It is not enough to kill your enemies. You must bury them, and bury them deep.
A good rain can dig them up again.
- Berek's Proverbs

The thin sun of afternoon glinted off his father's sword where it lay on the bed. Umberto stood before his looking glass, assessing his reflection as if it were a rival suitor. With a smile, he pinned in place the favor Cecile had given him: an enamel brooch trimmed with a flourish of delicate lace. He positioned it on the lapel of his vest, directly over his heart. Smiling at the memory of last night, he spun on one heel - his short duelist's cloak whipping about his thin waist - snapped up the sword and headed out into the street.

The cobblestones clicked sharply under the wood of his boot heels, and in his excitement he barely noticed the thick smell of live poultry in the air or the belligerent calls of merchants and tavern owners hawking their wares. He struggled to concentrate on the duel before him, but his mind insisted on wandering.

Last night Cecile Deneuve had given him the opportunity to prove his devotion. For two weeks he had courted her slyly with passing glances and subtle gestures. Last night she had sought him out and they had passed the entire evening together. Before she left him to rejoin the friends she was staying with, she had even shared a confidence with him.

A young nobleman at court had professed love to her younger sister and then been inconstant. Cecile fretted that she had no way to strike back at him for his lack of consideration. Then, with a mischievous light in her eye, she had asked Umberto if she might hire him to challenge the noble in question to a public duel, a fight to the first blood to humiliate the impudent fop. "After all, Umberto," she whispered in a voice like sweet honey, "you are a swordsman by trade. Surely you can best a noble." And, of course, the hint of payment was there in her lips and in her eyes.

Despite Umberto's perpetual poverty, he gallantly refused the payment. He smiled to himself again thinking of the way he had handled the whole matter. Surely his generosity would win him further favor in her eyes.

The gates of the city's center garden rose up before him, gleaming and golden like the gates to paradise. With a quick breath, he strode inside and headed for the center courtyard. The center court was the fashionable place for all the local and visiting gentry to spend their early evenings. Turning past a great hedge sculpture, Umberto spotted his man. Dressed in a crisp blue coat, his hair drawn back in a casual tail, stood Cecile's enemy. He was speaking with two older gentlemen, members of Castille's own court.

Standing boldly forward among the well dressed lords and ladies, Umberto drew his blade, kissed it and pointed it directly at the young nobleman.

"Sir," he raised his voice for all those assembled to hear. "I challenge you to a match to the first point. The matter," he paused for effect, "is one of honor." Then he took a single step forward and lowered his sword point to the floor before his feet.

The nobleman looked puzzled at first, glancing around to see if one of his companions might offer some explanation. "Go on, Jeremy," one of them said with a smile. "You must have upset somebody somehow."

"It should be a good bit of before-supper sport," agreed the other. "Go on and show us how Avalonians fight these days. Here, I'll hold your coat for you." Jeremy agreeably undid the fastenings of his overcoat, folded it neatly and handed it off to his friend. Umberto removed his coat as well, setting it on a nearby bench. Walking forward to meet his opponent, he stretched his arms, swiveling them once, then twice, loosening the muscles.

The man called Jeremy stepped forward until only a few feet separated them. Then he stepped into a relaxed but deliberate stance, sword pointing upward. Umberto raised his own blade until they were tip to tip.

"Begin?" the other man asked. Umberto inclined his head and the two swords sprang apart as if on a pivot. Strike. Parry. Counter-strike. The two men moved across the square in a lightning-quick dance, their blades nearly invisible. The crowd gathered around them, moved and shifted like the waves of the sea, back as the duelists approached and forward again as they retreated.

Umberto felt the heat of the fight rise in him, one movement flowing into the next as he slipped into the rhythm of the duel. Parrying a deft blow and enjoying his opponent's surprising skill, he threw his hair back over his left shoulder. It was possible that he might even lose this fight. That would be a shame if it lost him Cecile's favor, but he was enormously pleased at finding so fine a swordsman. Well, there are other women in the world, he thought. And if the gentleman has played a little falsely to a young girl, it was all a part of the great game of love.

He brought up his blade to block the anticipated stroke and almost stumbled when it met no resistance. Surprised, he looked into the face of his opponent. All the humor and curiosity had gone out of Jeremy's face. Instead he had the look of a man fighting for a grave cause. Umberto only barely sidestepped the sudden thrust that came at his left ribs. The stroke hadn't been a casual one. It had been meant to cut - deeply.

The nobleman followed it with a series of fast, furious blows. It was only years of training and a healthy amount of luck that saved Umberto from some of them. Confused, Umberto glanced around the assembly. Over the Avalonian's shoulder he could see Cecile smiling sweetly at him. Then she turned to exchange words with the man beside her, laughing at whatever he said. No one else appeared to notice the change in the tone of the fight. They still watched with keen amusement, thinking the duel would end with the first flash of blood.

Knowing that he could expect no help from the courtiers surrounding him, Umberto concentrated on defending himself. Using a trick an old master had taught him, he let the other man come in for a strike; then, turning his body so that the blade slid past him, Umberto hooked the decorated edge of his basket hilt around the base of the blade and gave a sharp twist.

The sword flew out of the other man's hand, clattering along the flagstones. Cursing, the disarmed Jeremy leaped away from Umberto. Feinting as if he would circle to the left after his lost blade, he instead threw himself at Umberto's feet, bowling him over. By the time Umberto had regained his feet, Jeremy had regained his sword.

Umberto stepped forward only to feel his left leg give way, still stunned from the fall. As the ground came up, Jeremy closed, a killing look in his eyes. Umberto rolled to the side, bringing his own sword up between them. The blade passed so cleanly through the other man's body that at first Umberto wasn't sure he'd struck him at all. But then Jeremy fell forward onto Umberto's chest and the hard, sluggish thudding of the man's heart told him he had struck true.

A moment that lasted a lifetime. A single realization pounded against the back of his eyes.

I've killed him.

Jeremy's eyes went vacant and his body buckled, like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

I've killed him.

Umberto tried to catch him, but the weight of the Avalonian was too much, falling too quickly, and they hit hard on the cold flagstones.

By the Prophets, I've killed him.

He searched the man's eyes, his face only a few inches from his own, and tried to form a question. "Damn her," Jeremy whispered, blood flecking his lips. "But, you're damned already, aren't you? She'll pick your bones clean, boy, and eat your soul for dessert." The last words rattled out of the dead man's mouth.

Blood pounded in Umberto's ears and it seemed as if sound and sight ran out of the world hand in hand for a moment, leaving only the dead man's face in his mind. Then in a rush it came roaring back. All around him came gasps and cries and exclamations. Hands were pulling the body off of him, rolling it onto its back on the ground and seeking signs of life. Umberto's sword clanged to the ground where it lay in the pooling blood. Other hands hauled Umberto to his feet, and he became aware slowly of harsh voices demanding he answer them. Startled, he scanned the crowd for Cecile, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"It's murder, man," one of the men Jeremy had been speaking with before the fight said into Umberto's ear. "You'll hang if you can't answer for what you've done!"

"What possessed you?" demanded another. "What treachery is this?"

"It was a friendly fight!" Umberto tried to answer, but his tongue felt thick and his mouth was dry. "I don't understand what happened! Where is Cecile? She proposed the duel. Where is she?" He cast around desperately.

Cecile stepped out of the crowd before him. "Do you know this man?" asked one of the king's advisors. "Was the duel yours?"

Her pretty curls waving, Cecile Deneuve shook her head. "I know him only a little. And I have no idea what he is suggesting."

"That isn't true," Umberto gasped, stunned. "I have proof! I have her ..." The words trailed off as his gaze fell on the bare lapel of his vest. Slowly he raised his head. The brooch with its white lace trim stood out sharply against the deep crimson of Cecile's dress. Her perfect lips curved in just the faintest hint of a smile before she turned and disappeared back into the crowd.

Cecile did appear at the trial. She still wore the brooch, and this time the dress was a flushed rose that reminded Umberto of purity stained. Before a court of Castille's highest nobles she told them in her clear and lovely voice that she had met with Umberto on only one occasion, the night before the fight. He had professed affection to her, and she, shocked by his forward manner, had told him that she was already being courted by the visiting nobleman Jeremy Carruthers. In fact, she explained, she had only known the other man a little, but she had been frightened by Umberto's determination and had sought to put him off. Now of course, she regretted her words terribly, but who could have known that his jealousy would drive him to do such a violent thing?

Other individuals testified that they had, on several occasions, seen Umberto follow Cecile with his eyes, and that he had inquired about her more than once. And this of course was true. Damning, but true.

Never called to testify in his own defense, Umberto stood in silence as the day of his death was announced.

His last dinner was overcooked lamb, and Umberto poked at the greasy meat with distaste. Then, he heard the footsteps coming toward his cell. Too slow to be the prison guards, and too light to belong to any man. Cecile stepped from the shadows and moved forward until the last light fading from the narrow cell window shone off her golden hair.

If only she would come a little closer, Umberto thought, he might reach her narrow, lying throat through the crude iron bars. As if she could hear the thought, Cecile smiled and stopped just out of reach.

"You did very well, you know," she said, and there was an amusement in her voice that seemed obscene in this miserable place. Mixed with the sweet fragrance of her perfume, the rot on the walls was all the more potent. "I didn't think you'd win, really. Jeremy was an excellent champion." The last word wounded him nearly as deeply as he had wounded Jeremy. Glancing around the place, she pulled a painted fan from the sleeve of her dress and toyed with it as she continued. "Really, I thought I would be visiting him here tonight, convicted for your murder. But that was the beauty of it, after all; either way, I won." She smiled up at him with the innocence of a happy child.

"It seemed rude not to pay my respects, and to send you to the scaffold entirely ignorant. Cecile is a lovely name, but it isn't my own. Neither was the one that Jeremy knew me by when we first met in Vodacce. We were very close there before I left, and that was my own foolishness. You see, I travel a great deal in my trade.

"When Jeremy arrived here, I was already established with all the right people as Cecile Deneuve. It wouldn't do to have him upset all my work, and he knew it. He suspected that I might try to insure his silence. That's why he grew so violent when he saw you with my token." Her fingers brushed the brooch still pinned on her bodice. "I'm afraid he assumed you were an assassin."

"But he hadn't said anything." Umberto fought to keep his voice level. "What made you think he would?"

"I didn't, to tell you the truth. But I really couldn't take the chance," she said with a slight shake of her head. "This has been a very profitable trip."

Umberto lunged forward, the bars thundering under his weight as he tried to reach her. "You're a witch," he spat. "A soulless demon!"

"So I've been told," she murmured, lowering her eyes demurely. "At any rate, I seem to have overstayed my welcome here. I'm off for the highlands in the morning. I'm afraid I can't stay for your show. Better luck next time, Umberto." The last words were a whisper, intimate and low. She walked back into the darkness, Umberto's howl of rage echoing after her.

The next day was gray and thick with the expectation of storm. It felt fitting to Umberto as he was led, arms bound, toward the scaffold. The wooden steps creaked under his weight as he climbed them. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted all thirteen, each step a little prayer. Then the platform stretched ahead, the rope hanging thick and sure in its center. The crowed gathered around the stand was mostly made of peasants and a few tradesmen. It was market day and a crowd had gathered. Viewers of higher standing could watch from the comfort of their balconies above the square. True to her word, Cecile was not among them.

The guards led Umberto forward and the hooded executioner placed the rope around his neck. Thick and heavy, it felt like the weight of the whole world. Umberto's vision closed in dark around the edges as he fought not to show the panic he felt. To his left, a priest chanted prayers too quietly for Umberto to make out the words. His stomach cold, Umberto closed his eyes tight.

He heard the 'click' of the lever being pulled and held his last breath. But the floor beneath him stayed solid. Letting go the breath slowly, he opened his eyes. Only inches in front of his face was a pistol, the hammer pulled back. That had been the "click." The gun was in the hand of the priest, and it pointed directly at the executioner standing to Umberto's left, his hand still on the switch. "Not today, my friend," said the man in priest's robes in a good-natured tone. His voice held an accent Umberto couldn't place. "Cut the rope."

The executioner nodded cautiously and, stepping away from the lever, drew a sharp knife. He moved it near to Umberto's neck. "Higher please," smiled the stranger. Obediently, the executioner raised the blade, cutting through the rope a foot above the condemned man's head. Then he cut the ropes tying his hands. Hurriedly, Umberto loosened the noose and drew it over his head. It fell to the floor with a thud.

Cries of panic and surprise broke out in the street as four men on horseback thundered down the central road. Leading two more mounts behind them, they drew up beside the platform.

"Shall we?" asked Umberto's rescuer, and the two leaped over the railing onto the waiting horses. Shouts and shots rained after them as they thundered away, but were too late to do any good.

From the hills overlooking Dolnerre, Umberto watched the sun set behind the only city he'd ever known. The last rays cast the peak-roofed buildings in silhouette, and flamed off the gilded dome of the Great Cathedral in a blaze of red and gold. Umberto took a deep breath savoring the sight before him mixed with the sharp smell of cypress trees native to the place. He knew already that it would be a long time before he stood here again.

With a last sigh, he turned back to his new companions. Gustav, having cast aside his false priest's robes, stood comfortably in the heavy armor of an Eisenherz mercenary. Standing at his full height, without his affected hunch, he was a great bear of a man, more than six feet tall.

With him stood Belmont, a noble from one of the smaller houses of Montaign. Umberto had wanted to dislike him if only for Cecile's sake, but the Montaignian had such a pleasant manner and a gift for lewd jokes that he already found it difficult. Tending the horses and speaking to each other in low tones were the two brothers from Vodacce. Umberto still couldn't quite wrap his memory around their names. Both were of slight build with long fine black hair and eyes flat like a lizard's.

"Who are you?" Umberto had asked when their mad ride out of the city had slowed enough for talk.

"We're knights!" Belmont declared, laughing into the wind. "Can't you hear the armor creaking?" Umberto only shook his head in confusion.

"This is what he means," Gustav said, raising up his right hand. On the third finger, Umberto saw a gold ring, emblazoned with four roses entwining a four-pointed cross. "The rose and cross?" he whispered. Gustav nodded silently.

That was hours ago. Now, standing in the twilight, he looked at each of them, hoping he was hiding the wonder in his eyes. He had heard of the Order of the Rose and Cross, knew of the famous deeds and heroic rescues, but he never dreamed he would be standing with them... or that they would be saving him from the rope maker's daughter.

The last of the group, Nigel, approached him. He was nearly the same height as Umberto, and his eyes were of a peculiar bright shade of blue that seemed to expect Umberto to look right at them. "We'll be leaving in just a few moments," he said with a slight smile. "Have you finished with your good-byes?"

Umberto blushed to think his mood had been so transparent. "I'm ready. But where are we going?"

"After the conniving she-devil, of course," called out Belmont from a few yards away. "To keep her from wreaking any further havoc on the innocent and impressionable."

Nigel shook his head. "Belmont is blunt, but correct. We'll follow after her and try to keep any additional damage to a minimum. Fortunately, she was considerate enough to tell you where she's headed. The woman you knew as Cecile has left a trail of disaster in her wake. For a spy, she's incredibly unsubtle."

"How did you know to follow her here?" asked Umberto, still embarrassed by being called "innocent."

"I received a letter from my brother. He'd met her before." Nigel paused and took in a deep breath. "Before we go, I have something for you." Reaching beneath his thick cloak, he drew forth a sword Umberto had never thought he would see again.

"How did you manage to lay hands on it?" Running his hands lovingly over the sheathed blade, Umberto felt the loneliness of leaving his home slip away, replaced by the familiarity of the heirloom. He stopped cold at Nigel's next words.

"The court gave it to me. As partial recompense for my brother's death." Nigel's voice stayed even, but low.

Umberto tried to speak, but felt his throat close on the words. Looking at Nigel now, he could see the same set of the brow, the crook to the nose.

"You didn't kill him," Nigel stated flatly, determinedly. "She did. And if we'd come any later, she would, in effect, have killed you too. Jeremy recognized her when he saw her here, and he wrote to me. But he didn't take the harm she could do him seriously enough."

The two men stood facing each other. Then Gustav's coarse voice broke the silence. "Time to ride. Let's go before we lose the rest of the daylight." Nigel nodded and gave Umberto a broad smile before turning to his horse.

Umberto followed suit, and with one last backward glance and the sword on his belt as familiar as the hand of an old friend, he spurred his horse after his new companions.