David Niemitz
patreon
Faerie Knight 173
🕑 Added 2025-04-26 11:00:37 +0000 UTC173 - Deep Summer
Let all common men who have fought for the late usurper come forward and swear their loyalty, and they shall be forgiven.
King Lionel Aurelianus
☀
4th Day of Deep Summer’s Moon, AC 297
It took weeks for the mud to finally dry; by that time, King Lionel’s army had been moved into the city itself, and the temporary camp on the heights disassembled. Much of the capital had been damaged by the siege engines, but Lutetia had not suffered under the extended siege that had devastated Rocher de la Garde.
Trist and Clarisant had been given a suite of guest rooms in Cheverny, in the Maiden’s Tower. He had been hesitant to stay in the castle where Avitus had caged and maimed him, but Claire had pointed out that they couldn’t very well refuse the king. Thankfully, Lionel had not yet used the Great Hall where his father had been murdered. It had remained locked and barred on the king’s order, and rumor had it there were plans to strip it the room down to the foundations and the beams for a renovation.
Instead of the hall, the king had been using the courtyard of Cheverny for feasting. With the sun returned, the heat of Deep Summer had cooked the castle like a loaf of fresh bread in an oven. Rows of trestle tables had been set up in the courtyard, with accompanying benches, and it was there that the nobles knights, and squires broke their fast in the morning and came together again for an evening meal.
The very heart of the growing season had been ripped out by weeks of dark, unnatural winter, and for the next year everyone in the kingdom would need to tighten their belts. Grain crops had died, along with most of the vegetable, herb and fruit gardens. To the south, the coastal fruit trees in the orchards of Rocher de la Garde would survive, but in the meantime it was the sea that would keep the people of Narvonne alive.
The fishing fleet at Lutetia had survived, and within days after the liberation of the city, the dockside markets were already bustling again. There, the sea breeze cooled the hot morning air, and the bright sun flashed off the scales of fresh caught bass, hake, and cod. Cockles, clams, mussels and rock lobsters stocked pots of stew, while seaweeds, including egg wrack and sea lettuce, substituted for the usual greens.
The cellars and storerooms of Cheverny itself were substantial, with stocks carefully shepherded over years by a succession of stewards in the event of a siege. While Avitus had feasted profligately, even his debauches had not truly put a dent in the stores. Nevertheless, Lionel had been conservative about dipping into the stores of flour, salted meat, dried herbs, and other sundries. He had confided to Trist that he would save as much as possible for the winter, and the starving times that came in the spring.
“Isdern says the cooks have been given leave to pull out smoked hams and sausages,” Yaél announced, her eyes already gleaming at the thought. “And they’ve baked fresh loaves of bread, as well. Been at it since before dawn.”
“Hold still,” Clarisant chided her as she tugged on the squire’s bodice to get it straight. Trist was dressed, already, with only his swordbelt still to be buckled on, and he watched the operation from where he was roundly beating Henry in a game of Six Soldiers. He didn’t win the game often, so he was doing his best to enjoy it. The maid, Anais, did her best to get Yaél’s hair into some sort of order, and Dame Etoile stood at Henry’s shoulder, scowling down.
“You lost three moves ago,” she complained. “Next time you should let me play.”
“If we let you play,” Trist pointed out, “I would never win. Do not give him advice.”
Ettie scowled for a moment, then tugged at her shift. The motion drew Henry’s eye, and he looked away from the game board. “Does it still itch?” he asked her.
“Most days,” Etoile admitted, reaching up to brush her hand against the bandages that wrapped the stump of her arm. Henry winced, and Trist would have said something if the knight herself hadn’t done it for him. “I’ve told you before Henry, you saved my life when you took the arm off. Don’t give it any more thought.”
“Aye,” Henry admitted. “But I also made it so you’d never use a sword again.”
“Do not worry about that,” Trist broke in. “I have plenty of use for her. Our new master at arms will be quite busy.”
“There,” Claire announced. “Finally. Now don’t go mussing anything before we get down to the feast,” she chided Yaél. “Are you ready, Husband?”
“As Ettie said, Henry lost this game three moves ago,” Trist said, rising from his chair. He reached for his sword belt, and hesitated when he noticed that someone had secured the sheathed blade of the winter queen to it. “This is not my sword,” he complained, again.
“I can’t use it anymore,” Ettie said. “Don’t look at me.”
“I’d cut my own foot off with it,” Henry said, standing.
“You can’t expect me to wear it,” Claire told him, taking a step forward to help him settle the belt and the sheath around his waist. “Yaél can have it in a few years, but a squire carrying a faerie blade around would draw all the wrong kind of attention to her.”
“I do not like the bargain you made,” Trist groused, though he did not stop her. “I have a mind to pay a visit to the Winter Queen and renegotiate.”
“No more broken oaths,” Claire said, shaking her head. “No one will be using that thing to pay our Tithes for many, many years. In the meantime, an Exarch needs a weapon.”
“I’m no Exarch any longer,” Trist pointed out, though he did not allow the conversation to stop them from filing out of their rooms and down the stairs to descend the tower.
“I don’t know what you are,” Henry said, with a laugh. “But by the Angelus, it isn’t normal.”
In the courtyard, Trist and Claire first left Yaél at the squire’s table, where she was greeted by a cheer and raised cups from her friends. The story of how a squire had, even if only for a moment, stood her ground against the abomination Camiel had made her something of a hero among her peers. Trist noticed that Isdern had, as usual, saved her a place next to him, and resolved to write to Baroness Arnive.
Etoile and Henry peeled off to sit at one of the knights’ tables, where the survivors of their ride from the road to Rocher de la Garde greeted them. Sir Florent, Dame Ettarre, and Sir Erec rose to greet them with smiles, and there was a part of Trist that would have wished to remain there and eat with them, but his wife had put a stop to that many days past.
“You don’t fit with them anymore, Trist,” she’d told him, while they lay in bed talking into the night. “You were an Exarch and their commander, even before you saved the city. Now you’re the hero who walks with faeries and slays daemons, who saved the kingdom. You can’t expect them to treat you like a friend now.”
He hadn’t liked it, but he’d accepted it. Once Henry and Etoile had found their seats, and a few kind words had been exchanged, Trist offered Claire his arm again, and they proceeded up the center aisle to the high table.
King Lionel was already there, with an empty seat to his right and Sir Bors standing behind him in full armor. Guiron, Lorengel and Margaret were there, as well, though the other three Exarchs were dressed for the feast and not for duty. “Join us, Sir Trist,” the king called, and when they offered him a bow and a curtsy, respectively, he simply waved his cup to indicate their accustomed seats.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Claire said, and scooted in next to Margaret. “How is your leg?” she asked.
“Much better,” the Exarch of Rahab assured her. “Especially since you took the stitches out.”
“It has not escaped my notice, Trist,” Lionel spoke up, “That several of my Exarchs owe their lives as much to your wife as to you.”
Trist shrugged. “She has good needlework,” he observed. “Though I would guess she would rather not stitch anything but linen for a long time yet.”
“If I never have to stitch you up again, I will be happy,” Claire turned to him and said with a smile. “I am told a ship arrived yesterday with the evening tide, Your Majesty. Does that have anything to do with rumors of a particularly extravagant feast?”
Lionel took a sip from his goblet. “Now that everyone is back together again, it is time for me to make a few announcements,” he said. “And there we are.”
A murmur rippled from the low tables to the high. Trist had seen her coming - his awareness had only improved the more he relied on it, both in range and in detail. But now the entire feasting company watched Ismet ibnah Salah walk up the center aisle, escorted by an older man that Trist did not recognize. Her father, perhaps?
Ismet wore a dress of white, with a red veil that covered her face and her hair. Both were worked in gold thread, and for once the southern Exarch did not wear a sword at her side. When the two came to a halt before the high table, Lionel rose, and so the entire company rose as well.
“General Ismet, Exarch of Epinoia,” Lionel called out, his voice easily filling the courtyard. “Narvonne welcomes you. If not for the heroism of your men, who marched with us to the capital and fought at our side against daemons, Narvonne would not be free, and it would be winter still.”
Ismet did not respond immediately, but the man at her side instead returned the king’s greeting. “King Lionel Aurelianus of Narvonne,” he said. “As Wāli of the Bay of Sands, I thank you for your hospitality and welcome, and I cherish the promise of peace at last between our peoples. However, as an uncle, and in the absence of her father, I must ask you your intentions regarding my niece. I am told you spoke of marriage. Are you still committed to this course?”
Claire grinned and elbowed Trist.
“If the Lady Ismet would have me,” Lionel said, “I would ask her to be my wife.”
The southern man looked to Ismet, released her arm, and took a step back before bowing. “The marriage has my approval as her guardian,” he said.
Ismet stepped forward, and Lionel came around the table to take her arm. Together, they turned to face the assembly. “Narvonne,” the king said, “I present to you your future queen.”
A roar erupted from the tables, and Trist raised his voice to add to it. Cups were raised, and toasts shouted, before Ismet was finally able to take the empty seat next to the king’s place. The Wāli, her uncle, was given a place at the high table as well, but Lionel did not yet sit.
“I said it was time for a few announcements,” he called out, once the noise had settled. “And so it is. Yesterday, upon her arrival, Lady Ismet brought word that the new caliph has agreed to a peace between our two realms. While I live, we will never again spill blood at Falais. We have looked upon the true enemy, and it is not our neighbors to the south. Now,” he said, “It is time to recognize those who have bled for our victory.”
“Henry of Camaret-à-Arden,” the King of Narvonne called, looking down from the high table to pin the hunter with his eyes, “rise and come before me.”
