Chapter 4 (Day 2)
A Touch of Madness, A Sliver of Hope
Sir Beaufort Baudelaire rose from his makeshift desk and walked to the flap of his tent, throwing it open and letting in the cool air of the Blighted Lands. The early morning sky was still dark, only a hint of crimson on the horizon to indicate the sun would even rise that day. Looking about the tent, his belongings all neatly packed, Beaufort felt his claustrophobia encroaching ever-so-slightly. Being a noble, he was accustomed to more spacious accommodations, but comfort was the furthest thing from the man's mind.
The black-garbed thief-taker turned Water Knight resumed sitting at his desk and picked up a letter lying there, studying it in the dim light of three candles and the heartstone that shimmered pale blue in his chest. Upon the surface of the letter was a seal in blue wax of an eight-pointed star – the Baudelaire family crest.
For the third time since receiving the letter yesterday, Beaufort opened it, reading each painful word:
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Beaufort,
I think it silly that I should need to write this letter. Yet I shall, in case the matter is not abundantly clear.
If you do not succeed this time in your task, you need not bother returning home. If you cannot redeem yourself, Château Vaillant no longer has need of you.
Respectfully yours,
Agnès Baudelaire
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His mother's handwriting was meticulous as if each letter were stamped neatly from the same mold instead of written free-hand. Beaufort let out an exasperated sighed, dropping the letter on the desk and covering his bearded face in shaking hands. For a moment he almost wept shamelessly before he regained his senses, crushing the emotion before it took hold of him. This was his cross to bear; no amount of tears would bring Bastien back. It was Beaufort, after all, who in anger had set his brother on that fateful path a year ago.
Thoughts of his late brother took Beaufort to dark places, where he remained until the sound of footsteps roused him from his broodings. Turning, he saw Sir Celecial the Swift entering his tent, the younger man graceful as he moved to bow deeply. The man's family had served the Baudelaires for generations, and Beaufort knew of no knight in this War whom he could trust as completely. He stood and acknowledged the man, eagerly anticipating his report.
"Sir Beaufort, I bring you glad tidings. It cost quite a few gold coins, but I was able to track down the name and faction of the Water Knight who fought with your brother." Stepping closer to Beaufort, Celecial handed him a folded piece of parchment. He unfolded it eagerly and perused the note's contents.
"Sir Wild the Painted? So he was a Water Knight after all." Beaufort studied Sir Celecial's tidy, functional handwriting. "And he fights with Patience this War?" Celecial nodded.
Beaufort would have laughed had that been in his temperament. The knight he had been searching for these past months had been almost within shouting distance since yesterday. Beaufort had answered the Call, knowing only that his brother had fought and died for the Water Empire in the Fourth War. After Beaufort's quarry slipped through his fingers in the last War, he discovered his brother had fought with a contingent of five Water Knights, and that one of them had somehow survived.
That man appeared to be Sir Wild, and Beaufort was eager to meet him.
The thief-taker hastily extinguished the candles on his desk, stuffing the note into the breast pocket of his black linen shirt. He picked up the letter from his mother and folded it quickly before returning it to the leather pouch it had arrived in. Beaufort then headed towards the tent's entrance, grabbing his black cloak and throwing it around his shoulders along the way.
Sir Celecial followed closely out of the tent, and the two of them hurried East through the Spirit faction's camp. The camps of Water's four factions – Wisdom, Spirit, Resilience, and Patience – were situated in a tight row along the flatlands at the edge of the Blighted Lands, a knobby woodland of disfigured trees and tortured plantlife separating them from the Fire Empire's camps to the West. To reach the Patience camp, the two men would need to ride through Resilience's camp first. By foot, it could easily take two hours to reach the Patience camp and perhaps another just to find Sir Wild unless they were fortunate. Beaufort could not wait that long.
Hurrying past a row of canvas tents in the dark of early morning, Beaufort and Celecial arrived at a stable where each man set about untethering his horse. Celecial led his mottled gray steed out of its stall and leaped into the saddle, while Beaufort took Esprit by his reins and swiftly mounted the cream-colored gelding. He gave a quick nod to Sir Celecial before the two men kicked their horses into a fast trot, weaving through numerous tents on their way to the Patience camp.
By the time the two knights arrived at the camp, the Sun had just begun to climb up on the horizon, brighter now than it would be later in the day as the dark clouds that always covered the sky around Mount Fera began to blot out its brilliance. The two men inquired as to Wild's whereabouts from a couple young squires who were busy shoveling manure by the Patience camp's stables. Following the men's directions, Beaufort and Celecial soon found themselves standing outside Wild's tent, where a half-dressed, disheveled man crouched in front, humming and drawing something with his finger in the ash-covered soil. Dismounting, Beaufort handed the man – clearly a poorly trained servant – his reins.
"See that Esprit is watered and fed. I need him fresh for tomorrow's ride. Is Sir Wild in?"
Beaufort's words roused the man from his drawing and he stood, taking the reins. "I am Wild, and Wild is me." He cast a lopsided smile at a surprised Beaufort, rows of straight, white teeth contrasting with his untidy appearance. "Does he like hay or oats?"
Taking Esprit's reins back from the man, Beaufort moved quickly to a wooden post nearby and set about tethering his brown gelding to it. "I am so sorry, Sir Wild," he apologized. "I did not realize it was you."
The man blinked, empty hand still outstretched, looking at Beaufort as if he had lost his mind. "How would you know who I am? We've never met."
"Quite so," Beaufort replied, studying the man who claimed to be Sir Wild. Would Bastien really associate with such a man? Could this man really have survived the Fourth War?
But as Beaufort continued to watch the man, Wild turned his body and the evidence of his past victory was clear – the blue heartstone, embedded directly into the man's chest like all the Knights of Conquered Self, shone brightly with the essence of at least one slain Shade.
Wild crouched on his heels again and stared vacantly in the direction of Mount Fera, rocking back and forth slowly. As he did so, Beaufort saw a break in the skin on his left shoulder that had not been visible before. The tissue inside the gash was black and rotting, dark veins snaking out from the wound and slowly fading the further they went. Beaufort stepped back from Wild, gasping, and reached his hand beneath his cloak to clutch the hilt of a dagger hidden there.
"Get the plague doctor, Celecial! Call Posidonius!" Beside him, Sir Celecial, who had already dismounted and tethered his horse, hesitated a moment, unsure whether he should leave Beaufort alone with the man. Finally, he hastily untethered his horse and rode off in search of Sir Posidonius.
"No need to worry," Wild said, covering the wound on his shoulder with his hand and staring past Beaufort toward the slopes of Mount Fera. "Just feeling a bit late to the ball. So exciting, tomorrow. Isn't it?" The man continued, whispering to himself. "I wonder if she's missed me…"
"Who is 'she', Sir Wild?" Beaufort stepped closer but kept his hand on the dagger.
The man continued to rock, staring off into the distance and mumbling. "No, mustn't go to her. She's not the one for you. Don't tell him."
"Did you know Bastien Baudelaire? I heard you fought together in the Fourth War."
Wild's rocking stopped, and he looked back at Beaufort, frowning. "Bastien? Six friends were we…now, only me. Must forget." The man began to pull hard on handfuls of his matted, brown hair as if the pain might banish some unwanted memory.
"Could you take me to the one who killed your friends and stole their heartstones? The Lady of the Dark?" Beaufort felt regret for asking this of Wild, so evidently tortured by his ordeal, but he had no choice. He would do anything for his brother.
"Take you? To her?" Sir Wild looked genuinely terrified now. "No, no, no. Mustn't go to her. Yes, sure. It wouldn't hurt to see her again. I'll take you there. No! We'll fight our way to her together! Together we'll defeat her, Bastien!" A smile spread across Sir Wild's lips, perhaps believing he was talking to Beaufort's brother, before he returned to his humming and pulled again on tufts of his long hair.
Moments later, Sir Celecial arrived with Sir Posidonius in tow riding a black horse. The latter man wore a plague mask, his studious eyes peeking through circular glass windows set in the hard leather of the mask. Posidonius brushed past Beaufort, inspecting the man with hands gloved in soft calfskin leather. He pulled out a long, instrument made of bronze with a tiny, round knob on the end and poked at the blackened flesh in Sir Wild's wound. Wild did not appear to notice. Raising the instrument up before himself, Posidonius studied it. Beaufort could see that the end of the instrument had begun to turn green, as if corroded.
"I cannot believe this. In my own camp of all places!" The plague doctor shook his head sadly, the long beak of his mask swaying to-and-fro, before thrusting the bronze tool into a sleeve of black silk attached to his belt. "There is nothing that can be done for him. The man is Touched; his mind is all-consumed by desire for uniting with the demon who did this. I fear he may not even have a will of his own anymore." The plague doctor sighed and stood up, facing Beaufort. "The only thing which could possibly free him is the death of the one who cursed him." Beaufort looked back at Sir Wild, the man still rocking on his heels.
"Sir Posidonius. Could we perhaps keep the man's affliction between us?" Posidonius' expression was impossible to read beneath the plague mask, but from his hesitation, Beaufort could guess what he might be thinking. "I, Beaufort Baudelaire, shall take full responsibility for this man. I will not let him out of my sight, and I will see to it that the one who did this is destroyed," he added quickly. It felt wrong to use the man in this way, and Beaufort worried he might be getting too accustomed to doing such things. Yet, if there was a chance this man could lead him to Sedufira, he had to take it.
After a moment of consideration, the plague doctor nodded, speaking again.
"You'd best get the man into his armor, then. I would not wish to be you if the High Council discovers you are harboring a Touched." Posidonius mounted his black steed before speaking again. "Oh, and don't touch the wound." With that, the plague doctor rode off in the direction he had come.
Beaufort looked at Wild and the man turned to look back as if he somehow knew he was being watched. Beaufort's pale blue eyes met the tormented man's dark eyes and he saw what uncontrolled desire could do. But as he searched those eyes for hope, Beaufort thought he saw the sliver of a man's will.
Perhaps he would not be the only man seeking redemption on the peaks of Mount Fera.
