"I have traveled the length of Italy many times," the seigneur pointed out, "but I have never heard your name, nor one mention of your household."
"Brethren threats forced me to become a recluse," Nottingham said smoothly. "My men and I dwelled in the hills of Florence, far from our Kyn, to avoid stirring interest in Rome. We prospered there for hundreds of years before we were betrayed, and the Order sent its assassins. They discovered my holdings, set fire to my house, and slaughtered my human servants. My seneschal and my guards are the only reason I survived."
The sincerity in his voice could not be mistaken, and Jayr felt sure that every word Nottingham spoke was truth. It still did not convince her that he was who he claimed to be. Like a garment, truth could be tailored to fit any expectation. Nottingham might be Italian, but Skald wasn't, and neither were the guards.
"If you were so successful in hiding yourself all these years," Cyprien asked, "how did the Brethren find you?"
"This new Lightkeeper is not content simply to be the leader of the order, as have the others in his position before him. He is using every means he can find to eradicate the Darkyn in Europe, especially Italy and France. He is also a man who knows technology. He tracked us through the moneychangers and suppliers we had used." Nottingham's upper lip curled. "They were also the traitors who led the Brethren to us. Humans of this era will sell their mothers for a few lira."
Cyprien offered no sympathy. "Is that why you employ Saracens, and bear the colors of traitors?"
"I employ Kyn, seigneur." His black-gloved hands turned to display empty palms. "My men once answered the call of their god, Allah, and were cursed just as we were for it." He glanced at the banner. "As for my colors, they belong to my family. They were noblemen, not traitors. I was within my rights to display them within these walls."
Jayr heard Locksley make a low, animal sound in his throat.
Skald appeared by her side. "That one does not seem to like my master's colors."
"No," Jayr said thoughtfully. "He does not." She glanced down at him. "This might have been avoided if you had come to me before hanging your master's colors about the Realm."
He looked surprised. "I was not aware that I should consult with you."
Jayr was beginning to suspect that Skald had little or no proper training as a seneschal. "It is a courtesy when you are in another lord's territory."
"Ah." He bobbed his head. "I will remember that."
"Your unfortunate colors can be debated later, Lord Nottingham." Cyprien studied the impassive faces behind the dark lord. "These men, however, killed many of our Templar brothers during our human lives. Every warrior here has fought them, and watched as they slaughtered our comrades on the field of battle."
"My men have no more religion or country than we do, seigneur. They have made and kept their oaths to me," Nottingham assured him. "They are the reason I do not now rot in a Brethren prison. I will happily vouch for them."
"Very well. You will be responsible for their behavior while you are here." Michael stood and looked at the other assembled Kyn, many of whom looked stunned. To them he said, "The old wars have long been over. Here in America, all who swear their loyalty to me are to be made welcome." He looked at Nottingham. "Just as all who betray that oath will not live long enough to regret it."
"Michael." The tip of Locksley's sword struck the floor as the blade went limp in his hand. "You cannot mean it. You cannot mean to give him leave to stay."
Cyprien didn't blink. "I rule this country, Lord Locksley. You would do well to remember that."
Jayr caught her breath as she saw Locksley's stance change and his sword rise. She knew Robin had good cause to despise any reminder of Sherwood, but his reaction went far beyond displeasure. Killing hatred filled his gentle eyes.
"Robbie," Byrne said gently. "'Tis not worth it."
Locksley stared at Nottingham for a long moment, his body so still that Jayr did not see him draw breath. Someone coughed, and that seemed to break the spell. The furious suzerain sheathed his sword and silently left the same way he had entered.
No one spoke, and many flinched as Byrne clapped his hands together twice to signal the servers back to their places. Skald grinned up at Jayr. "Let the games begin."
"That was interesting," Alex said as she and Michael left the guards' hall. Things had been decidedly calmer after Locksley had stalked out, but making the rounds afterward had been awkward. She hadn't made any friends with her little announcement, either. "I thought you told me that the sword fights didn't start until tomorrow."
"They don't." He entwined his fingers with hers. "I'm sorry, chérie. I wanted you to see us at our best, and then something like this happens." He guided her away from the hall leading to their chambers.
"Where are we going now?" she asked. "Some Kyn contest where they try to throw one another off the battlements? I meant what I said about being on vacation."
"I believed every word," he said, bringing her hand up to kiss her knuckles. "The moon is full, and Byrne's gardens are beautiful. I thought you might like some fresh air and perhaps some time alone together."
"Alone time is good." Alex herself was in no hurry to go to bed. The only way she could avoid the repeating dream she'd been having was to inject herself with a tranquilizer. Michael hated her experimenting on herself, so if he found out she was using the stuff as a personal sleep aid, he'd go ballistic. "Bring on the moonlight."
Alex found that the suzerain's gardens were pristine, beautifully laid out, and held her interest for just over a minute. Someday she would discover just what Cyprien found so fascinating about a bunch of plants and dirt, but for now she had other things on her mind.
Tell him about the dream, one side of her head argued. He'll know who the blond was.
Sure, the other half answered. And when you tell him what you've been doing with the blond, he'll go hunt him down and tear his throat out.
Alex knew that dreams were not just subconscious self-therapy sessions for the Kyn. Thierry Durand, one of Michael's closest friends, had used his dreams to communicate with Alex while she was awake. Although Thierry's ability was tied up with his talent for being able to enter and influence the dreams of humans, Alex suspected that all Kyn could use them in a similar sense. When Michael had attacked her after she rebuilt his face, his talent had kept her in a dream state.
"Other than when you whistled and climbed on the table," Michael was saying, "you have been very quiet. What is on your mind, chérie?"
"Besides dodging a lot of bloodshed and reattachment surgeries, nothing, really." She drew her hand from his and walked toward a bower heavily covered with thick green vines. The white, trumpet-shaped petals of the vine's flowers were unfurling and opening. "I am curious about two things, though."
"What are they?"
"Well, first, why haven't Byrne's facial tattoos ever worn off?" When he gave her a blank look, she added, "The Kyn pathogen heals every kind of wound without scarring. Tattoos are basically ink-injected scars. His body should have absorbed and erased them a long time ago."
"Ah." He nodded. "I asked him this once. Byrne cannot say for certain, but he remembers the woad and other things used to make the ink being prepared in copper kettles."
"That might do it." Alex had already seen Gabriel Seran's permanent green scars, created by burns made by copper-beaded rosaries soaked in water being applied for weeks to his skin by Brethren interrogators. "Okay, second, why did Locksley get so ticked off over that purple and gray flag thing?"
"It is complicated. I will try to think of a modern equivalent." He tucked her arm through his. "How do you feel when you see extremists in the Middle East on television rioting and burning the American flag?"
"Like dropping a nuke on their heads," she admitted.
"Kyn feel just as passionately about our colors. Tearing down the Italian's banners was very disrespectful. In a sense, they are the flags of our fathers and our families." Michael led her to one of the stone benches beneath the bower and sat down with her. "During our human lives they symbolized who we were, our bloodlines, and our heritage. Often our place in society as well. Coats of arms among humans became very complicated, so the Kyn used only two colors, and very plain designs, so that we might recognize one another on the battlefield."
Alex chuckled. "Cute trick."
"Our colors also protected the humans who served us as well," he said. "The blue and white—the talon and clouds that were my family's symbols—were known throughout Europe, and held in very high esteem."
Now all the blue-and-white things around Cyprien's mansion made more sense. In reality, the archaic practice didn't seem all that different from what most people did now by hanging sports banners or putting pictures of their kids and relatives on the front of the fridge.
What he was telling her didn't fit with the scene that had played out in the hall, however.
"If these colors are so respected," Alex asked, "then why did Locksley rip down the Italian's purple and gray?"
"Colors also remind us of those whose families fell, often due to their treachery and betrayal." Michael picked one of the white flowers and stroked it across her cheek. "The purple and gray were once Locksley's colors."
"Oh." She frowned. "Nottingham stole them?"
"Robin lost the right to bear them when he was still human. The king branded Rob an outlaw and took everything he and his family owned. Ultimately he bestowed the title of Lord Sherwood on Guy of Guisbourne, a very distant kinsman of the Locksleys. Guy already served the Crown as sheriff, and imposed harsh taxes on behalf of the king. Some said that Sherwood was given to Guy as a reward for his ruthlessness."