You don’t know how many nights I’ve dreamed of you, my love, and then awoke to a cold bed and a pillow wet with tears.

* Letter from Princess Helyan of Narvonne, addressed to Sir Maddoc of the Wood; unsent, and found among her papers after her death

☀

16th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

The rest of the day, spent in the cellar beneath The Fighting Lion, was as frustrating for Trist as his memories of how it felt to learn his arithmetic from Brother Alberic when he was a child. Hours of coaching from Acrasia, while the other Exarchs and Enid took their turns getting cleaned up, didn’t bring him any closer to seeing anything other than cores.

He could recognize the different Exarchs by the number and colors of their burning threads, and the patterns of how those threads were wrapped around each other into a core. He could slip into that way of seeing in a moment, and stay there, in the peculiar frame of mind he’d only ever grasped for short durations. Trist guessed that his blindness was at least partially responsible for his improved endurance: the moment he let his focus slip, he was utterly in the dark once again, and he hated it.

The longsword remained visible to him, as well. By the time they took a break so that Trist could have his own turn in the tub, he could also see not only Acrasia, but the three Angelus tied to the Exarchs.

“Try looking at the water,” Acrasia suggested, and Trist had simply had enough.

“I need a rest,” he said. “Let me just clean up without thinking about this.”

Acrasia frowned. “You want to be able to fight tonight at the Cathedral, don’t you?”

“I do,” Trist admitted. “But sometimes, when you are trying to learn something new, it is important to know when to stop. Frustration does not help, but coming back to practice fresh often does.”

“Something that master-of-arms of yours told you?” Acrasia asked him, arching her eyebrows and tossing back her hair.

“Over and over again, when I was a child,” Trist said. “Now give me a few moments of peace.” The water was only half warm, but it was a relief to be able to finally get clean after three days imprisoned in a cage. Margaret’s parents had brought them a bar of soap, and while hardly any of it was left by the time it was Trist’s turn, the scent of bergamot and lime made him feel as if his lungs were opening up. The best soap came from the Caliphate, and Trist was a bit surprised that Margaret’s parents could afford such a luxury. Their inn must have been doing quite well before the city was conquered.

The hardest part was dealing with his eyes.

Using his Boon had healed the weeping wounds where Trist’s eyes had been torn out, but his face was still crusted with blood and pus and Angelus knew what else. The empty sockets were tender, and he discovered that getting soapy water in there stung fiercely. Finally, after cleaning himself, Trist accepted a towel from Cynric, and the other Exarch helped him dress in clean clothes brought by Margaret’s father.

“I feel as helpless as a child,” Trist admitted, fumbling with his boots.

“Not quite that harmless, I think,” Dame Margaret said, the sound of her boots on the cellar floor approaching. “My mother sent this for you. Hold still a moment.”

He felt a cloth settle over his eyes. Margaret shifted around behind his back, and Trist sat there while she pulled the fabric tight and tied it behind his head. “There,” the Exarch of Rahab said, her voice moving as she came around in front of him again. “It doesn’t look bad, Trist. And it will keep dirt from getting in there.”

“I must look like a beggar on the side of the road,” Trist grumbled.

“You’ll be a beggar in plate, then,” Lorengel pointed out. “At least you won’t have to worry about your helm cutting your field of vision. Worst part of wearing the damned things.”

In spite of himself, Trist grinned and felt a bit better. “I think the heat is worse, honestly,” he admitted. “Alright. We have a bit of time. I am ready to get back to work, Acrasia.”

“Let’s try something different,” the faerie said, sitting down in front of him and smoothing her dress out. “I think you’re too close to things. I want you to try pulling back.”

“How do I do that?” Trist asked.

“Lay down in my lap,” she said, “and relax.”

“Acrasia,” he said, “we have spoken of this before. I am married now.”

“I know that,” she shot back. “I need you to let go, Trist, and this is the best way I can think of to do it. Nothing more. I promise.”

“Very well,” he said, after considering for a moment. “I assume you have actually gotten your body out for this.”

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“She has,” Cynric called over. “And a beautiful woman she is. Lady Acrasia, how would you feel about-”

“Shut up, Cynric,” Margaret shouted him down. Trist turned around and settled back, stretched out on the cool stone floor, until his shoulders, neck, and head were in Acrasia’s lap. Then, he felt her fingers in his hair, along his scalp. She began to rub, gently but firmly, and worked her way down to his neck. In spite of himself, Trist let out a long breath, and felt his muscles loosening.

“That’s it,” Acrasia murmured. “Let yourself drift. This mortal world isn’t all there is, Trist. You are not your body. Let yourself float, and just feel everything around you.” Her words were rhythmic, soothing, like a lullaby. Trist’s mind drifted to a memory of his mother, singing to him while he wrapped himself in blankets and burrowed into his pillow. The last few days had been exhausting, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep. He felt himself begin to drift.

In his dream, Trist could see again.

He looked down at the cellar from above, and saw himself, or his body, resting motionless with Acrasia’s hands moving in circles on his shoulders. Lorengel and Margaret had got oil, rags and a whetstone from somewhere, and they were working their way through all the weapons and armor, cleaning. Cynric was sitting next to Enid, and the two were speaking in hushed tones. Back farther, Trist’s vision moved, and he could see a large man walking up to the cellar door, carrying a basket. It must be Margaret’s father.

Roger Bowman had put on weight since he’d gone to war two decades earlier; his face was red, and his belly shook as he rapped on the cellar door. It was Cynric that got up and moved the bar, and accepted the basket. The scent of fresh bread and roast chicken wafted through the cellar.

None of this was what Trist wanted to dream about, however. He wanted to see home, and the people he cared about, not dwell on the same place he was trapped when he awoke. Clarisant. He wanted to see his wife, and tell her that he was alive.

Trist’s dream shifted, and he saw a ship at sea, by the light of the stars overhead and the white-ring that should have been a summer sun. A stiff wind filled the sails, and salt spray was flung back from where the ship cut the waves at the front. Clarisant was there, on deck, dressed in a heavy wool dress in dark blue, worked with white sea-shells and pearl buttons, and Yaél was by her side.

The squire was practically hanging over the rail, and Claire had her hand at the girl’s waist, fingers wrapped around Yaél’s sword belt. Trist couldn’t help but grin at the sight of it. “Do not let her drag you over with her,” he said, before he could think better of it.

Claire’s eyes opened wide, and she looked directly at him. “Trist?”

“Here, have something to eat,” Enid offered, shaking Trist’s shoulder with her hand, and he was back in the dark cellar. Trist sat up quickly, rolling out of Acrasia’s lap.

“I had the strangest dream,” he said, and then stopped. “I could smell the bread… is that roast chicken?”

“Roast chicken, fresh bread, and cheese, too,” Enid said. “I didn’t want it to get cold while you slept.” Acrasia, in the meanwhile, had withdrawn into his sword - that he could see, by the movement of her core. “I wanted to thank you, Sir Trist,” Enid said. “For letting me speak to my father one more time. And for rescuing me.”

“You do not need to thank me,” Trist said, accepting a hunk of bread and a slice of cheese, one on top of the other, and taking a large bite. How long had it been since he’d had decent food? He couldn’t help but moan as he chewed, and then swallowed. “It is my duty as a knight to protect the innocent. And more than that - I promised your father I would protect you.”

“He told me,” Enid admitted. “And how he died, as well. Lights, leading them into the forest. Faerie lights.”

“Aye,” Trist said, with a sigh. “He was a Tithe. He and the girl he was with, both.”

“I think it is best that I leave, after all,” Enid said, quietly. “It was your faerie that killed him, wasn’t it?”

“It was.” He paused eating, waiting for her response.

“Father says it isn’t your fault,” Enid said. “That you weren’t with her, and didn’t even know about it. And that you’ve kept your word to him. But all the same, I don’t want to be in the room with her. With the monster that-” Her words broke off.

“I understand,” Trist said. “I would not ask you to stay - nor to come with us under the cathedral. You would be doing us a service, in all honesty, to get back to the king and tell him what you can.”

“My mind is made up, then,” Enid De Lancey said. “I’ll leave you to eat.” Her skirts rustled, and he was alone again. Trist took a bite of chicken.

“What she neglected to mention is that her father was already drunk and betraying his wife when I found him on the edge of the woods,” Acrasia said, re-appearing in front of him. “He was no prize, that one.”

“He was still her father,” Trist pointed out. “She has a right to hate you.”

Acrasia rolled her eyes. “Nevermind that. Did you see anything? When you relaxed?”

“No.” Trist took a swallow from the wine-skin Enid had left him, to wash down his meal. “I fell asleep, and dreamed, and that was all.”

“What did you dream?” Acrasia narrowed her eyes.

“Of the cellar, at first,” Trist said. “Likely because I could hear what was happening around us. Margaret’s father coming with the basket of chicken and bread, Lorengel and Margaret cleaning the weapons. And then I wanted to see Claire.”

Acrasia’s lips twitched, but she held in whatever she wanted to say, so Trist continued. “She was on a ship, at the rail, holding on to Yaél to keep the silly girl from falling overboard. And just at the end-” he stopped.

“What?” Acrasia asked. “What is it?”

“For just a moment,” Trist admitted, “I thought she looked right at me, and said my name.”

Acrasia laughed. “Leave it to you, Trist. I ask you to take your first step, and instead you run off into the forest.”

Trist frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Two circles, remember?” Acrasia said, taking a moment to sketch them on the ground again, so that the illusion shone in Trist’s mind. The faerie stood up, and put both feet in one. Then, she lifted her left foot, and set it in the second circle.

“You are not making any sense,” Trist complained.

“I asked you to take a step back from this world, so that you could see it better,” Acrasia explained. “You did more than that. You put a foot in each circle, Trist. For that moment, when your wife saw you, and spoke? You were in two places at once.”