She leaned on an elbow, gazing up at him mischievously. 'Really?' She reached out and gripped his wrist, feeling his racing pulse. 'Am I to assume that it's your excitement at seeing me that makes your heart beat so quickly?'
'Yes,' he said defiantly, 'you may.' He bent over her then and silenced her mirth with kisses.
For a time, the two lovers sat together beneath the ancient tree. Before them, the countryside rolled to the distant horizon in patchwork waves of heath, grove, and stone-walled fields. Late afternoon sunlight spilled heavy as gold across the land. Somewhere doves were singing their mournful evening song. '
Alys pointed to the dark stump of the half-finished tower looming in the distance. 'What do you suppose that building really is?'
'I don't know,' he answered with a shrug. 'I suppose it is the pet project of one of the neighboring lords.'
'Really? That's not what I think.' Alys rested her chin on a fist, gazing at the jagged spire speculatively. 'Mo one ever goes near the tower. Yet every night it seems to grow a little higher. I think… I think that it's some kind of magic.'
Robart felt a chill creep up his spine. 'Magic? But it can't be magic, Alys.' He swallowed hard. 'Can it?'
Alys gave him a mysterious look. 'You know, I have half a mind to stay up tonight, camp out here, and watch what happens. The moon is nearly full. There'll be enough light.'
Robart gaped at her. 'No, Alys. You mustn't even consider it. It's too dangerous to be out on the moor at night.' He licked his lips slowly. 'There are wild beasts aprowl, you know.'
'So? I'm not afraid.'
'Please, Alys!' An edge of desperation crept into Robert's voice. 'You mustn't stay here tonight!'
She scowled in annoyance. 'Oh, all right. If you're going to be such a worrywart, I won't.' She sighed, glancing once more at the tower. After a while she grudgingly let herself be consoled by more kisses. Finally, as the sun sank toward the dark line of the horizon, she pushed herself from Robert's embrace.
'I had better go home now, Robart.'
Robart nodded reluctantly. It would be disaster if Alys's parents learned of their secret trysts. Alys's father was one of the most respected farmers in the village, and he would never approve of Robart and Alys's budding romance. Her father considered reading and writing frivolous pursuits, and he expected Alys to marry some farmer like himself one day.
'Will I see you tomorrow, Alys?' Robart asked hopefully.
'Perhaps,' she replied. 'If you're lucky,' she added naughtily, vanishing from sight.
Robart gathered pen and parchment into a battered leather satchel and headed down the hill toward the village. Though the sun had only just set, shutters were already drawn against the night. Robart trudged through the churned mud of the streets, cold water seeping through his fashionable but impractical boots. Soon he reached the dilapidated boarding house where he rented a cramped attic garret for a silver penny a week. He opened the peeling-paint door and stepped into the dim squalor beyond.
'Good evening, Mistress Varsa,' he said, nodding to the proprietress of the house, who sat behind a worm- eaten desk. A rancid candle provided the solitary light in the drafty entry hall.
'You're late, Robart,' she replied in a surly voice. Mistress Varsa was a sour-faced woman, clad as usual in a shabby velvet dress that was far too snug for her expansive figure. 'I was about to lock the door. And you know I open it for no one after dark. Not even the baron himself should he come knocking.'
Robart ducked his head, — biting his tongue to keep from commenting on the unlikelihood of such an esteemed visitor coming to this rat's haven. 'Of course, Mistress Varsa.' He hastened past her and dashed up a rickety flight of steps.
'And don't dare pretend that you've forgotten the rent is due!' her shrill voice called behind him.
'Hideous old witch,' Robart mumbled under his breath. He made his way down a murky corridor. Reaching the door of his tiny cubicle, he saw that the padlock he had fastened to the latch hung open. No doubt Mistress Varsa had called in a locksmith so she could snoop about his room. Muttering curses, he opened the door.
Inside the cramped cell stood two men. Robart's mouth opened in shock. The men were clad in the- blue uniforms of the baron's knights, both armed with curved sabers. Robart saw that sheaves of parchment were scattered about the floor. His poems. Anger flared hotly in his brain.
'Hey there, what do you think you're doing?'
One of the knights stepped forward, his gloved hand resting comfortably on the hilt of his saber. 'By the order of Lord Inquisitor Sirraun, you are under arrest.'
Robart's face blanched. 'Under arrest?' He slowly backed away, his poems suddenly forgotten. 'What for?'
The knight advanced on him menacingly. 'For high treason against His Grace, the baron.'
'No!' Robart gasped. He turned to flee down the corridor, but the two knights struck him forcefully from behind. He cried out as they twisted his arms cruelly behind his back.
'You're coming with us, traitor.' Ignoring his protests, the knights dragged Robart roughly down the stairs.
'Mistress Varsa!' he cried out as they reached the entry hall. 'Help me!'
The sour-faced woman stood before the knights. 'You said I would get my rent first,' she demanded of one of them.
'Out of our way, hag.' The knight pushed her aside.
'Curse you!' she shrieked, shaking a fist after the two knights. They shoved Robart through the door and out into the street.
'What's happening?' he sobbed in terror, but neither man answered as they dragged him into the cold night.
'Please, you must… believe me…'
Distant screams drifted on the fetid air, mixed with the sounds of clanking chains.
'I am innocent…'
Robart hung limply by his shackled wrists, dangling between two stone columns. His shoulders ached with dull fire. He licked his parched lips, tasting sweat and blood.
'I am very disappointed in you, Robart,' a sibilant voice said. 'I fear that is the wrong answer.'
Painfully, Robart opened his swollen eyes to gaze upon the sinister mien of the man who had brutally introduced himself as Lord Inquisitor Sirraun.
'I beg you,' Robart gasped hoarsely. Even speaking was agony. 'I have told you… the truth. I am… innocent.'
Sirraun picked up a wooden box. 'No, Robart. You are mistaken. You see, no one is truly innocent. Everyone conceals some dark secret in his heart. Sadly, the methods I am forced to adopt to discover those secrets are somewhat crude.' The lipless gash of his mouth parted in an evil smile. 'But they are, I have found, almost invariably effective.'
Opening the box, Sirraun drew out a large silver ring covered with spidery runes. It looked like a circlet a king might wear around his head.
'You must wonder what this is,' Sirraun said. 'I confess, I do not truly know. But it is a most intriguing object.'
He picked up a wooden staff and slowly slipped the ring over its tip. Strangely, the tip of the staff disappeared. After a moment Sirraun lifted the silver circlet from the staff. Robart gaped. The end of the staff was blackened and charred.
'I cannot be certain,' Sirraun explained coolly, 'but I suspect the ring is a gateway to another realm of existence-another world, if you will. It seems to be a world filled with fire.' He approached the young man. 'Searing fire.' He moved the ring toward one of Robart's manacled hands.
'Please,' Robart choked, staring at the ring fearfully. 'I've told you everything I know.'
'Oh, we have only just begun to explore the depths of your depravity,' Sirraun cooed. 'You see, we know you to be a reader of books. Books are dangerous things. They lead to ideas, which in turn lead to questions, which in the end, of course, lead to treachery. I think you will be amazed, Robart, at the crimes and sins to which you will find yourself confessing.'
