Sweat beaded on his neck, under his arms. He could feel it burning onto his skin, but he was used to that. Years of it, upon a time. Hot winds, parched, angry earth, denying anything green or fertile to the greedy hordes of Crusading hooves galloping over it.
He approved. Deny them everything. Men were too small to contain greatness. Even Griffyn so far had balked at reaching out for his destiny. Only then would he be truly great.
Sun baked the back of Alex’s neck. He unbuckled his mail hauberk and slowly dragged it over his head, bending his neck to the side. His muscles were long and strong, sculpted from years of wielding not just a sword but lance and bow and knife. But now, today, in this heat, at this homecoming, he felt beleaguered, his armour as heavy as lead. He dragged the weight of it over his head. Sharp metal links caught at the thick quilted gambeson underneath.
“Alex
ander,” said a gravelly voice.
He dragged the armour off the rest of the way and let it drop to the ground. Then he turned.
There he was, the stone block of flesh from decades past, Fulk. Alex and he went back far too many years to count, long before the chasm of civil war tore apart England. Fulk was once his mentor. Fulk was a Watcher too.
A false one. He’d forsworn his oath eighteen years ago, done something no Watcher had ever done before, abandoned the Heir, Griffyn’s father. He’d stayed with the de l’Amis.
More proof, as if it were needful, that the de l’Amis brought nothing but ruin.
“So,” rumbled Fulk. His eyes were shadowed. “’Tis yerself.”
“And yours.”
Fulk glanced around. They were not the only ones in the bailey, but they were alone in this little corner. He looked back. “You’re with him still.”
“I am,” Alex agreed. “Although you are no longer with your man.”
“He’s no longer around to be with.”
“No. So you are with her.”
“I’m with Lady Guinevere, if that’s who ye mean by ‘her’.” Fulk stood motionless, his belt emptied of anything resembling a blade. But Alex knew Fulk did not need a weapon to do damage. A lot of it.
Fulk said gruffly, “Took ye awhile to get here.”
“We were delayed by eighteen years of a civil war. Thanks be to your master and his ilk.”
“Aye, well.”
The response could have been comprehension or contempt, but it was all Fulk gave.
“Where are they?” Alex said suddenly.
Fulk looked confused. “Where are what?”
“The keys.”
A sour smile rippled across Fulk’s face, all traces of confusion swept away under his complete comprehension. “The keys are not ours, Alex. I thought I taught ye that.”
Alex continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Griffyn has only one. The iron one. I assume the rest were given to de l’Ami, before he betrayed us.”
“And why do ye think he did that, Alex? Why do ye think Christian Sauvage gave away two of the three keys that open the gate to the treasure of the Hallows?”
“I don’t know. Madness?”
Fulk shook his head. “I don’t think he was mad.”
Alex laughed shortly. “You weren’t with him there at the end. Christian Sauvage was raving. He was terrified to die.”
“De l’Ami wasn’t looking any too rathe to meet his Maker, either, Alex. They done some awful things, and no one knows it better than ye and I. But I don’t think madness made Sauvage give away the keys.”