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"Allegiance is earned day by day, Your Majesty," Keldwyn said absently, bending to examine a plant. "I have not yet stopped serving your wellbeing, so I'd say that is its own answer, is it not?"
Rhoswen's face was as cool as the ice on the hedges. "He does prove useful enough that freezing him into a permanent ice sculpture isn't an intelligent option," she said. "Though I keep warning him the day may come when I am not feeling quite so intelligent."
"I've seen you on those days, my lady, and your acuity is still ten times sharper than most."
Cayden shifted behind her. Uthe saw him and Keldwyn exchange a look. Cayden's contained an admonishment, an easy-to-read suggestion that Keldwyn try not to be such a pain in the ass. Keldwyn's expression showed bland puzzlement, as if he were unaware of any problem. Apparently, he could be as irritating to his own kind as he was to vampires.
Rhoswen examined Uthe thoroughly from head to toe. "You have not changed so much. But then you are a vampire. Any changes would be in your eyes and more mature body language, not physical appearance. The sun gave you those handsome creases on your face, something a born vampire cannot experience. But you have."
"God has given me a full and interesting life, Your Majesty."
"Hmm. What do you remember of our last meeting?"
"When I took your hand, I recalled some of it. But there are other things that are still shadowy. I think Lord Reghan, your father...I think he intended I shouldn't remember until it was important that I did."
Curiously, that had captured Keldwyn's full attention. The Fae Lord gave him a sharp look and exchanged a glance with the Queen laden with meaning.
"So you think the information has been spelled all this time, held away from you?" she asked Uthe, pulling her attention away from Keldwyn.
"Yes, Your Majesty." He hoped. "It may be something your father and I agreed upon."
"So why now? Why did my touch unlock it?"
He thought of the postcard in his jacket. "Because the time has come for me to finish what was started." The moment he said it, he knew it as truth, which reassured him. He could feel Keldwyn's attention on him now, but he held the Queen's gaze. He needed to ask her permission to touch her again, and he despised the fear in him that made him want to hold his tongue. If he didn't know what had been lost to him, he would not have to mourn it. But that was a delaying tactic. He firmed his resolve and opened his mouth to speak.
She extended her hand before he could. "Take my hand again, Lord Uthe, and revisit our first meeting. Make sure you see all you need to see."
Did she know what was at stake? It was the only reason he could see her allowing him to take hold of her twice. Mindful of the honor, as well as his reaction last time, he slid off the bench onto both knees before her. Taking a steadying breath, closing his eyes, he bowed his head. Issuing a quick prayer for guidance and clarity, he closed his hand around hers.
And was pulled back to the Crusades.
* * *
What the Grand Master had ordered was insane. They all knew Gerard de Ridefort's pride had overridden common sense. They were a few hundred men, facing thousands of Saladin's. They had no strategic advantage in terrain, for instead of waiting for Saladin to come to them, Gerard had marched across the desert in the heat of the day, depleting the men and the horses.
Saladin must be considering his good fortune the blessings of Allah. Blessings of Allah, the stupidity of a man's ego...today it was difficult to tell the difference. When the word was passed down that Gerard said battles were not won by numbers but by faith in God, Leonard scoffed an expletive that needed no interpretation and earned no admonishment from any of them. He was merely echoing what they all felt.
Uthe's destrier moved restlessly beneath his knees. Nexus became more aggressive before battle, but it wasn't anxiety. He'd never seen the horse cowed. Because of Uthe's abilities, Nexus had survived more cavalry charges than most of his equine brethren. Most of the horses that did survive the battles were only effective for a few of them before they began to fear the charge and had to be exchanged for different mounts. However, his steed became fiercer with each battle, as if Uthe's own bloodlust fueled him. He loved Nexus, caring for the blood bay stallion like a baby when they weren't on the field. Now, when the order came down the line to prepare for the charge, the horse pranced forward, arching his neck and shrieking a defiant whinny.
The Templars around Uthe grinned, despite knowing they were all sweaty and doomed. Maybe because they knew they were doomed. Though St. Bernard had indicated dying in the service of the Lord's Will was a free pass into Heaven, Uthe wondered if many were thinking as he was. If the commander of the battle was directing them for his own interests, were any of them fighting for the Lord's Will?
Ah, well. Death was not something any of them feared. If it was time to meet the Maker, at least they could say they were following orders. As Bernard had said, God loved nothing so much as obedience.
"Charge!"
The roar reverberated through the line, cutting them loose. Nexus led the way toward the wave of Saracens, thick as the sea. As they thundered across the ground, Uthe was aware of every Templar with him, the pump of adrenaline, the pounding hearts, the rasping breath. Lord, we fight for the wrong thing today, but have mercy on us all.
It twisted the fury in him, and he broke the Templar's traditional silence with a bloodcurdling yell. They picked it up, every one of them, and the cries were punctuated by an additional defiant scream from Nexus. They hurled themselves into that sea of humanity.
From there forward, all was blood, the clash of metal, the horrifying screams of men and horses. He briefly glimpsed the beauseant flying and had no idea how it stayed aloft as long as it did. It wouldn't matter. Even if it fell, the only reason a Templar could retreat from the field, they were surrounded. There was nowhere to go. Too many. Uthe hacked, slashed. Despite Nexus's teeth and hooves, they pressed too close around him, and the horse threw up his head, shrieking. Uthe cried out as if he felt the knives going into his own unprotected belly. Nexus faltered beneath him. Uthe was dragged from his dying horse, dragged away from the loyal animal. His last glimpse of Nexus was the noble beast still doing his best to fight off his attackers, head thrashing and eyes rolling as he tried to see Uthe.
Rage took the place of fury. A Templar was supposed to fight without bloodlust, taking no pleasure in the death of his enemies, all the will of God. He let go of all of that, and fought like the monster he knew he was, no thought or reason. He cut down foe after foe, until his sword was taken and he was fighting with his bare hands, unleashing his vampire strength to crack men like kindling, strike their heads from their bodies. As they became aware of the swathe of destruction he was creating around him, the Saracens started backing away from him. It wouldn't matter. Gerard's ego had killed t
hem all. Uthe wasn't leaving this field alive. Eventually someone's blade would take his head.
A cry amid the cacophony pulled him out of his blood haze. Jacques, his squire, was fighting like a tiger. He'd taught him how to use the sword he was using so ably now, back when the boy could hardly lift it. Tears ran down the squire's face but Uthe doubted Jacques was even aware of them. Such things could happen in a fight, all emotions either shutting down or spinning into a tornado that fueled one's sword hand and reflexes with a manic energy.
Another Saracen was coming up behind the squire fast, his blade flashing. Uthe drew the short dagger from his belt. He didn't use it for fighting--that wasn't its purpose. However, he couldn't imagine a situation that called for it more than this one. As if God agreed and showed him His Will, a clear path opened up between him and the Saracen bearing down on Jacques. It was a good way to die, perhaps the only righteous kill he'd made today.
Uthe threw the dagger, straight and true.
It buried itself into the Saracen's back, for the blade could penetrate any mail, any shield. Uthe had time for one spurt of grim satisfaction, then heat scorched him through his helm, his chain mail. His protection from the sun was gone, his body on fire. A scream of pain fought its way from his throat, but he turned it into a roar of defiance and tried to launch himself at another Saracen. He saw fear in the man's eyes, but it was no use. He never reached him. The sun drove him to the ground, took his strength. All he knew was pain and darkness.
Until he woke.
He was in a tower of silver stone, for he could see the sky outside a slit window and sensed he was far from the ground. Coolness had a smell, as did peace and quiet, the trinity forming a healing aroma that restored the soul. He expected to see his limbs blackened, but his bare body was under white sheets, and unmarked. He was startled to see the dagger, cleaned and sheathed in its scarred leather scabbard, on a side table next to his bed. Those two pieces of furniture were the only things in the round chamber.
A male came into the room. Uthe stopped himself from reaching for the dagger, but the man's power signature pressed into every corner, took up all the space. His dark hair lay loose on his shoulders, and his eyes, a peculiar mix of green irises and silver sclera, studied Uthe with an impassive expression. While his clothing wasn't ornate, an embroidered tunic belted over leggings, the quality and the way he wore it told Uthe he was dealing with a person of authority.
