Knight's Prize (35 page)

Still,
her step was reluctant as she descended the stairs, and her heart fluttered,
whether with anticipation or dread, she wasn't sure. Would Rand be in the great
hall as she'd imagined, with a cup of ale and an oatcake, greeting her with a
wide grin? Or would Sung Li's prediction come true—would he have left the keep,
never to return?

'Twas
far easier to wonder than to face the truth.

Summoning
up her courage, she took the last step into the great hall and glanced toward
the hearth. Several castle folk were gathered there—her sisters and their
husbands, Sir Rauve and Lucy Campbell, a few Rivenloch men, half a dozen
knights of Cameliard—sharing a light repast and talking in the soft voices of
morn.

But
Rand was nowhere to be seen.

The
breath froze in her throat, chilling her hopes like winter frost settling upon
a rose.

"Miri!"
Deirdre called. "Finally up and about?" She winked. "Not even
wed yet, and already you're lying abed till noon."

Miriel
couldn't even summon the smallest of smiles in response. She perused the small
gathering again, praying she'd somehow overlooked Rand's presence. But he
wasn't there.

A
tiny lump of misgiving hardened in her throat.

"Is
something wrong?" Colin asked.

She bit
her lip. 'Twas foolish to make rash assumptions, she knew. The castle was
large. Rand could be anywhere. Still, dread drained the blood from her face.

Pagan
frowned in concern. "Are you all right?"

Miriel
glanced up, at Pagan, at Colin, at all of them. She couldn't tell them the
worst of her fears, that Sir Rand of Morbroch, her betrothed, had betrayed her.

Besides,
she had no real evidence he'd left with the players, only Sung Li's prediction
and a nagging fear in the deep recesses of her mind.

She
managed a shaky smile. "Have you seen Rand?"

Helena,
as usual, assumed the worst. She placed one hand on the hilt of her sword.
"What's he done?"

"Naught."

"Are
you
sure?"
Helena would fight at the drop of a gauntlet. No doubt she'd enjoy pummeling
Rand if she believed he'd hurt Miriel. 'Twas comforting, though unnecessary.

"Aye,"
she said with a forced shrug. "I just wondered where he was."

Sir
Rauve, one arm around Lucy's shoulders, volunteered, "I think he went to
see the players off this morn."

He'd
said it so offhandedly that at first Miriel didn't feel the impact of his
words. When they finally sank in, her smile faltered, and she felt nausea
slowly build in her throat.

Deirdre
furrowed her brow. "Do you feel well, Miri? Do you want an oatcake
or—?"

"Nay."

"You
look ill," Helena said frankly. "Could you be with child?"

Miriel
glanced sharply at her. 'Twas a terribly personal thing to ask, and the others
scolded Helena for her meddling, saving Miriel from having to answer.

But
what if she
was
with
child, God help her? Would she bear a bastard?

Somehow
she found the strength to ask Rauve, "Did he say when he'd return?"

Rauve
chuckled. "I expect he went to seek a rematch with The Shadow."

Colin
shook his head in amusement. "Ever since the outlaw gave him that silver
coin, I think he's been craving another chance at him."

Pagan
muttered into his ale. "I hope he doesn't get too badly hurt."

"The
Shadow has never hurt anyone," Helena said.

Deirdre
smirked. "Though he may deal a bruising blow to Sir Rand's pride."

A
feeble hope sprouted in Miriel's breast. Could that be why Rand had gone with
the players? Was he only hoping to meet up with The Shadow again? Sweet Mary,
of course! It made perfect sense.

A
wry smile of irony curved her lips. Today he'd be disappointed. But as long as
he returned faithfully to her, she'd gladly console him for his lost chance at
glory.

Forsooth,
her blood quickened as she thought of what form that consolation might take.

Her fears
soothed somewhat, she managed to stomach a bit of oatcake and busied herself
about the great hall, mentally planning her wedding feast. Doubt still lurked
like a thief in the corners of her mind, but she swept past, ignoring its
presence.

The
deception worked for a while as the morn wore on. But when the sun drew high
overhead, and still Rand did not return, Miriel found that the lurking thief
had begun to whisper taunts from the shadows.

He's left for good.

You'll never see him again.

He's betrayed you.

You were a fool to trust
him.

And
when by afternoon, still there was no sign of him, the doubts began to be
murmured aloud throughout the keep by the castle folk.

"You
don't suppose something has happened to him?"

"The
Shadow never hurt anybody. Not seriously."

"Perchance
he lost his way back."

"Mayhap
the players rolled him."

"Aye.
the two wily lads probably knocked him on the skull and cut his purse."

"Should
we send someone out to look for him?"

"Nay.
He's a grown man. He'll come back. You'll see."

Miriel
was determined to hold on to hope, no matter by how fine a thread, but her
heart told her they were all wrong.

Rand
had not encountered The Shadow. He'd not been robbed by the players. Nor had he
lost his way.

By
the sinking in her gut, she knew Sung Li had been right. Rand had betrayed her.
He'd betrayed them all.

************************************

Rand
walked along the path through the Rivenloch woods with the faith and courage
that came from the love of a wonderful woman and the knowledge that he was
going to prove her innocence today.

He'd
set an ingenious trap, one into which The Shadow was sure to fall.

Rand
had funded the players well enough last night to ensure they could wager high
and win considerable coin from Lord Gellir. The pair of apparent fools, their
purses heavy with silver, would prove an irresistible target for the outlaw.

But
what The Shadow didn't know was that the players were quite skilled in combat.
Watching them yesterday, Rand realized that the interplay between Hob-Nob and
Wat-Wat, though farcical, required a high level of coordination, speed, and
agility, the same strengths The Shadow possessed.

If
they could catch the thief off his guard, startle him with their antics, match
him, move for move, dazzle him with their nimble sparring, Rand could move in
while he was distracted and capture the outlaw once and for all.

He'd
naturally offered the players a generous reward, the remainder of the advance
that the Lord of Morbroch had collected for him. He didn't care about the coin
anymore. What he did, he did to exonerate Miriel.

As
he'd instructed the players, they traveled jauntily down the path, quibbling
loudly, pretending inattention, while Rand followed distantly behind, scouring
the trees for signs of the familiar figure all in black.

He
didn't have long to wait. But when The Shadow made his appearance, he didn't so
much arrive as materialize. Rand would have sworn he'd been staring at a
shade-darkened patch in the crotch of a tree when he suddenly realized 'twas
more than a shadow. 'Twas
The
Shadow.

The
players had sauntered past the outlaw already. Rand gave a quick sharp whistle
to attract their attention and drew his sword. As he'd warned them, they'd have
to be quick.

While
the thief watched with mild interest from his perch, Hob-Nob shoved Wat-Wat,
and Wat-Wat's fist came round with a wide swing that missed his opponent's nose
by a scant inch. Using the same rapid lunges and feints, punches and kicks,
spins and rolls that they had at the fair, the players engaged each other in a
mock fight that was so perfectly coordinated and so convincing, Rand himself
was distracted for a moment.

In
that moment, The Shadow bounded to the ground. When Rand next looked up, the
robber was already making his stealthy way toward the players.

Rand
narrowed his eyes. Could the thief in black be Miriel? He didn't see how. 'Twas
impossible to reconcile the sweet damsel giggling in his arms yesterday with
the silently efficient outlaw.

Rand
anticipated an entertaining exchange of blows. The players would use their wily
moves to confound The Shadow, and The Shadow would employ his acrobatics to
dodge their attack. While they were engaged, Rand would steal up behind the
outlaw and take him at sword point.

'Twas
not what happened at all.

When
Hob-Nob wheeled about, his arms flailing, strewing silver coins all over the
path, The Shadow took one calm step toward him. The robber reached out to
Hob-Nob, as if affectionately clapping an old friend alongside the neck, then
gave a sharp squeeze.

The
player's bones seemed to turn to custard. His eyes rolled up, and he collapsed
like a pile of laundry. In fact, if The Shadow hadn't reached out to soften his
fall, lowering him carefully to the ground, the poor wretch might have knocked
himself witless on a rock or a tree trunk.

Wat-Wat
hesitated an instant, stunned by the suddenness of his friend's demise. But he
quickly recovered and began goading The Shadow with words and blows, allowing
Rand to approach slowly from the rear.

"You
scrawny black Devil!" Wat-Wat dodged left and right, forward and back, his
fists raised before him. "Come fight a real man!"

The
Shadow simply stood watching while Wat-Wat danced about, as if patiently
waiting for the player to tire himself.

Rand
was but eight yards distant. If the player could keep him occupied, and if the
outlaw didn't make some sort of swift, impossible leap into the trees, in
another few moments he'd be near enough to take him.

"You
motherless cur! You demon's spawn!" Wat-Wat danced about, bobbing his head
this way and that. "Show me your claws!"

Just
four more yards, and The Shadow would be within sword's reach. Rand didn't
intend to use his blade. Unless the outlaw was devoid of common sense, he'd
realize when the sword point touched his back he'd have no choice but to
surrender.

Then
Wat-Wat, convinced The Shadow wasn't going to attack him at all, simply hopped
from one foot to the other and spread his arms in askance. "What's wrong
with you, you Lucifer's whelp? Are you afraid I might—"

His
words were cut off as The Shadow's arm shot out with lightning speed, the heel
of his hand striking the point of Wat-Wat's chin and driving his head backward.

Wat-Wat,
his arms still extended like branches, continued his backward fall, crashing
into the thick brush lining the path, like a tree downed in a storm.

Then
The Shadow whipped around toward Rand.

Bloody
hell! He was still two yards out of range.

In
that instant, the outlaw could have simply turned and fled, making one of his
acrobatic escapes into the wood.

But
he didn't.

And
in that crucial sliver of time, The Shadow's curious inaction gave Rand the
advantage.

Rand
seized that advantage. He hurtled forward the last few yards, sweeping his
blade up and lodging it against the villain's black-swathed throat.

He'd
done it. He'd captured The Shadow.

Rand
was not the kind of man to gloat. He'd hunted down enough fugitives to know
'twas miserable for them to be caught, so he always spared them the humiliation
of crowing over their capture. 'Twas satisfaction enough to know the robber was
at his mercy.

Still,
he should have been filled with the thrill of victory. He'd caught the outlaw
no other man could touch.
 
Rivenloch
would rejoice. He'd collect his reward. And Miriel would look up at him with
shining eyes of admiration.

He
should have felt victorious, but his triumph was strangely hollow. The Shadow
wasn't moving a muscle, wasn't showing the least bit of resistance. Forsooth,
Rand got the distinct impression that he hadn't so much conquered the thief as
simply accepted his surrender. 'Twas almost as if The Shadow wanted to be
captured.

Still,
Rand was wise enough to be wary. The man was clever. There was no telling what
weapons he might wear up his sleeve or hidden in the folds of his odd black
garb.

Keeping
the sword at The Shadow's throat, he slipped the shackles from his belt, then
bade the robber slowly extend his arms. The Shadow complied, and 'twas the work
of a moment to lock the shackles about his wrists, even with one hand. After
all, he'd had much practice taking outlaws into custody.

Then
Rand was able to lower his sword.

Still
he was not content. It had been too easy. Criminal apprehension never went this
smoothly. Outlaws fought capture with every last ounce of their strength, some
with their dying breath.

Unsettled,
he half expected The Shadow to lash out suddenly with one of his powerful feet
and send Rand flying ten yards down the path. At the moment, Rand felt about
as safe as a mouse scampering across the floor of a mews. He couldn't afford to
let down his guard.

There
was one more thing he needed to do before he returned to Rivenloch with his
quarry. He had to make sure the players were unharmed. Indeed, 'twas surprising
that The Shadow had treated them to such violence. All the castle folk insisted
that the outlaw had never seriously hurt anyone. But whatever he'd done this
time, it had rendered his poor victims as still as death.

"Sit,"
he told The Shadow, pressing upon the man's small shoulder to force him down.

Then
he placed the point of his sword just below the thief's ear. One thrust
forward, and they both knew he could sever the artery there, leaving The Shadow
to bleed to death.

The
Shadow sat, unmoving, while Rand checked for the pulses of the fallen men. They
were thankfully strong. Whatever the thief had done to the players, at least
he'd left them alive.

Rand
was secretly glad. Whether the Lord of Morbroch would ultimately hang The Shadow
for his thievery, Rand didn't know. But it seemed the thief had shown a certain
restraint in his attack. 'Twas a relief not to have to add murder to the
miserable wretch's list of crimes.

Almost
at once, Hob-Nob groaned as he began a groggy ascent to wakefulness. Wat-Wat
followed shortly thereafter, struggling to sit up while cradling his injured
chin.

"You
got him?" Wat-Wat asked, trying to smile through the pain.

Rand
nodded. "Keep the extra silver for your trouble." Their winnings,
currently strewn across the path, he'd originally intended to return to
Rivenloch's coffers, to keep Miriel's accounts balanced. Now he would reimburse
Lord Gellir with a portion of the reward from Morbroch.

"Happy
to be of service," Hob-Nob said cheerily, despite the foggy glaze of his
eyes.

With
that, the players collected their wits and their winnings and gladly resumed
their travel through the Rivenloch forest, back to the fair, where they could
earn their keep for much less demanding labor.

The
Shadow remained quiet, which was not surprising. In Rand's experience, cornered
criminals behaved like cornered animals. They either put up a desperate fight,
howling and whimpering and bellowing with rage, or they fumed in silence,
perchance recognizing the futility of resistance, perchance planning for the
opportunity to escape.

Still,
there was a curious peace about The Shadow's demeanor. He seemed neither
fearful nor angry. Which made Rand uneasy.

He'd
feel better if he could see the robber's face.

Cautiously
sheathing his sword, he drew his dagger instead and crouched beside the
captive. Slipping the point beneath the black fabric enshrouding The Shadow's
head, he sliced carefully upward until the cloth fell away.

Shock
sucked the air from his lungs.

There,
sitting stone-faced before him, was Sung Li.

Chapter 22

the Night has swallowed The Shadow.

The
parchment dropped from Miriel's trembling fingers. Her heart plummeted. One
hand still gripping the lid of the empty pine chest, she slowly sank to her
knees.

She still
didn't completely understand. But gradually, pieces of the mystery were roiling
into place, like sinister black clouds swirling together in the portent of a
storm. With each passing moment, that storm looked more menacing, more
dangerous.

Miriel
needed to find out exactly what had happened and act before 'twas too late.

The
stark, damning words on the parchment stared up at her from the floor of her
workroom as she reviewed what she knew.

Sung
Li was nowhere to be found. No one had seen him all day. Yet no one had seen
him leave the castle.

Rand
had departed with the players hours ago and had never returned. Sir Rauve was
convinced he traveled with them in the hopes of reengaging The Shadow. But now
'twas feared that some foul play might have ensued.

Sung
Li had warned her that Rand was not who he said
he
was,
that he'd come to Rivenloch, not for Miriel, but
for
reasons
of his own. He believed Rand had conspired with the players to rob Lord Gellir.
He'd also told Miriel that The Shadow would be foolish to pursue and engage
such skilled fighters.

And
now, as Miriel peered again into the empty chest, her heart thumping woodenly
against her ribs, she feared Sung Li had acted against his own advice.