Колин Глисон - Sanctuary of Roses

Madelyne screamed weakly when she saw the small, black ball that had smashed into her new-found father’s forehead, and looked over to see Tavis, holding a leather sling.

“Master!” he shouted, horror crossing his face as he stared at Fantin.

Turning to look, Madelyne saw that her father had metamorphosed. While before, he had been animated, with fervor, and with eyes that glowed…now, his face curdled, darkening and shattering. His brows knit together and his eyes were slitted into angry black slashes. And his mouth…Madelyne swallowed when she saw the way his lips twitched and yanked, played as if a tiny thread tugged at them—as if they were controlled by some puppet master.

A thin stream of saliva leaked from the corner of his twitching mouth as it seized up and around in this silent, eerie movement.

At last, the mouth opened and a shriek of ungodly rage spewed forth, filling the chamber with such force that the bowls rattled. Fantin’s face blossomed red and purple and his hands clutched at his middle as though he were trying to tear out his insides even as his feet stepped and jumped and danced on the stone floor.

The veins in his neck grew, swelling to blue and then black, as he screamed the cry of a dying man.

For Madelyne, in a moment of pure black fear and icy hopelessness, realized that his insides were dying…that he had naught left for himself, and that his mind died because his dream had been taken from him by Seton’s taunting knowledge. She could barely comprehend that Fantin was not her father—it was unimaginable how shattered he should feel, learning that she was not of his flesh.

Fantin swept to her side, then, and before she could draw a breath to scream again, had the tip of a knife at her throat. His eyes bored into hers, burning, and his pupils were no longer pinpricks of black, but huge black saucers.

Madelyne closed her eyes, swallowing, and felt the tip of the knife cold on her throat as it constricted. She would meet her God now. The God she knew, not the one her father—nay! her father no longer!—not the God Fantin had fabricated.

Then the coolness withdrew.

She opened her eyes and found Fantin’s face very close to hers, still crumpled with the destruction of his dreams, rasping a harsh breath from flared nostrils. “Nay.” His single word, whispered, puffed on her face, stale and moist. Then he spoke, again, slowly, as though the words formed like perfect, single drops of water, dropping, one at a time, in his mind: “I loved your mother. She betrayed me.”

He pulled away. The rage seemed to have subsided and though his eyes remained wild, his movements smoothed and slowed. “Nay,” he said again, as if needing to convince himself. “She betrayed our God.”

Those simple words, that coolness, caused a great, icy, fathomless fear to billow in her. Fantin’s rages had always been a source of great horror and pain…but this—this calmness, this studied calmness, laced with purpose, caused her to shake with terror as never before.

If Fantin believed his God had been betrayed, then nothing would save her now. She held back a whimper. Nay. She did not live a life without hope.

And then hope, in the form of Tricky, seized her attention.

Madelyne saw her maid moving on the floor, wriggling, somehow no longer attached to her stool, no longer bound.

Quickly averting her eyes, she raised them to meet Fantin’s. Mayhap…

“Fath—my lord,” she said, struggling to keep her voice calm. “My lord, may—”

“Silence!” he shouted, spittle flying into her face. Madelyne reared against the stones, away from the sudden recurrence of rage.

He seemed to consider her for a moment. “What is it you wish to say?”

“The queen… ”

Those were the only words necessary. “The whore! She yet lives, or so I hear from Rohan, my faithful man.” He slammed his foot into Seton’s unmoving body upon those words.

Madelyne’s unspoken question was thus answered. “Why did you poison the necklet?” she asked, using every last vestige of energy to force the words from her lips, seizing upon anything that might keep Fantin’s attention from the figure that slinked under the tables. A quick glance showed Madelyne that Tavis had not noticed Tricky’s movements.

Nay, blessedly, he stared, enraptured by the exchange betwixt herself and Fantin.

“She is the greatest of all whores,” Fantin told her. “She must die—’tis God’s will. She must be purged from this earth, just as Mal Verne must be, just as his slut of a wife was, and as you shall be!” Red veins burst in the whites of his eyes as he screamed these last words at her, and Madelyne struggled to keep from bursting into tears.

He whirled from her, and Madelyne’s heart froze. If he saw that Tricky was near the door and the stairs… Nay, he did not! He whirled back around with the same bloodied sword that had sent the priest to his death. She recoiled when he rose toward her, the silver blade glinting and dully blooded in a macabre pattern, and drew it back to swing.

She tensed, closing her eyes.

“Master! The girl is escaping!”

Madelyne’s eyes snapped open in time to see the blade swipe past her, slicing harmlessly through her skirts, and clashing into the stones behind her.

“After her!” Fantin shouted at his man, who had already mounted the stairs. He turned to glare at Madelyne. “Do you not find hope in this,” he sneered, “for she will not make it to your husband. If indeed he lurks about, she will find no way to allow him into the keep. You are safe here with me,” he added, and laughed…that self-same laugh that came with his madness.

He sank to his knees, there in front of her, and began to pray.

She had never heard anything more terrifying.

At last…at last.

Gavin heard the faint sound of scraping on the inside of the door. He need say naught, for his men saw the straightening of his spine and the tensing of his arms. They shifted quickly to their places.

The door eased open and they remained in the shadows, waiting.

“My lord!” a voice hissed.

’Twas unexpectedly a female voice, and Gavin moved, forgetting all caution. “Tricky?” he started, leaping through the open doorway, followed by his men.

Inside the gateway, he found himself surrounded by swords and chain mail.

Despite the surprise, Gavin did not falter, did not hesitate. He exploded.

His blade flashed and gleamed, striking out with all the strength he’d harbored these last days—these days of holding himself in check, of hell on earth, since Maddie had been taken. These men waiting him could be no match for his rage and need, regardless of their numbers. He would have them all for daring to stand in his way.

Gavin was barely aware of his own men behind and about him, brandishing weapons seeking to be as quick and deadly as his own, slicing through mail and flesh and clanging against more metal. His world was a blur, a mass of steel, noise, cries and grunts—yet Gavin saw with clarity every movement he made, every step and thrust of the blade, every shift and dodge and swing. They brought him closer to his goal.

He didn’t know how many men he sliced or stabbed, but when at last no one raised a blade to him, he paused only for a moment, panting, yet not fatigued, and looked around.

Jube and two other of his men stood to one side, watching with wide eyes. They looked as though they’d been there for some time, watching some exhibition or contest. Their eyes fastened upon Gavin as though they weren’t certain ’twas truly he…and Tricky, who’d been held prisoner by one of the Tricourten men at the beginning of the battle, now peeked from behind splayed fingers, peering from around a corner.