Northerners often do not understand how cold the Maghreb is during the night. They envision our wastes as a place that boils under the heat of the sun, and that is true; but when the sun was gone, so too was that warmth. When the acacia wither and die, the sand gazelle follows. Our people starved during the Cataclysm, just as surely as those in the north.

* The Commentaries of Aram ibn Bashear

☀

15th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

Clarisant took a deep breath before responding to the faerie’s challenge, straightening her back and meeting the eyes of the Horned Hunter without flinching. “It is an honor to see you once again, Lord Cern,” she said, once she was certain her voice would not quaver. This was a creature that could slay her - and her unborn child - as easily as she could thread a needle. “I wish also to thank you, and your liege, in my husband’s name, for the care you and your people have shown for the safety of our villagers.”

“Answer my question, woman,” Cern growled, and a second wolf loped forward from the trees, then a third, their eyes glinting in the darkness. Lucan and Granger eased their swords in their sheathes.

“I do not know,” Clarisant said, truthfully. “Two days passed, my husband threw himself in the way of the Serpent of Gates to save our king. He and the daemon tumbled through the portal, and I cannot say for certain where they are now.”

“But you suspect,” Cern pressed her.

“King Lionel believes that he recognized the great hall at Cheverny,” Clarisant answered him, and beside her, Yaél gasped. “It may be they are held captive, or that they fought their way out and are even now making their way south. We simply do not know.”

“They are alive, but they have not escaped,” Cern the Hunter said, after a moment. “I can feel her pain. Someone is hurting my sister.”

The wind in the leaves roared in Clarisant’s ears: anyone who could hurt Acrasia could do far worse to Trist. “Can you go to them?” she asked. “I have heard what you did at Falais. You could strike at Cheverny castle, bring them away.”

“We have no demesne at Lutetia,” Cern said, shaking his head. “Not so close to the corpse of Camiel. Nor will my king allow me to leave the border of the Ardenwood, not without his express leave. You mortals must rescue them.”

“King Lionel will march his army north and siege the capital,” Clarisant explained. “When he breaks the walls, he has promised he will free them.”

The Horned Hunter scowled. “I have little trust for mortal kings,” he complained, and turned. “What about you, child? You have served Auberon once before. Would you take up the quest to free your knight?”

Before Yaél could respond, Clarisant slapped a hand over the squire’s mouth. “We cannot,” she said. “Our king has another purpose for us.”

The six legged horse snorted and took a step forward, and the faerie leaned down close, pinning Claire’s eyes with his unsettling gaze. “What is more important than my sister, than your husband?”

“Raetia,” Clair said, grudgingly. “The army needs food, and the King has tasked me to negotiate in his name. We leave as soon as the harbor is cleared, and a ship ready to carry us.” She looked down to Yaél. “And I need this squire to accompany me.”

“Provincia Raetia,” Cern repeated, straightening in his saddle, and looked out over the torchlit crowd of refugees. “I thought to offer your corpse as a gift to my sister, mortal woman, before I ever offered you aid,” he mused. “And yet. I cannot leave this forest. When you go to Raetia,” the Hunter continued, “go north, until you see the lights in the sky, and call out the name Beira.”

“Who is that?” Claire asked, removing her hand from Yaél’s mouth.

“The Faerie Queen of Winter,” Cern stated. “It has been many years since last I have spoken to her, but it may be that she can aid you. It seems that I must rely on mortals to save my sister, and so I offer you what aid I can.”

“Thank you,” Clarisant said. “We will not forget it.”

“See that you do not.” Cern turned his steed, and with the wolves at his side, slipped back into the depths of the Ardenwood.

“I wasn't going to say anything,” Yaél grumbled.

“Then nothing was lost,” Claire shot back. “Come. We need to get everyone back to Rocher de la Garde, and prepare for our voyage.”

The bells of the Cathedral of Saint Rahab were ringing nones by the time the last wagon from Camaret-à-Arden trundled through the broken northern gate of Rocher de la Garde. The King’s men had been waiting, and they took the wagons of Iebara lumber off to the side immediately, where a space had been cleared from the burned out rubble of the northern quarter of the city. There, James Miller looked surprised to find himself in immediate demand.

“The first order of business is a new gate,” Sir Florent explained to the overwhelmed man. “We need stout planks cut. Lady Clarisant tells me that you and your sons know how to work the wood?”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Aye, we do,” James admitted. “But my equipment-”

“You will have whatever tools you need,” Florent promised, “From the baggage train. Make a list.”

Claire nudged her horse over. “All is well, James Miller,” she assured the man. “You can trust Sir Florent, and you may be assured that neither I, nor the King, will forget your family’s aid.”

“Of course, m’lady,” Miller said, bowing, and her words seemed to restore his confidence, for once he had risen he began to list off what he would need to do the work. Florent motioned a squire over, who began taking notes on a slate.

“Well done, m’lady,” John Granger murmured, kneeing his gelding up beside her. “James is a good man, but he’s used to living out in the country, with hardly a knight to be seen. This,” he waved his arm at the devastated, torchlit city, “is all a bit beyond him.”

“Can I trust you to watch over them?” she asked. “While I am in Raetia. I know my father will, but I think they would feel better with someone they knew.”

Granger shook his head. “No, m’lady,” he said. “I’m coming with you.”

Claire raised her eyebrows.

“I sent the young lord off to war without me,” Granger explained, “And I’ve regretted it ever since. With Sir Rience dead, and Trist missing, you are the last member of the family left. I swore my sword to your father-in-law, and I know what duty he would ask of me now.”

“I see.” Claire considered her answer, but found it surprisingly easy to give. She needed all the loyal companions she could get. “I am not the last, John Granger,” she said, deliberately allowing a hand to drop to her belly.

Granger’s eyes widened, then he slid down from his saddle and took a knee on the scorched ground. “My life for yours, Lady Clarisant,” he swore. “I will defend you and your child until my dying breath.”

“Good,” Claire said, simply. “I accept your oath, in the name of my husband and our child. You will come with me to Raetia, then. And I would have you come, as well, Yaél,” she said, turning to the squire.

The girl grinned. “A sea voyage to the court of a Faerie Queen? Couldn’t keep me away, m’lady,” she said. “I only wish Sir Trist were with us.”

Henry, who had refused a horse for the journey south, sighed and leaned on his black longbow. “I can’t let either of you go off and get hurt without at least trying to protect you,” he grumbled. “The young lord would never forgive me.”

“I have asked for, and received, the blessing of Baron Urien to accompany you,” Dame Etoile declared, from atop her rounsey. “And your lady mother told me she would be much reassured to have a knight at your side.”

“Five of us, then,” Clarisant said, looking around the small company. Yaél and Henry she knew the best, having traveled with them from Falais, but Dame Etoile had very nearly sacrificed her own life to protect Claire in the cathedral. She could be trusted. And Granger had been loyal to Trist’s family for decades. “John, Dame Etoile, may I entrust the planning of supplies to you?”

The two nodded. “Excellent,” Claire said. “Let us make our way to the keep then. My brother will be able to tell us the state of the harbor.”

Nearly three days of hard labor, undertaken by scores of men, it turned out, was enough to clear a narrow passage out of the harbor. On top of that, Claire’s brother, Sir Gareth, had set the surviving shipwrights of the city to work salvaging the least damaged hull they could find, and setting it to rights for a voyage.

The morning tide saw the five companions standing on the wet sand by torchlight, where a rowboat had been pulled up onto the shore. The loading had progressed over night, and now even their horses were safe on board the Perce-Pierre, a cog with a single mast, single square sail, and a name that Claire appreciated quite a bit. The stone-cutter plant grew out of the cracks in the limestone around the city, hardy and stubborn, and it seemed like just the sort of omen they needed for this journey.

“This missive to Prince Conrad,” Lionel Aurelianus said, passing her the first sealed scroll of parchment, “Confirms your authority to treat on my behalf, as Ambassador of Narvonne. This one,” he continued, handing her a second, “is to the Bank of Basilea, authorizing you to draw upon the funds stored there. Conrad’s father was more than willing to do business with us when my father fought the Caliphate a generation ago, and so I have high hopes they will do the same now. However,” he continued, “we simply cannot know what you will find when you get there.”

“Particularly since we know that Avitus spent years there, and freed at least one daemon off the coast,” Claire observed.

“Just so. You will have to take your own measure of the situation on the ground, and make the best decision you can,” the King advised her.

“Whatever you do, speed is the most important thing,” General Ismet, at the King’s side, emphasized. “The army will not last unless you bring us supplies soon. The captain says two weeks, with a good wind, each way.”

“Which means you cannot possibly return in less than a moon,” Lionel said. “By that time, we should have marched north to Havre de Paix, at the very least.” Yaél, off to the side next to Isdern, the King’s squire, perked up at that. “We can hope that the enemy did not inflict too much damage there, but it may take us time to set things to rights. But in all honesty, I would not look for us there: by the time you’ve struck a bargain, loaded the ship, and sailed back, we will likely be somewhere just south of Cheverny, and I cannot say where we will encounter armed resistance.”

“We will sail south along the coast until we find you,” Claire assured them both. “We will not fail you.”

King Lionel nodded, offered his arm to Ismet, and the two of them stepped back. Her father and mother, as well as Gareth, and her brother Kay, who had arrived with the army, bid her farewell one by one.

“I don’t like you taking such a voyage while carrying a child,” her mother fussed.

“The baby and I will be fine,” Claire assured her.

“Of course you will,” Baron Urien said, gruffly. “Our daughter is a tough one. She made it through a siege, after all - a little voyage at sea will be nothing, compared to that.”

“Take care of yourself,” Gareth told her, and embraced her briefly. “You brought a cage of pigeons?”

“I did,” Claire assured him, stepping out of his arms. “And I will send word back once we arrive. But if you have any word of my husband, I expect a message immediately.”

“Of course,” Gareth said, nodding, then stepped back.

Finally, all the farewells were done. Etoile helped Claire into the rowboat, where Henry and John Granger were already waiting, and then Yaél, after giving Isdern an impromptu and awkward hug, scrambled in after.

“Heave!” one of the sailors shouted, and with a stroke of oars, the rowboat splashed into the waves. They cut through the sea spray toward the Perce-Pierre, under the light of the stars.