Prologue
1294
Chateau le Bezu, France
“Remember what I taught you,”a soft voice echoed through the cavernous room.
Sage Hawke leaned over the wooden desk to be closer to the old book. Flickering flames from the torch ensconced on the wall behind her cast light over the thick parchment pages.
She traced one of the swirling letters, awed by its beauty. She knew that together the letters formed words, but she didn’t recognize any of them. Her brow furrowed in frustration.
Brother Nicolas sat in a rickety chair beside her. His long, brown monk’s robe was as worn and comfortable as an old blanket. Books were piled around them, stacked in rows against the stone walls.
What he taught her, Sage’s mind repeated. And then, like a lifting fog, the letters came into focus.The. She knew that word! “The,” she exclaimed proudly, pointing to the word on the page. She looked at Brother Nicolas, beaming in victory.
He nodded, his wrinkled cheeks curved in a smile of satisfaction. “That’s right.”
Sage turned back to the book with newfound confidence. “I can read!”
Brother Nicolas chuckled softly. “You recognized one word. That is not reading. But it certainly is a start.”
“Sage!” her sister’s voice called firmly from the doorway.
Sage glanced over her shoulder at Raven. Her sister’s black hair hung in waves about her shoulders like dark clouds. Raven was nine summers, only two years older than Sage, but thought she was in charge.
“Father’s waiting,” Raven said impatiently.
Sage knew he was, but she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to look at the books. She wanted to learn to read.
“You’re going to get into trouble,” Raven warned.
Sage scowled desperately at Raven and then glanced back at the letters filling the parchment pages. “Just one more moment,” she pleaded. She poked her nose closer to the pages, longing to decipher one more word.
Raven left the room.
“Sage,” Brother Nicolas murmured patiently. “Your father wants to leave.”
Sage sighed, frustrated. She knew it was time to go. But she needed one more minute, one more second, to figure out another word.
“You can come back another time. I will gladly teach you more,” he said kindly.
She studied him with anguish. “What if you are not here when we come back? What if you are gone?” Her lower lip pouted. “Like Mother?”
“Sage.” Brother Nicolas reached for her sympathetically, but she squirmed out of his grasp. “We all die, my dear.”
“But Mother left us,” Sage said, puckering her face in disapproval and crossing her arms.
“She was very sick. She would have stayed with you if she could have. She loved you very much.”
Sage’s lower lip puffed out farther, but she faced him. “What ifyouget sick? What if you are gone when I come back?”
Brother Nicolas sighed. “If I am gone when you return, I’m certain the next monk can teach you.”
Her lip quivered, and she gazed desperately at the book. She ran her hand over the animal skin parchment reverently. The letters were so permanent. They were always going to be there.
“Sage,” a deep voice beckoned from the doorway.
Sage glanced up to find a tall, imposing man standing in the doorway. He cast a long shadow into the room. His brow furrowed in displeasure. A day’s growth of beard covered his square jaw. His dark hair hung in thick waves to his strong shoulders. His leather armor fit snuggly over his torso and hips, with metal studs lining the edges. A sword was strapped to his waist. She bowed her head.
