The Knight and the Necromancer: Book Three: The Sea

It struck Sairis suddenly how grim and dismal the inside of the tower must appear to someone accustomed to palaces or even to well-appointed forts. The air smelled of cold stone, musty books, and very faintly of pigeon. Not a single tapestry adorned the bare walls, which had never been plastered. The stones from which the tower was built were of wildly varying sizes, jutting between thick seams of mortar. Sairis had been focused on making the forest presentable. It had not occurred to him to do much with the tower.

As he rounded the tower, Sairis was surprised to see splashes of color around the grim, narrow entrance. Flowers? For one absurd moment, he thought they were growing out of the ground, although nothing in the wood produced blossoms of such size. Then he saw that they were tied together into wreaths.

"Looks like someone missed you," said Roland.

Sairis dismounted in a daze to stare at the bundles of white and yellow and purple flowers piled around the door. There were bits of paper, too, weighted with river stones. They were only slightly smudged, since it had not rained since his last visit.

"Thank you," was all they said. Over and over.

The clearing around the tower itself was ironically greener than the riverbank, partially because of the numerous bonfires that had raged at its base in an attempt to burn it down. The wood and ash turned into good soil over the years, and Sairis had long-since cleansed the salt here, working on it since childhood. The garden boxes looked curiously rustic and cheerful against the blackened stone foot of the tower. Trellises overflowed with flowering bean vines, and Sairis had planted squash, cabbages, and tomatoes earlier this spring, now that he had more water. He knew he wouldn't be around to harvest most of the vegetables. He hoped that wildlife would eat it. There'd been little need to protect the garden in his youth, because so few creatures could survive in a waterless wood, poisoned by salt and dying of drought. He'd been excited by the smallest signs of life—a rabbit or a bird, a mouse.

He was pleased to see, as they rode up, that animals had indeed been at his cabbages, squash, and tomatoes, and they'd made a serious dent in the bean vines.

Knights had come to Karkaroth's tower to collect the bounty on the necromancer for as long as Sairis had lived there. They'd come to win glory. Sairis had not been a child to them. He'd been a necromancer's apprentice—a monster to slay.

But they'd never won. No knight had ever gotten inside the tower. It remained a monument to his master's cunning and ingenuity—a man who was still much maligned in Mistala. Very few people knew or understood how Karkaroth had actually died, that he'd possibly saved the kingdom and certainly saved Sairis.

The tower was not for knights.

Sairis threw his arms around the old man, who accepted this familiarity with all the grace of a feral cat.

Gradually, he became aware that someone was riding beside him. The stranger was dressed like a cavalry officer, with the full beard of a man who had been living in the wilderness for some time. Sairis noticed that in spite of the man's easy movement on the horse's back, his tack and bridle made not a rustle or a clink. Sairis could hear his own horse's footfalls and breathing, but his companion's animal walked as silently as a great cat.

"Who are you?" whispered Sairis, but the man did not turn to look at him.

Something stirred in the fog to his left. Sairis turned and saw another figure, this one surely no older than himself. The fellow was jogging in full military gear, his light armor bumping against his body, a sword slung over his back. And yet his movements made no noise. Beyond him, Sairis caught sight of another horse and rider, more men on foot, more horses... There were hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, moving through the fog.

"Do you still feel like you need to put away part of yourself to be with me?"

Sairis straightened. He reached over, picked up his glasses and slid them onto his nose. He turned to look Roland in the eyes. "Roland Malconwy, I am in love with you."

"You trust my nephew, Sairis?"

"I do." He felt nervous saying it, as though he were making himself vulnerable somehow.

But Jessup nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You will not go wrong in that. He is a trustworthy person."

"I know," whispered Sairis and realized more emotion had leaked into his voice than was quite proper.

Roland's armor was startlingly hard and cold, and liberally splattered with blood in every shade of wet to dry. The armor made him seem even bigger, particularly down here on the ground. The helmet made his face seem like a stranger's.

Sairis stared up at him. "You look like a knight," he whispered.

"You look like a necromancer," said Roland and kissed him.

Love is a mannerless houseguest. It stalks in uninvited and leaves footprints all over the rugs. Love never arrives at a time that would be rational or convenient.