Aye, we named Aurelius our king. Emperor Sevrus was dead, and all of his children save the traitor, and the senate as well. When we sent a ship to Etalus, all our scouts found was a haunted ruin, nearly as bad as Vellatesia. The Great Cataclysm did for the Empire, and there wasn’t any point pretending otherwise. The general kept us alive through the Week of Darkness, didn’t he? And married a Narvonnian Princess besides. If that don’t make a king, tell me what does?

* The Life and Times of Legionary Titus Nasica

☀

2nd Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

Guiron, it turned out, was not much older than Trist. Beneath the caked dust and dried blood which he had not even paused to remove, something about him reminded Trist of a rooster. Perhaps it was the hair, which he guessed to be, prior to the ravages of a long journey across the kingdom, the height of fashion at court: cut close along the sides and the bottom, and then longer up and to the front, where it rose in a kind of wild crest. It might have been the posture, which even in such a late stage of utter exhaustion, seemed to cry out ‘pay attention to me!’

He was the kind of man that Trist suspected would have the young ladies swooning. A glance at Clarisant found no discernible reaction, and General Ismet’s focus was currently on the map-board, where she had just placed Prince Lionel’s tray of extra wooden tokens.

Baroness Arnive, too, seemed to have no interest, but Trist frowned when he saw Yaél watching the man. A conversation that would need to be had sooner, rather than later. In any event, once the Exarch from the capital had been given a moment to wet his throat with a goblet of watered wine, the man wasted no time.

“Lutetia has fallen,” he told them, without softening the blow. “And the castle Cheverny, as well. The King - your father,” Guiron said, looking to Lionel, “Is dead.”

“You are certain?” Baron Urien asked.

“I saw his severed head on the floor of the great hall of Cheverny with my own eyes,” Guiron spoke, with steady gaze and iron in his voice.

“Then how is it that you yet live?” Sir Bors growled. “You should have died before allowing the slightest harm to come to your king!”

“You speak truly.” The clearly exhausted knight dropped to one knee before his Prince - no, Trist realized, his King. “I have failed, Your Majesty,” Sir Guiron said simply. “I put myself at your mercy.”

“My father,” Lionel paused, then began again. “Tell me how it came to pass that you live, while he does not.”

“I was to hold the gate,” Guiron said, beginning his tale. “When the bells at the Cathedral rang the alarm, Sir Bruin sent me to the gate, and Dame Margaret to the pigeons.”

“Aye,” Lionel said. “We received her message last night.”He nodded for Guiron to continue.

“I was just crossing the courtyard to go to the parapet, when the gate simply shattered inward,” the knight explained. “The bar snapped in two, and I remember throwing my hands up as it came right at my face, and then - nothing.” He coughed. “When I came back to myself, the entire courtyard was filled with the bodies of the dead. He must have taken me for dead, as well, or I do not think he would have failed to finish me. By the time I went into the keep, it was already too late.”

Trist listened as the other Exarch continued to relate his ghastly tale: the severed head of King Lothair left to roll on the floor like a melon fallen from a cart, and at least two other Exarchs killed. The man responsible for it all: Lady Valeria’s father.

“He named himself,” Sir Guiron repeated, from where he continued to kneel on the floor, “Avitus, son of Emperor Sevrus, and Exarch to the Great Cataclysm itself, Sammāʾēl.” Trist looked to Ismet, who had faced down the monster, and somehow driven it off with a strike to its eye.

“This man,” Ismet ibnah Salah spoke slowly, “Was so confident that he could defeat every Exarch guarding your father, that he sent his daemon away to fight without him.” She turned to face Lionel. “How many Exarchs did your father keep with him?”

“Six,” Sir Guiron answered, and Lionel nodded.

“Six Exarchs, then, and this man believed he could kill them all alone,” Ismet pronounced. “He is as mad as he is dangerous.”

“He was right,” Sir Bors pointed out. “He did defeat them all. And if he is as old as he says he is? If this is the original daemonic Exarch of the Cataclysm? He has had centuries to reap souls and Tithe them to his dark masters. The power and number of the Boons he wields must be truly staggering.”

“Decimus Avitus was indeed the name of the last governor of Narvonne, when it was an Etalan Province,” Clarisant said. “We know that from historical accounts. But there is no proof this is the same man.”

“He wore armor in the Etalan fashion,” Guiron said, “Though I know any man of wealth could have that made for him. He threw us around like we were children. And his threads…” He looked to Bors, specifically, when he revealed the next piece of information. “He was a knot of power. Too many threads to count, and all of them burning blue and white.”

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

“Like Auberon,” Trist said, without thinking, and the three other Exarchs in the room all shot him a glance.

“I confess,” Sir Guiron said, after a moment, “That I am not familiar with everyone in this room.”

“The knight who just spoke,” Lionel said, voice curiously even, “is Sir Trist du Camaret-à-Arden, Exarch in service to Auberon, King of Shadows. It was he and Sir Bors who destroyed the daemon Adramelech, at the southern end of the pass.”

“It is,” Guiron said, after a moment, “My honor to meet you, Sir Trist. I admit I have never met an Exarch to one of the fae, before.”

“I suspect I am the only one you will ever meet,” Trist said. “Well met, Sir Guiron.”

“Our fourth Exarch present,” Lionel said, “is General Ismet ibnah Salah, Exarch of Epinoia, of the Caliphate of Maʿīn. Your arrival gives us four Exarchs in one place. Each of you a strategic asset. We can…” His voice trailed off aimlessly, to Trist’s surprise. Even lying on a pile of rubble after the battle against Adramelech and Sammāʾēl, he had never known the Prince to be at a loss.

“Perhaps Your Majesty would like to take a moment?” Baroness Arnive suggested. Of course; Trist was a fool for not seeing it sooner. The man’s father was dead. He didn’t know what the Prince’s relationship with the late King Lothair had been like, but Trist remembered well enough the empty, raw pain after his mother had died.

“We can step out,” Trist offered, rising from his chair and holding out his arm to Clarisant.

“No,” Lionel said, took a drink of wine, and gathered himself. “We do not have the time to waste on my sorrow.” His voice grew stronger as he spoke.

“Then allow me to be the first, Your Majesty,” Baron Urien said, stepping around the table to kneel next to Sir Guiron, in front of Lionel. The bereaved man nonetheless extended his hand, and Urien clasped it in his own.

“By the Angelus, I will to Lionel Aurelianus, King of Narvonne, be true and faithful, and love all which he loves and shun all which he shuns, according to the laws of the Angelus and the order of the world. Nor will I ever with will or action, through word or deed, do anything which is not pleasing to him, on condition that he will hold to me as I shall deserve it, and that he will perform everything as it was in the agreement of my forefathers, when they submitted themselves to his ancestors and chose their will.”

“It is right,” Lionel responded, “that those who offer to us unbroken fidelity should be protected by our aid. And since Urien, Baron du Rocher de la Garde, a faithful one of ours, by the favor of the Angelus, coming here before us with his arms, has seen fit to swear trust and fidelity to us in our hand, therefore we decree and command by the present precept that for the future Urien be counted among the number of our vassals.”

“Your Majesty,” Urien said, released the young King’s hand, rose from his knees, and took three steps back. No sooner than he had made space did Baroness Arnive kneel in his place, and give her own oath, which was returned in kind. Bors and Guiron, the Exarchs, were next, while Ismet looked on, even giving Trist a curious look when he did not follow suite.

“Sir Trist’s family is sworn to Baron Urien, who is my direct vassal,” Lionel explained to her, with half a sad smile. “He need give no oath at this time, as his own liege has already done so.”

Ismet nodded. “I find it all still somewhat confusing, the way you arrange it here,” she admitted, and at her side her captain, Fazil, nodded in agreement. “But I believe that I can at least offer my most sincere condolences, Your Majesty, for your loss.” For a moment, Trist thought she might say something more, but then the moment passed.

“King Lionel Aurelianus, the First!” Baron Urien raised his voice.

As one, the small group responded with a huzzah!

“Thank you,” the newly named King said, looking around the room to meet each set of eyes in turn. When Lionel came to Trist, he responded with a smile and a nod. “It is the people in this room, right now, who will decide whether our Kingdom of Narvonne stands, or falls,” the King continued. “But we cannot do so alone. Our adversary, it seems, has reached outside of the kingdom to hire Kimmerian mercenaries. He has at least two daemonic Exarchs, and I think that we would only be underestimating him to assume that is the limit. I see a pattern in what has happened, and it does not bode well.”

Lionel extended his hand to indicate Trist. “On his way to Falaise through the Ardenwood, Sir Trist defeated the daemon Addanc, newly risen from its bindings. At the time, he and his party - in truth, I think, all of us - assumed its rise was mere coincidence. But then, when I sent Sir Trist to check the bindings of Adramelech, the daemon Queen of Plagues interfered, shattering the bindings.”

“Furthermore,” General Ismet said, stepping smoothly to build the argument with the King, “Not six months past General Shadi fought and destroyed Agares the Eld, who had broken his bindings in the Maghreb Wastes. Even before that, Jibrīl has been warning his Exarchs of a rising evil for over twenty-five years now. It is the entire reason the Caliphate sought to push into Narvonne, in the first place.”

“We believe,” Lionel took over from her, “That whatever the truth of his identity, the man calling himself Avitus has been quietly seeing to it that bindings are damaged, or outright broken. In the Hauteurs Massif, he sent his daughter Valeria and her mistress. Given the proximity, perhaps they were responsible for Addanc, as well. But the Maghreb is too far for either of them to travel without being noticed, and so is the Grand Duchy of Kimmeria. We must assume that he has a pawn in both places, at the very least.”

“Which begs the question,” Clarisant pointed out, “How many daemonic exarchs are there? How many, and which, daemons have they freed? Three? Ten? A score?”

Trist’s eyes widened at the thought. “Even ten would be too many for us,” he said, “If they came at once. Never mind a score.”

The King nodded. “Before we can make our plans,” he said, “We must know what we are fighting. Sir Guiron has not only brought us vital information but, once he has recovered, a sword most urgently needed at our side and in our service.” He nodded to the Exarch he’d praised, and Guiron bowed his head.

“Sir Trist,” Lionel said, turning to focus on him. “We need the records kept by the Church of the Angelus. Here, in Falaise, that means the archives in the Church of Saint Abatur. With Father Kramer slain by Valeria and Agrat, and the faerie king having claimed the building for his own, I would like you to go there, and seek permission to examine those archives. We need a list of every daemon bound during and after the cataclysm, and if possible the locations of their bindings, and their capabilities. Can I entrust this task to you?”

“Auberon will want something for it,” Trist said slowly, chewing it over. “But yes. I will go there and speak to the King of Shadows. With your leave.” He bowed, and at the King’s nod, offered his arm to Clarisant. Together, the two of them left the room.

“I need to come with you,” his wife said, the moment they were out in the hallway, clutching hard at his arm.

Trist searched her face, and found her eyes wide with near panic. “I will protect you, my lady. You need not fear,” he said, hoping to reassure her.

Clarisant nodded, and eased her grip on him, but Trist could tell she was not entirely at peace.