Vero found herself in a furnished tent. She could hear the sound of men and horses outside, so she thought that she must be in a large camp.

It was the camp of the Marquis de Fer, she realized. There was his heraldry on the wall, an argent stallion on its hind legs against a vert field; and suddenly Jean was beside her.

He held her hand and raised it to his lips to kiss it. He was smiling at her.

She thought that she had been standing, but now she discovered that she was lying in a cot, and Jean was seated at her bedside. Everything was exactly as it had been.

It occurred to Vero that she was in a dream.

She wished that it was real, but it was not.

Still, it was a pleasant dream, and not unwelcome after weeks of nightmares. Many of her memories were sharp and painful, but she did not feel she had anything to fear from Jean, at least.

He kissed her wrist, then her arm, before leaning forward and kissing her shoulder, then the nape of her neck. All while she watched him curiously.

“You’ve never taken a lover before, have you?” He sat back again, still smiling.

“I know how a man holds a maid when they’re alone together, if that’s what you mean.” It was strange how easily their conversation came into her mind.

“It’s not.”

Vero felt her legs and arm, which were covered in a hard cast of clay. All her memories were now in a jumble.

Jean rose to his feet. “When you’re ready, you’ll tell me.”

Vero broke free of the clay. She felt no pain. It was, after all, only a dream. “I’m ready now!”

She pulled herself into a sitting position and tried to climb out of bed. She nearly fell over, but Jean caught her.

They began to kiss as they both tumbled down together, Vero knew not towards where.

She tried to undress herself, but found that instead of a plain chemise, she was now wearing one of the confining elaborate gowns she loathed.

She could no longer hear anything outside the tent, and no longer held any real indication of where she was, so she thought that she must be waking up.

The dream was nearly over now, and yet she could not untie herself from this damn dress. She tried to summon up a knife or something sharp that she could use to cut herself free through force of will, but nothing presented itself.

One by one, Vero’s senses vanished, until the only thing she could perceive was the feeling of the tight knot in her fingers that just refused to come undone.

Vero woke up in a soft and warm bed. Not for the first time, she was pleased to discover that she was not yet dead.

Someone had stripped her of her sword, her armor, her bag, and her clothes, but she was still alive. She sat up and expected to find the world spinning, but it was not. She also expected to find some sudden pain to shoot through her as she moved, but again, it did not.

She was in a bedroom with stone walls and a fire burning in its place beside her. There were no windows, and besides the fire there was no other light source, natural or otherwise. There was a vanity with a shining silver mirror sitting in the corner of the room. It looked very expensive. She had not seen anything of the sort since the season she spent at the estate of the Marquis de Fer.

Jean.

The memory of her dream flooded back to her, but there was no time for useless reminiscences. She threw off the blanket and examined her own body. She was not much more than skin, taut lean muscle, and bone, after her hard trip through the mountains, but she was still whole and healthy.

To look at her, nothing seemed to be out of place.

No-

-She was missing the smallest toe on her left foot.

Frostbite?

She puzzled over it for a moment and stood up.

The horror and revulsion at the disfigurement hit her with delayed effect. At once she checked all her digits again in rising hysteria, before feeling her nose and her ears to assure herself they were still there. Aside from the toe, she seemed to be all in one piece.

Slowly the panic began to fade away.

It was only a minor thing to lose after all. Things could have ended much worse for her.

Atop the vanity were two sets of clothing. The first was a plain white cotton dress which looked very thick, but completely lacked anything resembling ornamentation. The second was a pair of rough leather breeches, and a vest with a wool tunic. There were plenty of well-padded coats, stockings, and cloth shoes with them.

A heavy winter cloak hung on a peg beside the door, and a pair of well-worn boots were beneath them.

She approached the Vero-in-the-looking-glass. The reflection was scrawny but fit, like a starving athlete. Her breasts were small, and she kept her fire red hair cut short. Aside from her lack of a phallus, she otherwise roughly resembled a young man. After traveling so far north her skin was very fair, although she could still see the faint lines where it was mottled by scars.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Jean once told her that her eyes were her most enthralling feature, that they shown like emeralds. She was not certain if he had intended for her to take him in earnest, or to treat it as a whispered nothing.

Vero thought her face was too pretty.

Not really beautiful, like an elegant woman ought to be. Not hard, like a man who should not be crossed. Nor even just ugly- which she also might have preferred. Rather she was pretty, like a little girl – or a little boy – depending on what one took her to be. A babyface, Mama called it.

Vero realized that she had been staring at herself for several minutes. Her mind felt hazy, like she had received a hard strike to the head. She took the pants and tunic, and dressed herself. She found a set of fur lined gloves under the cloak, hanging from the same peg.

The door was unlocked and she stepped outside.

The cold hit her at once, and with such intensity that she wondered if the room was not placed under a warding spell to keep it warm. She even had trouble breathing for a moment before she adjusted to the temperature.

As high up in the mountains as she was, it was actually relatively temperate for the moment.

Her door led Vero out onto a stone palisade, which blocked the way leading into a tiny valley between two sheer peak walls. The room she woke up in was built directly into the natural cliff face.

They were at the apex of the mountain range. In front of the wall was a steep descent down into the hills leading up to the mountains, and then down passed those snowy hills lay the civilized lands beyond. The whole scene was overhung by a blinding sun, traveling on an almost horizontal arc just over the horizon.

There were a few men on guard duty, but they paid her no special mind. They hurried by so that they could return to the warmth of the gate house, built into the lower portion of the wall. Behind the palisade was a training yard filled with more men trying to keep warm with hard sparring. Past them, the enclosed canyon sloped gently upwards to the donjon tower, and several other surrounding outbuildings.

Vero climbed down the palisade and tramped into the yard. She was not sure if it was warmer or colder there. The sun could not reach her, but neither could the blistering winds. She scanned the faces of each man she passed, looking for the one who brought her there.

After a few minutes, she found him.

Pentarch was very tall. With his severe aristocratic features, and his thin frame concealed behind a heavy cloak, he looked rather intimidating. His right ear was missing, as were the two smallest fingers on his right hand- although his gloves concealed that fact at the moment. “You’re feeling better now I trust?”

“Where’s my sword, Pentarch?”

“It’s in the special armory, with the rest of your things.” He gave her a wry smile and added, “Don’t worry, we’re not likely to confuse it with any other.”

“I want it back.”

The smile was replaced by a frown, but Vero thought it looked more reticent than angry. “I can’t do that, I’m under orders. We’re not thieves. You’ll get everything back that belongs to you in time, I promise.”

Vero already felt frustrated at how helpless she was, and Pentarch’s attitude only further soured her mood. She remained silent.

“I have instructions to take you to see the Curia right away once you’ve woken. Since it seems you’re experiencing no further ill effects from your climb up here, follow me.” Pentarch turned and began to walk away. When he noticed she was not following, he turned and sardonically added a simple, “Please?”

After a moment of indecision, Vero followed.

All the edifices built into the canyon wall were also towers, but smaller than the donjon itself. Roughhewn stairs led up to their high entrances. Vero could only guess, but she presumed they were built such so that they could receive at least a few hours sunlight over the curtain wall.

The smaller towers formed a concave semi-circle of structures, with the main tower in the center. The main tower rose so much higher than the others that its top crested out of the valley, and could probably act as a watchtower for the whole surrounding region.

Vero decided she would try to go on the offensive, to see if she could provoke Pentarch into revealing more about who these people were, and what they wanted. “Did you undress me yourself, or did you order one of your compatriots to do it?”

“Neither,” he countered easily. “We have some domestics here.”

“You do?”

“Not many. I asked a servant – a female servant – to undress you and take your things.”

“You don’t trust your own fellows?”

Pentarch stopped. “Oh, let’s not play this game. I can see you’re distempered, but you’re certainly no blushing virgin, so don’t act so coy. Whether you believe it or not, I’d like you to trust me. Even little as I know of human interaction, I suspect taking advantage of an unconscious woman is not conducive to earning her trust.”

“Neither is stealing her sword.”

“It wasn’t my decision. Pax, please. May we proceed now?”

Vero shrugged her shoulders, and they walked once more. “It must be difficult to maintain a good serving staff in so remote a location, I should think.”

“Perhaps you should try and put your presumption about us aside.”

“I don’t know that I have any presumptions about you. All I know is that you’ve been planting stories of ancient slayer artifacts to lure me up this gods-forsaken mountain.”

“I expect the Curia will allow me to explain everything once you meet with them. Assuming you behave yourself, that is.”

At the ground level, the donjon was surrounded by an inner curtain wall. It would be the next line of defense in the event that the first wall was breeched. Pentarch took them over a drawbridge, which crossed a ditch filled with wooden stakes, into the small courtyard beyond the wall.

Vero did not like to think how easy it might be the stumble into the dry moat. The drawbridge was slick with ice, and she could barely see the fire hardened ends of the stakes protruding through the most recent soft layer of snowfall.

Vero considered herself an expert in personal combat, but only an amateur in mass field tactics. She only knew what she learned from observing Jean as a commander, and from hunting through the aftermath of the great battles from the War of the Bastards, with her former master.

She supposed that the courtyard was intended to concentrate attackers into a killing field. She noticed a few archers huddled around fires burning on top the wall. The inner courtyard was empty, and its only remarkable feature was the massive set of wrought iron doors leading into the main tower itself.

The great doors were opened, and beyond them was a large hall, which appeared more than big enough to hold all the residents of the fortress at once. As it was, there were only half a dozen figures eating at a table in the corner. Pentarch and Vero ignored the group and crossed the hall, with steps that tapped on the stone beneath them, and then echoed back on the high arches above them.

In the very back of the hall was a curtain, and behind that curtain were two sets of stairs. The first led up to an enclosed mezzanine which overlooked the hall, and the second led down below ground. Vero could not see any way to reach the higher levels of the tower. She presumed they must be accessed from outside, via the top of the surrounding wall.

At the curtain, Pentarch came to a halt. “The Curia are waiting to see you upstairs.”

“You’re not coming with me?”

“Only one person ever sees the Curia at a time, it’s safer that way. The Curia are slayers who have grown too old to hunt. To preserve their minds as long as possible, they’ve permanently altered their humors to extends their lives. Unfortunately, the process weakens their bodies. The slightest fever could kill them.”

“What’s down the other way?” Vero pointed at the stairs leading down into the mountain.

“The private quarters of the Curia. No one is allowed down that way.”