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  “No change,” said Miri. “Could you stay with her? I feel so helpless. I need… I need to be doing something.”

  Rodrigo entered the cabin and startled Doctor Ellington. The cat leaped up, hackles raised.

  “It’s only me,” said Rodrigo.

  The Doctor glared at Rodrigo in annoyance, and curled up again by Gythe’s head. She was still unconscious, but Rodrigo saw there had been a change, albeit a subtle one. She had more color in her face. Her breathing was easier. She was clearly better now that the attacks had stopped. But she remained unconscious. He called her name softly and patted her hand. All attempts to rouse her failed.

  Rodrigo drew up a chair near to the bed and sat down. He was reminded of the last time he had kept watch at his friend’s bedside, eighteen years ago, when he and Benoit had rescued the badly wounded Stephano from the battlefield of the failed rebellion. Rodrigo had stayed with his friend throughout the night, listening to Stephano’s feverish ravings, fearing he was going to die.

  Rodrigo looked at the object in his hand-a brass dessert plate with a diamond in the center. Dag had said this was what created the green fire. Rodrigo looked at Gythe and pondered.

  Miri climbed up onto the deck and came over to stand beside Dag.

  “I’ll take over,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, regarding her with concern. “If you want to stay with Gythe-”

  “No. I can’t do anything for her,” said Miri brokenly. “This way at least I feel like I’m doing something to help.”

  She put her hands to the helm felt the Cloud Hopper respond to her touch. The walls of the abbey were in view. She and Dag both stared in dismay at the wreckage done to the cathedral, the broken windows, the rising smoke.

  “The demons attacked the abbey!” Miri said. “The last I saw of Stephano, he and that dragon were flying in that direction.”

  “The demons are gone,” said Dag reassuringly. “Likely Stephano and that dragon of his drove them off. We’ll find him there, safe and sound, and we’ll find help for Gythe there, too. You’ll see.”

  Miri nodded, unable to speak for the choking sensation in her throat. She could not take her hands from the helm, so she rested her head against Dag’s broad shoulder. She felt his warmth, his body, solid, firm, and stalwart.

  “You are a comfort to me, Dag,” she said softly.

  Dag wanted to put his arms around her and hold her to him tightly forever, but he kept his arms stiffly at his sides. He loved Miri with a love that was vast as the vault of Heaven above and as deep as the fathomless depths of the Breath below. He meant to keep his love to himself, never, never to tell her.

  He had her friendship, her sisterly affection, and that was enough. More than he deserved. He stood rigid, trying to keep from trembling at her touch.

  He didn’t succeed. Miri felt his body quiver. She saw his jaw clench, his hands balled to fists.

  Dag, you’re in charge… Stephano had told him.

  No, sir, Dag had answered.

  Miri did not know what had happened to him. All she knew was that she loved him. She was almost certain he loved her. She could tell him she loved him and she knew quite well what would happen. She would never see him again. She had to wait for him to heal.

  The two stood at helm of the Cloud Hopper, close together and so far apart.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Julian often said the bravest thing he ever saw a man do was to turn and walk away from his own true love, as Ander walked away from Cecile, calling it an act so selfless, God himself must have wept. And then sixteen years later, Julian asked Ander to walk away from his own true friend. I am not sure about God, but I wept for us all.

  – Rudolpho Benoit,

  Steward to the de Guichen family

  STEPHANO RELOADED HIS DRAGON PISTOL and stood guard over the stable yard while the young monk, who said his name was Brother Barnaby, tended to the wounds of the knight and the other monk. The battle was over, at least for the moment. The bodies of the demons had been magically consumed by some sort of unholy green fire, much to the dismay of Brother Barnaby. Stephano had to drag the young monk away from one of the blazing corpses.

  “What is happening? Some of them are still alive,” Barnaby said. “I might have been able to save them.”

  “Nothing you can do for them now,” said Stephano.

  “I can at least pray for them,” said Brother Barnaby.

  The other monk, Brother Paul, sat huddled in the grass, his robes torn, his back a bloody pulp from being whipped, his face battered. Brother Barnaby had a deep cut on one arm, a split lip, a bruise on his temple, and the marks of the scourge on his back. Stephano recalled what Droalfrig had told him about the horrible deaths of the nuns. He remembered Gythe, screaming in pain.

  Stephano shook his head. “These fiends murdered innocent women. They beat Brother Paul and tortured you. Why are you praying for them?”

  Brother Barnaby seemed astonished at the question. “We are all God’s creatures, sir.”

  “Not if they are lost souls, Brother,” said Stephano.

  “Do we abandon the little child lost in the forest, sir,” asked Brother Barnaby gently. “Or do we expend all our energy trying to reclaim her.”

  Stephano knew better than to be trapped in some sort of religious tangle, especially one to which he had no answer. He left the monk to his prayers and his healing and made a thorough search of the stables and the stable yard, looking for demon stragglers or stray bats.

  Satisfied that none of the enemy was still lurking about, Stephano went to check on the dragon brothers, Hroalfrig and Droalfrig. They had defeated their foes and were now resting in a nearby field. Hroal was bleeding from a deep gash in his chest. Dragons had remarkable powers of healing, however, and he would soon recover. The dragons were concerned about him and the others. Stephano assured the two brothers that all was well, at least for the time being. He thanked them both for their valiant service and asked if they could remain on guard. Droalfrig, looking pleased, flicked a wing in salute.

  Stephano returned from his reconnaissance to find Brother Barnaby trying to examine Sir Ander’s head injury. The knight waved away the monk’s attention.

  “A bump on the head, nothing more. My own damn fault. I should have been wearing my helm. We need to get back to Father Jacob,” Sir Ander said impatiently. “He’s been injured.”

  “I will go to him immediately,” said Brother Barnaby, then he faltered, “But there is Brother Paul-”

  “Do not let me deter you,” said the monk. He had managed to rise and was standing, though somewhat unsteadily. “You should go to Father Jacob. He needs you, Brother. I am in God’s care.”

  “Bring Brother Paul along,” said Sir Ander, chafing at the delay.

  “An excellent idea,” said Barnaby, relieved. “Come along, Brother. I have medicines at the Retribution to treat your wounds.”

  Brother Paul at first demurred, protesting he did not want to be a burden, but he was too weak to put up much of an argument. He went on ahead with Brother Barnaby, leaving Sir Ander and Stephano to follow along behind, pistols reloaded and ready to fire.

  The two men walked for a time in silence, both at a loss to know what to say to each other. Stephano had never met his godfather and Sir Ander had met Stephano only once and that when he was barely a week old. Stephano was confused and embarrassed. His feelings toward his godfather were complicated, not easy to sort out. He and the knight had carried on a correspondence through the years, exchanging letters that were warm on Sir Ander’s part and stiff and formal on Stephano’s.

  Sir Ander had been Julian’s closest friend. Both Stephano’s father and his mother had always spoken well of the knight. His mother’s praise of Sir Ander was more damning than helpful, however. Stephano had never been able to forgive Sir Ander for his continued close friendship with the countess and for the fact that the knight had sided with the king during the rebellion that had cost Julian de Guichen h
is life.

  At the end, facing execution, Julian had counseled his son to turn to his godfather if he ever needed anything. Stephano had refused to listen. Angry and grieving and bitter, Stephano was convinced Sir Ander had betrayed and abandoned his father. Stephano had torn up Sir Ander’s letter of condolence and then burned it to ashes. He would have destroyed the dragon pistol that had been his godfather’s gift, but he hadn’t been able to find it. Benoit, as it turned out, had hidden it away, restoring it years later, when Stephano had been granted his commission in the Dragon Brigade.

  He was old enough then to admire the craftsmanship, recognize the quality, the value of such a gift. But when he looked at it, he saw only the man who had turned his back on his father.

  “Put it back,” Stephano had said. “I don’t want it. Sir Ander betrayed my father.”

  “He did no such thing,” Benoit had told him. “Your father wrote to him, urged him not to take up arms against his country. I know. I carried the letter to him myself.”

  “But why would my father do that?” Stephano had asked, not believing. He eyed Benoit. “And how do you know what my father wrote?”

  “Because I read the letter, of course,” Benoit had replied. “Keep the gun, you young fool. It was your father’s wish you should have it.”

  Stephano had kept the dragon pistol. He often thought about what Benoit had said, wondered if it was true. Sir Ander had patiently continued to write to his godson over the years, giving the young man counsel as befitted a godfather, urging him to find solace in faith and relating stories about his father in the days of their youth, stories that spoke of his father’s courage and honor.

  Stephano came to value the correspondence, though his own responses tended to be cool and impersonal. He even went so far as to take Sir Ander’s ’s advice and make a somewhat shaky peace with God. He never spoke of this to anyone.

  As they walked together, the two soldiers unconsciously fell into cadence, strides equal and matching. When the silence grew uncomfortable, both men felt driven to speak and both spoke at once. Both looked even more uncomfortable.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Stephano, with a stiff bow. “Please continue.”

  “I was only going to say that you are very like your father,” said Sir Ander and he added, with a smile, “Though you have your mother’s eyes.”

  Stephano’s brow furrowed and the eyes that were like his mother’s eyes hardened and went steely gray, making the resemblance even stronger.

  “I understand, sir, that you are a friend of my mother’s,” said Stephano in frozen tones.

  “I have that honor,” Sir Ander replied gravely.

  He was reloading the dragon pistol as he walked. Stephano looked at the knight’s pistol, then looked at his own, a gift from his godfather, a gift he had come to cherish. He was ashamed of his churlish response, but excused it by reminding himself he had good reason to be angry at this man.

  ““I held you in my arms the day you were baptized.” Sir Anders was saying. “You screamed bloody murder the entire time and lashed out with your little fists at the priest when he flicked the holy water in your face. Julian burst out laughing. He said it showed you had fighting spirit. The poor priest was so shocked, your father had to donate a pair of silver candlesticks to the saint to make reparation.”

  Stephano gave a grudging half smile. “Benoit often tells that story, particularly when he wants to embarrass me.”

  “Benoit!” Sir Ander turned to face him. “Is that old man still alive?” When Stephano nodded, the knight added in softer tones, “I am glad to know it.”

  Stephano cast sidelong glances at his godfather as they walked together, noting with approval his military stance, his firm and muscular body, his strong jaw and forthright appearance. Stephano was disposed to like the man, but there was that one lingering doubt. He was brooding on this and only half-listening to Sir Ander saying something about being astonished to see a soldier come to his aid, riding a dragon.

  “But, of course, you served in the famed Dragon Brigade. Julian wrote to me of the first time he put you on dragon back. You were three, I believe. He held you on the saddle in front of him as the dragon soared through the air. You were not the least bit afraid, he told me. He was so proud of you.”

  Stephano remembered that moment, one of his earliest recollections. He remembered that he had been afraid until he felt his father’s strong arm encircle him. He remembered his father calling to the dragon that they were ready and the beast taking to the air and the wind rushing past his face and the thrill and elation of leaving the ground and flying to the skies. His heart constricted with pain as he lowered his head and made no answer.

  They reached the wicket in the wall, and their conversation came to an end. Thus far, they had not seen any demons or their bats, but no one knew what might be waiting for them on the other side of the high wall. Musket held at the ready, Sir Ander entered the gate first, while Stephano remained guarding the two monks.

  “Looks like they’ve gone,” Sir Ander reported, and he motioned the monks to enter. Stephano brought up the rear.

  He was pleased and heartened to see the Cloud Hopper sailing bravely toward the docks which were in a small inlet located about three miles from the abbey at the bottom of a steep hill. He cast a critical eye over the houseboat and was relieved to see that it had not suffered much damage. A yardarm had been snapped and hung tangled in the rigging. He wondered worriedly how Gythe was faring.

  He was eager to go to his friends, but he felt a responsibility to the two monks and Sir Ander, who had, after all, saved his life. The knight tried to brush off the effects of his head wound, but Stephano saw Sir Ander wince every so often and guessed that it pained him more than he was letting on. And there was something he desperately needed to ask him.

  The two men walked on for a moment in silence, then Sir Ander said, “I know this must be awkward for you-”

  “Will you answer a question for me, sir?” Stephano asked abruptly.

  “Of course,” said Sir Ander.

  “Why did you refuse to join my father in the rebellion? You believed in his cause. He told me you did.”

  “Your father wrote to tell me not to,” said Sir Ander.

  So Benoit was telling the truth, Stephano thought. He said nothing, however, but waited for the knight to continue.

  Sir Ander gave a deep sigh. “I knew King Alaric had goaded the Duke of Bourlet into rebelling. The duke did not want to go to war. He suffered insult after insult in silence. But when his outposts were attacked, his property illegally seized, his friends and supporters threatened, he could take no more. But you know all this. You were fifteen, old enough to understand.”

  “Old enough to fight at my father’s side,” said Stephano proudly. He would have added, “unlike you, sir,” but he swallowed the words. He might as well have said them, for they hung in the air.

  “You fought while I sat at home,” Sir Ander said. “Or rather, I sat in prison.”

  “I was told you refused to take up arms and that you were imprisoned for your refusal. I credit you with that much, sir. But you were set free, while my father…”

  Stephano could not go on. He stared moodily out into the Breath.

  “Yes, I was set free,” said Sir Ander. “I was a Knight Protector and subject to the laws of the Church, not the Crown. The Knighthood saw to it that I was freed, but I was still punished. I was suspended for a time and then assigned to Father Jacob Northrup, a duty no one else wanted. Two Knight Protectors had threatened to resign rather than undertake to risk their lives guarding a Freyan priest-a man most believed to be a traitor. As one of my Order was overheard to say about me, ‘They set a traitor to guard a traitor.’ ”

  “Admit it, sir,” Stephano said, his voice burning with anger and resentment, “you were set free because of my mother!”

  “No, Stephano,” said Sir Ander quietly. “At the time, the Countess de Marjolaine was herself walking on a
precipice. Her enemies had arrayed themselves against her, all striving to bring about her downfall. She had all she could do to save herself and her son…”

  Seeing Stephano glower darkly, the knight did not finish his sentence. “But you don’t want to hear her trials, do you?”

  “No, sir, I do not,” said Stephano coldly.

  Sir Ander was silent a moment, then he said quietly, “The Duke de Bourlet was your family’s patron. Not only that, the duke was a good friend to your father. Your father fought and died for his friend, Stephano. Julian de Guichen did not die for the duke’s cause.”

  Stephano set his jaw and kept grimly silent.

  Sir Ander gave a sad smile. “When I wrote to tell Julian I was considering siding with the rebels, he wrote back to urge me to remain loyal. Not loyal to a cruel and avaricious king. Loyal to Rosia, the country he loved.”

  How many times Stephano had heard his father say almost those exact words! Julian de Guichen had said them to his own son when he had tried to deter Stephano from joining in the fighting. The hot-headed fifteen-year-old had refused to understand his father. Or rather, Stephano had refused to want to understand. Julian had said the same during his trial for treason. Facing a cruel and painful death, Julian de Guichen had yet proudly and steadfastly proclaimed his love and loyalty for his country. Stephano had never forgotten. His father’s loyalty to Rosia was his son’s loyalty, the reason he had accepted the commission into the Dragon Brigade.

  Stephano had wept then and he felt the bitter tears sting his eyes now. He blinked rapidly and walked on.

  “I am glad to see the dragon pistol has proven useful to you,” said Sir Ander, glad to change the subject.

  “The pistol has never failed me, sir,” said Stephano. He added grudgingly, “I fear I never thanked you properly for it. And for the letters and the advice you have given me over the years.”

  “As to the pistol, you used it to save my life back there,” said Sir Ander. “I guess that is thanks enough.” He paused, then said, “I am glad to finally meet you at last, Stephano. Julian would have been very proud of you.”