General Aurelius has commanded us to examine whether it might be possible to free a man sworn to a daemonic patron from his unholy servitude, and so we have conducted extensive examinations of the captured Exarchs of Morax and Loray. Like all men, their tongues can be loosened by skillful use of the proper instruments.
Unfortunately, neither was forthcoming about a way to break the daemonic Accord.
* The Marian Codex
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10th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC
The summer breeze rustled through the leaves of the oaks and the beeches while Trist and Clarisant rode southwest. A small flock of golden bee-eaters, their tails feathered in vibrant green, scattered up into the air as Cazador tromped past, their rolling, high-pitched song an insult to the heaviness in Trist’s chest. When the forest thinned enough to see the plains beyond, Trist reined Caz in, slid down out of the saddle, and reached up to help Clarisant down.
Spread out to the south were the summer crops that stretched all the way to the city of Rocher de la Garde: fields of wheat and lavender, yes, but also the most extensive orchards in Narvonne: apple and pear trees, peaches, cherries, figs, apricots and plums. Trist tied the reins to a low-hanging oak bough, and unbuckled Cazador’s saddle. The destrier had been walking or running, with very few breaks, since they’d made the push into Rocher de la Garde the day before. If it wasn’t for the Hunter’s Boon, he would have long since been done. Once Trist had gotten the tack off, he rubbed Caz down as best he could and gave him a bag of oats.
“Good boy,” he told the horse, letting his forehead rest against the white blaze on Caz’ head for a moment, allowing himself the weakness of closing his eyes.
“You should rest, too,” Clarisant chided him, from where she’d settled herself at the trunk of an old beech. “Come let me help you out of your armor. You’ve said we aren’t going anywhere until nightfall.”
“I need to be ready for enemy scouts,” Trist said, straightening and pointing south. “You see the smoke on the horizon? They are camped between us and the city.”
“Trist,” Clarisant said, rising and walking over to him. “Now that I’ve seen you fight, I doubt very much that wearing your armor will make any difference against a scout or two. Caz isn’t the only one who needs a bit of rest.” She reached up to the buckles holding on his pauldrons, and loosened the left shoulder.
“You had seen me fight before,” Trist said, too tired to protest. It was true, they hadn’t really stopped since leaving Rocher de la Garde, but he had no doubt that his Boons would let him push through his exhaustion if needed. No, this was a different kind of weariness: he felt wrung out, like a wet rag. “When you visited, all those years ago. You and Enid De Lancey watched us practice in the yard.”
Clarisant laughed. “Yes, I watched thirteen year old Trist practice in the yard, half a lifetime ago. You think that was anything like what I saw this morning? You were a talented boy, Trist, even I could tell that and I have no training with the blade. But now…” she slipped off one pauldron, then the other, and set them down in the grass. “It’s like you aren’t even human,” she admitted, after a moment. “The way you move. Those men couldn’t have hurt you anymore than I could kill a charging boar.”
“You killed a daemon,” Trist pointed out. “Very few people can say that, no matter how good they are with a sword.”
“I hit the monster once, after Acrasia had all but slaughtered it already,” his wife replied with an arched brow. “You move like those birds scattered out of the tree. So fast I could hardly even see you.”
“It is still not enough,” Trist said, looking down at his boots. “I was not able to hold the portal. Vinea got by me.” A lightning strike, up on the hill. He hadn’t even had time to think about it, he was too busy fighting the daemon Zepar. Too busy while his father was lying there, mortally wounded. Too slow to help.
“You won’t ever be powerful enough to be in two places at once,” Clarisant pointed out, peeling the cuirass off him. “You can’t do everything yourself, Trist. And that means sometimes you won’t be there. That doesn’t mean it's your fault.”
“How many times have I failed to protect someone?” Trist asked, then sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself, to stuff his emotions back down so that they wouldn’t overwhelm him. He’d already permitted himself to cry once. It was time to move on, or more people would die.
“I suppose the answer is two times,” Clarisant said. “Two times that matter quite a lot. And I think it is normal to feel sorrow, Trist. You lost your father today. But even you can’t keep charging ahead without a moment to rest. So come sit until nightfall. Maybe even get a bit of sleep.” She sat down on the grass, and began unbuckling the cuisses from his thighs. Trist, in the meanwhile, pulled his gambeson off over his head and tossed it aside. The day was already getting hot.
“It makes me feel sick to watch the two of you.” Trist turned, to see Acrasia standing beside Caz, still dressed in black. At his feet, Clarisant froze, holding up the rounded steel plate of his left cuisse, having just pulled it off his leg.
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The faerie took a step forward, looking down from Trist to his wife, and then back up again. “Like broken glass in my stomach. Is this what mortals feel? I don’t know how you stand it.”
“I thought the two of you worked together today,” Trist said after a moment, then reached down to help Clarisant get the last of his armor off.
“Aye,” Acrasia said. “But it doesn’t make this feeling any better.”
“For what it is worth,” Clarisant said, “I haven’t forgiven you, either. We had to work together to survive, and we did; but that doesn’t make us friends. It doesn’t fix anything.” She set aside the cuisse she’d been holding, and stood, folding her arms over her chest.
“We have to work together until this is all over,” Trist told them both. “We hold Rocher de la Garde, and then we do what Auberon asked.”
“And after that,” Acrasia said, lifting her chin. “After we go to Vellatesia, I want something, too. For myself. I told you that, Trist, before we were interrupted.”
“You can’t have him,” Clarisant shot back to the faerie, before Trist could even speak. “He’s my husband now. The father of my son. I won’t let you take Trist, too.”
Acrasia’s lip curled. “I wanted to,” she admitted. “I still want to, but I can see that it won’t happen. You know I tried, little girl? All through the Ardenwood, on the journey to Falais, and up in the mountains. I thought it would be easy. What human could resist me? But he’s stubborn, our Trist,” she continued. “He wouldn’t even kiss me. Pushed me aside, told me you were his wife now. I didn’t really understand until I watched your carriage roll into the castle. He doesn’t love me. He loves you.”
Trist swallowed, but he couldn’t make words come out. Don’t say it, his wife had told him, under the shade of an oak tree. Don’t say it unless you mean it.
“He doesn’t love me.” Clarisant looked away from them both. “I know that,” she said, her voice thick. “I’ve known it since the beginning. And that’s alright. He’s a good man, he does his duty, and that’s enough.”
“I thought you were smarter than that,” Acrasia said. “Or maybe it's just easier to see other people. You’re a fool just like the rest of them, mortal girl.”
“Stop it,” Trist said, finally. “What is it you want then, Acrasia, if not me?”
“Freedom,” the faerie maid said, taking a step forward. “Let me out of these chains, Trist. Let me go. I can’t stay here and watch the two of you any longer. I can’t watch her have everything I want. It hurts me, I can’t stand it. Just let me leave.”
“Can I do that?” Trist asked.
“You can,” Acrasia said. “Just like your father said.”
“At Velatessia,” Clarisant broke in, turning back to them. “Your father did it, Trist. He knows how. They broke your mother free of a daemon, didn’t they?”
“They did,” Trist said. “I won’t be an Exarch anymore, will I?”
Acrasia shook her head. “No. You won’t. And your sword will be nothing but a normal sword. No more summoning ghosts to fight for you, no more healing people with a sip of wine. It all goes away, if you let me go.”
“But you can’t ask him to do that,” Clarisant protested. “We need him. The daemons -”
“After,” Trist said, nodding his head. “After it's all done, Acrasia. You have my word. I will set you free.”
The faerie smiled. “Thank you, Trist,” she said, and dissolved into motes of light, born upon the summer breeze.
“Trist,” Clarisant said, closing the distance between them in only two steps, and grabbing up his hands in hers. “You can’t.”
“I can,” Trist said, more confidently now that the decision was made. It felt right. “No matter what she has done, Claire, I cannot make a slave of her. No one deserves that. We will win this war, and then she can go on her way.”
“And you?” she asked. “What happens to you, then?”
“The same thing that happened to my mother,” Trist said, lifting one of his wife’s hands in his own. Both of them were covered in dust and sweat, but he raised her hand to his lips, anyway, and kissed her knuckles. “I go home with my wife and raise our child.”
“They killed your mother,” Clarisant pointed out. “Waited until she was powerless, and then sent a plague to do her in. Nothing she could fight honestly, just a sneaking sickness. You are making enemies.”
“I do not think fear of what might happen to me, years or decades in the future, is a good enough reason to enslave someone,” Trist said. “It will be alright. I never thought I would be an exarch, anyway.” He released her hand, and wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her body against his.
“Are you truly going to be able to live with that?” Clarisant asked. “Most men would never give up that kind of power.”
“Clarisant,” Trist said, tasting the name slowly. “You truly don’t see it, do you? You see everyone else. Ismet and Lionel, Yaél…”
She stiffened in his arms, and looked away. “You don’t have to pretend,” she murmured. “I know life isn’t a bedtime tale. I would rather have honesty between us.”
“Then let me say what I’ve been afraid to tell you,” Trist said. “I love you, Clarisant. I don’t know when it happened. It came like the seasons turning, and I didn’t even notice at first. But I felt it when I thought I was dying, and I felt it when you came to Falais and I saw you again, the wind taking your hair, and I couldn’t believe how beautiful you were. And I felt it when I thought the daemon was going for you, and when you told me you were carrying our child. You told me not to say it unless I meant it, but I do mean it. I love you.”
“Not her?” Clarisant asked, her voice small. Trist shook his head.
“You.” He bent down to catch her lips with his, before she could say anymore, before she could find a reason to push him away, and he felt the moment that she relaxed into his arms and began to kiss him back. It made him feel alive. His father was gone, but they were still here. They sank into the summer grass together, under the shade of the beech tree, and for the rest of the afternoon did their best to forget everything else.