The tragedy of my life is that I could not compete against your fascination with the faeries of the Ardenwood. How many men would give up a princess, my love, to kneel before the King of Shadows? I am old and withered now, and even if you returned from under the hills of the Ardenwood, it is too late for me. The Dead Saint will open his arms to me, but what of you? You have thrown your salvation at the feet of creatures who value you no more than my father valued his hunting hounds.

* Letter from Princess Helyan of Narvonne, addressed to Sir Maddoc of the Wood; unsent, and found among her papers after her death

☀

2nd Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

“I’ll find one of the Baroness’ men to fetch a carriage,” Yaél offered, slipping by the two of them in a rush.

“No,” Trist said. “Just have Caz saddled, and a pony for yourself.” With a nod, the squire dashed off down the hallway, headed for the stables, and left Trist to regard Clarisant, who met his eyes and did not back down.

His first instinct was to tell her no. Unlike Acrasia, Clarisant was very vulnerable to all manner of assaults and injuries, which included whatever form the displeasure of faeries - such as Acrasia’s brother, Cern - might take. The Horned Hunter had made it quite clear, on several occasions, that he would prefer to simply kill Trist and have done with it: what would restrain him from acting out against the woman who had taken the place of his sister?

“I am concerned about whether it would be dangerous for you to go there,” Trist admitted to his wife. Acrasia had lied to him for years, and it had destroyed his love for her. He resolved then that, so far as he could, he would be honest with the woman he had married, rather than cause her to feel what he had felt.

“From what you have told me,” Clarisant said, looping her arm around his and gently pulling him down the hallway as they talked, “The faeries will not help us for free. There will be a bargain struck, of some kind? It would be poor bargaining for them to hurt me, I think. Not so long as you have value to them. But, Trist,” she said, “You were never the most studious boy. Do you really want to search the archives without someone to help you?”

“No,” he admitted. “The last time I had to do something like this, the monks of Saint Kadosh helped me.” Trist grinned. “In truth, they did the work while I ate their stew.”

“Yaél can help carrying things,” Clarisant proposed, “But I suspect little more. She grew up on the streets of a fishing village, after all. Let me help you.”

“If you are endangered,” Trist said, considering, “You will do what I say? Without hesitation?”

“Of course. I know my skills,” his wife admitted openly, “And they do not include fighting off murderous faeries.”

“I would be grateful to have your help, in that case,” Trist said, and the pair proceeded out into the courtyard, where they found Yaél already mounted on a pony, and a groom just leading out Cazador.

“Do we need the carriage after all?” the squire asked, with a grin.

“Not necessary,” Trist said, and looked to Clarisant. “May I?” She nodded, and he lifted her in both hands, by the hips, and set her on the saddle, before swinging up behind her. She settled into riding side-saddle in front of him, and Trist had a moment of jarring confusion. Clarisant was just enough taller than Acrasia that she couldn’t comfortably tuck her head under his chin. Instead, she sort of nestled up against his cheek. Every difference was picked out to him as sharply as the edge of a leaf: the contrast in the shape of her body, leaning back against him, and the scent of her hair, the same scent he’d woken up to on their pillows. A part of him, in spite of everything, felt as if it was almost a betrayal of Acrasia.

“Are you comfortable?” Trist asked softly.

“Mmm-hmmm,” Clarisant murmured, in response. “This is nice.”

Trist pressed his heels into Caz, held the reins in his left hand, and the gray destrier trotted out of the courtyard and into the town of Falais, with Yaél following on the pony. The hooves of their steeds clattered over the cobblestone, riding north along the main avenue with the river on their right. “Sir Trist!” children called out as they passed, and trailed along after them in an excited sort of mob.

“They know you,” Clarisant observed, over the sounds of the town, the laughs of the children, and the striking of hooves on stone. The wind caught at her veil and tossed it, and she had to reach one hand up to keep a hold of the silver circlet that held it in place.

“Strange, is it not?” Trist asked. “When I first came to Falais, it was only the word of the Crown Prince that saved my life. Now even Sir Bors has come around.”

“I suppose killing a daemon does tend to turn one into a hero,” she teased him gently. Trist turned Cazador’s head left, and they took the stair-like alley up toward the cliffs which rose above the town on the western side, and then along the street to the Church of Saint Abatur. “Oh my,” Clarisant gasped as it came into sight.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

Trist reined Caz in a few paces from the stone steps, swung down out of the saddle, and reached up to help his wife down. The moment her feet were on the ground, however, Clarisant turned back to look over the facade of the church.

Over the weeks since the battle in the pass, the faerie mushrooms had grown up bright and strong in a ring about the stone steps, red as ripe strawberries, with round white spots on them. The ivy which had only begun to grow after the battle now spread all along the face of the golden-brown cliff, and the deep green leaves rippled in the summer breeze. Above the door, a great stained glass window was shattered, and from it reached a single branch of the oak that grew within. The church could have been a ruin, abandoned for centuries and overgrown.

“Stay here, boy,” Trist told Caz, taking a moment to stroke the destrier’s nose and feed him half an apple, which he sliced with his belt knife. The other half he handed to Yaél. “Give this to the pony,” he told the boy - no, the girl. It was hard to make the mental adjustment, and they still hadn’t had the time to speak of it.

“They won’t wander off?” Yaél asked.

“Caz will not,” Trist said confidently. “And he will not let the pony, either. And anyone fool enough to come near them is liable to end up with an iron-shod hoof through their skull. They will be safe enough.” Clarisant looped her arm around his once again, and together the three of them carefully stepped over the mushrooms, into the ring, and then mounted the stairs.

“Hello!” Trist called into the former church. “I am Sir Trist du Camaret-à-Arden, escorting the Lady Clarisant du Camaret-à-Arden, and my squire Yaél du Havre de Paix. May we enter?”

“Knight of Shadows,” a tremulous voice called back from within, “You are welcome in the holdings of your king, and those you bring as guests, as well. Enter.” With his left hand, Trist pushed the great wooden door of the church open, and with Clarisant at his side and Yaél behind, entered.

Within, the sunlight fell through the green leaves of the oak in shafts, dappling the stone of the center aisle between the pews in alternating patches of light and shadow. The oak itself had filled out, but still retained the shape of a sort of low, cupped throne, which at the moment was empty in the absence of the Faerie King. Instead, a small, wild haired man, who Trist guessed would be even shorter than Acrasia, stood waiting for them on the broken stones between the roots of the oak. He wore a doublet and breeches, and as they stepped closer Trist saw that he had the overgrown and wispy body hair of an old man: eyebrows that had grown long, tufts of wiry hair springing from his ears and nostrils, and a thick but wild cloud of white hair around his head. From the unlaced top of his doublet, grey chest hair escaped.

And yet, even more than his odd appearance, it was the power that lurked beneath the surface of the creature’s earthly form that told Trist he was one of the faeries. Strands of glowing color reached back from his body, extending into that hazy, half-distinct shape that Trist now recognized as the true body of an immortal creature. Red and orange, Trist noted, were the colors, with a single strand of yellow.

“Good day to you,” Trist greeted the faerie respectfully. “Thank you for being willing to speak to us. We have been sent on behalf of the King of Narvonne, to request access to the library of the church.”

“Is that so?” The strange man tugged at his doublet with both hands. “I don’t suppose you have brought anything for old Lurdane in return, have you?”

Trist considered his response. “I confess, Lord Lurdane, that, having not yet made your acquaintance until just now, I find myself unprepared. In the future, when I come to visit you, what manner of gift would you find pleasing?”

Lurdane smoothed his doublet one more time before responding. “A bowl of fresh cream,” he answered, wetting his lips with his tongue, “Would do rather nicely.”

“I believe that we can easily see to that,” Trist assured him. “And, indeed, should you be willing to grant us access to the library, I imagine that the task set us by His Majesty will take some number of days. We would bring you fresh cream with each visit, for so long as we are at our work.”

The old faerie’s face split with a grin. “That would be very nice, very nice indeed, Knight of Shadows, and I shall hold you to it,” he said. “Come, then! King Auberon has set this place in old Lurdane’s care, and I will grant you this day’s access on a credit. Come along!”

“He’s a faerie, isn’t he?” Yaél hurried forward to Trist’s left side to ask.

“Aye,” Trist said, to both his squire and to his wife. “I can see the power in him.”

Lurdane led them back into the cliffs, along a hall carved from the stone, where wooden doors had been hung to either side, framed by guttering torches in sconces. “Much of this I am clearing out,” he explained his work as they followed him. “But the King thought there might be use for the library, and his foresight was clearly accurate. I have not yet organized the tomes, however, I regret to say. I am afraid that you will find them a frightful mess. Mortals can be so unorganized.”

The faerie opened a door, but this deep into the mountains’ roots, there could be no windows to give light, and Trist could feel Clarisant’s hesitation to follow Lurdane into the darkness. For his part, Trist’s Boon from serving Auberon let him see into the library clearly, and he watched their host wave a hand. A single red thread unspooled itself from Lurdane’s immortal form, reached out, and brushed half a dozen candles in turn, lighting them with a soft orange glow that spread throughout the room.

Clarisant gasped, and pointed down at the stones of the hallway. “Trist…”

The shadows cast by the torches in the hall, and the candles in the library, had gathered around his feet, and crept up his legs, so that Trist seemed to be almost dipped in ink. With an exhalation, he forced his Boon to let them go.

“Nothing to be frightened of,” Trist assured her. “A gift from the Faerie King.” But his wife’s eyes were wide, and he realized that she had never seen him use any of his Boons, until now. Knight of Shadows had probably not been the best beginning. “We have time and more to speak of it,” Trist said gently, and motioned to the room ahead, where Lurdan waited.

“Come in, come in,” the faerie with the wild hair invited them. “You came for secrets, did you? Well, here they are!”