But let a woman, if she be the Exarch of an Angelus, act with wisdom and prudence; for she answers not only to the Caliph, but first to the Angelus she serves. To that end, question her naught about lesser matters, in service of her holy purpose.

* The Commandments of Isrāfīl

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11th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

Lionel’s guards no longer took more notice of Ismet’s coming than a nod of greeting. She pushed the canvas flap of his pavilion aside and stepped into the light of burning braziers. Beneath her red veil, the hijab, she permitted herself a smile. He had the map table out, of course, and the carved wooden miniatures to mark troop movements.

“Lady Ismet,” the King of Narvonne greeted her, rising from his camp chair and interrupting the scouting report. “Please, sit with me.” To his left, Baron Urien rose as well, and greeted her with a nod. Behind them, the Exarch Bors remained impassive and armored.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Ismet returned the courtesy, and settled herself in the camp chair that had been left empty to his right, using her hands to carefully arrange her white dress. She had changed once the day’s march had finished, but the king had pushed the army as far as he dared, and it had delayed her arrival.

“General,” Shīrkūh ibn Asad greeted her with a brief bow. Ismet observed that there was a new cut on his cheek that was already beginning to scab over.

“It is good to see you returned safely, Commander,” Ismet said, narrowing her eyes at the wound. This had been only the second day of her subordinate’s joint command over the assembled scouts of the combined army, and she had no desire to lose his service.

“The Commander has troubling, but not unexpected news to report.” Lionel motioned to his new squire, Isdern, the heir to Falais, and the boy brought over a carafe of fresh squeezed fruit juice to fill Ismet’s goblet. She took a sip, and recognized the taste of pear. It did not escape her that the King of Narvonne had personally assured that his men would gather fruit from trees along the path of march to accommodate her adherence to the commandments of the Angelus.

“It is so,” Commander Shīrkūh confirmed. “We have scouted as far as twenty miles ahead, and made contact with Kimmerian scouts. What is worse, we can see smoke on the horizon.”

“Campfires?” Ismet asked. “Or the city?”

Shīrkūh shook his head. “The extent of the smoke is too great to simply mark the enemy camp. It grieves me to bring this news, especially to you, Baron Urien, but we must conclude that Rocher de la Garde is burning.”

Urien’s fist tightened around his goblet, his knuckles white. “Damn the traitors! My son is in that city, my daughter - my wife!”

“I have full confidence that Sir Gareth and Sir Trist will be able to hold the city until our arrival,” Lionel assured his vassal. “Your family will be safe when we lift the siege. And I pledge assistance from the royal coffers to aid in rebuilding, you may be certain of that.”

Ismet narrowed her eyes. The words were confident, and Urien wanted to believe them very badly, but she well knew that Lionel could make no guarantees. He spoke to comfort his man, and that was not a bad thing, but she could see the worry plaguing the king in the set of his shoulders. The king, who had spoken to her of marriage. Would she be paying such close attention to him, she asked herself, if he had not? If they were simply allies of convenience?

“We made twelve miles today,” she said, setting her thoughts aside. “That puts us less than forty miles from the city. If we can keep that pace for the next three days, we will break camp the morning of the fifteenth only four miles from the city. We could then rouse the men before dawn, march, and draw up for battle by perhaps noon, with time to fight before dark.”

“General Ismet speaks wisdom,” Lionel said. “And I am of the same mind. We will plan to lift the siege on the fifteenth. In the meanwhile, we cannot allow anything to delay the march. Any daemonic attack must be met immediately, by one of the three Exarchs present.”

Ismet nodded. “And I shall ride out with the scouts, tomorrow,” she added.

Lionel turned to her and frowned. “I had thought that you would lend your sword in protecting the column,” he protested.

“It is also important that the enemy scouts be broken,” Ismet stated. “They must remain in doubt as to the distance we have traveled, and when we will arrive. Camping four miles from the city is quite close enough for them to launch a night raid, if they know we are there. We must not only kill their scouts, but find a suitable location for the last night’s camp - sheltered from their sentries, and defensible.”

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“Surely Commander Shīrkūh is more than capable of handling such matters,” Lionel argued.

Ismet took one slow breath, then let it out. “I request the tent be cleared so that I may speak with the king alone,” she said, her voice stern. There was a moment of silence, and then Shīrkūh bowed and departed. Faithful Shīrkūh ibn Asad; it was not the first time he had proven his loyalty, and she was glad of it. Urien was the next to rise, finishing his goblet and then hauling himself up out of the camp chair with a groan. The man was getting too old for campaigning.

“I bid you both good evening, in that case,” the Baron said, and ducked out of the tent.

Ismet flicked her eyes first to the squire, Isdern, and then to Sir Bors. “Alone,” she repeated. The squire had the good sense to scurry out of the pavilion, but Bors met her gaze without flinching, as she would expect from a fellow Exarch.

“It is my charge to protect my King,” the older man said, simply.

“Protect him from outside the tent,” Ismet said, sharply. “You have my word I will not harm your king.”

“Go,” Lionel said, catching his bodyguard’s eye and nodding to the canvas flap that led out into the camp. With a huff, Bors departed.

“You are angry with me,” Lionel said, quietly, turning his camp chair to face her and setting aside his goblet.

“Not angry,” Imset said, turning her chair as well. “But this needs to be said, and the earlier the better. It is natural to wish to protect someone you care about.”

Lionel dropped his eyes.

“No, look at me,” she said, and reached up to unfasten the hijab. Ismet was surprised to find that her fingers trembled as she unveiled her face - this was the first time that Lionel would look upon her.

The King of Narvonne looked up and caught his breath, and she was pleased to see his eyes widen. “I thought revealing your face was not permitted,” he said.

“It is permissible for a woman to reveal her face to a man who is proposing marriage,” she explained. “You have told me that you intend to speak to my father. So long as your resolve to do so remains intact, I have not violated the commandments of Isrāfīl. Of course, this must be done in such a manner that there is no fear of temptation. I presume the guards outside the tent, and your own honor, will speak to that requirement?”

“Ismet,” Lionel whispered, “If your laws say that we must avoid temptation, then I have broken them every moment we are together. In this moment, I want nothing more than to take your hand in mine, and to kiss your lips. I never thought I would feel this way again. But yes, you may rely upon my honor, and the men outside the pavilion. You need have no fear that I will ravish you tonight - not that I could ever do anything to you that you do not permit.”

At that word, ‘ravish,’ she thought that her heart might stop. Nevertheless, Ismet pressed on with what she needed to say. “You are not the first man who has spoken of marriage to me,” she told the king. “But I need you to hear my words, to truly understand them, and to abide by what I ask of you, or I tell you that I must refuse. I am not a songbird to be put in a cage. I worked long and hard to be chosen as an Exarch, Lionel. I will be what I am. You cannot ask me to stand aside from battle.”

“I know,” he admitted with a sigh. “I know. By the Angelus, the first time I saw you, you stabbed a daemon through the eye and saved my life. But I think that I must also tell you something, Ismet, so that you understand why my heart seizes at the thought of sending you into danger. Would you allow me to tell you about my first wife, and how she died?”

Ismet reached to the table for her goblet, and took a sip of pear juice to give herself time to gather her thoughts. She had known the king was older than her, but she had not known he had been wed before.

“Yes,” she said, after swallowing. “I think you had better, so that I can know the man who intends to ask for my hand.”

The next morning, after her dawn prayers, Fazil helped Ismet armor herself. By the time she was ready to ride, Shīrkūh had assembled the scouts and was waiting for her. She swung up into the saddle, checked her horsebow, quiver, and sword one last time, and nodded to the Commander.

“You retain command,” Ismet said, loudly enough for all the scouts to hear her clearly. “When we meet enemy scouts, I will destroy them.” A few of the Narvonnian scouts exchanged doubtful looks, but Shīrkūh did not protest.

“Of course, General Ismet,” he said. “Perhaps you will permit us one or two?”

“Perhaps,” she allowed. “Take us out, Commander Shīrkūh.”

When they rode past the van, already assembled to march, she caught sight of Lionel, already in full battle harness for the march. He raised a hand to her, and she raised hers in return. The hooves of their horses rung out on the old Etalan road, and they headed west toward Rocher de la Garde.

Shīrkūh did his job well: pairs of scouts, a Narvonnian and one of the Caliphate horsebowmen, split off to the north and the south. Not having to occupy herself with the business of command, Ismet had plenty of time to think. They were at the very edge of the distance where the scouts of the two armies would come into contact, and she did not expect to do any fighting for hours yet.

She had not anticipated contending with a dead wife.

It was clear from the way Lionel talked about his long-departed Gwen that he had loved her, which left Ismet’s thoughts in turmoil. Would he always compare her to the memory of a dead woman, a first love with flaws eroded by time, and her love burnished by tragedy? Ismet did not particularly relish the thought of that. She would have preferred to be the first woman he had ever loved, to be compared with no other.

She could not help but laugh, and Shīrkūh shot her a look, brow furrowed. Ismet shook her head, and he let her be. She had ridden north to war, not with any intention of finding a husband - in truth, not with any desire to find a husband. How quickly she had grown jealous of something she had never sought to find in the first place! It was ridiculous - especially to waste her attention on such foolishness, while she was riding out to fight. Ismet set aside thoughts of the earnest king with a heart wounded by loss, and set herself to scanning the horizon for Kimmerian scouts.

They found the first just before noon, by which time she could see the thick smoke from the burning city of Rocher de la Garde with her own eyes.