Unicorn Vengeance (3 page)

‘Twas only when the travelers had passed that he spotted the woman sitting on the far side of the square before the Temple gates. She bent over the instrument, oblivious of all around her as she picked out an enchanting tune.

Well it seemed that once he permitted himself to listen, Wolfram could not turn away. The tune was haunting. It wound into his ears and teased him with a memory just beyond reach. The music taunted him to listen, to halt the merest instant longer, that he might recall some forgotten golden moment. His steed flicked his ears, but seemed disinclined to move, as well.

The pair lingered there for a long moment, simply feeding on the heady richness of the sound.

The sky shaded to the indigo of twilight, a last ruddy blush from the sun tinging the western horizon above the buildings. A bite was there in the air, a tinge of autumn and the winter yet to come that prompted one to shiver. Yet Wolfram was oblivious of all, so transfixed was he by the music.

When the woman bent lower and he saw the tangle of ebony hair tumble from her hood, he could not have kept himself from dismounting. Her hair gleamed with the rich luster of silk from the Orient in the fading light, and he wondered how ‘twould feel against his fingers. The music lured Wolfram closer and tempted him to look at a woman for the first time in his days.

And look he did. So different was she from the rough men with whom he spent his life, and Wolfram's gaze devoured her daintiness. Her bones were delicate and her flesh was fairer and clearly of a finer ilk than his own. She was petite, the breadth of her shoulders much smaller than that of even the boys squired to the Order, and Wolfram was stuck by how like a gentle bird she was.

A gentle bird who sang with the sweet voice of a lute.

And that hair. Never had he seen the like. It poured from her hood and spilled over her shoulders, concealing her face, her arm, part of the lute. Like a dark river ‘twas, and it moved and glistened in the fading light as though it could not be restrained. Never had Wolfram believed hair could be of such abundance, such gloss, such a color. Indeed, it seemed to have a life of its own, the way it moved as she played. ‘Twas irrational, this compelling urge to finger those dark strands, but the music swept all doubts from Wolfram's mind.

To approach her would bring him closer to that magical sound, no small thing, though Wolfram would not try to fathom why the music moved him so. The woman did not even look up as he approached, and he watched her fingers dance across the strings, feeling himself a voyeur though indeed she played in a public place.

* * *

‘Twas the nicker of a horse alone that interrupted her thoughts. Genevieve glanced up like a startled doe, surprised to find the square fallen into darkness. She shivered in the chill of the evening, freezing in place when she realized that a man stood silently before her.

Silhouetted against the twilight sky he was, and so still that she wondered if indeed he was real. The bustle of the crowd had faded away, leaving him alone before her, his horse just behind. Genevieve knew he watched her, though she could not discern his features in the shadows. The scent of countless evening meals rode above the scent of Paris itself, and Genevieve could not look away.

Something unnerving there was about his stare. Indeed, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled beneath its intensity, and Genevieve could not have urged her fingers to stir for any price.

It seemed that all of Paris held its breath and waited.

Suddenly the man stepped forward and into a chance ray of light. The fairness of his flaxen hair surprised her, but she dismissed her heart's whimsical lurch out of hand. Many blondes there must be in the north, she reasoned, though her pulse began to pound in her ears with uncharacteristic vigor. He fumbled in his tabard, then glanced up.

Genevieve gasped to find his eyes were palest gray. Pale eyes, pale hair. Indeed, his very face was etched indelibly within her mind.

‘Twas him! ‘Twas the very man she sought who stood before her!

Well it seemed that Genevieve's mind froze motionless at the shock. Then it began to gallop. What was he doing here? Did she but dream, or had she miraculously guessed aright and found him? Against all odds it seemed, yet despite her blinking in disbelief, his solid figure remained before her. Genevieve barely heard the tinkle of the coin hitting the cobblestones as she fought to make sense of the evidence before her eyes.

The numbness of shock was abruptly replaced by the fear of not knowing how to proceed. Indeed, she had scarce dared to believe she might ever lay eyes upon him. What should she do? What should she say? Naught came instantly to mind, and Genevieve struggled to decide how to handle a situation she had thought herself hopeless to engineer. Well had she despaired of ever seeing this man again, but now he stood directly before her.

And she was too dumbfounded to even speak. Genevieve fancied that he almost smiled, as though he understood her predicament, before he turned away. Impossible ‘twas, yet she could not completely stifle her fear that those pale eyes had seen the secret pledge buried deep within her.

Turned away! Too late her mind made sense of what she saw.

Nay! Genevieve could not let him leave! He was astride his horse and through the gates opposite before she managed to rise to her feet. Too much ‘twas to imagine that she might lay eyes upon him again! An opportunity spun of gold had Dame Fortune granted Genevieve, but she had done naught of merit with the gift!

“Sir! I would speak with you a moment!” she cried, but to no avail. Either the stranger did not hear her or he chose to ignore her, for he rode away undeterred.

Where was he going? How would she find him again? Genevieve ran in pursuit. By the time she reached the gates opposite, he had disappeared into the grip of the twisted streets within. As she strained to catch up with him, a portly man stepped squarely into her path and blocked her way.

“What is your business within the Temple?” the gatekeeper demanded tersely. Genevieve might have brushed past him, but the man would not be evaded. She danced to one side and the other impatiently, but still he persistently blocked her path, a frown darkening his brow.

“I must speak to that man!” she insisted wildly. The keeper folded his arms across his chest.

“I cannot let you pass without knowing your business here,” he maintained stonily. Genevieve sighed with frustration and peered over the man's shoulder, only to find that her quarry had melted into the shadows within the gates as surely as though she had not seen him at all.

“Is it not enough that I would speak with that one?” she asked, knowing the answer all the while. Genevieve strained her ears but heard naught even of his horse's hooves. The keeper shook his head and impatience flooded through her.

“Why did you let
him
pass without challenge?” she demanded in annoyance.

“His business I know,” the keeper said flatly.

Genevieve regarded the man in shock. Alzeu's killer was known within the Temple? But he wore no mark of the Order. Genevieve's mind raced as she recalled every rumor she had heard about the mysterious knights.

The Templars were widely rumored to have a deft hand with poison. She saw the blackened bloodstone again in her mind's eye and wondered how many of those rumors were indeed truth. Had someone hired the Templars to dispatch Alzeu? But why? Genevieve eyed the keeper, but he did not confide in her further.

“Now, what of yours?” he demanded.

Hers? Her business here. What business could she possibly have within the Temple? Something Genevieve had to contrive afore her quarry was lost within. Indeed she could not trust to chance that she might encounter him again.

Suddenly Genevieve recalled the business that the Temple conducted openly and that all knew. Bankers the Templars were to all of Christendom, and that fact might well be turned to her advantage.

“A deposit I come to claim,” Genevieve lied with a boldness that she hoped might be mistaken for confidence. The keeper's lips twisted wryly and her heart sank.

“Aye?” he asked archly and clearly disbelievingly. “Then you should have no trouble showing me your receipt.”

Curse the man! Genevieve had no receipt, and well did she know she could not even forge one. Too late she recalled that the Templars were known for encoding their receipts that counterfeits might not be readily made. She patted her pockets and feigned surprise that naught crinkled.

“‘Twas here ere I left,” she mused. The skeptical keeper braced his hands on his hips.

“Not within your lute, mayhap?” he suggested slyly. Genevieve slanted him a hostile glance. “You come not to claim a deposit,” he informed her solemnly. “Well have I seen and heard you play your lute all this day. No passage will I grant you, for readily enough can I see that you mean to pursue that man within. Well you should know that traffic with women is forbidden by the Rule. Plague me no more with your tales and I will not see that you are removed from begging so close to the Temple gates.”

‘Twas a threat with which Genevieve could not argue. She opened her mouth, but closed it again, knowing full well that she could not make a case in her own favor.

Curse the keeper, for he was right. And Genevieve could not risk losing her spot at any price, especially so soon after seeing Alzeu's killer again.

Never mind knowing that he lingered within the walls of the Temple. She endeavored to peek over the keeper one last time before she turned away, but that man scowled deeply and disapprovingly.

“Wearing my patience thin, you are,” the gatekeeper growled. “I bade you leave this gate. Obey me now ere I have you removed.”

“But—”

“Nay! No argument have you that will stay my hand!” the keeper declared with impatience in his tone. “No vagabonds do I let pass, and neither will I permit you to enter the Temple! Away with you!”

Genevieve eyed him for but an instant before she saw the fullness of his intent. No access would she have here on this day. She sighed, frowned and turned reluctantly away, feeling that she had failed Alzeu beyond belief.

* * *

The coin had not been his to grant.

The knowledge burned within Wolfram, and he felt the back of his neck heat at his realization. Naught had he to call his own—all he carried was the property of the Temple, held communally for the benefit of all. But a few coins was he granted on each excursion, in case of unforeseen difficulties. Each time he spent one, he had been compelled to supply a rigorous accounting to the Master.

Curse the impulse that had sent that coin flying from his fingers! No acceptable explanation had he for its absence and none could he give. That he had granted alms would do naught but earn him a reprimand. Alms were granted by the house on Tuesday morns and calculated as a percentage of the week's revenues.

No right had Wolfram to independently grant alms. To tell the truth would gain him naught.

But he could lie.

The very thought was shocking for its very traitorousness. To lie to the Master was a crime of the worst order, and Wolfram could barely countenance that he had even conceived of doing so. Never had he lied. Never had he even conceived of lying. Never had he broken the Rule, and he could make no explanation of why such a thought would occur to him now.

The fog of Montsalvat might well have addled his wits, but ‘twas the song of the lute that undermined all he knew. He should never have paused to listen.

And he should never have granted to her a coin that was not his own.

Wolfram could not tell the truth about what he had done and he could not lie. ‘Twas a predicament of the first order. He scowled as he rode his horse into the stables and dismounted.

He could retrieve the coin.

Wolfram paused in the shadows and considered the wisdom of that option. Indeed, he knew not why he had even granted the lutenist the coin in the first place, he thought with annoyance. Had he been logical, he would never have created this difficulty for himself.

Although no sweeter sound was there to Wolfram than that of the lute. ‘Twas only here in the shadows of the stables that he admitted that he had near forgotten that fact. No other music was there that could coax free the distant memories tidily packed away in his mind.

He had locked those memories safely away at the mere age of four, for the sake of his sanity. He would not unleash them now and threaten all that he had gained. He would not, though he was sorely tempted.

Wolfram felt naught, he reminded himself sternly. He believed naught. He trusted none but the Master. These were his own rules. ‘Twas this resolve alone that had kept him sane. He would not toss away all he had gained for the stirring sounds of a lute, or even a fetching lutenist.

Yet the lute's music showed neither restraint nor respect for Wolfram's own desires. It threatened to slide the bolts and set those tender memories free once more. He had let the music wend its way into his ears for but a heartbeat before it held him powerless within its silken grip.

A mistake it had been to lend an ear, and he would be a fool to listen again.

But when the lutenist had looked up, the shock in her wide green eyes had broken the spell she was weaving. Even now, Wolfram sobered when he recalled the flash of fear that had lit those remarkable eyes when she first discerned his features. Cold fingers grasped his gut and he shuffled his feet as though he could dislodge their grip.

‘Twas almost as though she had seen his secret in that one glimpse. He had felt naked, vulnerable, bare to the elements as he never had before. Every terror he had ever had of discovery had flooded through him in a blinding flash. For an instant, he had been certain that she knew what and who he was, and the exposure he always dreaded had held him captive in its viselike grip.

‘Twas then Wolfram had impulsively cast her the coin. A penance? An appreciation of her skill with the lute? An offering born of the sheer delicacy of her and the certainty that she would have to find some shelter? ‘Twas all that and more that had prompted Wolfram's hand, though now the gesture made little sense.