Marius was always a bit daft, if you ask me. Don’t mistake me, I’m grateful Aurelius gave him the job and not me, but he really took to it. Who wants to spend their entire lives with a pen, trying to get the line of a daemon’s wing just so? Simpler to just run it through. You know he used to make us hold the weaker ones down, so that he could study them?

* The Life and Times of Legionary Titus Nasica

☀

2nd Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

“It looks just like the one at the monastery back home,” Trist remarked, scanning the oak bookshelves that lined the room, “Save that there are no windows, and I expect no soup.”

“I’ve never seen so many books in one place,” Yaél remarked, fidgeting by the open door. Trist doubted the church at Havre de Paix would have ever allowed a band of orphans into their collection.

“You should see the library at Cheverny,” Clarisant told the squire. “As big as the great hall in any other keep, with stairs up to a balcony that runs all the way around, and bookcases up there, as well.”

“What I wonder is how they keep the smoke from fouling the air, without any windows,” Trist muttered.

“Shafts drilled up through the stone,” Lurdan answered. “All through the hallways and rooms, back here. I have been trying to decide what to do about them, Sir Trist; some are large enough that a daemon like Agrat could sneak in that way. In any event, I shall leave you to your work, as I have other duties. I trust you can find your way back out again, and that when you return, you shall not forget the cream.”

“You may be certain of it,” Trist promised, and the wizened old fairie departed.

“Where do we even start?” Yaél asked.

“The journals of Aurelius,” Trist answered, after a moment’s thought.

“And perhaps François du Lutetia’s histories,” Clarisant suggested. “The earlier volumes, I should think.”

“I hated those,” Trist admitted. “Give me Johannes of Skandia. There is the right sort of thing for a squire to be reading; if we find a copy, Yaél, I want you to take a look over it.”

Yaél’s eyes dropped to the floor. “M’lord, I…

“You can’t read, can you?” Clarisant asked, gently. “Of course you can’t, you grew up on the streets. You poor girl.”

The squire looked up, then back and forth between Trist and his wife.

“I suppose this is as good a time as any to have this conversation,” Trist said, pulling a wooden chair out from the room’s single study desk, and offering it to Clarisant. She smoothed her skirts around her as she sat, and then he went around to the other side of the desk to get another chair for his squire. “Lady Clarisant is clearly more perceptive than I am. In truth, I had no idea until she told me.”

Yaél curled around herself in the chair, like some sort of beetle trying not to be squished. “Does this mean I can’t be your squire anymore, m’lord?” she asked.

Finding no third chair, Trist leaned against the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “You have met Dame Chantal, have you not? I expect she was a squire, at one point, to have been knighted. And you must have heard of Dame Margaret, Exarch of Rahab, at the late King Lothair’s court.”

“She must be dead, now, if Sir Guiron is to be believed,” Clarisant observed, with a frown. “I remember her from the court masques; she was as light a dancer as she was good with her weapon. Some kind of polearm… my apologies, I’m rambling.”

Trist hesitated, then took a step toward her and extended his hand. Clarisant took it in hers, and gave him a light squeeze. Strange, he thought: they’d slept together several times, and tried to make a child, but today might have been the first time he’d reached out to comfort his wife.

“The point is,” Trist continued, “That while most squires are boys, there is no law that says you cannot be one. It is rare for a woman to become a knight, but it can and does happen, and some are very good at it. The first woman to become a knight was also the first Exarch of Rahab. You will have to work twice as hard, I am afraid.”

“I can do that!” Yaél said, looking up at him and nodding her head. “I swear I will, Sir Trist. I’ll practice everything you show me to do.”

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“It cannot just be me,” Trist said, with a sigh. “It was not obvious yet, because you are young. The boys your age have not begun to pack on muscle, yet. But in a few years, they will. You are going to be smaller than they are, and weaker. I do not know how to teach you everything you would need to learn to beat them.” Yaél’s eyes dropped again, but Trist didn’t want to leave her disappointed. “Which is why I am going to speak to Dame Chantal. She will be able to teach you to fight against people who are bigger and stronger than you are.”

Yaél looked back up and grinned. “Really?”

“And I will teach you to read and write,” Clarisant said. “As well as the other things that a lady needs to know.”

“I’d rather be riding or fighting,” Yaél said, then squirmed in her chair. “M’lady. No offense.”

“A knight needs to be able to read and write,” Trist said. “What are you going to do if your lord sends you to command a tower, and messages begin coming in for you by pigeon? Make your soldiers read them to you? Ridiculous. You do not need to like it - I never did. But you must learn. To read maps, letters, books of military history, and fighting manuals. Angelus above, I sound like my father,” he realized, with a groan. Both Yaél and Clarisant laughed at him, and the mood of the room lightened.

“If you search the shelves, my lord husband,” Clarisant suggested, “And bring whatever you find over here, Yaél can help me sort it.” Trist nodded, and the three of them got to work. He found a well-kept volume of François du Lutetia’s histories easily enough, and brought that over, as well as anything else that seemed to have to do with the period of the Cataclysm, the end of the Etalan Empire, or the early years of Narvonne under Aurelius. That included a book of church records, a Royal Census undertaken by Lucius, the second King of Narvonne, early in his reign, which listed every landed knight in the kingdom at the time, and even tax records. The piles on the table where Clarisant sat grew higher and thicker every time Trist returned with more books.

Finally, in the back of the room, Trist found a wooden cupboard of sorts, with a keyhole in the door. When he tried it, he was not surprised to find that it was locked. Trist sighed. If Father Kramer had been alive, the priest probably would have known where to find the key. It may even have been on him when the daemon Agrat and her Exarch sacrificed Kramer on the altar of the church. As things stood now, it would take days of searching every room in the building, and they still might not have any success.

“Angelus forgive me,” Trist said, drew his sword, and then used the heavy pommel as a hammer to break the wooden door in two quick blows. Once there was a hole, he was able to reach in and rip out chunks of broken wood to expand it. Most of what was inside, he found, were the church’s ledgers: donations, expenses, all carefully tracked through the years in a variety of neat hands. While the records went back to the period they were interested in, he doubted they would be of any use.

The last book in the cupboard, however, was different. When Trist withdrew it, he saw that it was bound in wood covered in leather, and that the pages were of fine vellum, with the writing in gold and silver ink. The dim light of the nearest torch would not have been enough for a normal man to read it, but the shadows parted before his eyes like curtains, and Trist read the title aloud: “The Marian Codex.”

He frowned; it wasn’t something he’d ever heard of. Flipping through the pages, however, he was shocked to find on half the leaves a delicate, full page line drawing, with colored paint, depicting one daemon or another. He flipped by a daemon with the outward form of a horned and winged woman, and the heading: ‘Agrat, the Dancer, Daemon Queen of Plagues.’ Trist continued paging through, and paused not long after on a depiction of Adrammelech. Closing the volume, he stood, sheathed his longsword, and returned to the table where Yaél and Clarisant worked.

“Have you ever heard of the Marian Codex?” he asked, as he reached the table, and placed the book down.

Clarisant thought for a moment, then nodded. “I believe so. Marius was a retainer to General Aurelius, I believe. They needed someone to begin keeping track of their enemies, and how to fight the daemons of the Cataclysm. Marius was the man he appointed to do it. I’m surprised you found a copy, though; they’re quite rare. I don’t think the church wanted most people to read it. Perhaps it was confiscated from someone, and brought here?”

“It was locked in a cupboard,” Trist explained.

“Where did you find the key?” Yaél asked.

“He didn’t,” Clarisant pointed out. “Hence the two loud crashes we heard a few moments ago. I hope you didn’t destroy anything too precious, husband.” Carefully, she opened the Codex. Trist moved to stand just behind her, so that he could read over her shoulder, and even Yaél came in close to get a look. When the first illustration of a daemon came up, Clarisant read aloud in a soft voice.

“Abigor, The Doom of Soldiers,” she spoke. “Was the commander of the daemonic armies until Aurelianus and Lucius Cato defeated him at the Battle of Neccarus and bound him. Taking the form of an armored man with a crown of horns, wings like those of a bat, and a vicious lance. Known to possess the Boon of Battle Prophecy, which allowed the daemon to predict the movements and attacks of his enemies up to an hour into the future, he was only able to be defeated by attacks from multiple troops, from multiple directions, with each commander being given complete discretion to adapt the plan of battle as needed…” Clarisant trailed off. “I believe this is the text we need, Trist.”

“Neccarus,” he repeated, chewing the word over. “I recall it from my studies of military history. It was a meat-grinder: they trapped the daemons, their Exarchs, and their followers against the river in Skandia. Titus Nasica wrote that the entire river had turned red with the blood, by the time it was done.”

“Titus Nasica is perhaps not the most reliable source,” Clarisant said, turning to look back at him with a smile. “Didn’t he claim to have been at two battles on entirely different sides of Narvonne within the same seven days?”

“Regardless,” Trist said. “If the entries on each daemon are as complete as this one, we could make a good guess at where many of them are bound. This Abigor must be bound somewhere near where the battle happened, in Skandia. Oh,” it occurred to him, “Please try not to read the names of the daemons out loud, my lady. It can be dangerous.”

Clarisant’s eyes widened. “My mistake. It won’t cause a problem, will it?”

“Not so long as those bindings remain strong,” Trist assured her. “And even if they break, do not be afraid. It would take weeks for it to get from Skandia to here, and then it would need to fight four Exarchs and whatever defenses the King of Shadows has put on this place. But it is best not to get in the habit. That goes for you, as well, Yaél,” he emphasized.

“Well,” Clarisant said, her smile returning, “Good thing I have you here to protect me, husband. Now, let us get to work.”