It took Sander and Tristan half as long to descend the stairs as it had taken them to climb them. They did not converse on the way down, Sander driven by determined urgency and Tristan too edgy to pretend otherwise. Tristan’s heart beat like the tattoo of a drum and his clammy palms slid easily along the balustrade, slick with his cold sweat. He couldn’t recall ever being so nervous or reluctant to follow the High Commander’s orders.
What if the High Commander is wrong? Could he have made a mistake in his judgment of Sander?
Appalled at the traitorous direction of his thoughts, Tristan shoved them aside and focused on the slumped-over figure in the vestibule of the Beyaz Kale. A hand lay flat against the chalk-white walls and dragged down, accompanied by a horrible wailing sound like that of a drowning cat. Delicate shoulders – funny how delicate they seemed when encased in women’s frippery – shook with apparent grief, and great, gulping sobs racked the gently curved frame.
Tristan rushed to the figure at once. “My lady, what is the cause of your distress?” He grabbed the hand on the wall and brought its fingers to his mouth, as if he were going to impart a kiss. Instead, he hissed in between the knuckles, “Sam, you’re overdoing it. You’re supposed to be frightened, not mourning the dead.”
Wide green eyes glowered back at him, tears glistening on the edge of artificially-darkened lashes. “Oh, you’re good,” Tristan breathed, releasing his trainee’s hand. While the crying noises Sam made were out of a bad play, the tears at least looked real.
Sander moved by his side, and Sam resumed his ridiculous caterwauling. “My lady,” Sander said gently. “Can you tell us what the trouble is? I will help you if it is within my power.”
Sam made a show of sniveling, dabbing at his eyes with his dress sleeve. “I don’t mean to be any trouble,” he hiccupped, his voice pitched higher than Tristan was accustomed to. Sam sounded remarkably like a woman. “I’m traveling by myself, you see. I have no husband or brother, and I didn’t know where else to turn. I heard tell of the Uriel, that you might be able to help, and I saw this great big castle at the center of the city, and, well, here I am.” Sam sniffed loudly and blew his nose like a trumpet. Tristan shot him a covert glare – that was not feminine in the slightest.
Sander said, “You’ve managed to find the Uriel, my lady. But why have you sought us out?”
Sam let out a moan of despair. “ ‘Tis a demon, milord. A terrible creature, with sharp teeth and great claws and glowing red eyes.” He shuddered, quite believably. “It almost killed me, but I got away, just barely.”
Sander put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You’re alright now, my lady. The danger has passed.”
Sam shook his head wildly, his black braid whipping behind him. “Nay, milord, the danger is still there! I’m staying at an inn, you see, and in my haste to get away, I locked the demon in the room behind me. What if it is still inside? And worse, if it escaped, I fear what it will do. I was so anxious to leave that I did not think to warn others in the inn.” Sam looked down at the floor, the picture of dismay.
“You did right to come to us,” said Sander. “A demon on the loose is a serious problem. I’ll take a few of my men and--”
“My lady, was it just the one demon?” Tristan cut in. Sam nodded tearfully. Tristan faced Sander. “Surely a single demon does not require more than two men. Why don’t you and I go together? We can resume our talk of—” he gritted his teeth, “—an alliance after this matter has been dealt with.”
Sander beamed at him and said, “It would be my honor, Paladin.” He seemed genuinely pleased at the prospect.
Guilt settled over Tristan like a heavy blanket, but he forced a smile. “It’s settled, then. My lady, I assume you traveled here by horse?”
Sam mopped at his cheeks. “Aye, milord. I left him with the groom.” He dropped into a flawless curtsey, and Tristan was suitably impressed. Where had the boy learned to curtsey like a duchess? “I’m ever so grateful to you both,” Sam said obsequiously.
Tristan fought back an eye roll. “Sander, will you lead us to the stables?”
“Follow me.”
Tristan placed his hand firmly against the small of Sam’s back and guided his trainee out of the front archway. Underneath his hand, Tristan could feel the bones of the corset that cinched Sam’s waist to feminine proportions. Sam felt so much like a woman that Tristan’s mind began to play tricks on him, even though he knew the truth of it. He needed to clear his head and concentrate. “Is Braeden prepared?” he murmured against the boy’s hair. The lustrous locks were a wig, he reminded himself.
“He’ll be ready,” Sam said, barely moving his lips.
The groom brought out their horses – Sam’s piebald, Tristan’s chestnut mare and a handsome black stallion for Sander. “I need to fetch my weapon and let my men know I’m leaving,” said Sander. “Will you help the lady with her horse?”
“Of course,” said Tristan. He kneeled beside the piebald and cupped his hands. “Your foot, madam.”
Sam sent him a look of pure venom, but permitted Tristan to boost him up onto the horse. Sam leaned over to adjust his gown so he could ride astride modestly, and a round, purple-and-white object fell from the folds of his skirts. Tristan scooped it up from the ground. “An onion?”
“Braeden said my crying lacked conviction,” Sam whispered. “Get rid of it before Sander sees!”
That explained the tears. Tristan smashed the onion beneath his boot. “You have no future as an actor,” he told Sam. He stood up, dusted off the dirt from his knees, and mounted his own horse.
Sander returned with a quarterstaff in hand and expertly swung himself onto the stallion’s saddle. “Where to, my lady?”
“The Mountain’s Respite,” said Sam. “Do you know it?”
“I know every inn in this city,” Sander said. “Paladin Lyons is staying there, too.”
It didn’t surprise Tristan that Sander knew where he was lodging, but he hoped the Uriel would dismiss it as mere coincidence. Sander didn’t seem to harbor any suspicions, but the man hadn’t become the leader of thousands of men by being a fool. Sam’s ruse was damned convincing, though – no one would guess that the raven haired beauty was Tristan’s trainee. He hardly believed it himself. “Let’s ride,” he said.
They galloped down the curving declivity of the mountain road, a blustering wind pressing at their backs. Their pace was inhibited by Sam, who had enough sense to curtail his horse’s gait to an acceptable level for a lady.
When they arrived at the inn, it was no longer dusk, but well and truly night. The frenetic beat of the city had slowed, and the once-packed streets were near to empty. Milky moonlight cast an eerie sheen across the urban landscape.
Sander offered Sam a hand down from his horse, and Sam accepted it without hesitation. He dipped into a quick curtsey as thanks, and Tristan thought, not for the first time, that Sam affected the carriage of a woman too easily.
The stable hand was nowhere to be found, so they tied up their horses themselves and crossed to the front door of the inn. Tristan felt ill with anticipation, and he could see in Sam’s eyes that he felt it also. Sweat formed on Tristan’s upper lip, but he ignored it. “Will you show us to your room, my lady?”
Sam ducked his head. “Y-yes, milord. It’s on the second floor.” The stutter in his voice was not contrived.
The innkeeper was gone, too, and Tristan idly wondered where Braeden had stowed him. He hoped that duty was worth the many sins he had committed and had yet to commit this night.
“Where is Ewan?” asked Sander, a hint of sharpness creeping into his voice.
They needed to act now and quickly, before suspicion pointed their way. “Perhaps his disappearance is related to the demon,” Tristan said, thinking on his feet. “We shouldn’t tarry any longer. My lady, please lead us upstairs.”
Sam nodded and headed straight towards their rented room. He put his ear to the door and made a pathetic attempt at a whimper. “The demon’s still there, milords! I can hear it growling.” A deep, menacing growl echoed into the hallway, lending credibility to his words.
“Hand me the key,” said Tristan. He fitted it into the lock. “Stay back, my lady, I would not want you to get hurt.” To Sander, he said, “Shall we?”
Sander gripped the shaft of his quarterstaff with both hands. “After you.”
Tristan twisted the door open and stepped inside. He held onto the doorknob until both Sander and Sam had entered the dark room, and then he shut the door behind them.
Sander glanced backwards at Sam. “My lady, you shouldn’t be in here. It’s not safe for a--”
Before he could finish, a blur of ochre and silver hurtled across the room, the demon come to life. “Shite,” Sander swore, narrowly sidestepping the attack. Braeden leapt at him again. Sander threw up his quarterstaff just in time to prevent Braeden’s elongated claws from piercing his skin, but the force of their collision sent them both tumbling to the floor.
Sander rolled on top of him and lifted his quarterstaff into the air, prepared to deliver a skull-crushing blow to Braeden's head. He halted at the kiss of steel at his neck.
“Drop your weapon,” Sam snarled into his ear.
The quarterstaff clattered to the floor. “Ah. I thought it might be something like this,” said Sander with a half-smile.
“Hold out your wrists,” Tristan said tonelessly, and he tied Sander’s hands together with rope.
“My ankles too?” asked Sander, who still straddled Braeden.
“No,” said Tristan. “I need you to be able to ride.” He brought the Uriel to his feet, and Braeden moved out from underneath him, his eyes ablaze with red from his previous efforts.
“I’ll ready the horses,” Braeden rumbled. He rubbed at his bare chest, where his knife had punctured his breastbone. The wound was already knitting itself together.
Sander looked at him appreciatively. “You must be Braeden. Nice trick.”
Did nothing ruffle this man? Even in the face of abduction, the Uriel seemed faintly amused. Tristan said to Braeden, “Put on some proper clothes first. We don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention.”
Braeden stepped into his robes, which he’d discarded in a black pool of fabric at the far corner of the room. “Can I change?” asked Sam.
“No time,” said Tristan. “I need you to walk in front of Sander so no one can see his wrists until we’re on horseback.”
“This dress itches,” Sam complained. “You owe me for this.”
Finally, Sander’s face registered astonishment. “You wouldn’t be Sam of Haywood, would you?”
Sam swept into a mocking curtsey. “In the flesh.”
Sander began to laugh. “Gods, that’s good,” he hooted. “I never would have guessed.”
Tristan scowled. “You do realize the implications of your situation, do you not?”
Sander sobered, his laughs subsiding. “Better to laugh than to cry, no?” And then, shockingly, he winked. “Besides, I haven’t given up on you yet, Tristan.”
Damn the man for pricking his guilt. “Let’s go,” he said gruffly.
They maneuvered Sander through the hallway and downstairs, and miraculously did not bump into a single patron. Before leaving the inn, Tristan tucked a handful of gold coins into the binding of Master Ewan’s ledger. Tomorrow, the innkeeper would wake up with a nightmare of a headache, but at least he would be well-compensated. Tristan’s guilt slightly assuaged, he steered Sander towards the stables.
With Braeden’s help, Tristan lifted Sander up onto his stallion and then tethered the horse to his own chestnut with rope. It was an inconvenient way to ride and would slow them down, but Sander was an accomplished equestrian and did not need the use of his hands to spur his horse to escape. They would sacrifice speed for the assurance of his capture.
Braeden had already packed the horses with their loads, so they were off as soon as they all were saddled. Under the cover of night, they rode hard and fast until the western gates of Luca were in sight. Sander did not raise protest, clinging silently to the pommel of his saddle with his bound hands.
In seconds, they would be underneath the west arch and through it into Swyndale, where the Uriel’s hold would not be quite as strong. They couldn’t rest in Swyndale – Tristan hadn’t mapped out how far loyalty to the Uriel extended – but they would be out from under the shadow of the Beyaz Kale. A laugh burbled up from deep inside Tristan. They’d done it. Their insane plan had actually worked.
Tristan celebrated too soon. An arrow swooped down, whistling past his ear as his horse skittered sideways. The archer stood atop the west gates, another arrow notched in his bow. Four men clambered down the knotted vines that covered the gates, barring their path, and another five men joined them below, armed to the teeth.
One of the men stepped forward, the glint of the moon highlighting his disfigured face. He held his spiked mace at the ready. “Paladin Lyons,” Adelard said, his voice cutting through the night like a whip. “You’ve interrupted my dinner.”