Heart of the Flame (19 page)

So close.

To have missed them by so slim an amount of time grated against the logic that assured him they could not have gotten far.

"There is blood here," he remarked idly, his gaze drawn to a trail of dark droplet stains soaking into the hard-packed sand of the campsite perimeter. "At least one of them is wounded. And from the tracks they left, it appears the party has divided to ride in separate directions."

Kenrick pivoted his head to scan the outlying areas beyond the small forest clearing, searching for further signs of the brigands' departure. They might have taken any one of the paths through the towering conifer woods, although none would have been an easy escape.

"We could split up, and try to catch up to them." Braedon stood up and met Kenrick's stare. "Injuries will slow them down and we've still several good hours of light. Even without the aid of my old skills, I can pick up a trail this fresh."

Kenrick did not doubt it. Braedon le Chasseur--once known as The Hunter for his uncanny ability to track and retrieve anything, or anyone, that had gone missing--did not make idle boasts when it came to his gift. Despite that he had forfeited his skills some months past, he was yet a formidable warrior.

But as much as Kenrick relished the idea of apprehending any one of de Mortaine's minions, he felt their efforts would be better spent elsewhere. The discovery at the village church had given him another thought. One that just might put him a few steps closer to claiming one of the two remaining Chalice stones.

"Shall I tell the men to prepare to ride?" Braedon asked, breaking into Kenrick's already deep concentration.

"Yes. We ride, but for Clairmont, not into a chase our enemies might well be expecting."

Braedon gave him a quizzical look, his dark brows knit in a frown. He was a man of action; no doubt his hands itched for the confrontation they might find after a day of searching for de Mortaine's men. Kenrick's did too, but he was patient, calculating the value of a satisfying skirmish versus the benefit of time he could use in gaining firmer hold on the Dragon Chalice.

Very likely Braedon recognized the direction of his thoughts. Though quick to strike, the warrior was reasonable when he needed to be, and he trusted Kenrick's judgment. That much was clear in his answering nod of agreement.

"We return to Clairmont," he said, then turned and shouted the order to the rest of the knights who stood by awaiting command.

With Kenrick on his white charger leading the way, the retinue prepared to depart the glade.

* * *

As the party assembled and turned back onto the road, a pair of keen eyes watched in stealthy silence from deep within the cover of the woods. The large figure blended in well with the darkness surrounding him, aided by drab attire and a face grizzled by a shadowy growth of beard.

Quiet as the tomb, as still as stone, he waited.

He watched, one hand curled around the cold hilt of his sword. The weapon had been drawn without a sound, held low but ready to strike with swift, lethal purpose.

Every breath he took was measured and unhurried. Everything about him bespoke of calm reason and the assured patience of death itself.

Everything, save his eyes, which burned like the embers of a banked fire...quietly smoldering, waiting for the opportunity to ignite and consume all in his path.

Chapter 16

Kenrick ignored the first few quiet raps on his solar door. He had sequestered himself in his tower quarters upon arriving back at Clairmont, knowing with a renewed sense of clarity how much work he had to do--and what little time in which to do it. De Mortaine's men were getting closer. They were getting desperate, if the ruination he saw that day were any indication.

All their searching would eventually bring them to Clairmont.

Part of what they sought was here in Kenrick's keeping--a crucial part--and it would not take Draec le Nantres long to figure that out once he learned that Kenrick, Ariana, and Braedon had escaped France whole and hale a few months ago.

Tuning out a further knock that sounded on his door, Kenrick continued transcribing his current set of figures and diagrams.

Usually his silence was indication enough to the servants that he wished not to be disturbed. Tonight, whichever page or scullery maid it was who waited in the corridor beyond was disinclined to take the hint.

Overbold and persistent, another rap sounded on the thick oak panel.

"I do not wish to be disturbed," he growled at last, impatience biting in every clipped syllable.

To his vexation and surprise, the latch on the unlocked door began to open. Irritated, Kenrick looked up from his work on the desk as the panel pushed inward, groaning on its hinges.

"You did not come down to the hall tonight. I thought you might be hungry."

Any impatience he felt at the intrusion was lost the moment he saw that it was Haven standing in the doorway of his solar. She held a tray of food and slim decanter of wine. The aromas of roasted meat and creamed vegetables drifted into the room.

"What's this?"

"Supper, if you want it."

"Supper," he mused, setting down his quill. "This is an unexpected gift. After the way we left things between us yesterday, I shouldn't think you'd mind if I starved up here."

"If you don't want it--" She started to edge back into the corridor.

"Nay, don't go." Kenrick got up from his desk and walked around to the front of it. "I appreciate your consideration, Haven. And find I do have an appetite after all."

Gesturing to where she could set down the tray, he waited as she complied, then leaned against the large table and casually inspected what she had brought him.

The trencher contained a tempting array of the evening's fine fare: a large chunk of gravy-drenched beef, green beans and onions thick with a rich cream sauce, a wedge of cheese, a half loaf of bread, and a flagon of spiced warmed wine. Kenrick stirred through the lot of it with the accompanying poniard Haven had supplied. He poked the slender knife into a piece of the meat and lifted it to his nose. It smelled as it should, rich with herbs and slow-simmered juices. Nothing of note beyond Cook's usual flair with a sauce.

Everything on the trencher looked acceptable. Nothing seemed amiss.

Kenrick took the vessel of wine and poured a bit into an empty cup sitting on the edge of his desk. It swirled in the bottom of the tankard, deep red, fragrant with mulling spices and nothing more.

"I trust everything meets with your approval." Belatedly, he realized Haven was watching him with a quizzical, somewhat insulted gaze. "I bring a peace offering, but you examine it as though you expect I might poison you."

Kenrick gave a vague shrug of his shoulder as he set the cup of wine back down on the desk. "An unfortunate force of habit."

"Oh?" she asked, one dark amber brow arching on her forehead. "And who is it you trust less with your stomach, my lord--your cook, or me?"

He met her teasing smile and gave her a wry smirk of his own. "Let's just say a man learns to be cautious when he spends half a year in an enemy's dungeon. The only thing less enjoyable than the daily beatings was the rancid food I was forced to ingest. I might have gladly taken a dose of poison over the maggoty bowls of gruel that de Mortaine provided."

His tone was light, but in truth, he really did not want to think about his months of captivity abroad. He certainly did not want to discuss with Haven the seemingly endless torture and solitary confinement he endured.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, offering sympathy he did not want or need.

Kenrick shrugged. "I survived."

He turned his attention eagerly back to the tray of food. The meal she brought was a sore temptation to his empty stomach, and so he began to eat.

"My thanks for the supper," he said as he wolfed down a succulent chunk of the beef. "I'll take the tray back down to the kitchens when I am through."

It was an abrupt dismissal, one he was somewhat reluctant to give when Haven was standing before him in the firelight glowing from the solar's hearth. Her pretty face and glossy auburn hair were gilded in warm hues, her green eyes bright as gemstones. The simple gown she wore seemed to skate over her figure, hinting at the soft curves of her shoulders and bosom, and caressing the gentle flare of her hips.

She made an exceedingly enticing picture.

Too much so, when thoughts of her were never far from his mind's reach. To see her now, alone with him in his private quarters after a long day on the road, set in motion a swift and particularly distracting calculation.

From where she stood, no more than an arm's length separated them. Less, were he to take the slender hand that was presently tracing a whorled knot at the edge of his desk, and haul her to him. Beyond her to the right, some five long strides, was an upholstered bench situated near the fireplace. Past that, it was precisely nine paces to the threshold of the adjoining chamber, where his large bed stood.

Fewer than twenty steps lay between Haven standing anxiously near the door and Haven lying beneath him on a cloud of sable furs and soft down coverlets.

In spare moments, he could have her unlaced and undressed, gloriously bared.

Damn and damn!

Curse this importunate proclivity to see patterns and solutions with every glance. With a growl of frustration, Kenrick reached for the cup of wine and downed it in a single gulp.

"It must be difficult for you."

Haven was peering at him in question, and for a moment he wondered if the wicked musings of his mind had been evident on his face.

"I can see that it still troubles you--your imprisonment. To think you were there half a year. It must have been unbearable."

"That was not what I, ah..." He cleared his throat. "Aye, well. It was worse in the beginning. After a while, one day blended into another."

"But to endure that time, never certain what day might be your last..."

"Is that not what being born and living is--enduring our existence without knowing when the end might come?" He permitted a teasing, cynical smile when she glanced up at him, her brow creased. "Anyway, I realized early on that my captor did not want me dead so much as he wanted to loosen my tongue. And weaken my mind."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because I had information he needed."

Her gaze slid to the assortment of papers, maps, and writings that littered his desk. "Did you give it to him?"

"He managed to obtain some of what he sought--too much, regrettably--but not all."

"And whatever it is you fear was lost to him at Greycliff," Haven said, "will now help lead him to the Dragon Chalice."

Kenrick met the too-shrewd gaze she turned on him, careful to maintain an air of casual disregard. "I told you, the Dragon Chalice is a myth."

"Yes, that is what you told me." Unblinking, she stepped closer to him. "Much of my memory was scorched away that night, but do you reckon the fever robbed me of all good sense as well?"

In the wake of his answering silence, she blew out a sharp sigh and shook her head.

"The men who killed your friends went there for a reason. You've asked me what it is they were looking for, but I think you know. Why were Rand and Elspeth and their child killed, Kenrick? Tell me what it was that cost them their lives that night."

"I did," he replied, voicing his regret aloud for the first time. The burden of it had never seemed so heavy. "They're dead because of me."

"What happened?"

Kenrick felt his mouth twist with wry reflection. "Before I was captured by Silas de Mortaine, I served as a Knight of the Temple of Solomon. My duties for the Order involved reporting on various holy sites--chronicling purported miracles and other unexplained occurrences in England and abroad. These reports, I would later learn, had been commissioned by one of the Order's most influential, and dangerous, patrons."

"Silas de Mortaine?" Haven guessed.

Kenrick nodded. "He was paying handsomely for my work, and once I heard the first mention of the Dragon Chalice--an enchanted cup thought to be rent in four pieces and scattered across the realm--I realized that my findings were less harmless reports than detailed maps that might aid de Mortaine in claiming the treasure."

"What did you do?"

"Without divulging too much of my work, I took my concerns about de Mortaine to my superiors. They knew he was a ruthless man, with unchecked power, but they were enjoying his substantial contributions too much to turn him away. They commanded me to submit my findings to him or be banished from the Order. It wasn't the first time my eyes had been opened to the greed and duplicity of my fellow man. But I swore it would be the last."

"So you left the Templars."

"Yes. I left that very night, with the whole of my work as well. I came home to Clairmont--it was little better than a year ago--and I made the Chalice my own quest."

"What about Rand?"