was forced to make – the monks he shoved from his path, uncaring where they landed.

Finally he reached the stretch of hall that led to the library, overlooking a snow-covered field…

Which was filled with bodies, men fighting…nay, no fighting was there any longer. A large man loomed over a fallen figure…a fallen figure who lay in a pool of black, and far too much of it was there smeared across the moonlit snow.

Reaching into his boot, he pulled free the dagger kept there and hurled it across the field, not waiting to see what became of the victim but simply continuing to move. Grabbing the balcony ledge, he threw himself over it and down into the field below, rolling as he landed, drawing his sword as he regained his feet.

Bolting across the field, he saw that his target had bolted for the stairs.

And did not care.

His eyes were only for Yvain, who lay too still upon the blood-drenched snow.

"Yvain!" He dropped to the snow and fumbled to secure the wound at Yvain's side, bellowing for help, for someone – anyone – to come. Where were the thrice-cursed monks now?

Slowly Yvain's eyes opened. "Did…they get the ring?" he asked.

Corentin glared. "I do not care."

"Library," Yvain said. "That is how…" His eyes drifted shut again.

Panic took over, though Corentin tried to fight it. "Yvain! You are not allowed to die."

"Sorry…" Yvain said, and the sound that came from him should have been a laugh, but was instead a weak sigh that frightened Corentin all the more.

"Nay!" Corentin said. "I will not accept apologies." His eyes stung, burned, and he snatched Yvain close, all but shaking him with fury and fear. "You are not permitted to die! Do you here me, Yvain? I will not permit it."

Yvain tried to laugh again. "I would think…Coren…that it would ease you to be rid of me…"

Corentin released him, and barely prevented himself from beating the fool further senseless. "What mad talk is that? You are not allowed to die, damn you." He bent over Yvain, fingers holding fast to the bloodied tunic. "Why does everyone who claims to love me insist upon dying?" He stared into Yvain's pain-hazed eyes. "Bastard. What good is a corpse to me? How do I love a ghost?" He realized suddenly he was crying, but could not bring himself to care. He cared about naught but that Yvain lived. Whatever else troubled him seemed as nothing, of a sudden. "How am I supposed to make myself worthy if you die too? How will I ever earn the right to love you in return if you are naught but another corpse to my name?"

Yvain's eyes cleared slightly. "Would you? Love me?"

"Aye," Corentin said, "I would, if only I had that right. Never will I earn it if you leave me. Damn you, Yvain. Vow unto me you shall not die. Vow it!"

A faint but true smile curved Yvain's mouth as his eyes drifted shut. "I vow it, then. I shall not die."

Then he went abruptly limp, completely passed out.

Corentin wiped the tears from his face with his sleeve, then moved stiffly to resume those duties he had neglected for fear of Yvain. Glancing down at Yvain's hand, he spied the royal ring of Rothland's secondary heir.

Removing it, he stripped off his glove to place it upon his own finger. He stood as he pulled his glove back on, stooping to recover his sword. Yvain would live, for he had vowed it, and Corentin would – must – trust to that vow.

From the corner of his eye he could see monks coming down the staircase, and he bellowed at them to tend Yvain before he bolted up the stairs himself, racing down the corridor toward the library, following a trail of blood.

The doors had been thrown wide open, which meant a traitor, and of the four keys he knew only one who could have proven traitorous…

How had Yvain come across this mess? Why had he not come for help?

He shoved the questions away, for they would have to be addressed later, and made his way down the main walkway of the library.

At the far end, beyond the desk of the despicable Head Librarian, was a gaping hole through which a chill wind blew. Corentin shoved the desk out of his way and threw himself into the dark depths of the secret passage, sword held aloft, craning to hear any sound at all that was not of his own making.

Mere moments later the dark tunnel spilled out into another field of silver white snow – and a figure crouched in it, bleeding from a deep wound to his shoulder.

Corentin fell immediately upon him, pressing against the deep wound, hearing the screams of pain, subduing the foul knave who had nearly taken Yvain from him. "La, Highness," he said mockingly. "We have told you foul Rothland bastards many a time 'twas a foolish thing to cross the knights of Chieldor. Now you will pay for your crimes, and your father alongside you. Have you anything to say, or are you wise enough to hold still that tongue of yours?"

The man said nothing, and Corentin clubbed him hard with the hilt of his sword, then bound the wound as best he could, finally hefting the unconscious prince over his shoulder to carry him back into the monastery.

He was met in the library by several monks, all of them grim-faced and solemn. With a grunt he gave the prince to them for tending, and strode to where Father Drogo was just entering the library. "Twas the Head Librarian who proved traitorous. Where is he?"

"Dead," Father Drogo said heavily. "By his own hand, rather than let his brothers fall upon him."

Corentin nodded. "Yvain?"

"Has been taken to his room, and is being tended."

"How fares he?" Corentin asked, forcing the question out, dreading the answer though he had a vow upon which to hang his hopes.

Father Drogo smiled faintly, some of the unhappiness etched deeply into his face easing. "Alive and likely to remain thus, though 'twas a near thing for a certainty."

Corentin nodded. "Behold the secret passage, and fie on me for choosing not to explore this place sooner, for mayhap lives might have been spared."

A heavy hand settled upon his shoulder. "Nay," Father Drogo said. "The only lives lost this night were those of enemies and traitors, and he by cowardly fashion."

"Aye," Corentin agreed, though it was hard, for he did not like to think that any who took his own life might be a coward. Yet he found the thought, the pain, did not dig at him quite so painfully as it had before.

Mayhap because he had a vow upon which to rely, or mayhap he was too tired after the fear and running to feel naught but exhaustion.

"You look exhausted," Father Drogo said. "'Tis our duty from here, your grace. Your part in the affair has been accomplished. Go and seek your bed, and leave monastery matters to we humble monks."

He tried to muster an argument, but could not force it past his lips. At least he conceded defeat and nodded, departing the library and traveling the halls with slow, weary steps, until he reached his own rooms at last. Stripping off his bloody clothes, wishing he might see Yvain, he fell upon his bed and immediately dropped off into sleep.




"He refuses to take his medicine, your grace," a monk groused, his brother healers muttering in agreement alongside him.

Corentin lifted one brow, closing the book he had been attempting to read while he struggled between wanting to see Yvain and not wanting to see Yvain. Now that all was well, his behavior of the night past brought a dull flush to his cheeks. He had overreacted, behaved like a maiden overcome by the sight of blood.

Yet all he could feel was relief that Yvain lived, that he would carry naught but a scar when he was well and truly healed. So badly did he want to see for himself that all was truly well…but his behavior…he cringed just to think upon it, how he must have seemed to Yvain.

Mayhap Yvain had been too overwhelmed by pain to recall their exchange, but Corentin did not believe for a moment he was so fortunate. What, then, was he to say?

He could not bear to think upon it.

"Why does he refuse the medicine?" He finally asked, sighing.

"He says that he shall not swallow a drop lest 'tis your hand which administers it. His medicine will do naught but sit upon the table until he sees your face."

Corentin scowled. That was not playing fair in the slightest. "I see," he said, and stood with another sigh. "'Twould seem there is nothing for it but to make the knave take the medicine. I apologize for the trouble his childish temper is causing you. Show me to his room."

The monks obeyed, turning as one to lead him down the corridor, rambling on about the medicine and how much to administer, how it worked.

He made note of it all, but only by habit, and every step grew harder to make as they drew closer to the door of Yvain's room.

The monks left him at the door, turning away to tend other matters as they all too happily left Yvain to Corentin's care.

Still scowling, Corentin pushed the door open and shut it quietly behind him before striding across the room to the bed. 'Twas large, as was his own, rich accommodations intended for visiting noblemen who did not share the simplistic needs of the monks. The bed curtains had been tied back, and in the center of the bed Yvain rested.

He looked to be in some pain, but more pleased and no small part smug as he looked upon Corentin.

"'Tis foolish indeed to refuse the healing draughts the monks offer," he snapped. "You are not yet healed, 'twould be best not to tempt the heavens to take you after all."

Yvain laughed, though 'twas clear it pained him to do so, and smiled. "Nay, I fear not the heavens, for they would have to answer to you ere they were permitted to take me, and you have already made quite clear you will not tolerate such impertinence."

Corentin jerked his gaze away, eyes landing upon the bowl that held the medicine to ease Yvain's pain and speed healing. He moved to fetch it, when Yvain spoke again.

"You have been avoiding me."

"I thought to let you heal," Corentin said, but even to his own ears the excuse sounded weak.

Yvain snorted. "I am sufficiently healed, Corentin. Seeing you, I feel nearly as good as new."

Corentin's gaze snapped back to him. "That is absurd—"

"You do not like to look upon me," Yvain said, cutting him off. "Why? What do you fear?"

He looked away again, not certain what to say. What did he fear? Everything.

A hand reached out to lightly grasp his wrist, Yvain tugging weakly but with insistence. "Corentin, is it…do you regret all you said? If 'twould make you happy to have it forgotten, then forget it I shall, but I think 'twould be more than I could bear to be made to forget that you said you would love me. All my life I have wanted nothing more, do not be so cruel as to take it away from me."

"Nay," Corentin said, dismayed. "I would ne'er do so cruel a thing as that…" He shook his head. "Nay, nay, 'twas not my intent at all."

He watched in silence as Yvain's fingers slid free of his wrist, shifting to curl against his own, and he was helpless to do aught but surrender to the impulse to hold fast to Yvain's hand.

"Then why do you avoid me, Corentin?"

Yvain had been so forthright with him, the pain of his words tangible on the air even now, and Corentin could do naught but be as honest, though 'twas difficult. "What right have I to anything?" Corentin said, the words barely above a whisper, eyes still fastened to their clasped hands. "I who hated you unfairly all these years, I who killed your men, I who never knew my lover as I thought, and am so fickle as to want to love another barely a year and a half since my previous lover killed himself for me. I have right to naught, am worth nothing, and should not have spoken as I did."

His hand was given a sharp tug, and he went obediently despite himself, falling down clumsily to sit upon the edge of the bed.

"Worthy…what makes you think you are not worthy? If those things make you unworthy, then how unfit a knave am I for being unable to save the man you loved? How dare you trust my words, knowing how I feel, that truly did I attempt to save him? How do you know I did not kill him, as first you thought?"

"Foolishness!" Corentin snapped, though pain ripped through him. "No longer am I so blind, and I will regret to the end of my days that I was so willfully blind for so long, for how would matters have transpired had I seen clearly?"

"Regrets, worthiness, rights…" Yvain sighed softly, and stroked a thumb over the back of Corentin's hand. "We burden ourselves with such unchangeable things, such heavy thoughts. Mayhap if we both had done less brooding, less accepting, and taken more action…aye, things may have transpired differently. However, 'tis not possible to go back. We can do naught but go forward…so why can we not, Corentin? I love you, you have said you would feel the same… Why can that not be enough? Does that not in and of itself make us worthy?"

Corentin stared at their hands, then slowly dragged his eyes up to look at Yvain. A denial lingered on his tongue, for 'twas impossible for things to be concluded so simply…yet he could not voice it, only nod and hold fast to the hand in his own.

They sat in silence for some minutes, until the pain in Yvain's face began to consume it.

Pulling away from his grasp, Corentin stood and strode to the table, fetching the small bowl. Sitting down again at the edge of the bed, he helped Yvain sit up and gave him the medicine to drink.

"Foul brew, that," Yvain groused, licking remnants of it from his lips.

"Aye," Corentin agreed, returning the bowl to the table, slowly wandering back to the bed, all of a sudden reluctant to leave though he could see that Yvain would shortly drop into slumber. "Most medicines taste like brews gone afoul."

Slowly he reclaimed his seat at the edge of the bed, watching as Yvain fought a losing battle against the drugging sleep of the healing draught.

Yvain's hand once more found his own, tugging gently. "Rest with me."

Corentin startled. "Absurd. You need rest proper, I would do naught but likely cause further injury…and it is absurd an idea beyond that."

"Nay," Yvain argued. "The wound is on my right side. You can lie against my left, and be as a shield between me and those infernal monks." He grinned. "Lie with me or I shall refuse all future draughts of that foul potion, and set the monks upon you for it. Come, you look as though you could use the rest as much as I. 'Tis too cold to do aught but stay warmly abed, for a certainty."

He struggled to summon some argument, for truly he should let Yvain rest proper…but they refused to form, or be given voice, and he conceded defeat with a sigh though he felt foolish indeed.

Bending, he removed his boots and set them alongside Yvain's at the foot of the bed, then draped his cloak over a chair, his sword belt hung over that. He returned to the bed with no small amount of trepidation, but refused to give surrender to it when Yvain watched him so intently, so anxiously.

Lifting the covers, he slid carefully beneath them, wary of causing further injury to Yvain – but barely had he settled when Yvain tugged him close, and suddenly that mouth he had ne'er forgotten covered his, warm and pliant, and even the lingering taste of the vile potion could not banish the pleasure of the kiss, that he was being permitted the kiss…and would be permitted many more.

"Forgive my impertinence," Yvain murmured softly when at last they broke apart.

Corentin smiled faintly, some of the tension holding him tight easing, and settled down with his head upon Yvain's shoulder. "Sleep, knave."

"Aye," Yvain replied, fingers squeezing briefly where his arm was draped across Corentin, and in mere moments his breathing had evened out into deep sleep, and Corentin finally permitted himself to rest as well.