Seven Night's Journey to the Great Palace Azulier — Rosemary McLean
Outside, sea-breeze stirred the flowered hills of yellow and white, freshly bloomed in time for the recent spring festival. Within, our mistress, similarly curtained from face to feet in layers of sheer and patterned white fabrics like a Storian bride, worked her eggshell hands over a ball of fabric with gold needles, slowly giving shape to a blanket displaying scenes of battle, of courtship—a tapestry of tales. Only on occasion would her restraints, heavy grey manacles leashed around her wrists and ankles, catch against her movement and rattle in their sockets against the cart walls. Our knight, whose heavy gold mail glittered restlessly in the morning’s orange, had been pointed towards the cart by the inn’s frightened inhabitants. Our mistress turned, beneath her veil of white, and paused her work to watch the knight’s approach.
“I imagine,” she began in a smooth, honeyed tone as the knight drew near, “that you are the one who shall carry me to Tolas?” The question arrested the knight’s approach.
“Hm.”
“Hm?” parroted our mistress. The knight’s gold gauntlet traveled to the hilt by its side, and a crystal-white blade sang from its scabbard. Our mistress shifted uneasily in her seat as the knight approached, sword-ready. The point tipped towards the door, sliding between the lock and handle, and then adjusted like a pry bar between the two. Before our knight shifted her weight against the lever, she paused and asked:
“Shall I release you, madam, and return with the head of the Don of Pescanor who bound you thusly?” Her voice was stern and serious, like churning gravel, and our mistress couldn’t help but laugh. It began as an anxious giggle, then burst out heartily, the sort of unbound laugh that wouldn’t dare appear in court. Our knight shifted uncertainly in her armor, hands adjusting against the hilt and shaft of her weapon.
“I should think that ill-advised,” our mistress finally chuckled out.
“No harm would come of you, madam,” our knight reassured, “I would make sure of that.”
“No, no,” the lady protested, “I merely think it unwarranted.”
“I am no slave-trader,” our knight rebuked, “nor do I make a habit of transporting maidens to unwanted arrangements, matrimonial or otherwise.” The lady’s hands raised in protest, though the manacles halted them half-up.
“I assure you, I am no slave. No betrothal awaits me in the Palace Azulier, either, dear knight.”
“I am no warden, then.” Our knight’s face tweaked with confusion beneath her helm.
“Nor am I a prisoner!” our mistress exclaimed, amused, then corrected, “at least, no man holds me here against my will. I must admit, your concern is… appreciated, dear knight, if surprising. I suspected that our intermediary Don would have informed you more about your quest before sending you on your way.”
“Only that I am to transport the lady, Eloise of Castelés, Lorenth, from the Stable of Pylion, through the heart of Greatwood to the Great Palace Azulier, seven night’s journey along the eastroad. To protect my lady from harm, ensure her expectations of hunger, thirst, cleanliness, and so on met, and to keep company with conversation, tale, and song, in the thin hours of the morning and night, and when the road’s journey grows wearisome and droll.”
“Is that all?” the lady smiled with interest beneath her veil.
“Indeed,” our knight replied gravely. “If you are certain that you are… satisfied with your accommodation, and not merely protesting out of fear of retaliation from some third party—a fear which, I may add, would be wholly unwarranted, as I, a decorated knight-errant of Tolas, am hitherto sworn to defend my lady—then… I suppose we may be off.”
The lady leaned back against her elbows, grinning dumbly at her predicament. We cannot know her thoughts precisely, but let us remember how profoundly dry to a Lorenthian, even to a woman as well-traveled as our lady Eloise, is the manner of a knight of Tolas! After a moment, she shook her head back into sense. “Oh, um, certainly, dear knight. Let us be off.”
Our knight’s gloved hands wrapped around the cart’s handle-spokes and, after a brief heave, gently tipped the vehicle’s weight onto the wheels beneath its carriage. Digging her leather boot-heels into the soft road, our knight pulled her charge over the foot-trampled earth along the winding eastward path.
I.
The first day’s journey was quiet, accompanied mostly by the sounds of field birds and the ever-quieting wavefalls along the shore. Though her work had halved in pace from frequent self-interruptions spent curiously watching her knight labor through the bars of the cart’s front window, the lady Eloise still managed to complete the Battle of Arlais and half of the late Lord Driver’s beheading by the time the sun’s setting light purpled the sky. Our knight uttered not a word during the travel, instead merely counting her breaths, picking careful footfalls that she may not bring the cart crashing down upon herself. She took one short break at the sun’s highest, refilling her lady’s waterskin and breaking into the first of her leaf-packed-loaves, splitting its simply prepared bread and cheese with her charge through the window bars. By the time she pulled the cart to a crescent of fruit trees along the eastroad in the evening, the birdsongs had been replaced by the insect buzzing of bushes and grass within the shade.
Our knight spent a tenminute gathering sticks and brush for the fire, then set a pot upon its blaze and sprinkled within its roil a bundle of cubed tubers from her pack. She sat on a severed stump and stirred the pot with wooden spoon until the last licks of sunlight had drained from the black and starry sky. She strained the tuber’s water into the creek and plated the bounty atop two delicate porcelain plates. Also from the pack appeared pouches of earthy yellow and red spices, sprinkled and stirred thereon, and a glass of fluffed cream, spread along the side. Our lady watched these actions, entranced, from her seat, memorizing the motions and absorbing the delicious smells which wafted across the early evening breeze.
When our knight was finally satisfied with her creation, a plate was slid, tenderly, beneath the cart’s side-window-bars into the waiting hands of our lady Eloise, who, after gently forking a bronzed cube into the spread of cream, raised the food into her mouth. Flavors danced therein, a waltz of steaming warmth and glass-chilled cold, of spice that tickled the small hairs of her nose. She cough-laughed at the first bite, but continued until her plate was clean and wanting.
“This was delicious, dear knight,” she called through the window to the figure who ate, hunched, atop the stump by the fire. “You must prepare it again each night. I simply adore it.” Our knight turned with surprise at the call, and adjusted along her seat that she may face the carriage bars.
“Beg your pardon, my lady,” she replied as she freed the last remnants of rootflesh trapped against the tops of her teeth with her tongue, “I only brought enough of these vegetables for one dinner. There will be others, though, one for each night we are together. I pray those prove as enjoyable to you as this was.” The lady sank against the seat of the cart, her lips and tongue still tender from the spice.
After a short repose, our lady called out again to the knight, and threaded her thin hands through the window-bars up to the edge of her wide wrist-chains. Within her hands lay an iron key, its shaft as wide across as her fingers. “Would you kindly release me, dear knight? I must go to the spring and prepare myself for bed.”
Our knight approached, uneasily, but nodded and took the key, twisting it within the latch before pulling open the door against its tired henges. She leaned further within the cart, turning the key into each of the lady’s bindings. As she leaned close to free her farthest wrist, her helm brushed icily against Eloise’s face. A breath escaped the helmet’s grate, traced faintly with warm fennel and spice. “You truly are a prisoner of choice, then, and could depart whenever you like?”
“A lady does not lie,” Eloise nodded, drawing close her bundles of white fabric to resist the cool rush of nightly air. Our knight nodded and sighed as she retreated clumsily from the tight carriage. Eloise’s bare, pale feet crept down the cart’s side stairs, too, where she lingered and looked up. Even standing on the final step, the knight was more than a head taller than her, and as broad from shoulder to shoulder as the cart’s open doorway. Eloise was dizzied, and braced herself against the cold frame of the door. Instinctively, the knight’s hands journeyed to catch her.
“Shall I carry you to the stream, my lady?” Eloise shook her head, raising a hand in protest.
“No, no. It is quite alright. My body is just… unadjusted to standing, lately.” She drifted from the carriage steps. The soft peat moss spreading between her toes was far warmer than the cold wood flooring of her cart. Our knight trailed behind her, unexpectedly quiet in her golden layers of armor.
To our knight, the lady Eloise seemed a phantom. The white of her veil and dressings looked less pale even than her skin, which hued almost blue in the moonlight, and what little of the lady’s long hair could be seen beneath the coverings seemed the color of robin’s egg. While she was gaunt and frail from malnutrition, and despite her small size, the woman did not have any resemblance of adolescence. Her features were full and developed, and the pink lips which peaked beneath her opaque veil were crowned on either side with the deep signs of past smiles. Our knight guided the lady with a gauntlet hovering just beyond her back to the babbling brook by the edge of the campfire’s light.
The lady relieved herself down the stream—our knight, of course, placed her back against a tree and watched the void until she heard call that our lady was decent—and then climbed back up the bank to bathe. The water was cool but not cold, and soothed especially the sore red of her wrists and ankles. Our knight kneeled by the water further upstream, and placed her helm by her side before splashing her face with its waters. The moon hung bright behind her, over the trees, obscuring any features our lady wished to spy in the shadow of contrast.
Momentarily, our pair made their way back to the still-blazing fire and together thawed out of the river’s lingering trace. Our knight dare not cast her eyes up from the fire, not until dry air returned opacity to the white fabrics which covered our lady’s still form. Fire-crackles and sombre bugsongs formed the music of the night. After a few tenminutes observing the moon and stars, Eloise finally placed her hands on her knees and rose.
“I believe I should return to the cart, then.”
“As you wish,” our knight replied, rising at once from her kneel beside the fire. She lingered, following her reply with, “May I ask one favor of my lady, first?” Eloise blinked, but nodded. The knight approached her, her silhouette shrouding almost all of the firelight from the lady, then turned to face the blaze. Her gloved hand reached behind her back and pointed to a thin strap of leather between her shoulder blades, tying together the two thick, golden plates of her armor. “This knot is… irksome to undo myself. I can easily handle the rest.”
It was easy for Eloise to understand why. Merely pointing to the knot seemed challenging enough, as the knight’s large frame and armor fought against each other for flexibility. She released a small chuckle beneath her breath, whispered out a simple “of course,” and dexterously unwound the leather knot. No sooner was it unbound than did the cords pull loose and whip to the side, and our knight held her arms apart, allowing the plates covering chest and back to fall loose to the ground with a thud. Eloise jumped back with a start, then laughed again nervously. Our knight turned back to face her, the layer of bronze chain and gambeson beneath her plate now visible, and bowed.
“Thank you, my lady,” she said, “you have saved me more time than you know.” Eloise courtsied deeply, then turned for the cart. As our knight secured the lady back into the cold iron restraints, she hesitated.
“Are you entirely sure this is necessary, my lady?”
“‘Tis,” our lady replied, her tone cold for the first time this day, “and please, make sure they are tight.” As our knight closed shut and latched the cart’s door, she began to pass the key back through the open window. “No,” Eloise protested, “‘tis yours until the end of our journey.” A weak smile crossed her lips. “Try not to lose it.”
Our knight nodded dutifully, placing the key against her chest in a tight fist. “It is as my heart.” Eloise leaned her head against the rest of her bench, and balled her fists around the fabric by her sides. Her delicate brows wrinkled with furor.
Some hour or two later, as our undressed knight read quietly by candlelight within her simple tent, a violent scream echoed out across the clearing. She leapt quickly to her feet, grabbing the candle plate in one hand and her sheathe in another, and ran barefoot into the open air.
“My lady?” she called. A sudden banging rocked the cart from wheel to wheel, and another scream followed. “My lady!” Our knight dashed to the carriage’s side, climbing the first step and leaning fast against the window. Within, no visible source disturbed the lady, but she thrashed in place and pulled hard against the chains, her nails clawing at the empty air. She screamed again, shrill and throaty, and the scream pulled back into a wild, toothy laugh. Finally, discernible words pulled into the lady’s shrieking voice.
“The blackened keep… the stones made ash! The serpent… the serpent of flame. Gods, I see it!” Her words warbled into another screaming laugh, and she convulsed again against her chains. Her head lolled, swiveling in place against her neck. The knight’s swallow caught in her throat, and she croaked out a timid: “My lady?” Just as soon, the lady’s veiled face snapped to look at her through the window-bars and bellowed: “Dead by dawn! Dead by dawn! Dead by dawn!”
With the final word, the window’s iron bars groaned and twisted within their grate, wriggling like snakes before the lady’s gaze. “Witchcraft…”Our knight stumbled back down the steps, dropping her sword to the moss by her side. Something like a coyote’s whimpering yelp-bark threaded the laugh. The sounds were horrible—the devil’s own voice. She shuddered, but straightened her back with forced resolve. She set her eyes upon the curtained window’s bars, and her wavering breath made fog in midnight air.
The cart rocked and screamed and cackled until the bright assembly of stars was smothered under the first yellow light of morning. Hours later when our lady finally woke, sore and sore-throated, she found her knight somehow asleep, clad in armor, with her back pressed against the door of the cart and her sheathed sword spread diligently across her lap.
II.
“May I have your name?” It had been a silent morning’s breakfast and a silent hour’s trek along the eastroad before the lady finally formed a sentence worth gasping out with a hoarse, ragged voice. Our knight, pulling the cart beneath her armpits, turned her head to face the window behind her.
“You wish to stop and rest?” Her voice, as always, was level, attentive, and deep.
“No,” she shook her head, “no need to stop, dear knight. I was just wondering what I should call you in my thoughts.”
“In your thoughts?”
“You know, while I’m at work here.” The knight did not falter. “While we’re traveling. Recollections, predictions, hypotheticals. You do have thoughts, unrelated to the task at hand, do you not?”
“I do not,” our knight lied, perhaps even to herself, “I think of the road, the path ahead, the coming weather. How best to keep you safe. That is all, my lady.”
“Fun,” Eloise muttered under her breath. “Nevermind, then, dear knight. Carry on.” Our knight turned back to the road, and dug her heels in to continue pulling their cart.
“You may know my name, nonetheless,” our knight called out without turning back, “if you desire.”
“Er,” the lady adjusted in her seat, “yes, I suppose I do desire.”
“Drekar,” she said evenly, “predicated with no honorifics and succeeded by no surname, my lady. I own no land and have no title save for ‘knight-errant of Tolas.’ A lowborn, as your people would say.” No bitterness accompanied her tone, merely a statement of fact.
“Drekar… that’s not a Tolasian name, is it?” As a girl, Eloise had accompanied her father to embassies across Lorenth, and her first husband to the border provinces. She had met merchants and courtiers from across the realm. Despite these experiences, she knew only enough about Tolas to identify her ward as one of its knights by her armor, and little else.
“Mageborn,” Drekar corrected, “from my father.” Eloise blinked.
“A lowborn, mageborn, woman knight? You have overcome the odds to find yourself here, surely.”
“Perhaps.” Another statement, bereft of discernible emotion. Eloise chuffed. Our knight meditated for a moment before deciding to continue, “and you?”
‘“Oh, highborn. Lorenthian.”
“No,” Drekar replied stonely, “that is not of what I ask. I heard rumors, within the inn, though I did not think them relevant to my task until last night...”
“Ah,” Eloise leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes, “about the madwoman, yes?”
“If a tongue had insulted you it would have been cut out, my lady. Certainly, such tripe would not have been worth repeating here, either.” Eloise opened her eyes again, surprised. “No, my lady, they said you bore... the gift of prophecy. Is this correct?” Again, her knight had not failed to surprise her.
“I may,” she stammered, then paced herself and rephrased, “I have had… fits… since I was a young girl, during which I see certain things, some of which happened long ago, or in a far away place, or may have yet to occur. Others call this what they wish.”
“I see.” The knight continued forward for a time, unspeaking, before: “May I ask another question?”
“You need not ask before you ask. We are companions here, Drekar. And, if I recall, one of your tasks was to—how was it?—‘keep my company with conversation, tales, and song on the long miles of the road?’”
“Very well. Your fits… do they leave you much weary and distraught?”
“Distraught? No, for I am quite used to them by now. Weary?” she rubbed her left hand against the sores on her right wrist, “Yes, I would say they do.”
“We shall camp early tonight, then,” Drekar replied, “that I may hunt for you. Weary flesh requires greater sustenance than bread and cheese and root.” Eloise shook her head and smiled beneath her veil.
“I must thank you for reminding me to ask: ‘Know you any songs, dear knight?’” Drekar sighed deeply, pausing just for a moment before continuing to pull the carriage along the thin path between rolling hills.
“A few, my lady. Just a moment.”
That night, the lady Eloise received a great leg of boar, roasted brown and sprinkled with herbs and spices, as she sat on a squat, cloak-draped stone by the roaring fire. The roast was heavier than she expected within her hands, and waves of heat warped the evening air around its shape. Noticing her hesitation, our knight spoke up.
“Eat it, my lady. You will need your strength for our journey.”
“I have eaten leg of boar before, I assure you, but usually… with a fork and knife. And never, I think, one this large. Should I just…?” Drekar nodded without a verbal reply. The lady began to draw the leg towards her face, but hesitated. “Perhaps you could remove that helm and give me a demonstration, first?”
Drekar shook her head. “I could not, my lady. It would be too impolite to eat before my charge.”
“I insist, really. Consider it an order if you must.”
Drekar contemplated the lady’s words, silently, then sighed. “Very well.” Her gauntlets reached up to the sides of her round, golden helm, and pulled. A padded cowl hugged the sides of her face beneath the helm, which she promptly lowered as well. She looked away from Eloise, her eyes reflecting the fire’s amber glow. She was mageborn, certainly, with distinctively ash grey skin and gold irises, and with white canines poking slightly beyond the bounds of her lips, most notably among her lower set. Her hair was tightly bound into dark braids along the back of her head, conforming almost exactly to the shape of her helm. Her features were strong but youthful, and her skin was unblemished by wrinkle, sunmark, or scar. She turned away more as Eloise continued to watch her, even subtly raising her gauntlet between her face and the lady’s gaze.
“A demonstration, then?” she asked, more flustered than stoic.
“Please, dear knight.”
Drekar lifted the roasted meat to her lips and closed her mouth around a chunk, tearing away the soft flesh. Despite her best efforts, its juices rolled down her chin and she pulled away, raising a serviette to stem any further mess. She chewed and swallowed discreetly, then nodded towards the leg within the lady’s hands. Eloise smiled, and began to raise the piece towards her mouth.
“My lady,” Drekar interrupted, raising from her seat, “careful of your veil.” Eloise, partway into a nibble, nodded enthusiastically, and our knight approached her from behind. She slid her gauntlets from her hands in turn and tucked them beneath her armpits. With pristine hands, she carefully reached before her lady and folded the veil back delicately over her head. As she did, Drekar softly closed her eyes, giving herself not the faintest chance to see her maiden’s face. With another hand, she brushed a few locks of cerulean hair and pieces of white lace from her lady’s neck, safely out of harm’s way.
The boar was exquisite, finer than any banquet-beast she’d tasted before—at the very least, she was happier enjoying it here, away from the clamor and interrogation of Lorenthian court-halls. Again, the subtle tingle of unfamiliar spices played upon her lips, and she traced the strange feeling with the pointer of her finger.
“You could have been a fine chef in another life,” Eloise leaned her head against the plate of armor behind her and looked up at the closed eyes of the woman towering above.
“How do you know I have not been in this one?” Drekar’s lips pulled against her small tusks, forming the echo of a smile.
“Verily?”
“In Tolas, we do not have the bloodcastes of Lorenth. A woman need not take on the duty her mother fulfills, only the duty she suits best. And she is given an anaan agita, an ‘age of license,’ to determine what that duty may be. To experiment. Thus, I have been many things. Had many duties.”
“And you landed on ‘knight-errant?’” Eloise studied the contours and colors of Drekar’s resting face. Her skin was not solidly grey, it flushed around her cheeks and lightened along her fluttering, closed eyelids.
“For now, my lady. My anaan agita has not yet ended.”
“Should I worry at all, that I am guarded by one who has not yet decided whether she should remain a knight for life?” Eloise watched Drekar’s brow furrow and deepen.
“Not at all, my lady. I consider this duty more highly than my life.” She turned her face gazelessly towards the fire, dispelling the shadows from the divet of her cheekbones. “Besides, I have faced three of your bloodcaste knights before in duels of honor. None yet live.”
The pang of prophecy winced into Eloise’s temple, and she sat up suddenly. Drekar stirred, almost opening her eyes.
“Are you alright, my lady?”
“I believe I am finished,” Eloise said, deflectingly, and placed the roast on the stone beside herself. Without intention, she had managed to clean the leg almost entirely to the bone. Perhaps she would regain some strength on this journey after all. Drekar nodded, and slipped her gauntlets back over her hands. As she passed, she grabbed the meat and tossed it into the swirling hearth where it sizzled and cracked into runes with the heat. Eloise lowered the veil once more over her face and whispered:“let us get to bed.”
That night, Drekar sat upon the dirt, her head against the carriage door. Her book, that over-wrought tale which had kept her company in the miles and weeks since it first left the bookcart of a trader in Pescanor, sat shut beneath her legs. The blade was her entertainment this night; she ran its edge along a whetstone until it was raw, then wiped its length with rag and polish until the half-moon shone clearly in its face. The ragged-voiced screaming and pounding behind her faded, given time, into the other noises of the night. But she knew there was no hiding for them, no subtlety to their journey. They would catch unwanted eyes, this much she was certain of. She swiped her blade through the air, and it sang. She knew she must be ready, though she did not yet know what for.
Sleep came to her, slowly, like the fall to an empire. But she would wake again before the first rays of sunlight fell upon her lady’s face on the morrow.
III.
Drekar grumbled beneath her helm. There were signs of life upon the eastroad, unfortunately, little ants clad in fabrics of red and white flitting about the mist-drunk road far ahead, crawling in and out of a smattering of little wood-and-thatch boxes against the river. Her hand would have gone to her hilt—as precaution and as warning—if both weren’t held at task pulling the handles of her lady’s cart.
One of these 'ants' jogged up the path to greet them, revealing himself to be a well-groomed young man, clad in simple silks and buckle-shoes, as he drew closer up the road. Drekar huffed, pulling the cart’s angle away as she passed, but the lad waved and approached our knight with intent.
“G’day,” he chirped, to no reply. He had the look of a squire, Eloise noted, but the speech of a commoner. Changing direction to follow our knight in pace, the young man gestured towards the town which filled more of the horizon with every step. Activity buzzed through its streets as a queue formed in the square, whereto men in chainmail corralled men in wool towards another man in silks, who counted coin and papers upon a desk. “Tax season, you see.”
Drekar nodded dismissively and pulled the cart even further, causing one of its wheels to buck and bounce unevenly against the stones alongside the path. Eloise rocked within the cart, lacing her fingers through the bars of her window for support. The lad’s eyes turned to the pale hand within the window, and a smile of excitement crossed his face. Jogging closer to our knight, he loudly whispered: “What’s this? A ransom of war?” No response, though the man was undeterred, “No, I know this—this is a chastity cart, ensuring a bride’s purity before she’s wed?”
“Enough,” Drekar barked, and the man tripped backwards. “It is no business of yours.” The man laughed, breathily, and wiped his hands along the trim of his tunic.
“It is,” he began, gesturing again to the line, “at least a bit my business, sir knight. We’re gathering fees for the baron, y’see?” Drekar eyed him, coolly and silently. He scratched his neck anxiously with a raised hand and grinned. “I don’t mean that I expect a fee from you, of course, that would be ridiculous. Just that, I mean, if you’re following the road north to Briggs, there’s a toll. You could pay me now and the baron’s seal could get you through there with haste. Skip the line, so to speak.”
Drekar, satisfied, turned back to the road ahead and continued her pace. “We’re not taking the northroad.” She had made it through, and the sounds and smells of town were now growing fainter behind her. A look of confusion followed the man’s face, and he continued in stride beside her.
“Oh, no no. You don’t want to take the eastroad. Especially not with a lovely maiden such as this.” He waved through the cart window as he spoke, and our mistress calmly waved in turn behind the curtains with a smile. Without hesitation, Drekar replied.
“It’s no concern of yours. We’ll be taking the eastroad, and you’ll be on your way.”
“No, sir knight, I must insist. The bog is thick, getting there, and… well, there are creatures in the Greatwood. Man-eaters. That way isn’t taken these days.”
“Good. Perhaps the rest of our journey will be free of nuisance.” Drekar’s voice was level but biting. Eloise opened her mouth with surprise, then kicked lightly at the cart’s front window.
“Dear knight, have manners! It is clear that this young sir is merely concerned with our well-being.” Drekar huffed again, adjusting the burden of the cart so that our mistress rolled back into her bench. The young lad bowed as he walked, tripping himself again and this time stumbling several paces before he righted himself completely. When he had, he nodded graciously.
“Thank you, m’lady. Without even seeing you, it is quite obvious that you are of higher breeding than most. Perhaps… no, I’m certain you are busy. But…”
“We are.” Drekar interrupted.
“No, no. Please continue,” Eloise said through her rearmost looking-window.
“It’s just, I’m certain my lord the baron is in need of fine company. If you insist on taking the eastroad, perhaps you could stop in for a week or so before you depart. My lord is a man of great means and good taste. Feasts would await you. Fine company, too, and warm beds.”
Drekar adjusted, muttering back a soft “prepare yourself, my lady,” before crouching slowly to lower the cart spokes into the road’s soft dirt. Free of her burden, our knight stepped around the front of the cart. The young man stumbled away from her, fidgeting and smiling with nervous courtesy. Drekar’s gauntlet fell to her hilt, and she exhaled forcefully against the tin of her helmet’s lining.
“I will say this only once more. Run back to your town, boy, and delay us no further.” The young man swallowed deeply, and looked over his shoulder towards the riverside homes which had grown much farther away than he realized.
“Forgive my knight’s manners, dear sir,” Eloise chirped cheerily through the window, “yesterday’s journey was tiresome, and she seems to have woken up on the wrong side of her cot. What she means is this: the two of us are all of the fine company we require, and a bountiful, delicious dinner awaits us either way. Considering this, we would prefer to continue our journey with haste. But please do thank your host most graciously for the kind offer.”
The young man courtsied and, making no dalliance, turned back to his town and ran. Drekar scoffed under her helm and started back towards the front of the cart. Eloise slapped her hand against the bars and called out: “What was that about, sir knight?”
Dismissively, her knight replied: “I am to protect you until we reach the palace, my lady. The amount of dangers that young man could have posed to you are innumerable. I have heard the stories; daggers in the sleeve, ambushes in waiting, a lethal poison administered from a single prick.” She crouched, taking the handles into her grasp, before continuing. “Had his hand ventured to touch your carriage, he would have lost it. So shall it be while you are under my protection.”
Eloise’s astonished, furrowed look settled into a more even expression, and she spoke smoothly and without emotion. “How long have you been a knight, my dear Drekar?”
“Two years, my lady.”
“How many of those years have you served as a knight-errant, acting outside of Tolas?” Drekar chewed on the words before replying.
“Three months, my lady.”
“And in this time, how many quests have you undertaken?”
“I am sorry, but I do not understand how this relates—”
“Answer the question, please, dear knight.”
“One quest, my lady. I dismantled a group of bandits, far north of here, by request of Lord Fers.”
“I have never been to Tolas, Drekar, but I have been to many places. I’ve sailed the waters west and east, ridden the dunes of Sahel and built snowmen in Storia. More than that, I’ve lived my life, the life of a Lorenthian nobleman’s daughter, for thirty-three years. I’ve likely overseen my own affairs and, yes, survived assassination attempts for longer than you’ve known how to walk.” Drekar continued silently forward. Our mistress evened her voice, then continued. “I do not say this, my knight, because I wish to make you feel small. I say this because I have learned a few things so far. Most relevantly, even if there is one you distrust, you should treat them with the same grace and reason you would treat a friend. If one does not, in fact, mean you harm, you should not give him any reason to. And if he does, he certainly does not need any more ammunition to use against you. And if it comes to it, trust that I can handle myself more than you might expect.”
Drekar sighed, then replied: “Very well.”
The next miles were silent, save for the birdsongs, and the rustle of wind against the trees. In time, Eloise began to work again upon her tapestry, which by now was nearing completion. Eventually, our knight began to speak again, gruffly and even.
“I apologize, my lady, for my earlier behavior. I know little of this land or its ways, despite my efforts so far to learn.” She parsed her coming words, then continued. “However, I know much of death. Have you, my lady, ever taken a man’s life because you knew that if you hesitated he would take yours? Watched the blood drain from a man’s face and known… known that it was your blade that emptied the contents of his heart?”
Eloise swallowed. “No, my knight. I have not.”
“I am glad.” Drekar’s voice was earnest and deep. “I wish… that I had not, and that I never need again.”
“‘Tis terrible.”
“It is the burden of knighthood,” Drekar replied. “One which, I fear, would linger with me throughout my life, even if I did follow a different path. Almost as valuable as your life, to me, is that you never know this feeling because of my negligence.”
“I understand.” Eloise responded, though she thought that she might not. Not fully.
That evening, the conversation at camp was more somber than the last, though a dinner of powdered flatbread, covered thinly with a spread of delectable chickpea paste did much to return spirits to our heroes.
Screams did not come to Eloise that night, only visions calm and faerie. She saw the camp from far above, a glowing dot within the dark blue of the countryside. She felt wind filter through the wings by her side, the feathers of her face. She saw Drekar, sitting by her carriage with a book in her hand and a sword by her side. And, before the comfort of a quiet night took her fully into the grip of sleep, our knight saw an owl, far above, perch on a branch and look down upon her.
IV.
“May I ask you something, my lady?” our knight began, her voice unsure and worrisome.
“Always,” Eloise replied, though her voice revealed some of her surprise. It was early, early enough that the sun had not yet followed its colors into the morning sky, and our mistress was free of her restraints for breakfast. Drekar leaned against the wheel of the cart, spreading orange marmalade from a small jar atop a piece of pan-toasted bread for her lady. She must have woken early to bathe, Eloise estimated, as she had not yet donned her armor and her hair was wet and down, falling in dark, wavy lines down her ash-grey shoulders. Thick white linen covered most of her body, from neck to legs, excluding her arms and feet. Across the visible skin, Eloise noted a handful of light-grey scars—the early signs of a warrior’s wear.
“I ask this not for the quest’s sake, but for my own… curiosity. Therefore, you may refuse to answer without restraint if you do not wish to answer.” Eloise nodded her along, and she continued. “The first night we traveled together, I came to your aid. You seemed to look upon me, and the bars of your cart moved as if on their own. What was this sorcery?” Eloise nodded again, this time with reflection.
“I am no mage, if that was your conclusion.” Drekar handed forth the bread, studying the lady’s expression as she talked. “No, the power, the curse, or whatever you may call this affliction of mine is not my own. A physician who saw me in my youth suggested that it may be spirits that are drawn to me, perhaps even spirits that do not yet exist, drawn backwards towards me from the… events that I observe.”
Drekar raised an eyebrow and shook her head—she knew little of spirits and magic. Perhaps her father could have taught her more, had he lived, but as a lowborn even Tolas’ torchspeakers were little more than wives’ tales to her. Eloise knew little more.
“This… affliction. Do you seek to cure it?” Drekar spoke with pronounced candidness, looking at her work as she adorned her own breadslice with the jar’s citrus spread.
“I know not that I could, truthfully. It is as a part of myself, as much as sleep is to you. Nor is it always bad. Sometimes I feel,” she paused, losing herself in her mind, “I feel as though it is a profound gift. I can see things that no one else has seen. I have seen the world through the eyes of a hundred sorts of animals. I’ve seen buildings and peoples that no one in Lorenth has ever seen before… that perhaps no one living has seen, or will see for many years to come.”
“All of it is real?”
“As best as anyone can tell. Some things I’ve dreamed have come true too precisely to be mere guesswork. Sometimes… I’ve learned secrets that I should have had no way to learn.”
“You must be quite the gift to your peoples’ scholars,” Drekar remarked between bites of breakfast. Eloise smiled beneath her veil.
“My first husband was a historian. I try my best to avoid them, since then.” A pause lingered between the two women, though a smile grew across Drekar’s face and Eloise erupted into her distinct, airy laughter. “Nonetheless,” she continued after she regained her composure, “I think this oddity of mine may be of some use, yet.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed,” she began as she gestured for another piece of bread. “In fact, we would not have met if I did not think so.” Seeing her knight needed more explanation, she continued. “My recent visions have centered around the Vizcondesa Zaya, specifically around some great calamity I believe will soon befall her Palace Azulier. I believed that a letter would… not have sufficed. So I sent myself instead.”
“The duchess expects you? You are to be well received once we reach the palace?”
“Oh, the duchess has heard nothing about me. Honestly,” our mistress smiled coyly, “I haven’t the faintest idea what to expect when I arrive. But uncertainty is what gives life its excitement, wouldn’t you agree?”
Drekar grimaced. “No, my lady. I do not agree.”
The weather was fair that day, and the roadway clear, and the land even and level, and so our heroes made greater progress on this day than they had on any other so far. A breeze cooled Drekar beneath her armor, and the many springs accompanying the road let the two women drink and wash themselves from their waterskins with greater frequency and abandon than usual. By the time they set up camp for the evening, Lorenth’s farthest eastern border was less than an hour’s walk away, and no glimpse of the sea could be seen for many miles in any direction.
No owls came to Drekar that night, nor peaceful visions to our mistress Eloise. Only a witch’s diabolic screeches to the knight, more fearsome and frightened than ever, and, to the lady, sights of blood and terror and sundered flesh, of a palace wreathed in flame.
V.
Daylight fell upon Eloise like a cruel bucket of water, forcing her upright and filling her chest with rapid, shallow breaths. Her muscles ached from exertion, and phantom daggers tore at the lining of her throat. She swallowed painfully, and adjusted that she may peer between the curtains of her cell. Below, our knight breathed the slow, silent breaths of sleep, with both her sword and a thick-bound book across her armored lap. Eloise smiled wistfully, then settled back into her bench. She would not make a sound, not for a while yet. Her guardian deserved to rest.
Activity came soon, nonetheless, followed by breakfast in the form of fresh-picked plums whose tender skin gave way to sugary, ripe juices. The hills of the old country spread before the eastroad in every direction, their meadows rippling in the first winds of summer. It had been some months since Drekar had first left the fogmist crags of Tolas, but the warmth and verdancy and color of this land was still as alien to her as the bottom of the sea. The trail thinned, its red-clay path encroached upon by drooping leaves of grass who licked her boots with dew as she passed. Pulling over the hillcrest, our knight looked down upon the Valley of Man, that primordial land whose marshes filled the basin before the Greatwood.
From the view of this, the farthest hill of Lorenth, the land spread before them like a painter’s swath. In any direction, not even the faintest column of hearthsmoke darkened the bogmist, nor did any sign of recent travel interrupt the growing cumberland.
Few had crossed their path even in the miles since the tax collector in Whiteflower—a handful of traders, a family on pilgrimage. If they were lucky, Drekar reckoned, no party would cross their path until they crossed the wood to Pescanor. As a hedge knight and, earlier, a forester of Tolas, the mageborn knight trusted her way through the wilds of Vystorus. People, she trusted much less.
“‘Tis beautiful,” Eloise’s sore voice called from within the cart. Drekar cast her eyes to the voice’s source, then back over the endless horizon. A warm breeze rolled from the emerald forest trimming the edge of sight, crashing over the distant, rippling miles of reeds like motion through hanging linen, then washed serenely over the hilltop where they stood. Higher still, the morning sun peered over the low blanket of golden clouds, caressing the valley with searching beams of amber sunlight. Thoughts of duty left her, just for a moment, and the scene fell again upon newly virgin eyes. It was beautiful.
“Let us move on,” she said, pulling the cart over the hill’s edge, down into the painted land.
That night, they set up camp among the cattails and dragonflies of the marsh, where the cart’s wheels sank up to their hubs in the soft earth. Drekar pulled Eloise from her chains, up to the roof of the cart where they sat together among the chorus of crickets. Galaxies of color filled the sky above. A supper was shared there, a simple cloth spread of hardbread, dried meat, and mild cheeses, supplemented by the lady’s own dwindling store of green grapes picked for her journey from her father’s vineyard. Eloise leaned against her hand, supporting the weight with bent elbow, and looked up at her helmless ward.
“May I ask you something, my knight?” Drekar looked down in turn with kind eyes.
“As you wish, my lady.”
“I have noticed,” Eloise began, “that you sneak glances at that book of yours whenever you find a quiet moment. What has captured your attention so?” Drekar studied the woman beside her. After a moment, she replied.
“It is a history from this land. The Duel of Thorns. I hope to finish it before our journey’s end.”
“I’ve read The Duel of Thorns,” Eloise exclaimed, suddenly excited, “‘Twas all the rage some two or three years ago. Quite a gripping piece,” she smiled slyly, “though I didn’t suspect you were a fan of romances.” Drekar’s cheeks flushed with color, and she blinked until she regathered her wits.
“It, er,” she stammered, “it has lots of valuable information. Genealogies, fencing techniques, and other things of that sort.”
“Of course, of course,” Eloise smiled, “Though I must confess, those parts didn’t stick with me as much when I read it.” Drekar shuffled in her seat before clumsily shoving a grape into her mouth. Eloise studied her again, and with renewed interest.
“I admit,” Drekar continued after she swallowed the fruit, “the tales of chivalric romance are... interesting to me. Foreign.”
“You mean you have never taken part in a tragic, ill-fated romance, or dueled to the death for your love’s honor? How much you’ve missed.” Eloise laughed.
“I have never taken part in a romance,” Drekar stated evenly. Eloise’s laugh faded into the bugsong. Drekar looked upon her earnestly. “And you, my lady?”
Eloise exhaled with a smile, then layed her back flat against the cart’s roof.
“I have. More than my share.”
“I see.” Drekar looked back over the valley, and noted to herself how much less one can see of a painting while sitting within it.
“Truthfully,” Eloise sighed, “the courts of Lorenth are flush with love. Not unlike the book, I dare say. I’ve found it impossible to spend a night within the palace without entering affairs with three nobles, a priest, and a servant. It really is quite exhausting.”
“You mock me.” Drekar slouched further into her seat.
“I do not!” our lady protested, “In my years I’ve had more than enough first-sight-loves, one-night-loves, puppy-loves, wedlocks—arranged and otherwise. Even true loves, I thought, once or twice.” The note lingered, until her smile soured beneath its veil. “None lately, of course. Few enjoy making mistresses of madwomen.”
Drekar turned to her lady, watching her silent rest for a moment, then settled into a repose beside her. The wood of the cart’s roof was cold and hard, she thought, even through the padding of her armor. How much worse must it be for her lady?
“Do you wish to retire to your chamber...” Drekar asked, the honorific lingering, before finally following, “my lady?”
“No,” Eloise replied as she rolled to face her knight, “not yet. I’d like to remain, for a moment, if I may.”
For a moment, a feeling they couldn’t name lingered between them. Drekar studied her face, then smiled despite herself. “Of course, my lady.”
VI.
It was a hard hour’s work to free the cart from the bog’s embrace, and another hour yet before Drekar was more than a knee free of the muck which surrounded her laborious forward steps.
To breathe life to this plodding venture, Eloise performed The Duel of Thorns aloud, affecting each colorful character with voice and personality. Beyond the walls of the cart, Drekar followed each word with stilted breath. After a particularly inflammatory twist, our knight’s boots nearly caught on the edge of a jutting root deep within the mud. The cart rocked against its spokes before Drekar righted it and, winded from the ordeal, blurted out: “You jest.”
“I most certainly do not!” Eloise exclaimed, “It is written right here, see?” She shoved the open book against the bars of the curtained window and, with her other hand, pointed imprecisely to the passage in question.
“Argh,” Drekar grunted without turning, “please continue.”
Miles passed much more quickly with such entertainment, and our heroes hardly noticed as the soft earth of the Valley of Man hardened and gave way to an uneven, gapless floor of roots, or as the endless sky which had watched over our heroes’ path vanished under the black-green canopy of the Greatwood.
But the forest path was long and winding, and our heroes became aware of its presence long before its smothering branches caught and pulled against the sides of the cart and its brush tripped and grasped at Drekar’s heels. Eloise paused her reading and leaned forward, pressing her face against the window bars and looking out, deep, into the greenlit wood around them. She felt no familiarity with this place, though she’d been here twice before, accompanying her father and his men on hunting trips when her condition was more manageable. Perhaps, she thought, she had been young enough that she still believed her father could protect her from anything, even in the indifferent face of a thousand thousand trees older than her kingdom itself. Perhaps, instead, the forest itself had changed since then.
“It should quicken from here,” Drekar said clearly, sensing her lady’s change in mood, “once we get clear of the new growth.”
“Very good,” Eloise replied, feigning a lack of concern, though the feeling in her gut soon rose once again and she chose to drop her facade. “Though, perhaps we should take the northroad. ‘Twould only add a few days to our journey.”
“This cannot be done, my lady,” Drekar replied steadily, “the don was quite insistent that we take the eastroad. Lorenth has many enemies to the north,” she spoke between labored breaths as she pulled the cart over a large limb which crossed the path, “and a lady like yourself would become too large of a target.”
“I requested the don’s assistance, so it really should be my decision,” our mistress replied, running her bottom lip between her teeth. “Though I hate to admit it, you’re probably right. Still...” The snap of a distant branch underfoot echoed between the trees, and Eloise’s heart caught in her throat. “How are you so unfettered?”
“I have to be, my lady,” Drekar replied confidently, “to make sure I can keep you safe.” The words failed to assuage her charge, who sunk within her bench and crossed her arms. Noticing this, our knight drew a deep breath and began again. “I was a royal forester, in Tolas, from my girlhood to only a few years ago when I began my apprenticeship as a knight.”
“Truly?”
“Yes. For the longest part of my life, the woods were more my home than the fortress. I feel at ease here. There is a saying back home: ‘my feet know the way, if my mind does not.”
Eloise contemplated the words before replying. “I didn’t know there were foresters in Tolas. I thought your people lived—what’s the word?—in cloister.”
“In Tolas,” Drekar nodded, “darkness is considered araksha, unclean. It clouds the mind and gives home to devils. Our settlements are built behind walls, and our roadways are lit at night from great lights above our temples, like the lighthouses along your shore. If someone has a night terror, they can run into the street where the bright light washes away all evil. The community works together to ensure that no part of the settlement is open to the wilderness, and shadowed areas are regularly ‘purified’ with light by our priests. In fact, most Tolasian physicians would try to treat your case with light therapy; making sure that from morning to night you are tended by priests and kept warm and well-lit by hearthfire.”
“Sounds very… public. I’m not sure I would much enjoy that.”
“I agree. Our fortresses are community, with all of the benefits and drawbacks that entails. I have great memories of them, but they were never truly home to me. Not from a young age.”
“Not all people of Tolas live within the forts?”
“Not all. At least, not in practice. There are some occupations which by necessity must work within the darkness. Those who enshrine bodies within the catacombs, for instance. It is believed that one who is submerged in darkness carries it with them, and so is kept in a sort of quarantine. For these people, it is impractical to regularly go through the day of light therapy needed to rejoin the community, and so they remain in the shadows to complete their work. They are shadow walkers. My people have a great respect for this sacrifice; many shadow walkers can survive entirely on donations collected by the clergy.” She paused for a moment, then continued with reverence: “Forestry is one such occupation.”
“I have heard of Tolasian shadow walkers, though I admit I did not know much. You were one of them?”
“When my father died, my lot was pulled and I became an apprentice to a forester. So, yes, I served the forests as a shadow walker for nearly ten years. On stone we lived within the fort, but months would pass with no shelter above my head besides the wood of our lodge and no hearth but the cooking fire. I did not mind it; before long, it was the fortress itself that felt alien to me.”
“You’ve seen much of the forest, then. And of darkness.”
“I have. Though the forests of my home are,” she gestured to the landscape, “much different than this land. Our trees are pine, they do not have leaves that are so broad and wet as these, and they’re bare of branches any lower than your head. Nor do we have such dense cover, a roof of leaves—”
“Canopy,” Eloise interjected.
“Yes, canopy.” As she spoke, a shadow the size of a housecat crossed the branches above, followed shortly by a great rustling of leaves and a shower of forest dew. Drekar laughed, “nor do we have such nimble creatures that swing and climb above.”
Eloise smiled softly. Drekar was at ease, or at least more than she had been in the past days of their journey. The confidence was contagious, and her fears of the forest faded into the shadows of her mind. Soon, Drekar’s promise was met, and the claustrophobic hallways of bark opened into the Old Forest, misty and wide and spare of trees save for a few whose massive trunks had grown over with thick hides of moss. The canopy raised far higher, here, formed entirely from the multiple foot-wide branches of these trees, whose lofted, flat leaves were in some places as wide and tall as Drekar herself. Fist-sized golden lights danced lazily around the dim clearing, always just too distant for our heroes to conclusively tell if they were fireflies or boglight wisps.
“What time is it?” Eloise asked, her eyes surveying the great expanse which spread before them in every direction. Drekar’s eyes followed the path, thin and easily lost, and she replied “early evening,” though she did not know for sure. They pushed deeper into the cave of trees for what they guessed was another hour, until finally they set down against the base of a tree to make camp.
The sticks were damp, making fire-starting difficult, but Drekar nonetheless nurtured a small blaze within the hollow of an old ring of roots, and set about hollowing a great purple squash in preparation for dinner. Eloise studied the forest from her window, eyes navigating up and around the maze of giant forest limbs. Every so often, her eyes would catch or imagine some figure darting around above, or between the trees, and she’d freeze with fear until she’d thawed into some form of comfort again. In time, they guessed it had become nighttime, as the yellow within the ambient green of the land grew darker and blued.
“Do you know what beast that man spoke of, the ‘man-eater’ within these woods?”
“Me?” Eloise asked with incredulity. “You’re the forester, Drekar!”
“I know woods. I do not know the Greatwood. Not personally.”
“Well,” our mistress stammered, still uneasy, “I’ve heard stories of the wickcat.” Drekar looked up from her cooking pot.
“I too have heard of the wickcat. It lives here, in the Greatwood?”
“My father has told me so, though it has been years since, and I do not know if this was just a game to scare a little girl.” Drekar looked back down to her cooking. Eloise’s hands fidgeted nervously against the window bars. “What?”
“Let us hope,” Drekar said gravely, “that it was just a game.” Eloise sank back into her bench, pawing anxiously at the cold restraints which rubbed against her wrists.
A reverberation ran through the cart, humming against the soles of her bare feet. “What was that?” Drekar looked up, and around, but noticed nothing.
“What do you mean, my lady?”
Eloise slowly lowered to her knees, as though her motion could attract hostility. Placing her hands against the floor of the crate, she became certain. “There’s something coming. Something large.”
Drekar rose from the roots, dropping her pot against the fire, and drew her hand to the weapon at her side. Soon, she could feel it too—the rhythmic pounding of approaching feet, far larger than those of any man. “My lady,” she said, cold and quiet, “get down.”
A towering figure burst across the clearing, its four hooves sliding to a stop across the moss and leaves of the forest floor. Another figure followed the first, and another, and another, till six new figures had crossed into the space, each brown and black-maned, and decorated with the tack to support a human rider.
“I told you, m’lord,” a familiar voice began from atop one of the horses, “smoke.”
The man in the finest, black regalia nodded in recognition to the voice, then tugged at the reins of his huffing warbeast. “Indeed,” his voice was deep and nasally, and he settled his attention upon Drekar as he continued, “you must be the Tolasian knight? I wasn’t expecting a mageborn.”
Drekar’s eyes narrowed. In the moment, she hadn’t moved quickly enough to redon her helmet. She cursed herself silently—she’d let down her guard too much. “Forgive me, my lord,” she began, “but my lady has need of privacy. I suggest that you move to another part of the wood before setting up camp.”
The man in black smiled faintly at the comment. One of the other men trotted beside the leader and pointed. “That’s them, sir. And the lady’s in there.” Drekar sneered at the sight of the first voice’s source: the tax collector from Whiteflower. Eloise watched through the shadows of her cart, her breath stifling beneath her fear.
“A fine ransom, I’m told,” the man in black said. He nodded towards the cart, and the tax collector and another man climbed down from their horses, drawing pry bars from their saddles as they approached. Drekar stepped to the side, into their path, and another man on horseback stepped forward towards her in turn. The tax collector bore a large, confident smile as he approached the cart.
“I couldn’t just leave a dear maiden prisoner to some foreign knight like this. I had to do the right thing. I’m sure you understand. She’ll be back with her father soon enough… as soon as we get a reward for our trouble.”
“Bandits,” she gritted her teeth.
“Not so,” the man in black replied from horseback, circling the scene from a distance. “This may be the Greatwood, but you’re still in my father’s barony. This is merely,” he lingered for a moment, “the law of the land.” Drekar turned to the tax collector, and snarled.
“Do not touch that carriage, boy.”
“Sorry, love,” he said, sliding his bar between the door and its lock. He tensed his muscles to prepare to push forward and—
Drekar’s sword whistled from its sheath as she rocketed forwards. In the same motion, she spun around, her feet sliding ditches into the thick moss beneath her. Her back slammed into the cart, pushing it back slightly, and Eloise screamed from the sudden motion and fell backwards. Less than a second later, the tax collector’s hand fell and bounced against the forest ground, and blood spurted from its stump. Its owner’s face paled and contorted, and he fell to his knees in agony. Drekar raised her bloody steel before her face and lowered her brow. A long, raspy scream filled the wood.
“Dear god,” the man in black fought to steady his frightened horse. “Get her!”
The cart rocked against its wheels as sounds of clanging steel filled the night air. Eloise crawled to the farthest point of the cabin, pressing her back against the frigid wall. A great force, perhaps a man on horseback, slammed into the cart opposite her, and she felt the vehicle’s weight shift, then turn as the entire cart rolled onto its side. The great force concussed into her side, and her head spun and grew nauseous as she lay now against the window bars. Her wrists and ankles were held aloft, her leashes chained to what was now the ceiling of the cart, and the edge of the iron manacles dug into her pale flesh. She cried out, but could hear the melee continuing outside.
Just as suddenly, the blade of an axe tore into the new wall of the cart, then again, then again until splinters scattered across the cabin and a stranger’s arm tore away at the ever-growing opening.
Eloise’s head lolled against the wood, her vision fading, but her visions growing more pronounced, overtaking her mind and body. She saw herself rising beyond this cart, beyond the timid forest creatures that watched this scene with fear, farther still, deeper into the heart of the Greatwood…
Outside, Drekar panted and heaved beneath her armor, clutching the sword tightly within her hands. Bodies circled her, weapons drawn and waving, faces watching for the vaguest hint of weakness. Behind her, a voice called out “I’ve got the lady!” Drekar’s face twisted with fear. Had she missed one of the men? How had someone slipped past her? One of the men before her took the opportunity and charged forward, but Drekar twisted to the side, drawing her sword along the length of his belly. He spat blood and collapsed against the capsized cart, crumpling against its sideways wheel. In the same motion, she turned again, preparing to respond to any coming attack. Instead, the men each drew a step backwards, more fearful than any warrior she’d ever faced before. The man in black’s face grew green at the sight of another bloodied man, and he called back.
“Well, then, get her ahorse and let us fly this place!”
“Sir, she’s,” the man called out, labored, as he pulled our mistress from behind the toppled cart, “she’s seizing.” Drekar’s vision snapped to her lady, quickly affirming the man’s words; her lady’s skin looked blue, and she writhed within his grasp more fiercely than she had on any other night. Fumbling over himself, the man fought against her and tore away her veil. Beneath, a beautiful face wrinkled and twisted in pain, and her two eyes rolled so that only veiny white showed beneath her lids. Drekar looked away, half with reverence and half ashamed of her failure.
“What in hells have we come upon?” the man in black said.
Above, the canopy stirred. A shape, bigger in all dimensions than even the largest of the horses, drew itself down the greattree, slinking along the edge of the moonlit branches’ shadows. Each of the men beside Drekar froze, their swords rattling within their hands. As its massive paws settled atop the moss behind the man in black, the first hints of light cast upon its shape. The beast’s hide was covered in tawny quills, like those of a porcupine, which thinned from its back to a snarling, catlike face. All sounds within the scene bowed before the wickcat’s roar.
The man in black’s horse drew fully onto its hind legs and twisted within the air, nearly falling to its side as it turned to sprint out of the clearing. The rest of the horses followed suit, some hindered by the frantic clamoring of their remounting riders. One man began to throw our mistress atop the back of his horse, but Drekar fell upon him, kicking him hard in the side with her boot. The beast lunged forward and, roaring again, drove him scampering into the brush on hands and knees. As quickly as the party had fallen upon our heroes, they had departed, leaving only the beast in their place.
Drekar held her lady tightly throughout the last of the frey, supporting the back of her slumped head with her gloved hand. In her other hand, she held out the point of her sword towards the beast with what strength she had left. It crossed the clearing in front of her, watching her every action with empty, rolled-back eyes. Drekar blinked, then gently leaned her lady’s head to see her face once more. Looking back, our knight thought for a moment, then cast her sword upon the mossy ground.
“My…” she began, her voice raspy and uneven, “my lady?”
A low growl emerged from the back of the beast’s throat, and it took a heavy step towards the two. Drekar stumbled back one step, then held herself resolutely. She lifted her head, swallowing, and repeated herself: “my lady?”
Studying her again, the beast drew another step forward, then another, then stopped less than one pace before our knight. Finally, the beast lowered its head in deference. Drekar smiled wildly, the smile of one who has all but lost her sanity, and laughed loudly into the forest clearing. Within her uneasy mind, Eloise watched Drekar through the nighteye of a great beast, and smiled.
Regathering her composure, Drekar placed her left glove against the beast’s forehead, and cradled Eloise’s head with her right. The beast lingered for a moment, then drew itself back, disappearing in an instant into the jungle.
Drekar carried her resting lady throughout the small hours of the night, far from the site of the attack and the wreckage of the cart until her legs grew tired and she collapsed, finally, against the base of the tree. Drawing in deep and uneasy breaths, Drekar held her lady against her chest and let the earliest signs of sleep draw her into their subtle waves…
The tranquility was broken as, suddenly, her lady began convulsing again, and thrashing against Drekar’s chest. Her lips pulled back into a terrible grin, and her voice cackled and screamed.
“Dead by dawn! Dead by dawn!”
Drekar’s briefly frightened eyes softened once more, and her voice grew soft and soothing “Shhh… shhhh, my lady. It’s alright,” she hummed as she pressed her cheek against her lady’s forehead, “you’ll be alright, Eloise. I’m here.”
Her gloved hands delicately held back her lady’s wrists as they thrashed and clawed in place, and she leaned her head back ever-so-often to avoid the intermittent snapping of jaws. Somehow, inexplicable except by the sheer exhaustion which claimed her, our knight eventually found herself asleep.
VII.
Eloise woke, softly, against her knight’s dew-kissed chest plate. Her lower half was folded into the gap left by crossed, armored legs, and her bare arms spread out to either side where her wrists were held within gloved hands. She pulled gently and was free, and held her hands before herself for inspection. A raw band of skin covered each of her wrists from her manacles but, otherwise, she felt no discomfort. No marking had been left from her ward’s grip, nor from her own nails on herself. Astonished, she turned to look upon her knight’s face.
Her eyes met Drekar’s which, too, had just stirred with the morning’s light between the leaves. They looked upon each other, stunned in silence. Drekar’s glove rose to the back of her lady’s hair, and drew through it, softly. Eloise studied the features of her face, smiling, and pulled her into an embrace. They laid together, intertwined in silence, until finally our lady pulled herself up once again.
“My lady, are you—?”
“I’m fine. And,” she smiled again, “it’s Eloise.”
In those morning hours, the forest clearing was home only to bird song and, faintly, the quiet breaths of two who had found in each other repose. Later, they picked their way through the last legs of the Greatwood, past level paddocks of endless rice, to the main road, where their eyes settled upon the distant walls of the Great Palace Azulier. It was a stunning structure, the white-gold crown atop a head of green plains, and its tremendous blue banners could be seen even from so many miles away.
Those final miles passed like seconds, though not a word was spoken between the women. This time, Eloise walked ahead, pulling Drekar along by an interlocked pair of fingers. They stopped only once that day, at a farm house just beside the road, where Eloise traded a gold coin to a family who might otherwise have never seen such currency in exchange for a simple meal of roast mutton and oats and a new veil and shoes for the lady (at Drekar’s request). The farmers’ child asked to hold Drekar’s sword and received instead a firm discussion of the importance of proper sword care and maintenance for a knight, while Eloise conversed happily with the bemused parents on all of the local gossip.
“Ah!” Eloise suddenly exclaimed, and Drekar stood just as suddenly alert. Eloise’s hand raised to comfort her, but her mouth beneath her veil was curled into a morose frown. “You didn’t get to hear the ending of your book.”
“It was lost with the cart,” Drekar sighed, “though I’m more upset about your tapestry. You spent so many hours working upon it, even before we began our journey.”
Eloise placed her hand against her knight’s chestplate. “‘Tis alright. It was derivative, anyway. Who hasn't illustrated the Battle of Arlais?” Drekar smiled faintly and shook her head. “I can always start again,” she continued, “perhaps one about The Duel of Thorns. Then you could see the ending one way or another.” Drekar nodded respectfully.
“I would enjoy that.”
Our heroes rode the final miles of their path atop a farmer’s carriage, bumping together in a straw-covered back pallet. There was some difficulty passing the palace gate, beyond that, as the guards were not easily convinced that a don of Pescanor would really send his letter along with two dirt-covered foreigners, but—through our mistress’ endless ability to spin words of wonder, and through the sheer immensity of our knight’s armor—they managed to earn an audience with the vizcondesa herself.
Eloise paused before the door of the throne room, turning once more to her helmless knight. “Drekar,” she began, her voice smaller than it had been since they met, “you’ve delivered me seven nights along the eastroad, through the Greatwood. You’ve protected me from harm, you’ve kept excellent company,” she laughed wistfully“and… here we are, upon the foot of the Great Palace Azulier. I suppose your task is complete, is it not?”
Drekar bowed her head. “My task is complete, my lady.” Eloise nodded, understandingly. The faintest hint of a smile crossed Drekar’s lips. “So,” she continued, “give me another one.” Eloise grinned.
Pushing through the palace doors, our mistress and her knight stepped forward into the grand chamber of the Great Palace. A beautiful woman, her hair and neck ringed in golden bands and her bronze skin draped in white fabrics after the style of the ancient Ru’Allans, reclined in a great throne of marble some hundred feet away. A magister, purple clad and hunched, stepped forward, bowing and gesturing towards the woman atop the throne. A handful of courtiers, gathered near the throne, stopped conversing and dropped into similarly low bows.
“You address the Vizcondesa Zaya. Announce yourselves, leave your offerings, and our most excellent lady shall decide if you are to be heard.
“My lady? I am the lady Eloise of Castelés, Lorenth. This is Drekar, Knight-Errant of Tolas. We come under the permission of the Don Aron of Pescanor.” Eloise dropped into a low courtsy, and Drekar folded her arm across her chest and bowed. After the lady waved her hand, they rose again, and Eloise continued. “We have nothing but ourselves to offer, but,” Eloise paused, fighting every instinct to level the breath within her chest. Something brushed against her hand—a knight’s gauntlet—and interlaced her fingers with a gentle squeeze. She turned back, and her knight’s face smiled faintly and nodded back. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “I have just come a very long and dangerous way to see you, and I will be heard.”
“How dare—?” the magister began, but was silenced by a single twitch of the vizcondesa’s hand. The woman leaned forward within her throne, and brought a single finger to rest against her lips.
“Tell me, then,” her voice was commanding, even and icy. “Why have you come to this palace, Lady Eloise of Lorenth?”
“I believe that you and your people are in tremendous danger.” A murmur ran through the gathered couriters. “However,” Eloise smiled, “I think the two of us may just be able to save you.”
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