Chapter 69

Sam kicked her horse into motion. Still caught up in her unease, she called out to Tristan, “It’s odd, isn’t it?” “What’s odd?” “You only wrote to the High Commander about Sander’s dinner invitation one fortnight ago. If he left shortly after he received your letter, he should be months behind us, not weeks.” “He was probably already headed West. His responsibilities regularly take him away from the Center. I hope your misgivings are not the result of his influence.” Tristan jerked his thumb at Sander. “I’ve said nothing,” said Sander. It was true – after the first night, Sander had made no further attempts to persuade her to change her mind about the Uriel. If they talked, it was of small, inconsequential matters. Perhaps he had already shown all his cards and was biding his time. The man was an enigma. Tristan picked up the pace of his horse – and Sander’s by default – and Sam and Braeden fell in line behind them. The forest flew by them in a whir, until the heavy canopy of trees thinned and finally ended. They were out in the open once more, at the very edge of what Sam thought to be a village, though there was no sign of chimney smoke in the darkening sky or fresh horse tracks besides theirs. Tristan’s face was a grim mask, devoid of emotion. “Finchold," he said. "Home sweet home." **** It had been more than ten years since Tristan had set foot in Finchold. The village was now abandoned, its human inhabitants replaced by wild ones, the land barren from neglect. Tristan won his first fight and received his first kiss in Finchold. He stole puff pastries from the baker with his gang of friends, although it wasn’t really stealing since Master Croft made extra ones just for them. He danced around the Maypole during the Midsummer festival and tugged at Lynsey’s beribboned braids when her back was turned to him. He stood at his brother’s side when Danny pledged to cherish and honor his bride for all their lives. Those were not the memories that replayed in his mind’s eye. He did not see the empty, colorless houses, the dried-up waterway or the sandy road that had lost its shape. Cruel images from the past were superimposed over the present, dark flashes of violence and chaos painting his world red. He saw bodies lying in the street where there were none and heard screaming where there was silence. The stench of death filled his nose and lungs. He thought he would choke with it. He didn’t realize he had fallen to the ground until Sam’s hands closed around his shoulders. The world righted itself as Tristan blinked up at him. “What happened?” Sam sagged backward, sitting onto his heels. “You tell me,” he said. “You froze like a statue and tipped over out of your saddle.” Gods, how embarrassing.  But Tristan saw no mockery in Sam’s expression, only concern. “I’m fine,” Tristan said, pulling himself to his feet. “You fell off your horse,” Sam pointed out. “That’s not fine.” “Let it be, Sam,” Braeden said from atop his horse. His hat hung around his neck on a string, and his peculiar eyes pierced into Tristan.  In Braeden’s unguarded gaze, Tristan could see the same darkness that clouded his own. “Your concern is flattering but unnecessary,” Tristan said. He climbed back onto his mare. “Let’s find lodging for the night. We’ll leave again on the morrow.” He didn’t want to stay in Finchold any longer than he had to. The sight of his own house shocked him. From the outside, it looked the same as he always remembered it. The two storeys and triangular cross gables were topped by an uneven, sloping roof with slated eaves and a massive chimney. The wood framing of the house was exposed, filled in with beige wattle and daub and tall, narrow windows. Tristan jumped off his horse and tested the old oak door, which swung open with a slight push. “We’ll stay here,” he said, ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach. “The stables are in a separate building around back.” “How do you know that?” Sam asked. “This is the house I grew up in,” Tristan said. Once the horses were settled, Tristan returned to the front of the house. His right foot hovered over the doorway, but he did not enter. Braeden looked at him questioningly. “Sorry,” said Tristan. “Give me a moment. You go on ahead.” Sucking air into his lungs, Tristan stepped over the threshold and into the house that had borne witness to his first fifteen years. He closed his eyes against the memories that assaulted him. It was no use – he saw blood, so much blood, trickling down pale, pale skin. Human bones that had been licked clean and discarded like the leavings of filleted fish. Flesh riddled with holes where sharp teeth had stabbed it. And then darkness. He could still hear them in the dark. The screams had faded away until just one remained, and eventually it, too, stopped. The stomps of hooves and paws and claws sent vibrations through the walls and floors. Something shattered – glass, by the tinkling sound of it. “Tristan!” A voice pulled him from far away. “Tristan!” His name on Sam’s lips brought him back to the present. He took in his surroundings, noting the broken furniture in the front hall that had been pushed together into a corner. He touched long dead flowers, and they crumpled to dust beneath his fingers. “At least I managed to stay upright this time,” he said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Sam. “Perhaps I have,” Tristan said. He steeled his nerves. “I’ll show you to your bedrooms.” He led them to the second floor. Sam threw himself backward onto the four-poster bed – Danny’s bed, and for one month, Maira’s, too. “Amazing,” Sam sighed. “I haven’t slept in a real bed in months.” Tristan’s brother had died in that bed, and his blood still stained the mahogany panels. The sheets had been replaced, though – Tristan had seen to that before he left. He had cleaned everything before he left. Sam said, “Your childhood home is really nice, Tristan. And here I thought you’d grown up a farmer, like Sander.” “My father was Lord of the Manor,” Tristan said. Sam located a pillow and fluffed it behind him, sending a layer of dust into the air. “So we should be calling you Lord Lyons.” Tristan shook his head. “My brother would have taken over Father’s title, had he lived. And there’s nothing to lord over here anymore.” Sam’s face fell. “I didn’t know your brother died. I’m sorry.” Not just his brother; his brother’s wife and his parents too. All of Finchold had perished in a single night. Except him. “It was a long time ago.” It felt like yesterday.