It was not the spirits of the Ardenwood which sheltered us from the ravages of the Cataclysm; what good did those ancient pagan rites do our ancestors, when Velatessia fell? Hear me, my brothers and sisters - the time for making sacrifices in groves is long passed. Cherish the Angelus in your hearts, and do not stray to the worship of shadows in the trees.
* Innocent II, High Priest of the Cathedral of Camiel, A Sermon on Idolatry, 102 AC
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8th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC
Trist slipped out of bed at the chapel bells ringing prime. He pulled on a new set of clothes, his gambeson, and his boots in the first light of dawn, but didn’t rouse Clarisant. Once he was dressed, he found that not only had she rolled back over in a bundle of blankets, but that she’d also seized his pillow to clutch against her chest while she slept. He leaned over the bed, brushed his lips against her cheek, then gathered up the discarded pieces of his armor from the night before and took them out into the sitting room.
“I’m up,” Yaél groaned from her cot. “I swear I’m awake.”
“Good,” Trist murmured. “Help me get armored; I am due for breakfast with the King.” By the time he was again encased in steel, Clarisant’s maid, Anais, was awake as well, and as Trist slipped out the door to the tower stairs, she headed into the bedchamber to get his wife dressed for the day.
“Make certain you eat something and get down to the practice yard,” Trist instructed Yaél, holding the door to their rooms open. “Whatever spare time you have, come back here and help to pack.”
“I thought we were marching today,” Yaél complained.
“We are; but according to the King, it will take until terce to get everything ready to move out.” Trist closed the door behind him and descended the stairs of the North Tower, making his way across the courtyards and then back inside the central keep to get to the great hall, where servants were already laying out a morning meal.
“Come have a seat, lad,” Sir Tor called to him from his place at the high table with Lionel. “You have the watch, but I’m not leaving till I’ve filled my belly anyway.”
“And get something to eat for yourself,” Lionel urged Trist, motioning to the platters of sliced cold meats left over from the feast of the evening before. There was a hot porridge of millet, fresh cream, bacon equal parts juicy and crisp, more of those little red spicy sausages, eggs, soft goat cheese from the hills, and carafes of both watered wine and cider. Trist pulled off his gauntlets, filled a plate, and set to.
For the next hour, squires and knights came and went, as if the high table was King Lionel’s personal command center. The supply wagons had been loaded the night before, Trist was able to glean, but many of the soldiers who’d been camped here for the past several weeks needed time to strike their tents after they ate. The squire’s table filled and then emptied again; the Baroness joined them, and soon after Baron Urien, who was already wearing good traveling boots and a chain shirt over a gambeson.
“Claire isn’t down yet?” Urien grunted in Trist’s general direction, filling his plate.
“She was still asleep when I left,” Trist explained. “Though her maid was headed in.”
The Baron speared a clump of bacon, chewed it with relish, then swallowed. “My wife won’t let me eat this anymore,” he said. “Claims it leads to gout. She spoke to you? About joining the march?”
“She did,” Trist confirmed.
“Good. Told her I was her father, but not her husband,” Urien said, reaching for a goblet of wine. “You’ve done me a favor. She can be mad at you for once, and not me.”
“I agreed that she could come,” Trist said, bracing for his liege lord’s anger.
“You did what? There’s no place for my daughter on a battlefield!” Urien slammed his goblet down and glared at Trist.
“It’s your own fault,” Lionel said, looking over from where he was going over a sheaf of letters and reports. “You didn’t want to make a choice, so you sent her to Trist. It isn’t fair to fault him for the decision he made, when you passed off the responsibility.”
With an ill-tempered harumph, Urien tore off a chunk of fresh bread, spread goat cheese over it with his dagger, and stuffed it into his mouth, glaring at Trist all the while.
“Alright, we’re off to see how the men are forming up,” the King said, and Trist rose with him, grabbing his gauntlets. “Please recall that you have the van, Baron, and I want them moving as soon as possible. Come along, Exarch.”
Trist followed Lionel out of the hall, and spent the time until terce getting a firsthand look at exactly how much work went into getting an army moving. Men were lined up in ranks on the beaten dirt paths that ran through the camp; some horses were hitched to wagons, but most of the time it was mules. The wagons themselves contained not only food, but arrows, tents, disassembled siege engines, and all manner of equipment an army on the move might need. If he had retained any worries about not being ready in time, they were put to rest: most of the men were forced to wait in ranks for the stragglers to be ready to move out. Finally, the van and the scouts departed, and the entire long snake of men, animals and machinery was set into motion.
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The most pleasant of the duties he accompanied the King to was the knighting of Kay du Rocher de la Garde. When they entered the small chapel attached to Falais castle, Trist’s new brother-in-law was ceremonially robed in layers: first white, to represent purity; then scarlet, to represent the blood he would shed in battle; and finally black, for a knight’s willingness to give their life in the service of their liege lord. Baron Urien was there as witness, along with Clarisant and many of the other knights and squires. Trist didn’t have time to do more than give his wife a nod from across the chamber, and once King Lionel had completed the ceremony and said a few words of congratulations, the two were off again, to deal with the never ending affairs of a monarch and a general.
When Sir Guiron finally took the watch from him, Trist set off to find his people. Clarisant’s carriage was easy enough to spot, moving with the troops that her father had mustered from all across the Barony of Rocher de la Garde, and that was where he headed. Henry was sitting next to the coachman, while Trist’s cousin Sir Lucan rode beside, the two of them chatting over the prospect of a game dinner.
“With all the dust we’re kicking up?” Henry scowled. “Nothing is going to come within half a mile of this army. When we get closer to the southern edge of the Arden, I might be able to shoot something. M’lord,” he said by way of greeting, nodding to Trist. “The squires are in the carriage with Lady Clarisant and her maid, getting their schooling.”
“Squires?” Trist asked, raising his eyebrows. His helm was secured to Cazador’s saddle, bouncing along as he rode.
“I believe it was Baroness Arnive’s request,” Lucan explained. “That her son’s education in letters and numbers not be neglected.”
“Understood,” Trist said. “I will not interrupt them, in that case. There is a conversation I need to have.”
He reined Caz in so that they fell back behind the carriage, then reached down and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his longsword. “Acrasia,” he said. “Will you please speak to me?”
Trist did not wait in silence: there were sounds all around him. The creak of wagon wheels, the neighing of horses, the conversation of marching men, even the clomp of Caz’ iron horseshoes on the stone of the old road. Notable by absence, however, was Acrasia’s voice, and he had just about decided that she would not respond when he finally heard her.
“You know that I don’t like these roads,” the faerie complained from below him and too his right. Trist looked down to find Acrasia walking beside him, instead of in the saddle, leaning her body into his. Good, he thought to himself. It’s better this way.
“My apologies,” he said. “I do recall. We can step off the road, if you prefer.”
“I can stand it,” Acrasia refused. “I can stand a lot of things, it turns out. What did you need, Trist?”
“I could not help but notice,” he answered slowly, “That you have not been as present as you were before, this past week or so. I wanted to ask you whether there was anything the matter.” The wind was picking up, and it scattered the dust thrown up by the boots of the marching soldiers.
“Anything the matter,” Acrasia repeated. “No. There is nothing wrong at all. Now, if you do not mind, I will return to the sword. I don’t feel the itching from the road as much when I’m in there.”
“Wait,” Trist said, before she could go. “Please. There is clearly something upsetting you. Will you not tell me?”
Acrasia glared at him, and Trist found himself surprised at the violence of it. “What I can’t determine,” she spat, “Is why your second oath hasn’t shattered. You clearly love her and not me. It isn’t me in your bed at night, the good little wife. And yet it hasn’t cracked. I would almost be satisfied, at this point, to see you cursed a second time.”
“Acrasia,” he said, surprised that he felt pity for her, after everything she had done. “I have told you before that, while I may be able to forgive you, I cannot forget. You knew that I am wed now, and that I have a duty to my wife.”
“A duty is different from love!” she cried. “I could have accepted being your mistress, if your wedding bed was cold! But it isn’t, is it?” Acrasia thrust an outstretched hand toward the carriage in front of them, pointing with one perfect finger. “Is she really that much better than me?”
“I still care for you,” Trist said sadly. “I suspect that what is left of the boy in me will always be a little in love with you, or the dream of you. Perhaps that is why the oath has not broken. But I care for you now as a companion in battle, someone who has risked her life at my side. If you want forgiveness, Acrasia, this is what it looks like. But you will never be my lover again.”
“I know it, and it's a bitter drink to swallow,” she said. “Look what I did for you, and you don’t even care!” A thread of orange pulsed beyond the image of the faerie maid, and then around them soldiers gasped and pointed.
“They can see you,” Trist said, surprised.
“Not only see me.” She reached up and grasped his leg with one hand. “It isn’t illusion, Trist. I’ve healed the wound your iron blade did to me. I can be here again, in the mortal world with you, all of the way. We can be together. I was going to show you that day in the courtyard, but all you cared about, the only one you had eyes for, was her.”
Ahead of them, the door of the carriage opened: Yaél and Isdern scampered out, smiles on their faces. “Off with you then,” Clarisant’s voice called from inside the carriage.
“Who’s that?” Isdern asked, pointing to where Trist rode and the faerie walked beside him.
“Oh, that’s Acrasia!” Yaél answered, with a smile and a wave for them. Instead of pacing the carriage, she stood in the road, waiting for Trist to ride up to her.
The world seemed to slow, as it did when Trist was ducking beneath the blade of a swordsman, pulling on that thread of power that sped his body. It was as if he could see what was going to occur before it did, a moment of prescience which nonetheless gave him no opportunity to stop anything from happening.
“Who?” Clarisant leaned out the open door of the carriage and looked back to Trist, but her eyes did not fix on him. His wife’s face paled, and he saw the same expression she’d worn the night that Percy had been killed, as if her world had ended.
“Clarisant,” Trist called to her, but she slammed the door of the carriage shut. He turned back to Acrasia, who simply smiled.
“At least I won’t be the only one who is miserable,” she said, then disappeared.