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REGULUS INCHED HIS hand toward his sword. Rustling and the crunch of last autumn’s leaves sounded some five paces behind him. Someone or something lurked in the bushes. He focused his hearing as he wrapped his fingers around the sword’s grip, his mind racing to rule out possibilities. No heavy breathing, and the intruder had gotten quite close before he heard them. Ruled out anything as big as a bear or troll. No creak of leather or clink or scrape of metal, so it wasn’t armored. No clomp of hooves, so neither centaur nor minotaur.
He tried to think of where he was, what sort of creatures lived here. Goblins? Unlikely this far from any caves. Monparth had driven most monsters into uninhabited areas, but there were periodic incursions. Could be something as harmless as a satyr or dangerous as a thike, a medium-sized lithe feline with poisonous barbs on its long tail. Or a human, which were best not underestimated. He turned, bringing his sword into a guard position.
Nothing.
His eyes strained to peer into the shadows. Only moments had passed, whatever or whoever had been there must still be there. He moved toward the bushes. There, in a small clearing. A humanoid shape, hidden in a dark robe. The person or creature appeared to be facing away from him. Maybe they weren’t even aware of his presence.
Regulus leapt through the bushes at the figure. It started to turn at the sudden noise, but he pressed the point of the sword against the figure’s back. “Who are you?”
“Wh-what?” a normal-sounding man stuttered.
“What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”
The man quivered. “I—I’m just—”
“Spit it out!”
A woman’s scream ripped through the night. Regulus whipped his head up. A woman in a dark cloak stood in the clearing, her hands covering her mouth. Moonlight glinted off the whites of her wide eyes.
“Carolyn, run!” the man shouted. But Carolyn stood as if frozen in place.
Regulus looked down at the man, then back at the woman. Back and forth. Heat rushed to his cheeks. “You’re just...meeting...” He moved his sword away from the man’s back. “Sorry.”
The man staggered forward. He looked over his shoulder at Regulus. “You mad...” His jaw slackened. “What...who are you?”
Oh, you had to ask. A burning sensation emanated from the mark on Regulus’ forearm and he gritted his teeth. “I am the Black Knight. And I serve the Prince of Shadow and Ash.” He sheathed his sword as the pain in his arm vanished. “Go. Now.”
The lovers hurried away, their faces drawn and pale. This was why he preferred traveling at night and avoided roads. Every disputed sighting of the now legendary Black Knight made him more nervous he would get caught.
Monparth’s laws forbade the use of dark, corrupted magic. And after over twenty years without mages, wielders of pure magic, people were extra wary of any hint of sorcery. The authorities would consider Regulus the sorcerer’s accomplice, and his men guilty by association. He couldn’t die, but his men could. At least the loathsome horned helm protected his identity.
Regulus rode all day, keeping Sieger at a trot as much as possible and stopping only to steal a couple apples as he passed an orchard. Despite the days growing longer as summer approached, the sun set too soon. He stopped and managed to sleep for a few hours until a pinch from the mark on his arm woke him.
“I can only cross the kingdom so fast,” Regulus growled under his breath as he slammed the helm back on and rode into the night.
Around midday, he neared the sorcerer’s tower in the Tumen Forest. He always knew when he was close.
The bark on trees turned black. Dead, midnight-colored leaves clung to lifeless ebony-shaded branches and covered the forest floor. Brittle tangles of dead wood vine made a pale contrast where the vines wrapped around branches. As the tower came into view, the trees became white, skeletal. All their bark had fallen away, revealing wood drained of all color and life. Barren fir branches stuck out like spikes, while naked deciduous boughs reached out like bony fingers.
Not even grass grew this close to the tower. The only thing that did grow were mushrooms. Velvety purple mushrooms shaped like thimbles, bright red domed mushrooms, flat round mushrooms as yellow as a daisy’s center. A faint glow emanated from underneath some. Regulus assumed all of them were poisonous.
Two years ago, when he was first bound to the sorcerer, there had been only a small circle of blackened trees. Sometimes obviously, sometimes imperceptibly, the decay had spread. Now the deathly forest stretched a ten-minute ride in every direction around the sorcerer’s tower.
Built of reddish brick darkened by time and sorcery, the tower itself stood around four stories tall, topped with narrow crenellations and covered in layers of dead wood vine. Yellow light filtered through the rough grayish glass of the single gothic window in the top level. Regulus used to wonder why someone who called himself a prince would live in such a drab old tower. He didn’t care anymore. Although, he suspected the Prince of Shadow and Ash simply liked dead, creepy things as much as he liked torturing Regulus.
Sore, hungry, and exhausted, Regulus dismounted with difficulty. He stuffed the helm in his saddlebag. The iron-latticed oak door opened, and the sorcerer stepped out.
A man of below-average height, the sorcerer’s physique belied his power. A wide, dark leather belt set with polished obsidian secured a long black tunic over his stomach paunch. Crimson accents edged the tunic. The hood of a gold-stitched sable robe shadowed his face, hiding his eyes above a pinched-looking nose. A graying brown beard fell in waves down to his chest. But he walked and spoke with the authority of the prince he pretended to be.
“You’re late.” The sorcerer’s dark tone chilled Regulus’ blood.
He untied the roots from his belt. “I got here as quickly as I could, my lord.”
“After trying to disobey.” The sorcerer strode forward and snatched the roots from Regulus with pale, knobby fingers. “Do we have a problem, mercenary?”
Regulus swallowed and bowed his head. Don’t take the bait. “No, my lord.” I’m not a mercenary anymore. And yes, we have many problems.
“Kill all the centaurs?”
“Yes.” No. He kept his expression calm and neutral.
“Good.” The sorcerer counted the roots under his breath. “Ten,” he muttered. “Good thing, too. Room for error. Tricky business, breaking an enchantment.” He looked at Regulus. “I need one more thing.”
Regulus stopped himself from protesting. He needed to rest and eat. He wanted to go home, even if only for a couple days. The sorcerer never sent him out again immediately after returning. But it was no use arguing. The sorcerer got want he wanted. Always. “Yes, my lord?”
“Wait here.” The sorcerer took the roots inside the tower and returned with a tin goblet and a small carving knife. “Take off your glove and give me your arm. I need your blood.”
“What?” Regulus gaped. “Why?”
The corners of the sorcerer’s mouth turned down. Tendrils of pain, like red-hot vines growing under his skin, shot up Regulus’ right arm. He grunted and used his teeth to pull his glove off his right hand.
“Yes, my lord.” The pain faded as he held his arm toward the sorcerer.
“Better.” A momentary flicker of a smile made the sorcerer’s beard twitch. “You should be thanking me. I thought about making you bring me the blood of one of your friends. Maybe the one with the beard. Or the boy.”
Regulus flinched. “I’ve been obeying you, my lord,” he said, choosing his words carefully as the sorcerer grabbed his hand. “I only hesitated today, and I did as you commanded and slaughtered the centaurs. There’s no need to harm my men.” Please, Etiros. Let him be forgiving.
The sorcerer pulled down on Regulus’ hand so he could see the underside of his wrist beneath his gauntlet. “Mm, yes. You’ve become such an obedient pet. Almost a pity. I did so enjoy making you hurt them.” The sorcerer sliced the knife across Regulus’ wrist. Regulus drew in a sharp breath that hissed between his teeth. “But hesitate again, and I’m going to lose my temper.”
Regulus stared at the dead wood vine and hoped his master wouldn’t notice his rage. Any defiance always ended in pain. If he was lucky, only his own. The sorcerer let his blood drain into the goblet until the bond linking his life to the sorcerer’s closed the wound, preventing him from bleeding out.
The sorcerer waved Regulus away as he walked back inside. “Run on home. I have important matters to attend to.” The door slammed shut, leaving Regulus and Sieger alone with the dead forest.
Shoulders sagging, Regulus remounted. “Let’s go home, Sieger.”
The stars had been out for hours when he arrived at Arrano castle. It was an old castle, long out of style, but it was his. The square central tower and surrounding four-story wall stood atop a hill. A flag bearing the Arrano crest—a red rose over crossed white swords on a field of black—flew from the north wall turret. The barren hill rose in a gradual incline to the front of the castle.
Regulus didn’t follow the road up the hill. Instead, he struck out around the castle. Far downhill, with enough space around the hill to ensure a clear line of sight in case of attack, the woods began again. A massive willow tree grew at the edge of the woods. Regulus scanned the surrounding area, ensuring no one was near, then led Sieger under the swaying curtain of the willow’s hanging branches. The stallion whinnied, protesting what came next.
“I know.” He patted Sieger’s neck. “I know.”
Near the tree’s trunk rested a large boulder. Regulus picked it up, the strength the sorcerer’s mark granted him making the task easy. A large chunk of grassy ground pulled away with the stone—a dirt and grass-covered wooden panel cemented to the boulder’s base. A hole appeared where the panel and boulder had been, with dirt steps leading into the earth.
He set the boulder down so the edge of the panel jutted out over the opening. He descended halfway, turned to his right, and felt for the hole in the dirt wall. His fingers found the torch, flint, and an apple where he had left them, and he set about lighting the torch. With the apple and lit torch in hand, he went back for Sieger.
The stallion shook his head, pawed the ground, and snorted. Regulus sighed. “Come on, boy.” He held out the apple, and Sieger reached for it. Regulus pulled it back a little and backed down the stairs. With a snort of frustration, Sieger followed. Once down the steps, Regulus gave Sieger the apple. While Sieger crunched the apple, Regulus stuck the torch in an iron rung in the dirt wall. He returned to the steps and pulled the panel and boulder back over the tunnel entrance. Maneuvering it into place over his head by holding onto the handles on the bottom was awkward, but he’d done it enough times it didn’t take long.
The tunnel, which was just tall enough and wide enough for Sieger, sloped upward. He led Sieger until they reached another set of packed dirt steps. Another wooden panel blocked the exit, this one covered with stones to make it blend in with the floor of the stables and to give it extra weight. He deposited the torch in an iron ring in the wall and heaved the trapdoor aside. He extinguished the torch and led Sieger out of the tunnel.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Stalls abutted the outer castle wall to his right, and to his left stretched a wooden wall with shuttered windows. Narrow bands of moonlight streaked across the hay-strewn dirt floor. The smell of horses and manure filled his nostrils, and the quiet, steady breathing of horses provided a backdrop to the muffled stomp of Sieger’s hooves. He led Sieger to his stall and returned the cover to the tunnel entrance. He left Sieger, still wearing all his tack, and headed through his private hedge-protected lane from the stables to a side door in the castle. All part of preventing his few servants from knowing about the Black Knight. He pulled off his helm, closing his eyes as welcome night air cooled his skin.
A lamp and flint stood on a pedestal near the castle door, waiting for him. With the lamp in one hand and helm in the other, he crept up the stairs, his armor echoing. He knocked on a plain wooden door near the top of the stairs and waited. Nothing. He couldn’t blame the boy, but he also couldn’t get out of his armor unaided. He knocked again, harder, and opened the door.
“Harold.”
The young man sat up in his bed. “Wha...my lord?” Harold rubbed his eyes. A lad of sixteen years, Harold was lanky and a touch fidgety. His dark blond hair was a mess, and he had drool in the scraggly beard he was so proud of.
“Yes. Get up, I need help with my armor.”
“Of course, my lord.” Harold teetered out of bed and toward the door, blinking. Regulus suppressed a smile. “I’ll carry the lamp, my lord.”
They continued up the winding staircase, went through a door into a hallway, and walked down to Regulus’ room. Harold unlocked and opened the door.
A giant mass of dark fur bolted through the door and jumped on Regulus, knocking him back. Despite his exhaustion, Regulus grinned.
“Hey, Magnus.” Regulus scratched the dog behind a floppy ear as its giant pink tongue licked his face. Standing on his hind legs, the massive dog was almost as tall as Regulus. “All right, down boy.”
Magnus trotted back into Regulus’ room, wagging his fluffy light brown tail, and jumped on the bed. His fur—of which he had a copious amount—was black on his face, chest, and haunches, and the rest was brown, getting lighter to the pale fur on the underside of his tail.
The curtains on the wall-length window were open, and dim moonlight illuminated the room. A large four-poster bed, currently occupied by Magnus, took up most of the room. Next to the bed, a nightstand just big enough for a food tray stood empty. A massive fireplace filled most of the wall opposite his bed, with a small armchair and footstool placed in front of it. Other than his large oak dresser, and a small desk and chair, the only other furnishing was a couple of large trunks, one padlocked shut, and a large rug. Harold set the lamp on the nightstand and headed for the fireplace.
“Armor first, Harold,” Regulus said, unwilling to stay in the heavy, stinking armor any longer.
“Of course, my lord.”
Regulus stared out the window at the stars while Harold removed his armor piece by piece, tutting at the muck covering it. “Did you go for a swim in a giant mud puddle?”
Regulus chuckled half-heartedly. “More or less.”
“I think you’ll be needing a bath, my lord.”
No argument there. “Tomorrow, Harold.” Regulus peeled off his blood-encrusted tunic. “For now, I need sleep. No, leave that,” he added as Harold moved to collect the armor for cleaning. “Go back to bed.”
Harold nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”
The young man slipped out and Regulus went to his bed. Magnus shifted over just enough to allow Regulus to crawl under the covers, then burrowed against his side.
––––––––
THE SUN HAD PASSED its zenith when Regulus awoke to Harold hauling his armor out of the room. Magnus placed his head on Regulus’ chest, panting happily. Harold offered to draw a bath and bring food, which Regulus gratefully accepted.
As he waited, Regulus rubbed his thumb over the mark on the underside of his right forearm. Although the mark itself was smooth, the skin around and under it was rough from repeated scarring. The product of too many failed attempts to remove it. The black mark looked like two hollow diamonds connected to a V, with the open side toward his wrist. Despite the scarring, the mark remained, clear as when it first appeared. He stood and walked to the window.
Best not to dwell on what you can’t change. His father’s cousin had said that when Regulus went to live with him at six. “Make the most of your lot in life,” Lord Kimberly would say, usually after punishing Regulus for some minor infraction. “It could be worse.”
Except nothing could be worse than this.
No, he chided himself. Dresden’s voice replaced Kimberly’s in his mind. “You’re my brother.” He could be alone. All his friends could be dead. Or they could have abandoned him any time in the two years he had borne the sorcerer’s mark. They probably should have. Things could be worse. But that knowledge did nothing for his aching soul.
After food and a bath, Regulus strapped on his sword and headed out to the courtyard. Not the oversized black sword. He hated it, and the armor. Both given to him by the sorcerer. No, this was one of his own standard steel broadswords. He didn’t need it within his own castle, but after years as a mercenary, he felt exposed without it. Magnus loped beside him. Even down on all fours, the dog’s head came up nearly to his waist.
A couple servants nodded at him deferentially as he walked to the stables. Something after two years, he was still getting used to. He only had eight servants running the entire castle, plus a handful of guards. The gardens were overgrown and the extra rooms dusty and generally everything was shabby, but he couldn’t risk more watching eyes. He found Sieger groomed and chomping on hay in the stable. The stallion nickered at Regulus.
“Good boy, Sieger.” He scratched Sieger’s neck.
“Glad to see you’re up, Reg,” a voice said from behind him.
Regulus smiled and turned around. “Hey, Drez.”
A little shorter than Regulus and a year younger, Dresden Jakobs was muscular with a constant low-level energy. Thick black brows shadowed his dark eyes, and he kept his thick black hair and beard short and well-groomed. He had a long, angular nose and a dark olive complexion, like most Carasians. Twin scimitars crisscrossed his back as usual.
Dresden was silent for a moment as his piercing gaze bored into Regulus. “Maybe you wouldn’t come back so tired if you let me help.”
“No. If one of you died, what would be the point?” Regulus stroked Sieger’s neck. “I’m not discussing it again.” By the hurt look Dresden gave him, Regulus must have slipped into his captain voice again. “We agreed,” he added quietly.
Agreed I need your support here more than out there.
“I know.” Dresden’s brow furrowed as he scratched behind Magnus’ ears. “What was it this time?”
“Roots of some glowing plant in the Forbidden Marsh guarded by hobgoblins and centaurs.”
“I hate hobgoblins.” Dresden spat.
“I’m aware, old friend.” He didn’t bother to hide his amusement.
“Nasty, troublesome creatures.”
“Apparently they like venison, not just your collection of lucky rabbit feet.”
“I maintain their theft is linked to our getting trapped for two days in that ravine.”
Regulus laughed. “I maintain that link is completely circumstantial.”
“Whatever you say.” Dresden stopped petting Magnus. “Oh, almost forgot.” He pulled a crumpled letter out of his belt and handed it to Regulus.
Regulus glanced at the broken red wax seal on the parchment. A raven’s head over an axe. Drummond. “Reading my missives again, Drez?”
“Only the interesting-looking ones.” Dresden leaned back on his elbows on the door of an empty stall across from Sieger’s. “Plus, we never know how long you’ll be gone. What if it’s pressing?”
“I suppose that’s fair.” Regulus read over the letter.
Lord and Lady Drummond cordially invite you to join them on Springtide the 26th, at 6 in the evening, for a supper party to honor the visit of Lady Tamina Belanger and her daughter, Lady Adelaide Belanger.
He frowned. He hated these parties. Dresden loved them, but Drez flirted with every unmarried woman who would talk to him from the serving girls to the guests.
“Are you going?” Drez asked. “If Adelaide is as pretty as her sister, might be worth it for once.”
Regulus folded the invite and looked at Dresden. “And when have you met her sister?”
“Lady Minerva, Sir Drummond’s wife.” Dresden shrugged. “That’s why they’re visiting, because Minerva Drummond is pregnant.”
He raised a brow. “You know as much gossip as a barmaid.”
“How else am I supposed to amuse myself while you’re off fighting centaurs? So,” Dresden pressed. “You going? It’ll be good for you. Drink some wine, talk to a pretty girl.”
“Assuming I’m not called away,” he said grimly. “And only because it’s the polite thing to do. But I doubt I’ll be talking to any pretty girls.” He elbowed Drez. “You coming along?”
“Obviously. If you’re too stoic and frowny-faced to engage Lady Belanger, you can bet your immortality I will.”
“Frowny-faced? Really.”
Dresden pointed at Regulus’ face. “Exactly! Just like that.”
Regulus realized he was right and rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay. But I’m not looking for a wife—”
“Yes, you are. You’re nearly thirty, a lord with enough land and income to live comfortably, and no family. Your bachelorhood is an affront to common decency.”
“What?” Regulus blinked. Sure, Drez had hinted in the past he wanted Regulus to marry. Even as mercenaries, Dresden had sometimes tried to play matchmaker, despite Regulus’ protests. A wife was impractical for a mercenary, and he’d had no interest in casual romance.
“You need somebody other than Magnus, Reg.”
Regulus bent down and covered Magnus’ soft, floppy ears. “Hey, you’ll hurt his feelings. Besides, I have you.”
Even as he said it, he knew Drez had a point. He scratched Magnus’ head. Okay, yes, sometimes he envied his married knights. Sometimes he not only wondered what it would be like to have someone look at him the way Sarah looked at Jerrick, or to hold someone the way Perceval held Leonora, but wanted that. Sure, he wouldn’t mind having someone waiting for him at home. But he couldn’t have that. Not right now. He sighed and straightened.
“Look, maybe if things were different. But with the sorcerer—”
“To hell with the sorcerer.”
Regulus flinched. Even though the sorcerer couldn’t have overheard, Regulus almost expected the mark on his arm to start burning. Nothing happened.
Dresden cursed and shook his head. “See, this is my point! You need a distraction. You need something to get your confidence back.”
“A wife isn’t a distraction, that’s a commitment.” A commitment Etiros knew he couldn’t make while the sorcerer’s slave.
“I’m not asking you to carry the next eligible noblewoman you meet straight to a chapel.” Drez looked down and kicked at the dirt. “I’m asking you to live your life. I’m asking you to find some joy.” He looked up, his brows pinched. “You might not be free yet, but that doesn’t mean you have to live like a slave. I’m asking you to live like you’re going to be free. Because you will be. Has...he given any indication of how close you are?”
“No.” Sometimes I’m not sure he actually plans to let me go. But he couldn’t think like that. The sorcerer had given his word he would release him when his debt was paid. He had to believe that was true, or he’d lose his mind.
“Well, he will, eventually.” Dresden smirked. “And then you’re going to have no idea what to do with yourself after spending all your time moping. Besides, the moping is insufferable. And this lone wolf act doesn’t suit you. So go meet a pretty girl. Fall in love. Be happy.”
Regulus stared across the courtyard, watching a sparrow flitting through the flower-covered apple trees. All he wanted, all he had ever wanted, was a normal life. But he didn’t want to play pretend. “Not yet. Maybe when—”
“No!” Drez clenched his fists. Magnus whined and licked Dresden’s hand. Dresden relaxed, but he fixed Regulus with an intent glare. “No excuses. We agreed. What’s our mantra?”
Regulus rubbed his forehead. “My circumstances don’t define me. I choose who I am. Not the sorcerer.” The words had helped once. A reminder that his worth, his identity, were not dictated by the sorcerer, or anyone else. That even when his options were limited, his choices still mattered. After two years, the words felt hollow. But to tell Dresden that would feel like letting him down.
“Don’t let him take your life,” Dresden said. Magnus tried to weave between Dresden’s legs, and he pushed the dog aside with an affectionate smile. “So you’re going to be friendly and at least consider getting to know the lovely, eligible Lady Belanger. Do it for me.”
Regulus rubbed the side of his neck. “Drez, she won’t look at me twice.”
“Why?”
“This, for one.” He pointed at the scar stretching down his right cheek to his chin. “Second, even I have heard of Lord Alfred Belanger. He’s wealthy and knows the king. I’m a—”
“Lord,” Dresden cut in.
“Bastard.”
They glared at each other. It shouldn’t matter. He was a lord. But it did, and they both knew it.
“And a mercenary.”
“Former.” Drez scratched his beard. “And a good, honorable, kind man. You’re talking to her.” He nodded once, as if that settled it.
Regulus frowned. “Last I checked, I give the orders around here.” Dresden’s jaw tightened and he wished he could take it back. Guilt twisted his gut. He hung his head. “Okay.”
Dresden grinned, his anger and concern vanishing. “You have to at least try to engage her in conversation. Promise me.”
“Fine.” Regulus gave a terse nod. “But give me a chance. She sees you and your beard first and she won’t want anything to do with my scarred face.”
Dresden stroked his beard. “Ha! I knew you were jealous of my beard.”
