I blame Elantia, Gods curse her. Before her reign, it was enough for a man and a woman to have a few drinks and roll in the hay. Now it all, ‘a knight is courteous,’ or ‘a lady should be wooed with poetry.’ I’m an old soldier. I don’t do poetry.

* The Life and Times of Legionary Titus Nasica

☀

10th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

Ismet ibnah Salah rose from being prostrate, into a sitting position, completing the final rakʿah of her dawn prayers. Behind her, the soldiers rose as well; in front of them, past miles and miles of mountains and hills and deserts, was the holy city of Maʿīn, where the Angelus Isrāfīl guided the Caliph. Her obligations to the Angelus concluded for the moment, Ismet turned to her captains.

“See to breaking camp,” she instructed Fazil, her most trusted officer, who bowed and departed. To his brother, Shīrkūh, whom she had placed in command of her scouts, Ismet continued, “You will continue to coordinate with the Narvonnian scouts. Accompany me to speak with the king; I would know if there have been any changes over the night.”

“Does my lady not wish to be armored, before meeting the king?” Shīrkūh inquired.

“No.” Ismet shook her head. “There is time enough for that later, and I will break my fast with Lionel and the baron.” Shīrkūh’s eyebrows raised, and she cursed herself for using the king’s name without any title: not because Lionel would be angry, but because of the relationship that it implied. Perhaps she should put on her armor before going: it would be a layer of separation, a barrier both symbolic and physical between them. She could not afford rumors to spread among her men, which would undermine her authority; but she also did not want to appear indecisive, and she had already spoken, so she set off across the camp toward the tent of the King of Narvonne.

The grass was wet with dew, and it darkened her leather boots. She wore loose sarwal, belted at the waist and bunched around her ankles to fit into her boots, of striped silk, and over it a silk jubba, which the Narvonnese might call a tunic, in a dark brown. And for modesty’s sake, of course, a red niqāb, covering her hair and her face.

The king’s guards waved Ismet through when they recognized her, and she and Shīrkūh stepped into the great circular tent from which Lionel managed the army. He was awake already, as she had expected, seated at a camp table with the Exarch Sir Bors and also Baron Urien.

“Lady Ismet,” Lionel Aurelianus greeted her with a smile, rising from his seat. “Welcome. I trust you slept well. Please, join us.” When he rose, both of the other men were obligated to do so as well.

“Thank you,” Ismet said, arranging herself in an empty camp chair at the table. “You know Shīrkūh ibn Asad, of course, the commander of my scouts.” Lionel’s new squire, Isdern, served her a plate of cheese, barley porridge, and a slice of hard bread that must have been fresh-baked the morning they’d left Rocher de la Garde. There was a goblet of fresh squeezed cider, instead of watered wine, which Ismet did not fail to notice Lionel’s servants were now accustomed to preparing for her.

“Good,” the young king said. “Commander Shīrkūh, we’re perhaps five days out from the city. If my guess is correct, either today or tomorrow we’re going to begin encountering enemy scouts. I want as many of them eliminated as possible, to deny whoever is commanding these mercenaries information. To that end, I’d like to request that your scouts be formed into mixed units with our own. Your men’s skill at horse archery makes them ideally suited to picking off a small number of men before they can escape.”

Shīrkūh, sipping from his own goblet, considered. “I can see the wisdom of the king’s words,” he decided, after a moment. “I agree that it would be prudent, my lady.”

“It is agreed then,” Ismet said, spooning a bit of local honey into her porridge.

“I would also suggest,” Lionel said, “That Commander Shīrkūh assume overall command of the combined scouting units. We are running short of seasoned leaders, now I’ve sent all those knights ahead with Sir Trist.”

“Also agreed,” she said, with a smile. “Commander Shīrkūh has my full confidence.”

“With your permission, then,” Shīrkūh ibn Asad said, rising, “I will leave now to see to the disposition of the scouts.” Lionel and Ismet both nodded, and he departed.

“I should go too,” Urien said, brushing crumbs of bread and cheese out of his beard and rising. “The van will be off shortly, Your Majesty.” The baron bowed and departed.

That left only the two of them, Ismet and Lionel, in the pavilion, apart from the squire who stood against the back wall of the tent to attend to their needs, and Sir Bors, who lifted his helmet from the camp table now that his meal was done and, face covered, assumed the position of a bodyguard standing near the entrance flap. They were not truly alone - no king was ever truly alone - but Ismet felt her heartbeat quicken, all the same, and a fluttering in her belly.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“I wish that we-” Ismet began, but Lionel spoke at exactly the same time.

“Ismet, I-” They both stopped, and the king chuckled. “My apologies,” he said. “You first, my lady, please.”

“I wish that we knew who the enemy commander was,” she said, after the moment of awkwardness had passed.

“The Barony du Champs d’Or was known to maintain eight knights,” Lionel explained, from memory. “Of those eight, Valeria brought five with her as a personal guard, including Sir Landevale, who has been executed. Two other died at the hands of Sir Lucan and his men, when they tried to burn Falais. The final two escaped north into the mountains. I would be surprised if they had been able to get past us and link up with the enemy’s main force. That leaves the three knights who are the best choices, anyway, as they are used to command.”

Ismet pulled the corner of her veil aside to eat a piece of cheese. “You know of these men,” she said. It was not a question: she had found Lionel’s knowledge of his kingdom to be both comprehensive and detailed.

“I fought with them against the bandits known as the Vultures,” Lionel confirmed. “Though now I feel a fool for it. An entire campaign season in the Champs d’Or, with Valeria dogging my every step like a bitch in heat, and I never once suspected their betrayal.”

Before she could think better of it, Ismet reached out and rested her hand over his. A spark seemed to leap from Lionel’s skin to her own, and she shivered. “You are not to blame,” she assured him. “They have some way of concealing themselves - they must, or Exarch Bors, and Trist, and all the others would have noticed them long since.”

“I know that your words are true,” Lionel said, with a sad smile, turning his hand over so that their palms slid together, and his fingers curled around hers. Ismet felt heat rising to her cheeks, and not for the first time was glad for the veil. “But I cannot help think on how much would be different if I had realized earlier.” He cleared his throat, but did not release her hand. “In any event, I would say that we are dealing with one of these three: Sir Moriaen, Sir Sagramor, or Sir Beaumains. Of them, Sir Moriaen has the most experience commanding. He is the one I would send, in their place - especially with unruly Kimmerian mercenaries to keep in line.”

“And what will Sir Moriaen do?” Ismet asked.

“He is a man skilled in the use of siege engines,” Lionel mused. “Very good at arithmetic. He will want to take his time investing the city; securing any high ground he can find, assembling catapults. Moriaen will send his men to the edge of the Ardenwood, to cut trees and build siege towers and ladders. The real question is how these daemons will change things. If what Trist said about a portal of some kind is true, they could spill men into the city under the cover of night and simply open the gates. But Sir Moriaen is cautious; I don’t think he will trust that option. The more his caution buys us time, the more chance we arrive while the city still stands. Which is why he cannot be allowed to learn anything about our movements from his scouts. My greatest worry is that he gets desperate while we are still a day out, and has the daemon send men in during the night.”

“Then we must make all haste,” Ismet said, wetting her dry lips with her tongue. “I should go and see to my men.” And yet, she did not remove her hand from his.

“Lady Ismet,” Lionel said, carefully. “Perhaps you could answer a question for me, about custom in the Caliphate.”

“Now hardly seems the time,” she protested, but still did not pull away.

“In Narvonne,” the king said, choosing his words carefully, “Among the nobility, a marriage is often arranged by the parents. Is it the same in the Caliphate?”

“Our laws on the subject are slightly more complex than yours,” Ismet explained. “It is true that no woman shall be married without the consent of her wali, which is to say her guardian; but that may not be her father. If there is no father, or if her father denies a marriage without good reason, the duty may pass to a brother or, in the absence of anyone else, the ruler of the land. And no woman may be compelled to marry without her consent, unlike the tales I have heard of your barons selling off their daughters for an alliance.”

“And does your father yet live?” Lionel asked, meeting her eyes.

“My father,” Ismet blurted, hesitated, then continued. “Salah ibn Yassar. He rules an Oasis in the eastern part of the Magreb, within a few days ride of the coast. When last I saw my father, he was still very much alive, yes.”

Lionel raised his hand, and hers in it. “You know that I have admired you very much, Ismet,” he said, softly. “Ever since we met on the battlefield. You are a woman brave and true.” Very deliberately, he leaned down and pressed his lips against her knuckles. When he spoke again, his breath caressed her skin. “I have given you time, since we spoke in Falais.”

“I lost my wife to plague many years ago,” Lionel told her. “And in all those years, I never met a woman that I could imagine wedding. You say your father rules an oasis; I have never seen one, but I have read of them. A refuge, in the middle of the wastes, where the weary traveler finds cool water and shade under the green leaves. These past weeks, Ismet, you have been my refuge. As my kingdom crumbles around me, any moment with you is like that cold water, that washes my weariness away.”

“I am no trophy or ornament,” Ismet warned him, rolling her eyes. “No matter how much poetry you spout at me. There are men who wish me for that in Maʿīn. It has been my lifetime’s work to become an Exarch, and I will not give it up.”

“My first sight of you was stained by dust and blood, facing down the Great Calamity itself,” Lionel said, lowering his lips to her knuckles again. The touch sent a shiver through her, from her hand along her arm and down to her belly. “What makes you think I would want you to change?”

“You must write to my father, then,” Ismet said, pulling her hand from his and rising from the table. The tent had become entirely too warm for her comfort. “And I must see to my men. We must get the army on the road, after all.”

“Of course,” the King of Narvonne said. “I will see you on the road, Lady Ismet,” he called after her as she left the tent.