The difference between medicine, as it is practiced in the Caliphate of Maʿīn, and here in Narvonne, is simply staggering. In my youth, I traveled south to learn what I could, and found an entirely new manner of thinking about the treatment of wounds. The southerners set up entire buildings dedicated to treating the sick and wounded, where physicians work in teams. They have extensive theories on how to prevent gangrene or infection from setting in, which I have attempted to use here as best I can.

* Jean Bradamore, physician to the Baron du Rocher de la Garde

☀

10th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

“Are you hurt?” Trist asked Claire. He slid out of his saddle, ignoring the men-at-arms in service to her father, who were gathering around them, and sheathed his sword. Then, he reached up to help her down to the ground. The moment she was on her feet, he began checking her for wounds, patting gently along her limbs and back.

“I’m fine, my lord husband,” Claire said, raising her voice a bit to be heard and adopting a more formal tone than either had used since the afternoon.

“Good.” Satisfied, Trist pulled his helm off and set it on the cobblestone of the street, followed by his gauntlets. He rested a hand on Caz’s back, running it along the destrier so that the warhorse would know where he was as he moved back toward where the feathered shaft of an arrow jutted out of a bleeding wound. “Hush, now boy,” Trist crooned, trying to soothe the wounded animal. He pulled one of his woolen socks from his saddlebags, and pressed it around the arrow to try to slow the bleeding. “I need a surgeon!” Trist called out.

From the growing crowd of men-at-arms and knights, a steady murmuring rose, though here and there a distinct voice stood out.

“Did you see that? He cut those arrows right out of the air!”

“-never seen a horse mounted double run that fast.”

“Sir Trist!” Sir Florent rattled down the steps from the parapet above the wall, in full armor aside from a helm. He kept one hand on the pommel of his sword to keep it from tangling in his legs. “You’ve returned. How did you find your father, and the village?”

“And that archer who cooks so well,” Dame Etoile added, following him. The common soldiers made way for the two knights.

“Henry is well,” Trist said, still applying pressure while doing his best to keep Cazador calm. “I left him in the Ardenwood with my squire and the master-at-arms to protect the villagers. I need a barber-surgeon.”

“Here, Trist.” Clarisant pulled a middle-aged man over by the hand. “This is Jean Bradamore, my father’s personal surgeon.”

“M’lord, m’lady,” Bradamore said, with a nod of his head. He was clutching a great leather bag that Trist assumed to be full of his tools. “Lord Gareth insisted I remain near the north gate, to be on hand in the event of her ladyship’s return.”

“Aye, he’s had to room in the barracks with the men since last evening,” Etoile said, slapping the surgeon’s back with a gauntlet. “He’ll see to your horse well enough.”

“Can you get the arrow out?” Trist asked the physician.

“Let me get a look.” Bradamore stepped in, and Trist got out of his way, but kept an eye on the wound as the barber-surgeon uncovered it for closer examination. “It is a clean puncture, and I do not think it has torn the muscle… I will use probes to open the wound, so that I can work the head out, and then I will close it again. Rose honey should keep infection from setting in.” He shook his head. “But I fear you will not be able to ride for some weeks, m’lord.”

“As long as he lives, I do not mind if I never ride him again,” Trist said, moving to the destrier’s front so that he could stroke Cazador’s nose. “He can spend the rest of his life breeding mares and getting fat, for all I care, but he has been a good companion.”

“I’m certain he will be fine, husband,” Clarisant said, laying a hand on Trist’s arm. “But I suspect my brother will wish to speak with us.”

“Aye,” Sir Florent agreed. “Lord Gareth left word to escort you both to the keep as soon as you returned. He has been… most concerned about his sister. There has been a carriage stationed here all day.”

Trist leaned his head against Caz’ forehead, closing his eyes for a moment. “You will be well, boy,” he promised the destrier, softly. “I will come as soon as I can, and bring you a good ripe apple. How does that sound?”

Cazador pushed his nose into Trist’s chest, and he rubbed the horse’s soft nose one more time before turning to the surgeon. “I entrust him into your care,” Trist said. “You have my gratitude.” Then, he collected his helm and gauntlets and, with his wife on his arm, followed Sir Florent to the waiting carriage.

It seemed that rumor of their daring ride across the no-man’s land between the enemy camp and the outer walls spread through the city faster than a carriage could travel, for crowds of people called out as they passed. The men, women and children of Rocher de la Garde gathered by torchlight as if Trist was a saint himself, come to protect them from the army at their gates.

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“That’s the Exarch!” one boy told the younger girl on his shoulders, pointing at the carriage, and they both waved. A brother and sister, perhaps. Trist frowned, and looked to Clarisant on the opposite bench.

“Your brother must have made an announcement,” he speculated.

Claire shrugged. “You would be surprised how quickly rumors spread, even in a city as large as this. What is a city but a thousand villages? We came with a dozen people, after all, and I’m sure they’ve all been taking shifts on the walls. It isn’t surprising that they’ve talked. And it’s rare enough for an Exarch to leave Lutetia, unless a member of the Royal Family is traveling. Most people have never seen one. Does it bother you, to be famous like this?”

“The part that bothers me,” Trist admitted to her, as the wagon rolled through another gate and into the courtyard of the keep, “is that I cannot actually protect them all. I cannot defeat an entire army by myself, Claire. That should have been made clear this morning.”

“You don’t have to defeat the army - that’s what we have soldiers for, husband,” Claire said. “What you can do, that no one else can, is fight the daemons that will come with them.”

He grinned. “No one else? Perhaps I should tell the people about you and that spike you used.”

Claire rolled her eyes, but he was pleased to see that her lips also quirked in a smile. The carriage rolled to a stop, and a servant opened the door. Trist climbed out, somewhat awkwardly because he was still wearing his plate armor, and then turned to help his wife down out of the carriage as well.

“Clarisant!” a woman’s voice called out, and Trist turned to see the Baroness rushing across the courtyard in her nightgown, with Lord Gareth not far behind. “How did you get into the city?”

“Damndest thing,” Sir Florent said, swinging down out of his saddle. “It’s like they rode right through. It must have been magic of some sort.” He looked over to Trist. “Wasn’t it?”

“The Boon of the Shadow King,” Trist explained, releasing his wife so that she could embrace her mother. “I pulled the night around us, like a fog. If I had been able to hold it longer, they would never have even known we passed them by.”

“You took my sister through the enemy camp, with nothing but a fairie spell to protect her?” Sir Gareth demanded, with a scowl. The older man still wore his tabard and mail, well-polished and gleaming by torchlight. Trist realized that his own armor must look a fright, streaked by blood and dust.

“I am safe, brother,” Claire said, releasing her mother and reaching out for Trist’s hand. “My husband has kept me safe.”

“Your clothes are a disaster,” Baroness Blasine said, looking her over. “And your hair looks like you’ve been sleeping in the grass.” Trist coughed, and the blush that crept over his wife’s cheeks did not escape his notice. “I’ll have the servants draw you a bath,” Claire’s mother decided.

“And was it worth it?” Gareth asked Trist. “I see you return with only half your party. What of your village?”

“Camaret-à-Arden,” Trist responded, “has been evacuated into the Ardenwood, where the people shelter under the protection of the Court of Shadows. The village is burned, and my father is dead.”

“Sir Rience?” Blasine’s face paled. “But he was a formidable warrior, my husband always said so. How…”

“Even the most skilled knight may meet their end facing a daemon,” Clarisant told her mother. “And two assaulted the village. Trist held off one, but the other struck his father down.”

“Two daemons,” Gareth said, shaking his head. Trist observed that when his brother-in-law was angry, a vein stood out on his forehead. “I told you that you should never have gone. You left the entire city defenseless against two daemons, for an entire day, and the village still burned.”

“If you had evacuated the village in the first place,” Trist said, taking a step closer to Gareth, “they would all have been safe here, and my father would still be alive.”

Gareth narrowed his eyes. “I made a hard decision, but I stand by it. There was not time to waste men on a village of a few hundred, when this entire city was in danger. You have my condolences for the loss of your father, but he died in battle, doing his duty to defend his people.”

“Aye,” Trist nearly growled. “He knew his duty.”

“I will not have my decisions questioned by my own vassal,” Gareth spat, the vein throbbing so visibly Trist wondered if it would actually burst out of his head. “Do not forget your oath to my father, Sir.”

“I forget nothing,” Trist said. “I swore an oath always to stand against treason, as, I presume, did you. While you have been safe behind these walls-”

“Husband,” Claire broke in. “Brother. It has been an arduous and exhausting journey, made in very little time and with no rest. We are, none of us, in any fit state to have such a conversation. I beg your leave, Gareth, for Trist and I to bathe and dress, and perhaps have something to eat. Once we have collected ourselves, we can discuss what we learned at Camaret-à-Arden, and how best to protect the city from the daemons.”

Trist held Gareth’s eyes, unwilling to be the first to look away, until Claire tugged on his arm. “My wife speaks truly,” he said, after a moment, with a sigh. “I have just come from burning my father’s body. I pray you, Sir Gareth, excuse me for misspeaking.”

Sir Gareth scowled. “Go get cleaned up,” he said, turning around to stride back across the courtyard toward the keep. “And then meet me in the Great Hall. I will see to food.”

Baroness Blasine, in the meanwhile, snapped her fingers, and waived a servant over. “Run ahead to my daughter’s rooms and draw a hot bath,” she commanded. Once the girl had scurried off, she considered Trist for a long moment. “You have my condolences on the death of your father,” she told him. “I know how difficult it is to lose a parent. I daresay that when my father died, I was in no fit state for company. I will speak to my son.”

“Thank you, Baroness,” Trist said, bowing his head to her.

“Thank me by protecting my daughter and my grandchild,” the older woman said, with a huff. “And by protecting this city. Until the king arrives, you are the only person who can fight the daemons. I have not forgotten that, even if my son has. But do not push him, Trist. He has something of a temper. Well,” she said, then gathered her skirts. “Come along then, children. Let us get you cleaned up.”

Trist took a step to follow her, then paused, and turned to Sir Florent. “Bathin and Zepar, at least, are still out there,” he told the older knight. “They will open a gate inside the city, now that they have failed once. I need a fast horse ready to ride, here in the courtyard, and I need every patrol to have a signal. A horn, perhaps. Something. So that I can get to the gate and hold them there.”

“A chokepoint,” Florent said, nodding. “I will see to it, Exarch.” He swung back up into the saddle, and rode out of the courtyard back into the city.

“Come along,” Claire said, pulling Trist toward the keep. “You’ll be fighting again soon enough. Get something to eat.”

Trist let himself be led, but he turned back once to look out at the dark city, and the sea beyond it. A portal could be opened anywhere, in an alley, a basement, beneath the quay, and he would never know until it was too late. How in the name of the Angelus was he going to keep Rocher de la Garde from falling?