Unicorn Vengeance (2 page)

‘T
was weeks before she reached her goal.

Genevieve's coin was gone when she stumbled through the gates of Paris, despite her care with it. The horse she had sold in the last town before Paris, yet the beast had not fetched much coin. She had walked the last distance and her shoes were now riddled with holes. The only thing of value she carried was her lute, but to part with it was out of the question, regardless of her hunger.

The lute contained her very soul. Indeed, it always had.

But Paris. ‘Twas beyond any expectation. Despite her exhaustion, Genevieve was revolted by its sprawl, its occupants and its stench. ‘Twas huge beyond compare. Impossible ‘twas to discern any pattern in the city's layout, the veritable rabbit warren of streets confusing her almost as soon as she entered the gates.

It overwhelmed her every sense.

And the press of people was enough to drive her mad. Never had she guessed there could be so many souls in all of Christendom, let alone within the confines of one city's walls. They pressed against her from every side, the casual touch of strangers flooding her with panic. ‘Twas confusing beyond compare for one raised in a small company, and Genevieve was disoriented in a span of time that might have been embarrassing, had there been anyone she knew to note that fact.

‘Twas only as she gazed in confusion at seemingly endless yet unfamiliar walls and gates, towers and portals, that the resolve that had doggedly carried her this far faltered. How would she find Alzeu's murderer in this place? Had she launched herself on a futile chase?

Never had she dreamed that Paris, or indeed any place at all, could be so large. She saw now that she had been a fool to imagine Paris as no more crowded than Montsalvat, where one might readily recognize all who dwelt within its walls. Indeed, she had never known any place larger and had not considered the matter overmuch.

Paris went on forever, each square much like the last, each street as filthy as the one before. Doubt and disappointment flooded Genevieve's heart as she ambled closer to the heart of the city, for indeed she had little certainty that Alzeu's killer had come here at all.

Or he could have come and gone in the time it had taken her to travel thus far.

Well it seemed that impulsiveness might have steered her false yet again. Genevieve might have come all this way for naught. Despair welled up within her, the smell of fresh bread doing naught to lift her spirits. Her belly growled, and she spared it a consoling pat, for that was likely all it would get this day.

“A bit of silver for a song!” cried a voice unexpectedly.

Genevieve's was not the only head to turn, though her eyes widened when the slender man began to sing and the bustling crowd not only made space for him, but paused to listen. People smiled to each other and listened to his
chanson
as he stood with hands clasped before him and sang. Genevieve endured the press of alien bodies, some washed, some more odorous than she might have thought possible, to indulge her curiosity.

This, too, was new to her, but she intuitively guessed it might have import for her and eyed the man who had cried out with avid curiosity.

The minstrel appeared young at first glimpse, though his face was tanned and his shoulders were broader than those of a boy. His voice was remarkably clear and true. Despite his unkempt state, his features beamed with pride in his abilities as the song unfurled from his lips. Well could Genevieve understand, for she felt much the same satisfaction when she played her lute.

The minstrel's hair was a most uncommon orange color and hung long. His garb was shabby, but despite the oddity of his appearance, he summoned a most charming smile for the onlookers. Genevieve suspected he had no hearth himself to which he might return this night and she felt a curious kinship with him, for all his unfamiliarity.

Still his voice was beautiful. She could not readily decipher the tale, for his words flowed too swiftly for her. Mayhap he spoke another tongue, though it seemed that Genevieve alone did not understand. The onlookers were enthralled, and many appeared to be struck dumb by his tale.

Genevieve noted but one disturbance, and she glanced up at the interruption to find a tall man, distinguished of carriage and silver of mane, pushing his way through the assembly. His manner was that of a man of import, his concern with naught but his own interest. The red cross of the Temple blazed across the breast of his white tabard. A small retinue awaited him on the periphery of the crowd, and a proud silver destrier was held at the ready for his return. Genevieve knew he must be a high ranking officer in the Order of the Templars.

His gaze was avid as he watched the minstrel, and well it seemed that he hung on every word, as though he would devour the tale. The crowd left a minute space around this older Templar, and she wondered briefly at his station, that he should be of repute among the people.

Then the minstrel raised his voice and she forgot all else. When he sustained the last note with a flourish and took a deep bow that had clearly been practiced, more than one silver denier struck the ground before him. Genevieve gasped, her gaze greedy as she tried to count the coins before he collected them all.

She might have spoken to the minstrel, had she not glimpsed the cold avarice in his eyes as he scrambled for his coins. The change of expression surprised her and she realized, rather late, that his charm had been but a cloak readily donned for his audience.

Genevieve turned away with the rest of the crowd now returning to their various occupations even as she tried to make sense of what she had seen. The Templar strode back to his party and swung into his saddle, his brow drawn in a frown as he gave his spurs to his beast.

Silver for a song, indeed, Genevieve mused. The idea had merit in itself, even if the singer's character was less wholesome than she might have hoped. Genevieve could not sing, but she had her lute. She tapped its round belly speculatively as she walked.

Mayhap it could earn her enough to fill her own belly. The possibility fairly made her dizzy. ‘Twas true she had a quest to fulfill here, but with her belly hollow, she could not consider what to do with any skill.

First Genevieve had to eat.

She had but to find a spot in which to settle and play. One well trafficked, where she might be readily seen. Flushed with excitement, Genevieve wound her way through the streets, selecting and discarding locations with lightning speed.

Quite suddenly, she came into a square that was dominated by a high tower opposite. Indeed the tower was taller than any she had yet seen, and she gaped at it for a long moment before she saw the walls that rose high around it.

Some establishment of repute was clearly trapped within those walls, which surrounded a goodly number of buildings in addition to the tower. A moat encircled the walls, much to Genevieve's surprise, for they were within Paris itself. This solidly built edifice looked more to be a structure one might find isolated in the wilderness.

‘Twas busy here, despite the imposing walls, yet she could find refuge from passing feet against a far wall. ‘Twould suit her purpose well, she decided with an assessing eye. The gate stood opposite and people flowed through it in both directions. Noble people, by their garb. Wealthy people. Mayhap kindly folk were within.

Mayhap she might readily earn a meal. Her heart overflowing with optimism, Genevieve found a sheltered spot in plain view. She unwrapped the lute from its protective blanket and examined it carefully for any sign of damage gained in its travels. Genevieve knew full well that she was but delaying the moment she was coming to dread as fears multiplied in her mind.

What if no one listened? What if they did not hold the lute in regard here in the north? Her examining fingers found no new blemish on the instrument, whose surface she knew as well as her own skin, though they moved with a quickness that revealed her agitation.

The lute was fine. Genevieve breathed a sigh of relief and sat down carefully on her cloak. She swallowed nervously as the crowd brushed past her and wondered whether she was being foolish.

Even if they did not stop or listen, playing would soothe her spirits. It always had. And Paris unsettled her with its noise and activity. That conviction alone made her choice.

Blind to all around her, Genevieve bent over the instrument and coaxed a tune from its reluctant strings. Mute it had been for too many days, and for an instant she feared that she might have lost her touch.

But nay. Genevieve closed her eyes as she smiled at the rising sound, reassured by its familiar beauty. She imagined the wind at Montsalvat, the way it tore through her hair as she stood on the high walls, and her fingers took on a grace that eluded them in all other facets of her life.

Naught did she hear but the music, and indeed, it wound its very magic into her soul. It tempted her smile to broaden, it recalled the craggy hills around her home, it reminded her of the taste of the salt in the wind. It caressed her, it was the lover she had never known.

The music was everything, just as it always had been. When she played, naught else mattered in her world. Though indeed Genevieve wrought the sound herself, ‘twas as separate from her as though she but released it from its prison.

She was lost in a spell of her own making before half a dozen heartbeats had passed. Alzeu and his murderer were forgotten. Genevieve rocked as the lute sang its haunting tune, her fingers plucking at the familiar strings to coax sweeter and yet sweeter sounds from them.

‘Twas this she had been born to do, and naught else could trouble her when she played.

* * *

The familiar stench of Paris beckoned Wolfram across the last few miles. He spied the walls of the city that came closest to home for him these days with no small measure of relief. Its pungency assaulted him as he rode beneath the gate and he inhaled deeply of its welcome odor, glad to be within the city's embrace once more. A sense of urgency assailed him, as it always did when he first entered the city's gates, and that old desire to be secure within the heavy walls of the Temple itself set his heels digging into his tired beast's side.

‘Twas there alone that he was safe, fed and clothed, secure from the fear of pursuit. ‘Twas for that sense of safety alone that he did what he did and fulfilled his orders.

Indeed, there was naught else he could do to earn his place within those walls.

Mere moments passed before Wolfram spied the great double donjon of the Temple towering over the walls of the Ville Neuve du Temple, as solidly reassuring as anything he had ever known. He permitted himself a silent sigh of relief.

Safe again.

A pair of brother knights in full habit rode out from the gate as Wolfram approached. Their appearance, so different from his own, served to give Wolfram his usual pang of jealousy, though he stifled it with a speed born of habit. No right had Wolfram to wear the distinctive white habit of the Order, with its blazing red cross. He was not knighted, a legacy of his illegitimate past, though he had wanted to be knighted with every fiber of his being as long as he could recall.

Still, he had joined the chivalric Order that possessed his dreams, though he had been welcome only as a sergeant.

As ‘twas, he could not risk donning even the plain brown mantle of a sergeant brother for fear his presence might be noted. Dressed like any other traveler he was, for ‘twas part of his task to blend into the secular world. He checked about himself, though he knew what he would find before he ever looked.

None appeared to have even noted his presence.

Wolfram stood out in no crowd. Anonymity was the key not only to Wolfram's success, but also to his very survival.

‘Twas no more than his due to be alone, though increasingly he found that burden difficult to bear. Aging he was, and the solitude of his life chafed within him more and more with each passing day.

Wolfram's gaze rose reluctantly to the gates of that place he called home. His vow to obey had Wolfram granted, and he supposed he was no more lonely than anyone else within this world. Traffic passed through the gates, those sworn to the Templars readily distinguishable from their secular guests.

A twinge of dissatisfaction coursed unexpectedly through Wolfram that he could not openly confess his allegiance. ‘Twas an irony of his task that outside the Temple he disappeared into the populace, but here, in the place that came closest to his home, Wolfram appeared as an outsider.

He blended into the crowd everywhere but belonged nowhere. The thought had not occurred to Wolfram before and he found it did not sit comfortably. Like the wolf he was named for was he, he realized, for his life was solitary above all else. He belonged nowhere and none belonged with him. His loyalty was to the Order alone.

Wolfram shook the whimsy that clung to his mind like Montsalvat's fog. A cluster of travelers approached the Temple gates from the other direction, their steeds clearly tired after a day of riding, their riders spattered with mud and no less tired themselves. Neither mud nor muted garb could conceal that these were nobles, for their posture and their retinue revealed their ilk. ‘Twas clear they made for the haven of the Temple, as well. No doubt had Wolfram that ‘twas the reputed safety of the Temple that beckoned them, and indeed they could well afford to pay the price.

He wondered whether they owed any coin to the house. Only the Master knew for certain, but Wolfram would not have been surprised. Mayhap ‘twould have been more pertinent to consider how much they owed to the house. He allowed them to enter the gate before him, holding his steed to one side as their retainers passed into the sheltered courtyard.

‘Twas then the snare was unexpectedly cast about him.

The plaintive sounds of a lute played with consummate skill carried to Wolfram's ears as he paused outside the familiar gates.

A lute. The very sound prompted him to close his eyes against a rush of recollection. He swallowed hard, then glanced over his shoulder, seeking out the sound.