The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [52]
“Interesting,” Neil said, trying to keep his face neutral, though inwardly, his curiosity was aroused.
“Therefore, of course, I must join you. The saints have declared it.”
“Sir Quinte, there is no need to—”
“Come,” the knight said. “We have banqueted. I am injured and weary. You must at least be tired. I beg you, share the hospitality of my camp for the night. Tomorrow we shall make an early start.”
“I must travel alone,” Neil said, though more reluctantly than he might have expected.
Sir Quinte’s face flattened. “Do you mistrust me? You have defeated me, sir. I could never betray you.”
“Sir Quinte, I have learned to my great chagrin that not all men—and I mean no disrespect—but not all men who lay claim to honorable behavior do follow it. My destination is secret, and must remain so.”
“Unless your destination is the hamlet of Buscaro, I cannot imagine what it might be, whether secret or no.”
“Buscaro?” Neil had a map, but he wasn’t very good at reading it. He had been a little uncertain of his route since leaving the Great Vitellian Way.
“That’s the only place this road goes. Are you certain you don’t need a native guide?”
Neil considered that a moment. If he was lost, he’d lost more than just his way—he’d also lost time. If he had gone astray, he would eventually have to ask directions of someone.
But not necessarily a group of armed men.
Still . . .
He returned his gaze to Sir Quinte’s earnest-looking face and sighed. “You do not deceive me, sir?”
“Echi’dacrumi da ma matir. By my mother’s tears.”
Neil nodded. “I’m searching for the coven Saint Cer,” he said reluctantly, “also known as the Abode of Graces.”
Sir Quinte whistled. “Then you see, it is the will of the saints that you should meet me. You chose the wrong path several leagues ago.” He waggled his finger at Neil. “It is no shame to admit you need a guide.”
Neil considered that. If Sir Quinte was an enemy, he could easily follow him, and with his men take Neil whenever it was his pleasure—at night, with no warning. At least if he was among them, he knew where they were. And he would know if they sent a messenger with the news.
“I accept your offer, sir,” Neil replied. “I would be happy of your help.”
Still, he slept very lightly that night, with his hand on the pommel of Crow.
The next morning dawned cool and clear, with a slight frost on the grass. Sir Quinte’s squires had his camp broken down and packed before the sun even cleared the horizon. They followed back down the road Neil had come up, and within two bells had turned onto a track that might have been left by a few goats.
“This is the road to the coven Saint Cer?” Neil asked, trying to hide his skepticism. He was still more than uneasy with his decision to confide in the Vitellian, and was careful not to let any of the knight’s men entirely out of his sight.
“A shortcut,” the knight explained. “You went wrong back at the crossroads after Turoci, on the river. This will take us to the proper road in half the time. And my guess is that time is not your ally.”
“You are right there,” Neil replied earnestly. The sooner he found Anne and returned to Eslen, the sooner he could resume his protection of the queen.
“Never fear, then. I’ll have you at the coven before the stars come out tonight.”
The cultivated landscape grew wilder as they went on. One of Sir Quinte’s squires produced a stringed instrument that resembled a small lute with too few strings and began to sing a jaunty melody Neil understood not a word of. Still, the tune was pleasing, and when the lutist finished, he struck up another.
“It’s a tragedy, this song,” Sir Quinte explained, “about the doomed affair between a knight and a lady in a coven. Very sad.”
Neil felt a melancholy smile flit across his face.
“Ah!” Sir Quinte exclaimed. “There is a lady involved then! In the coven?”
“No,” Neil said. “A lady, yes, but she is very far from the coven.”
“Ah.” Sir Quinte chewed on that a bit. “I am sorry, Sir Viotor, for my questions. I did not see the pain in you before. Now it marks you like a coat-of-arms.