I met the bastard once, aye. He came to visit the barracks not long after he arrived, and I was unlucky enough to be on duty, so I got the honor of escorting him around, along with a few other lads. His sister, Cecilia, was a looker, but it was like watching someone trying to calm down a dog that had never been trained properly. The slightest thing would set him off, and then she’d soothe him until the next one. Must’ve been exhausting. Can’t imagine how she put up with it, or how anyone thought it was a good idea to make the man a governor.

* The Life and Times of Legionary Titus Nasica

☀

10th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

Trist and Clarisant found the people of Camaret-à-Arden at the end of a trail trampled through the Ardenwood, made easy to follow even for them by the ruts of wagon wheels. Somehow, the path Acrasia and Cern had led the survivors along wove between trees to accommodate the wagons’ passage, and Trist would have been amazed if faerie magic had nothing to do with it. He’d learned enough from a few days watching King Lionel work to understand that moving a large group of people and their baggage through a forest would normally require cutting a way through, but there had been no need for that here.

A shaft of sunlight fell down through a break in the canopy, casting a golden halo on a place where green spring grass grew along the gentle curve of a riverbank. The stream that wound its way past the turf had a stony bottom, save for where a sandbar had accumulated at the curve, and there was one gnarled tree growing up from the bank, roots grasping like an old man’s hand to keep it up.

Families clustered in small groups around where someone had put a large blanket down, and there the Horned Hunter had set the turned rosewood bowl that Trist had recovered from Havre de Paix so many weeks before. The Graal spilled nuts, berries, fruits and vegetables of all kinds out onto the blanket, and people were eating their fill. The smallest of the children stuffed their faces with raspberries and strawberries, giggling. Trist doubted they truly understood what had happened. He hesitated only for a moment, to be certain that none of his grief showed in his face, and then looked about for Acrasia and Cern. He found them standing off to one side, apart from the people of the village.

“Thank you,” Trist said, approaching them with Clarisant at his side. Acrasia’s eyes flicked to his wife on his arm, and there was something different about how the two of them regarded each other, but he couldn’t quite decide what. “Is this where they will stay?”

Acrasia nodded. “I will grow them shelters before we leave, and the king has allowed his Graal to remain with them for a time, so there will be no lack of food.”

“May they hunt?” Trist asked, looking to Cern for an answer.

“It will be permitted,” the Horned Lord answered. “So long as you keep the bargain you have struck with our king.”

“I will,” Trist promised, remembering his father’s words. “Once we have turned back the enemy at Rocher de la Garde.”

“You will have a difficult time getting there,” Cern told him. “My wolves hunt any daemon-friends who stray into the woods, and they tell me that the city is now besieged. Your enemies lured you out here, and then cut you off, boy. They will take the city while it is weak and undefended.”

“My brother has a good many men-at-arms and knights,” Clarisant protested. “It is hardly undefended.”

“No Exarchs, however,” Trist said, with a sigh. “They cannot stand against three daemons.”

“Two,” Acrasia said, with the grin of a cat who has just dropped a mouse on the doorstep. “Your wife and I did for Vinea.”

Trist blinked, then looked down at Clarisant.

“Lady Acrasia carried the fight,” she said, grudgingly. “I only hit it once, at the end.”

“With an iron spike, blessed by your monks,” Acrasia said, laughing. “I’ll give you this: you’re tougher than I thought you were.”

“Two, then,” Trist said, considering. “Not counting Agrat and the Great Cataclysm itself, and whatever else they may have dug up in the meanwhile. But so long as they have Bathin to open those rifts, they can simply send a group of men into the city in the dark of night, and open a gate. The longer it takes me to get there, the less chance the city is still standing when I do.”

“I’m sorry, m’lord,” John Granger said, approaching the impromptu conference. “You came to the village to save us. If we’d evacuated to Rocher de la Garde, you wouldn’t be out of position now.”

“That isn’t your fault,” Clarisant said. “If anyone is to answer for that, it is my brother, who ignored an order from the king. But if time is precious - and it is - let us focus on how to get Trist back to the city.”

“We take every horse,” Granger proposed. “Mount up the men at arms, and ride for the city. When we get to the enemy lines, we form into a wedge and cut our way through.”

“You would be slaughtered,” Trist said, shaking his head. “And in any event, John, I need you here. You are charged with keeping our people alive, and if someone from Aubreron’s court comes, you speak on my behalf while I am gone.” I need someone to do this, because my father is dead, Trist did not say out loud. He felt his face twitch, and took a deep breath.

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Granger bowed his head.

“Horned Lord,” Trist said, turning to Cern. “Auberon’s Boon - if I ride at night, would the shadows be enough to get me past without being seen?”

“I could do it,” the Hunter said, looking at Trist with a measuring gaze. He scented the air once, like a predator. “Your strand is only red. Not enough.”

“I have four Tithes,” Trist said. “From the fighting. Acrasia, please use two of those now, to make the Shadow King’s Boon stronger.”

“It will leave you with two to spare,” Acrasia pointed out. “Do you want me to do anything with those?”

Trist shook his head. “Not yet. Save them.”

Acrasia stepped forward, into arm’s reach, and Trist felt Clarisant quiver at his side. Whatever the two women had gone through together, whatever bare sliver of respect each might have earned in the eye of the other, it was clear that nothing was forgiven. The faerie’s pale fingers reached out, hovering just above Trist’s chest, and he gasped as spools of dull fire unwound from his core. Acrasia separated the strands, most of which were orange by this point, pulling out one of only two red threads and holding it. Light surged through the strand, and Trist’s body jerked as his muscles tensed.

At his side, Clarisant gasped, and Trist was only dimly aware of the shadows moving about him, as if they were living things. The entire grove dimmed, and the sunlight faded away as if a cloud had passed overhead. Finally, it was done. Acrasia released the strand of the Boon, now burning orange, and it wound back on itself into his torso. Trist exhaled the breath he’d been holding, and slumped as his muscles relaxed.

“Are you well?” Clarisant asked him, and Trist nodded.

“It will pass in a moment,” he said, then looked up to Cern. “Now?”

“Perhaps.” The Horned Hunter shrugged. “It is of little concern to me whether you save your city; but do not lose your life. You owe us a service.”

“We go at night,” Trist said, though he would have preferred to leave immediately. “Just the three of us.” He saw Acrasia frown, but he turned from her to face his wife. “I would leave you here,” he admitted, “But I fear I will need you to deal with your brother and the rest of your family. I do not think they will be pleased with me, or much given to listen to what I have to say.”

“I would have asked to come anyway,” Clarisant said. “But you’re going to have to break it to your squire.”

“Aye,” Trist said, looking back over to where the people of the village were eating. Yaél was leaning against the trunk of an oak, eating from a handful of nuts and berries. Brother Alberic was near her, examining her leg. When Trist turned back, Cern and Acrasia had vanished. “I will do that now.”

He made his way over to the oak, and Clarisant turned aside to take from the Graal’s bounty herself. “How is her leg?” Trist asked his old teacher, once he’d come close enough to squat down and speak to them both.

“Whatever you did,” Alberic said, shaking his head with raised eyebrows, “Is fantastic. Wondrously effective. You would think the bone had been broken a week ago, instead of an hour.”

“It itches,” Yaél said, her cheeks stuffed with raspberries. “Tell the old man I can stand up, already!”

“You cannot,” Trist said, “Until Brother Alberic decides that you are ready.” He took a deep breath. “You are lucky. A great many have perished, trapped beneath their dead horse on a field of battle.”

“If it had been left to my own skills,” Alberic admitted, “We would have cut the leg off.”

Yaél coughed, nearly choked on her raspberries, and reached for a wineskin to wash them down.

“Which is why,” Trist said, “I need you to remain here.”

“No!” His squire protested. “I can ride well enough.”

“I am certain you could,” Trist said, “but my decision is made. You need time to recover, for one thing; but there are other reasons, besides. One is that I do not know whether I will be able to slip through enemy lines with a single horse, nevermind two. Another is that I need people that I trust here, to protect the villagers. Out of everyone who will be remaining behind, Yaél, you are the only one who has ever actually met the faerie king, nevermind bargained with him. I think they will need you very much.”

“You’ll come back, won’t you?”

“I will,” Trist promised. “And in the meanwhile, you will learn everything you can. You will practice the sword with John Granger, who taught me. You will practice your numbers and letters with Brother Alberic, who was my tutor. I expect a good report from both of them when next we meet.” His father’s words, coming out of his mouth.

Yaél nodded, though she didn’t look at all pleased with being left behind. “I’m sorry about your father,” she said. “I tried to help him, but…”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Trist said, looking away. He clenched his hand into a fist. “Nothing. You were so brave, Yaél. I am proud of you.” He stood. “We should head out,” he said to Clarisant.

“I thought you said that we would ride under cover of night,” his wife said, taking a step in and lowering her voice. “It is hardly noon, husband, and the sun sets late in summer.”

Trist looked around at all of the people of his village, his home, and could hardly breathe. “I cannot stay here,” he admitted, as quietly as he could without whispering. “I have to move. If I stop, I fear that I will never be able to start again. I have to do what is in front of me.”

Clarisant brushed a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “You will have to slow down eventually, husband,” she said, after considering him. “Sooner or later, there will be no enemies left for you to fight.” She sighed. “Go get Caz, then. I will pack us a bag of food.”

When Trist lifted her up into the saddle, not long after, and then pulled himself up as well, the villagers stilled, watching them. Trist didn’t want to meet their eyes, but he could feel the weight of their expectations.

“Are you leaving us, m’lord?” Anne Chapman called out.

“The Lady Clarisant and I must ride to Rocher de la Garde,” Trist said. “The daemons will strike there, next. The faerie king has agreed to shelter you in the Ardenwood, until the fighting is done.”

“Let me just get that gelding saddled,” Henry said, snatching up his Iebara wood longbow.

Trist shook his head. “Not this time. I ride with Lady Clarisant alone. But I leave you all in good hands,” he said. “Master at Arms Granger speaks with my voice until I return. And I leave you with Henry and my squire, Yaél, who have both faced down daemons at my side. We will return as soon as we are able,” he promised.

“Angelus watch over you, m’lord, m’lady,” Henry’s elderly father called out, and a chorus of voices echoed him

“Saint Camiel Guide your hand!”

“Kadosh protect you!”

Unable to bear the well wishes of the people he was leaving behind, Trist turned Cazador’s head south, and rode back into the Ardenwood.