Forever

I wrote this while visiting France, you can see I got the idea from the Palace of Versailles. Set in the 1400s.

 

 

Forever

By: Alex Busch

 

Prologue

 

          Rivion crouched in the darkness, carefully arranging a small pile of sticks. The stone beneath him was damp and cold �" but he would right that soon. He added a few dried and crinkled leaves, and the spiny needles from the base of a pine tree, then looked across the pile at several fur-wrapped figures.

          They were big-boned, and had prominent brows and deep set eyes. They were good hunters and artists, and their beefy hands could work delicate tasks. They learned slowly, however, and didn't always like new things. Maybe that could change. 

          “Like this,” Rivion motioned, striking two stones together above the wood. Sparks leaped in the air as the rocks collided, falling towards the kindling. Gently, Rivion blew on the pile. The flame caught, and grew into a flickering orange blossom.

          The fire cast strange, dancing shadows across the cave.

          “I am giving you Fire,” he motioned.

          Rivion showed them to cook their food over the fire, told them that it would keep them warm, bring light to the cave, and repel animals. He showed them how to build the fire so the wind would not snuff it, yet the smoke would not clog their cave. He also warned them of it's dangers; if not fed properly, it would become hungry, and would eat their furs and paints. He told them not to touch it, for it would become peevish and bite their skin.

          “But,” he motioned, “if you pay it enough attention, Fire will make a good pet and have many uses.”

          He looked long into their eyes to be sure they understood. Part of him wanted to stay for a while, make sure they did alright. He could not coddle them, though �" many things they would have to learn themselves. He stood up and dusted himself off.

          Rivon's long strides carried him outside quickly, his cloak flapping around his heels. He fingered the wool, thinking, for just a moment, how the peoples would love the feeling of fabric over furs, how much easier it would be for them to clothe themselves. Maybe he could�" No. One thing at a time.

          Rivion looked back, once, and saw the peoples gesturing in awe at the hot beast that now shared their cave. With a low chuckle, he adjusted the straps on his saddle and galloped away, leaving the peoples to their new lives. They would come far, he knew, but only if they learned how to learn �" and no one could teach them that. They were on their own from here on in.

 

         

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part One

Louis XIV

          The King, Louis XIV, had heard tales of the Northern Clans, but until that day he had dismissed them as children's stories. The letter lay on his desk, its spidery print divided into quadrants by deep creases in the thick parchment. In the days before, it had all seemed so unrealistic, so much like fiction; the nomadic clans of man-and-horse, the mysterious bond between rider and mount, and �" most of all �" the equality of men and women.

          It was lunacy. Women were not warriors, they did not ride horses, and they did not RULE anything besides the children. The prospect of these people coming into France was frightening; according to legend, their skill with weaponry and hand-to-hand combat was unmet. Even more frightening, though, was the possibility of French women �" especially his wife �" being inspired by the clans, and wanting to be equal themselves! Or handle weaponry (which, in the King's opinion, was anything sharper than a sewing needle or steak knife). Or, worst of all, have the country run by a Queen.

          Suddenly the room felt hot, his robes heavy, and his wig scratchy. Shifting his grey curls back into place, King Louis XIV readied himself to break the news to his wife and court. As the door to his office closed behind him, it sounded disturbingly like that of a dungeon.

 

          “You like horses, do you not Maria?” the King asked his wife.

          “I suppose �" after all the filth,” she replied, confused.

          “Good, good.” Louis XIV looked at the ceiling, and the familiar painting of the seven Great Myths. “There will be quite a lot of the beasts coming here to Versailles, soon.”

          “Haven't you enough?” Maria Theresa demanded. “The stables are full! Just because there is something larger, and greater than what you own, does not mean you need to have it!”

          “They are not for me, Maria,” King Louis XIV sighed. This was not going to be as easy as he hoped. “They come from the North, and their riders demand an audience.” He had to choose his words carefully now, plant the right impression in her mind. “I like do not like the idea, but it is diplomatic and I haven't much of a choice.”

          “You are the King. You always have a choice,” Maria Theresa said. She stood up. “I have guests, Louis. I am dismissed?”

          “Of course you are.” The king passed a weary hand across his eyes and looked up at the painting of Mars the Divine on the vaulted ceilings. “May God give me strength and wisdom in battle, such as that of Mars himself,” he said, standing up once more.

 

          Francois was a member of the Royal Army. He lived in the soldiers' house flanking the Palace of Versailles. The bottom floor held the armoury and storage rooms, as well as the kitchen, dining and common rooms. The upper floor was filled to bursting with narrow hallways and tiny rooms, each equipped with a set of drawers and several cots.

          There was a smudged and cracked mirror above the cabinets, and Francois was looking into it. His distorted reflection was one with dark curls, brown eyes, thin lips and a lean frame. Another person appeared in the reflection, standing in the warping doorway. He had a flattish face with blond hair and blue eyes, and a nose so squashed and previously broken it was more like an odd vegetable than a body part. Cauliflower, Francois decided. It looked like cauliflower. Then he turned around.

          “Gabe,” he smiled, shaking his friend's hand.

          Gabriel was Francois' oldest friend, and closest too. They had done everything together; walk, talk, break bones, join the army. All the firsts. Including climbing from one upper floor window to another attempting to get from Francois' house to Gabriel's, and nearly falling to their deaths in a neighbour's pond.

          “What have you, Gabe?” Francois asked, indicating the piece of parchment in his friend's hand.

          “Orders,” Gabriel said shortly. He never had much a taste for words. Francois snatched the paper from Gabe's open fist and began to read.

          “The Northern Clans?” he asked. “The nomad warriors? Here?”

          He looked up, meeting his friend's eyes. They told him all he needed to know. Yes, they were the ones from the legends. Yes, they were here. And, yes, he better get dressed.

          “Where shall I meet you?” Francois asked, blowing out a breath.

          “The courtyard,” Gabe said, then lumbered away. 

 

          Isaac, Francois' white warhorse, pawed at the cobblestones. Like the other mounted knights, Francois was stationed in one of many lines before the Golden Gates of Versailles. Quadrants of foot-soldiers, including Gabriel, filled the courtyard, surrounding the eager nobles.

          A single bellow of the captain's trumpet sounded, and everyone was as silent and still as the statues surmounting the palace. Not a toe was out of line; that was the captain's signal. The horsemen were coming. Francois slid a hand up Isaac's white neck, a gesture that was likely more comforting for him than the horse.

         

          The French nobles thought they were prepared. They had heard the stories, they knew the tales. But the spectacle that befell them was grander, more overwhelming than any of them had imagined.

          Hooves drilled into the cobblestone like the steady beat of a drum, tens of horses moving as one. Their fur ranged from light brown to stark black, and their manes were either so long they slapped the horse's muscular neck with every stride, or so short as to stand up straight, enhancing the curve of their spines. There was about a hundred of them, maybe more, all beautiful horses ridden by beautiful people �" men and women alike.

          They stopped as one.

          Francois noticed they rode with little tack. Their thin leather bridles mimicked the curve of the horses head, and were more graceful and simple than those used in the Royal Army. Instead of a saddle, the horses sported a single leather band around their middles. The horses reared up, all together, flashing their steel shod hooves, and no word in any language could describe their glory.

          A single person rode forward. Her features were gracefully angular like those of her companions. Her hair was dark and her eyes bright, and her garb one of tight leather. Steel flashed at her hips; blades. A whip coiled around her arm, a bow was strapped to her back, and a mace and chain dangled loosely from her hand. She was as dangerous and wild as she was beautiful. The courtiers shivered at the sight.

          “We are the forty Clan Chiefs. With us also are our attendants and some of the finest warriors in our tribes,” she said in flawless French. “It is our wish-”

          “Demand,” the king snorted softly to his wife. To his surprise, the girl stopped and looked right at him.        

          “You believe we are not civilized, as we speak what we want to say not what others want to hear. I am trying to abide by your customs, King, but if you wish me to proceed as the harsh barbarian you believe me to be, I will. But just because we are foreign, 'unnatural' and carry weapons does not mean that we have no rules ourselves.”

          The king flushed, feeling chastised. She was merely a woman �" and a young one at that. He glowered at the speaker, then glanced at his wife. Maria Theresa seemed torn between congratulating the girl for standing up for her tribe, and hating her for embarrassing the King, France and all women at once. Dislike won out, and she made a disapproving clicking noise from the back of her throat.

          “Carry on, then,” Louis XIV said. “In a civilized manner.”

          “I'm always civilized,” the girl said, but her smile was menacing, a flash of white like the knives at her belt. “It is our request that we speak to the King and Queen. Alone.” She looked directly at the King. “So their Majesties do not feel pressured, as there are forty of our rulers and only two of yours, we have chosen a pair of representatives. A royal couple, if you will, to speak for us in the deliberations.”

          “What are your terms?” the king asked, feeling sensitive and belittled.

          “That we are given water and a pasture for the horses.” The water must be directly from a well or lake that has not been tampered with, she wanted to add, but knew that any sign of distrust would anger the king further than her previous outburst and hurt their possible treaty. She held her tongue.

          “Accepted,” King Louis XIV said. He shouted a few orders and suddenly there were people everywhere. Courtiers fled the cold scene. The Golden Gates were opened. The two Clan Representatives handed their horses to their guards and headed towards the palace. Footmen escorted the King, Queen and Clansmen to the discussion chambers. The Royal Guard lead the rest of the Clans to the stables.

 

          Francois, dismissed from duty, headed to the pastures to see the Clan's horses. Several skittish nobles viewed the herd nervously from afar �" they didn't know the Clan's ways, and the little they had heard was not good; they didn't want to get too close. Francois, on the other hand, strode right up. Something about the Clans was tugging on him, seductive and illusive, and �" as always �" his curiosity got the better of him.

          They were magnificent creatures. Many of them grazed calmly despite their wild spirits, but two of them were playing. This involved a lot of rearing, kicking, galloping and spinning. Francois was amazed at the power and agility coiled like a spring in them all. They were the nicest horses he had ever seen. Excepting Issac, he reminded himself. His mind knew that these horses were the far superior of his own mount, but his heart wouldn't admit it.

          In the grass of the pasture was a woman; the one who announced the Clan's arrival. Most of her weapons were discarded now, as was her jacket, and she wore only a sleeveless bodice and trousers that hugged her figure. These clothes were foreign and improper to Frenchmen, and Francois initially choked on how revealing they were. The bodice was cut both low and high, and it showed way too much skin for what was proper. Francois was young, however, and open minded enough to see the practicality behind them. And the beauty.

          “Bonjour,” Francois said, with a smile, his long strides carrying him to the fence line. “What is the name of your horse?”

          “Löhan.”

          “Mine is the grey, there,” he said pointing. “He is called Isaac.” The girl looked at him with genuine surprise.

          “Your people, they are afraid of us. But not you.”

          “No,” he agreed, “Not me.” He smiled slyly. “The knights over there are brave, but they carry their brains in the same scabbards as their swords, and they cannot adapt to new situations. The rules have changed with you here, and they aren't even going to try to learn to play the game.”

          “You are a knight also, though.”

          “An especially handsome knight named Francois.” He succeeded in making her laugh.

          “I am called Annette.”

          “As beautiful a name as a figure, has she,” Francois said seriously to the horses.

          “Why have you come?” Annette asked. Her voice was stern but her eyes were laughing.

          “To ask you the very same question.”

          “The king has sent you.” Annette's eyes narrowed with suspicion. Francois laughed, shaking his head.

          “It was barely an hour ago when we found out you were coming at all �" and he never said why.” Annette's eyes widened slightly, and her face softened. Then disgust morphed her features.

          “Of course he has not told you. Just like the man.” She practically spat. “I must go. Perhaps we will speak again later.”

          “I understand; au revoir Annette.” The name sounded good on Francois' tongue, like honey laced with cinnamon. He hoped he would get to say it again soon �" then chased the thought away like a shepherd would a wolf. 

 

          There were apartment hours that evening; on certain nights, the king would open the palace from six hours past noon onwards. Anyone with a rank of any importance went, and the King and Queen were expected to socialize with their subjects. There was dancing, food and conversation. Tonight, the talk was focused on one particular topic.

          “Have you seen? Their women wear trousers!”

          “They ride alongside the men!”

          “The one who made the announcement was female, also.”

          “Even the women wear weapons �" to an extent extreme at the least.”

          Francois wandered through the crowd, smiling and nodding politely. Occasionally he would frown in agreement when a vexed noble would comment on the Northern Clans' customs, but his mind was elsewhere. Why were the Northern Clans here? When had they become something more than a legend?

          “Good evening Sire,” Francois said, bowing. Thankfully the king was on his throne �" one had to bow to the big chair whether or not a royal was on it, and it was a great relief to do so when there was someone to acknowledge you. 

          “You are a soldier, no?” Louis XIV asked.

          “I am �" your Majesty has a good eye.” Francois took a breath �" best to cut in quickly. “I have a question for you Sire, on a matter that is the centre for a rather lot of gossip.”

          “What is it?”

          “The unknown reason for the horsemen coming, Sire.”

          “This is information for those whose years far outnumber your own,” the king told him wisely.

          “Yes, Sire. But if the Guards were to know of the Clan's mindset, we would be able to protect your Majesty better; predict their advances.”

          “You make a point, Monsieur, though this is talk for your superiors.”

          “Yes, Sire. Good evening.” Francois smiled with slightly clenched teeth, and bowed before stalking to the edge of the room. That had not gone well, but he was not one to betray his anger. 'For your superiors.' Ha! They were superior in terms of the King's favour, no doubt, but certainly not in aptitude.

          The only thing Francois learned during Apartment Hours was that the King's wife, Maria Theresa, did not know much about the Clans' coming either. That meant the King was hiding something �" likely he did something he was not proud of, and now was dealing with the repercussions.

          Francois shook his head. Not only was he unaware of the Clans' motives, but their goal also. What did they want from France? Why? And how did they plan to get it?

          The whole thing was shrouded in secrecy on the King's part. It was unlikely that anyone would glean anything from the King's lips, or those of his advisers. But Francois thought of someone who might tell him what is going on.

 

          The Northern Clan's camp was a series of tents pitched by the horses' pastures. People walked to and fro, down thin, crooked isles between tents. The camp had been pitched quickly. Francois pushed his surprise away; of course they pitched it fast �" they were nomads. That is what they do every day, how they live. They must have it down to an art.

          Everyone was out of their armour now, and Francois noted their odd clothes. The men wore loose fitting trousers and simple tunics �" or no shirt at all. Suddenly Francois felt uncomfortable and out of place, embarrassed by his ruffled French garb. Francois tore off his fake grey curls, and tugged at his tie. As he jerked off his velvet jacket, he kicked at the buckles on his boots until they came undone �" the pleats in his pants with them.

          We are so fake, Francois realized with a pang. The horsemen were so true to themselves, not hiding or pretending they were something different. The camp was filled with voices, and laughing people. No restraint. It was alien, but completely exhilarating. Francois could say what he wanted to say, not what people wanted to hear. 

          In the camp, Francois stopped an old man whose hair was mostly white.

          “Where does Annette stay?” he asked. The man shook his head and replied in a foreign language.

          “Annette,” Francois repeated slowly. “She rides Löhan.” He tried one last time, speaking slowly and enunciating. “Annette.”

          “Oh! Annette!” the old man smiled. He turned and pointed to a tent, still uttering a string of non-understandable words. He sounded like he was teasing Francois. Though he'd only heard it once before, Francois recognized Annette's laughter immediately. It was a sound he doubted he'd ever forget.

          “Annette,” he called. “It's me �" Francois.” The conversation from inside the tent stopped immediately, and then the flap opened.

          Francois didn't know where to look. Annette wore a low cut blouse, and trousers so short that all of her calves and most of her thighs were exposed. In France, a woman's thighs were meant to be seen solely by their husband. Francois' mind reeled.

          “Yes?” Annette asked. Squinting up at the sky, Francois replied.

          “You said earlier �" that you would tell me what deliberations are going on.”

          “You are twisting my words,” she said �" but smiled.

          “I spoke to the king tonight, but he will not tell me, or anyone for that matter. Not even his wife.”

          “Of course not,” Annette said. “Women have no place in this society. They run around trained, like dogs to their masters.” It had never occurred to Francois that the Clan's might think this. Suddenly, Annette turned and disappeared back into her tent.

          Was that all? Would she really leave, just like that? End of conversation? Francois turned to go when there was a hand on his shoulder. He looked back in surprise.

          “Come with me,” Annette said, and strode away. She led Francois to the edge of their camp and whistled for Löhan. Francois could not find a safe place for his eyes. He looked at the horses.

          “Years and years ago our Grandfathers made a treaty with your Grandfathers,” Annette told him. “The Frenchmen would not encroach on our fields, and a certain �" relatively small, might I add �" portion of land was reserved for the Nomads. Not exactly a country, more like a bursary. Our clans were here long before yours, you know. We helped Europe set it's roots.

          “Up until now your Kings have honoured this treaty. But Louis XIV wants to 'Expand France.'”

          Francois knew where this was going. Recently the King had started a new project �" increasing France's territory, giving pieces of new land to nobles around the country. There had not been any fights over the land as there would had they invaded Germany or Spain. That's why the population believed the King's story about unused land. Free land. It was too good to be true.

          “Where did you think the many new acres were coming from?” Annette asked. “No land is truly unused, truly owner-less. The race of man is a greedy one; always wanting to Bigger and Better themselves.”

          “We didn't really think of it at all,” Francois admitted. “There were no fights or skirmishes over the land, so the public assumed it was unwanted. Everyone protects what is theirs.”

          “Not us. How could we? There are no villages you could attack, no towers watching the borders, no walls we could use to defend ourselves even if we wanted too! This is what I do not understand: why does he take our land back? We have done nothing to offend you. We have kept our distance for the last century!”

          “Maybe that's why,” Francois told her. “Perhaps he believed you never existed at all.”

          Annette ran a hand through her hair; they hadn't thought of that. Perhaps by keeping their distance entirely, they had allowed the peoples to forget they ever existed. They had allowed themselves to fade into the dusty pages of history.

          “How do the discussions go?” Francois asked finally. The deliberations had started that very day, several hours ago. Perhaps Annette knew something. “The King will never let on,” he told her.

          “They do not go well,” Annette said darkly. “Not well at all.”

 

          Francois was in the Library. He was like a kitten �" too curious for his own good. No matter how many answers Annette gave him, each one unearthed a dozen more questions, more mysteries to be solved.

          According to various restricted manuscripts, the Clans People had been in Europe since time began. They hovered in the ink and parchment through the centuries, like a watchful brother �" until Europe settled. Then they vanished from all documentation.

          It took Francois ages to find the several, fleeting mentions of them. The books seemed to be hidden �" in the wrong section, shoved to the backs of the shelves, in the 'Section of Restricted Entrance.' Francois took all he could find as truth �" except for the several references to magic and curses, for those certainly did not exist. Finally, after more than an hour of searching, Francois managed to get his hands on a particularly informative text. The Treaty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chlodio The Longhair, King of Franks

Year 428 :

 

Those who hail from the Northern Lands; known as the Northern Clans, Clans, Horsemen or Field-Folk; shalt remain on their entitled land for as long as this empire remains true. 'Their Land' is to be untouched by the Franks, as we are indebted entirely to these Clans; to them we owe our existence. Without their assistance, our Bloodline would not

exist, and in the absence of royalty, chaos would strike the land.

 

Rivion Themsdale, Chief of the Forty Clans

Year 428 :

 

Whosoever hath decided to break the created arrangement, an' it ever happen, shall be smote down by the same hand of power that borne their country. But until that day comes, France and the Clans shall be without issue.

 

Terms :

 

The King's Blood-sickness will be healed, the Queen's

fertility restored,

and so:

Above the Fortieth Degree, the Franks will make

no move to settle,

and so:

The Clans will ensure the King's bloodline shall remain fertile and healthy. One successor there shall always be,

but if:

The Franks so chose to break this agreement, the Fortieth Degree shall be crossed,

and so:

No King will live past the Age of the degree they broke; Forty;

and every Queen shall be barren, as they were previous to the time the Clan's assistance was requested.

 

As agreed upon by:

 

Chlodio the Longhair

King of Franks

 

and

 

Rivion Themsdale

Chief of the Forty Clans

 

 

 

 

          Francois drank in the information. He didn't quite understand the part about 'no king living past the age of the degree he broke', but it sounded ominous. He assumed that 1200 years ago, people believed in Real Magic �" not just paltry tricks. This was the stuff that could heal the King's 'Blood-sickness', and restore the Queen's fertility. It was also the stuff that could enforce the punishments �" every queen becoming barren, and every king dying young.

          The problem was, Real Magic did not exist. It was made up. Or, perhaps it did exist, hundreds of years ago, but it did not exist now. This rendered the Clan's side of the argument useless and the King had nothing to fear. He could not be punished for his actions, because the agreed upon consequences were impossible to dole out. Francois understood now why the King broke his side of the treaty. He told Gabe.

          “This is bad,” Francois' friend said. “Very bad.”

          Francois was also beginning to understand the King's secrecy on the matter. He was not guilty or ashamed of his actions. He just knew that the people of his court were superstitious, even though magic was not real. If they learned of the supposed 'Curse', there would be unrest, and the discussions would go downhill �" faster than they already were.

          King Louis XIV was planning to take the Clan's land. Just take it �" discussions or not. He had been planning it for over a year. Francois wondered how much damage would be done; the Clan's were better with their weapons then the French. If they decided to retaliate �" well, the results would be far from good.

 

          Their attempts were not working, try though they might. Maria Theresa had still not borne a child, and Louis XIV needed an heir. Soon.

          “It's this silly project, Louis,” Maria frowned. She stood at the foot of her husband's bed in her night clothes. “It's taking too much of your time; you can't stop thinking of it. Not even long enough, to, well...”

          “I am sure that is not it,” the King said.

          “What else could it be? Ever since you began this attempt to 'Expand France' nothing has been the same.”

          “Even if you are correct, Maria �" though you're not �" the project will come to a close soon.”

          “Soon enough, Louis? We are not young anymore. Please, just sign that treaty and come to bed.”

          “I cannot.”

          “You are the King! You very well can,” she pouted. “Good night, Louis.” She was not happy �" not happy at all.

 

          Francois was spending a great deal of time with Annette. As much as he wanted the deliberations to end �" they formed a tightness in the air near the palace �" he wished they would never stop so Annette would never leave. They were becoming good friends, in a way that was rather unfamiliar to Francois.

          “The air is heavy here,” Annette said. “Please �" take me somewhere more pleasant.”

          It was true; the discussions were icy, and there was a large amount of frustration building on either side of the table. The Clans' camp was solemn and withdrawn, and a grim sort of smugness hung in the air like the smoke from an unclean chimney.

          Furthermore, many of them were antsy to leave. The Clans were born on the run, and they had flighty souls. The cramped city did not sit well with them, and the air between tents seemed to be hard as a rock.

          “Have you seen the gardens yet?” Francois asked.

          “I have not.”

          “The flowers are, well, flowers, but the fountains are breathtaking.”

          Francois was right. They wandered through the magnificent gardens, breathing in the sweet smell of honey and sap. The vibrant colours and intricate designs lifted Annette's spirits immensely.

          “There are Forty Clans,” Annette responded to Francois' question about her background. “There always have been. Mine is the Themsdale Clan. The Chief is Rivion �" you met him the other day, in the tent.”

          “I recognize the name,” Francois said, casting about in his memory. Aha! Rivion Themsdale was the one who made the treaty with Chlodio, King of Franks. It was a grand name to live up to; he was one of the most influential people in the Clans' history.

          “Wasn't he named after that man, the one who signed the treaty? A long time ago?” Francois asked; it was a stupid question as he already knew the answer, but he didn't know what else to say.

          “No,” Annette said, and it surprised him. “Names are very important to us; they define a person's character. It is very seldom, if ever, that a name is reused. So in this case, there has only ever been one Rivion. It is an important name, the name of a chief.”

          “Only one Rivion? Ever?” Francois asked. It was not possible �" Rivion Themsdale had lived hundreds of years ago. He couldn't still be alive today.

          “Only one. Ever,” Annette nodded. They were silent.

          Francois didn't know how it happened. One moment, he and Annette were sitting on the bench, the next she was in his arms. She was so close. Francois knew he should pull away, away from her entrancing danger. But he could not.

          Annette had never kissed anyone before �" or planned to. But, there you go. And it was so natural, comfortable, unexpected...

          Francois had to stop it. He could not kiss her; it was improper. Disrespectful. Wrong. But she would pull away if she didn't want it, right?

          Maybe she couldn't stop herself, any more than he could. Maybe the force magnetizing them was too strong to be broken. The logical part of Francois' brain hoped she could pull away, but every other fibre of his body prayed she could not.

 

          Francois was back at the library, looking into birth and death records. His suspicions were confirmed; there was only ever one Rivion Themsdale, the one who signed the original treaty in 428 and the one in Annette's tent. They were the same person. But they lived more than 1000 years apart.

          Rivion Themsdale was 1200 years old. Francois' mind reeled at the possibility �" the truth. And if it really was possible to live that long, the rest of it �" the magic, the curse �" was possible too.

          Louis XIV would not live past Forty �" the age of the degree he crossed. Maria Theresa would not produce an heir �" the queens would be barren, as they were before the aid of the Clans was requested. Unless the treaty was signed.

          The treaty had to be signed.

 

          “I do not believe in Magic!” Louis XIV snapped. He stood before Francois, glowering at the young knight. He was too smart, he knew too much �" and he was questioning the King!

          “There is no curse,” Louis XIV said again.

          “Did you even read the treaty?” Francois asked, astounded.

          “Of course I read it. But there is no curse! The past kings were weak; they believed in this trickery.”

          “Chlodio, King of Franks was our very first king! We wouldn't be here without him, and you say he is weak?” Francois could not believe himself. He was yelling at the king. But he couldn't stop himself.

          “They did not have the knowledge then that we have now,” the King explained. “I know that magic does not exist, I know that the 'curse' does not exist, so I must act. I cannot allow the Clans to cheat us out of what is rightfully ours.”

          “If the curse does not exist, why haven't you had a child? Any man can have a child if he's been trying as long as you say you are.”

          “How dare you!”

          “I wish I didn't, sire, but I have to make you understand! It can only get worse from here.” Francois glared at the king, then spun on his heel and fled. He had pushed it, crossed the line, and he had been only several inches from treason, several seconds from being kicked out. It was worth a try, but the king was not going to listen to reason, not going to budge. Francois knew, as the door to the throne room shut, that King Louis XIV was dooming himself and his country. There was nothing else he could do but sit and watch as the cards were dealt.

 

          Despite the tense relations between the French and the Clans, the palace heaved a sigh of relief that night. Maria Theresa was practically glowing with pride when she burst into the King's office. Had she been anything but Queen, she would have jumped for joy.

          “Louis!”

          “What is it dear?”

          “I've missed my bleedings for months in a row. I didn't want to mention it, in case I was mistaken, but now I know I'm not. ”

          The King's brow furrowed. A woman's bleedings only stopped when they were old. Maria Theresa was far from old. Was she sick?

          “Have you seen the doctor?”

          “I'm not sick, Louis,” Maria Theresa sighed with exasperation. “I'm pregnant!” The king's face paled. He stared at her, uncomprehendingly. Then it set in, and he leaped to his feet, and hugged his wife.

          “I'm so happy,” he told her.

          “I am also! The doctor says we'll be able to see it, any time now. Can you imagine? I'll need a new dress!”

          “Of course, of course.” The king was bursting with pride; he was going to have an heir, after all.

 

          “The morning sickness has not yet come?” the doctor asked, brow furrowed. 

          “No,” the Queen replied. “But my belly isn't big yet either. I'm sure they'll come together.” The doctor nodded, but he didn't look sure.

          “How many bleedings have you missed, My Lady?”

          “At least four, maybe five. I remember! The first I missed was the month my Husband got the first letter from the Clans.”

          “So this will be your sixth missed?”

          “Yes.”

          “And your girth has not increased?”

          “No. It should have, shouldn't it? I'm so flat still! Everyone else, they need new dresses, and my corset still fits!” Suddenly she gasped. “Do you think that is the problem? Am I squashing my baby?” Her hands flew to her stomach, and tears to her eyes. “I'm killing my baby!”

          “There, there,” the doctor said. “That's not the problem.”

          “Then what is?” The doctor took a deep breath.

          “Your Majesty, I'm afraid there will be no baby.”

          “This time?”

          “Not this time, Your Majesty, and not ever. I'm sorry. I really am, but there is nothing we can do about it; you are barren.”

          That was just what she needed to hear. Maria Theresa collapsed into a puddle of salty tears. There would not be a baby. Never, ever!

          What would the King say? He needed an heir. Would he trade her out for some fertile farmer's daughter? Toss her into the streets? Kill her? That's what his advisers would suggest. Maria Theresa let out a low moan of despair. She was ruined.

 

          Maria Theresa's eyes were red and puffy when she returned to the palace. She had fixed her hair and face as best she could, and thanked the doctor in a resigned sort of way. Now, she knocked shyly on her husband's door, head bowed.    

          The Queen was greeted by a cough. And another.

          “Come in,” the King gasped, then lapsed into another fit. His face was pale, and sweat beaded on his brow.

          “You do not look good,” King Louis managed.

          “Not as bad as you,” Maria Theresa replied, glad to push the news of the baby �" or lack there of �" aside. “Why are you not resting? Go to bed!”

          “One moment.” More coughing.

          “Can I get you anything? Water? Honey?”

          “Perhaps a cloth for my forehead,” the king said, forcing a smile. He stumped off toward his room as the Queen paged a servant.

 

          The next morning the king was no better. He had slept fitfully that night, and woke up with sandy eyes and a racking cough. His face was very, very pale, almost an ashen grey.

          “You'll have to stay in bed, of course,” the Queen said to her husband.

          “What about the discussions?”

          “They can wait.”

          “Perhaps,” Louis XIV trailed off.

          The pain came around lunch time, a stabbing pain that seared through all the veins in his body, like his blood was on fire. His heart shuddered in his chest, and the King cried out. His voice was raspy and weak.

          “What is it?” Maria Theresa asked, but the King could not speak, the pain was so bad. The Queen could do nothing to comfort her husband, save for sit with him. That's what she did.

          The pain lasted nearly three quarters of an hour before it subsided into a deep bone-ache. It left the king sweaty and exhausted, his breath coming in short bursts. For the rest of the afternoon, King Louis XIV was locked in a trance-like state, somewhere between sleeping and waking. Maria called the doctor in that night.

          “I don't know what it is, Your Majesty,” the doctor said. “The symptoms are unclear. The jaundiced eyes point to liver disease, but fever isn't generally associated.”

          “We need to know, Doctor,” the Queen told him.

          “I know, My Lady. I'll be back tomorrow.”

          Tomorrow, however, was worse. The king still breathed in short gasps, and dizziness came in spells. The sharp pain did not come back, but the deep, continual ache persisted.

          As the doctor mentioned, the King's eyes were yellow where they should be white, and the fever grew worse. Adding to this was a swelling in his hands and feet, accompanied by more pain. Maria tried to make the king eat, but he would have nothing.

          “Doctor,” the king gasped. “It feels as though my skin is not big enough for my bones.”

          “Yes, My Lord. We will have you better in no time.” Truthfully, though, the doctor had no ideas as to what the disease was, and he didn't know how to help. The Queen stayed by the King's bed all day, pressing cold, damp clothes to his forehead to ease his fever.

          “Let us elevate his extremities, My Lady. It should ease the swelling, and with it the pain.” They did so, and wrapped the King's hands and feet in cold clothes too, but even after an hour nothing was helping.

          “Give it time, My Lady,” the doctor said.

          “I shall, doctor, but we are merely treating symptoms! I would you call in a second physician.”

          “Yes, My Lady. Will the Village Doctor do?”

          “Anyone,” Maria Theresa said. “But also send a notice to the Duke of Merthen. I want his doctor on the way within the hour.”

          “Yes, My Lady,” the doctor said.  As he left, Maria Theresa turned to her husband.

          “I believe we will have to call off the discussions,” she said.

          “No,” the king said weakly. “Bid them wait. I shall be better within the week, and it does no good to ignore things.”

          “Yes, Louis.” She paused. “On the topic of ignoring things, dear, I talked to the doctor. About the baby.”

          “Good, good.”

          “There isn't one. There never will be.”

          “Good, good.”

          “Did you hear me? Louis I-” But the King was already asleep. Maria Theresa pushed back her tears, and changed the cloth on her husband's forehead.

 

          Graciously, the Clans agreed to freeze discussions until the King was healed. Physician after physician entered the palace, but the King remained uncured. By the third day, many of the Clanspeople decided to leave. They missed their fields and were needed by their families; they had already been gone for over a fortnight.

          Among those who stayed were Rivion, four guards, the two representatives and, to Francois' immense relief, Annette. Even so, the young knight readied himself for the day when Annette would depart. The knowledge that that day would come soon weighed heavily on his chest.

 

          Annette sat, curled under Francois' arm like a happy cat, when the figure came. A dark cloak loosely covered the person's form. Its way of walking was distinctly feminine. Annette looked once to Francois, then they stood and followed the figure.

          It stopped just outside Rivion's tent. Without knocking, it stepped inside. Annette's brow furrowed, and she waved Francois around the side of the tent, then crouched down and listened.

          The unknown figure turned out to be the Queen. Annette could not see her, but she could hear her. Maria Theresa's familiar voice was marred by fatigue and despair.

          “Is it you?” she asked.

          “Pardon me, Your Majesty, but is what me?” Rivion asked calmly.

          “My Husband's sickness. Are you causing it?” There was no reply. Francois glanced at Annette, but she was not looking at him.

          “Do you know the terms of the original treaty, Maria?” Rivion asked finally.

          “I know the stories. The first King was ill; a blood-sickness. When there was nothing the physician's could do, they called on the Clans for their Magic. You healed the King, but cursed his family.”

          “It is not, a curse My Lady,” Rivion told her. “Your Husband's sickness is heretic. Every single king has it, but it has not effected them because we are keeping it at bay. The land you allow us to live on is payment for our services. The instant you crossed onto our land, our protection ceased and the disease took it's natural course. We have done nothing.”

          “You have allowed it to happen!”

          “We could have sat back and waited the disease out. Your empire would surely fall the royal line was vanquished. We have the time to wait, but we didn't. We came here and argued continually with your stubborn husband. We don't want France to fall any more than you do; France is the child of the Clans.”

          “Do you at least know what is wrong with him?” There was a long pause.

          “It is something called Sickle Cell Disease. You may tell your physicians, but they won't be able to treat it; they have never heard of the disease, and won't understand it for another hundred years or more.”

          “But you can treat it; you have before.” Rivion said nothing. “You can save a man's life, a king's life no less, and you won't?” Maria Theresa shrieked. “You'll allow a man to die a slow death?”

          “Treating this disease is a hefty weight, my Queen, a hard task. And what is in it for us? Your husband is not trustworthy. He went back on his word, killed our people, stole our land. So tell me, what would the Clans get out of it?”

          “We would sign the treaty if you healed my husband.”

          “Will you? How do I know the king will not break it again? Perhaps it is better for him to die.” There was a pause. When Maria Theresa spoke again, her voice was stronger, harder.

          “Whether it be by my husband's hand or not, your land will be invaded,” she said. “Other countries will go after it, especially when France falls. They will rush to claim our land first, then they will see yours. The destruction will never stop.”

          “How should this make me want to heal your husband?”

          “Because we will make you a better treaty. A stronger one! One that gives you more land. You could be legal nomads! Imagine, wandering all through France wherever it please you. But I will only do this, if you heal my husband.”

          Silence. Annette glanced at Francois �" they could practically hear the two leaders thinking. Annette imagined Rivion's age old eyes boring into the Queen's, as she knew they must be.

          “Tell me more,” the Clan Chief said finally.

 

*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Every and any dealings with those from the High  North, The Northern Clans, is to be hereby dealt with by the Women of Royal Position. A King's signature is NO LONGER accepted.

 

The King's Blood-sickness is to be healed, and the queen made fertile once more, and they shall be protected from these health issues for so long as the treaty remains unbroken.

 

All land originally owned by the Northern Clans will be given to the Crown.

 

All original Forty Clans may roam freely as Legal Nomads throughout France. These Clans include: Aligon, Abiec, Beyaci, Colodine, Carmier, Demfor, Erapfi, Erason, Fiogan, Gogiansi, Geone, Hasut, Ilmun, Ianas, Jotant, Jomache, Kalip, Luentae, Lumieris, Moracha, Niantes, Nopan, Opiel, Ovare, Povannae, Qardhi, Qaid, Riona, Ridav, Siotar, Siata, Themsdale, Tehas, Uvanu, Vientae, Valundai, Wasnoc, Xylis, Yaveara, Zelon.

 

Every year, during breeding season, three of the clans must pay a visit to the castle of Versailles with their finest horses, and allow the crown the use of their stallions for the period of a week.

 

If ever a monarch of France is to disrespect the treaty, the original parcel of land (40 degrees and above) is to be returned to the Clans and all protection and services the Clans provide the Crown will stop.

 

If ever the Clans are to disrespect the treaty, they are to be banished from France; the pain of returning is death. If after three days of banishment, any clans people remain within France's borders, they are to be killed.

 

So long as the treaty remains unbroken, if ever France is in a time of war, the horsemen are to assist. Any person eligible for the army (by France's standards: 16 years and older, boy or man) will serve.

 

Two seats in the King's Council of Advisers must be reserved for the clan's people  - so long as they participate actively, and attend the same number of meetings required by any other council member.

 

This Treaty only lasts so long as a descendant of King Louis XIV remains on the throne, or any member of the family of his line.

 

As agreed by:

Rivion Themsdale

Chief of the Forty Clans

 

and

 

Maria Theresa

Queen of France

 

*^*^*^*^*^*^*

 

          Annette and Rivion sat in the tent, mixing a special medicine. The new treaty had been signed in relative secrecy the night before, and they were to heal the king today. Rivion had a mortar and pestle in his hands and was mixing and mashing with vigour.

          “It's for the king,” he told Annette.

          “Are those peas?” Annette asked, pointing at the green jumble in the bowl.

          “Special peas,” Rivion nodded, “grown in the High North under ice, and infused with Lavender oil and Essence of Veno.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm as he began to mash a whitish paste into the peas.

          “It can't possibly do anything,” Annette said dubiously. “The king's disease is one of the blood; medicine will not enter his immune system fast enough unless you plan to inject him with it.”

          “You're right, of course,” Rivion chuckled. “It won't do a thing but the French don't know that. This is just for show �" if I don't give him anything they'll think I am going back on my word. I am going to heal him, only they wouldn't understand what I'm doing.” Annette laughed and imagined Rivion spooning the paste into the king's mouth.

          “Oh, dear Annette �" this is not for eating,” the Rivion said, fighting back a smile. “It's for rubbing onto foreheads, and under noses.” Annette's astonished face set Rivion to laughing again.

 

          The next few days were quite the blur. The public blew out a collective breath when the King's fever broke, and the doctors could treat the swelling and cough. Many of the physicians ignored Rivion's patient suggestions, dismissing them for witchcraft and trickery.

         

          When he asked, Maria Theresa told the King that in the early onsets of his fever, he had merely imagined the Clans' unrest. She lead him to believe he had been delirious, and made up the whole thing. 

          “They came merely for a compulsory signing of the treaty,” she explained. “It has to be signed every however long to remain valid. Might I add, the additions you made to the papers were very smart.”

          “Ah, yes, thank you,” King Louis XIV said. He didn't know what additions his wife was talking about, but he wasn't about to admit that. Coughing delicately, he moved to a new, more pressing topic of conversation. “What of our, ah, troubles producing an heir?”

          “What troubles?” Maria asked, putting on the face of innocence.

          “The doctor said you were barren.”

          “Really? You must have imagined it dear. I'm hardly barren �" not when there's a child on the way.” She laid a hand to her gently bulging belly.

          Louis XIV was at a loss for words. Had he really missed that much? And, more importantly, would the new child be a boy?

 

          “Was the King truly alright with the new agreement?” Francois asked Rivion. He liked the old �" really old �" man.

          “The Queen explained it to him when he was under the influence. She's a smart girl.” Francois nodded. Maria Theresa was a good queen and a good wife.

          “I hope this will all work out for the best,” Francois said.

          “It will be very different,” Rivion decided.

          “At least it will be.”

         

          The sun was barely on the horizon, painting the glory day with red and gold hues of triumph. The agreement was made, a new treaty signed, the King and Queen healthy with a pending heir. France was happy �" well, most of France.

          Francois was running. The worn stairs bowed beneath his feet, wood creaking. He burst through the doors �" and froze.

          The Northern Clans' camp was empty. The tents were packed up, the horses were gone. The silence struck Francois like a blow to the chest; he had missed them. They were gone. The only girl he had ever loved had left, and he hadn't been there to say goodbye. He frantically scanned the courtyard. Empty.

          Francois sank to his knees on the steps, his head in his hands. The air was heavy. So was his heart.

          A squealing creak brought Francois' head snapping up. The Golden Gates of Versailles banged shut. On the other side of it was a figure. A girl �" and a horse.

          “Annette!” Francois screamed, but she didn't hear him. Feeling as though Annette was like sand slipping through his fingers, Francois screamed her name again and again, his cries rousing the birds. Desperately, he leaped to his feet, racing across the cobblestone. 

          “Annette!” he called. “Annette.”

          But she was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part Two

Francois

 

          Annette thought she would be happy to be on the road again. She'd hated the city. It was loud, formal and dirty; while there, she had yearned for the open air of the fields.

          Instead of the weightlessness she usually felt when travelling with her mighty horse, Löhan, and her Clan, it felt as though she was just going through the motions. Move here, speak there, smile when someone smiles at you. Everything was forced.

          The days seemed to drag by, like a harrow through the sand. Was it just her, or were the skies unusually overcast? Löhan picked up on Annette's mood as well, and was grumpy and slow, dragging his feet and stomping around.

          Basically, Annette was trying to breathe. The problem was, the air was not there. It was back in Versailles. It had curly dark hair, and equally dark eyes, and slender eyebrows that leaped and danced, sometimes hiding under tangled bangs.

          Francois.

          The thought hurt, dragging back the guilt and dreadful self pity. If there was any emotion Annette hated more than pain, it was self pity; it was a weakness, a horrid  feature. But there you go.

          She could be breathing right now if she weren't such a coward.

          Francois was going to ask Annette to stay with him; she knew he was. But Annette was a nomad; she could never settle. She had to get back to the road, lose herself in motion, even if it meant losing her lover. She hated herself for it.   Annette couldn't bear to tell Francois that; if she had, she knew what he would do. He would ask to go with her. He would do for her what she wouldn't do for him; give up his life, his comforts. All for her.

          She was so guilty.

          Guilt was an emotion Annette could not deal with; especially when every fibre of her body wished Francois had come with her. She wanted him to give up everything for her. He made her feel special, important and valued, in a way no one else could. He was such a good listener; he had eyes and ears for her alone. He asked her questions about her life, wanted to know everything about her. Annette loved him.

          But she left.

          He had screamed her name over and over until his voice was raspy and weak. She had heard him, shouting for her, shouting himself hoarse. She had heard, and still she had left.

          “Annette.” Rivion's kind old voice roused Annette from her thoughts. She looked up from the fire; up to the stars. She would be one of them some day. The thought comforted her. She had always loved the stars.

          “Come here, Annette.” Exhaling, Annette made her way to Rivion and his candle, stepping carefully. Her fire had burned bright orange specks into her pupils, and in the dark she was blind until she blinked the colour away.

          “Good evening, Rivion,” she said, peering into his face. He had the look he always got before teaching a much needed lesson, or giving a long-waited-for lecture. Sighing with resignation, Annette sat down beside the old man.

          “What is it?” she asked. He flashed her a quick grin, then drew in a breath and began.

          “You are looking so stern lately. Why is that, dear Annette?”

          “I don't know Rivion.”

          “I'm sure you do. What you don't know is why it is affecting you the way it is. Am I right?”

          “I suppose,” Annette admitted.

          “My dear, you are heart-sick. You love Francois, but you made a mistake and now you feel guilty.” He didn't wait for her to reply. “We all make mistakes, Annette. Don't berate yourself about it.”

          “What do I do?” Annette asked. She felt the burning of tears in her eyes; a feeling that had recently become all too familiar.

          “You already know the answer to that, my dear.”

          “I wish I didn't.”

          “You are just like any other young woman,” Rivion told her, “even though you like to think you aren't. I know you pretend things don't affect you, that you aren't prone to the same emotions as the rest of us. That may be true in the case of your tolerance for pain, but not your tolerance for other feelings. In some ways you are even more susceptible to them than others, Annette, because feeling them annoys, even hurts you. That means that each emotion for you has double the weight. You must stop considering emotion a weakness, dear. It will only hurt you further. You need to understand them, not fight them.”

          “Thank you,” Annette said stiffly. The old man wrapped an arm around her shoulders �" no one had ever done that since she was small. No one but Francois.

          “I care for you, Annette. I hate to see you hurting. I wish you would do more for yourself. You are doing what you believe the Clan wants, but we would never wish anything of you that makes you unhappy.”

          “You want me to go back to him.” 

          “I want you to do what your heart tells you.” Annette nodded, and they sat together for a while, silent.

          “I'll leave tomorrow morning,” Annette said finally.

          “I'm proud of you.” Annette smiled then, and rested her head on Rivion's shoulder. They were like father and daughter; Annette's dad had died before she was born, and it was Rivion and her mother who raised her. Physical contact was rare when Annette was involved, and Rivion was glad it was something he shared with her. They sat like that, long into the night, gazing up at the stars; bright, twinkling and content.

         

          Why did he give up? Francois hadn't chased after Annette, hadn't gone after her; he'd just stood on the steps and shouted her name like a child. He'd let her leave.

          Francois was miserable now, all because he was afraid. Afraid of throwing his life behind him to follow Annette. Afraid that if he asked Annette to stay with him she would �" even though she hated the city, even though her heart was in the field. Afraid that the Clans would not accept him, that they would encourage Annette to leave him.

          But he didn't want to be afraid anymore.

          Francois wanted a second chance, an opportunity to make it right. But that chance would never come. The full weight of the truth settled heavily on his chest and shoulders. Even though he loved Annette more than he thought he could love anyone, she was gone. Because he had let her leave.

          “If only you bring her back to me,” Francois whispered into his clasped hands, staring at the cross on his wall, “I promise I will never make the same mistake again. I promise I will love her to the end of the earth. I promise I will give her everything; I'd do anything to be with her.”

          “Still on about that girl?”

          “Gabe,” Francois said, startled. He turned around to see his frowning friend. Gabe had never approved of Annette; he thought her trouble, he thought her a fraud.

          “You sulk too much. No girl wants a tearful man.”

          “Be nice,” Francois chided him. “What is that?”

          “Orders from the King,” Gabriel said, unfolding his fist. The paper being circulated among the troops read as follows:

 

As Proclaimed by the King of France:

Louis XIV

 

All soldiers serving in the Royal Army, West Wing, Quadrants Ten to Sixteen are hereby Deported to the Spanish borders to aid Civil Service as a result of uprisings along the Crossing.

 

You will leave on the fifth day of the seventh month.

 

Sir Ethbrig is appointed commander of the expedition. All men  will comply to his demands. Those who do not face the usual punishments.

 

          “The fifth?” Francois exclaimed. “That means we're leaving tomorrow!” Gabriel nodded.

          “Pack a bag; the border is not close.”

          “How do you think they chose the quadrants to deport?” Francois wondered, as he began to shove clothes into a satchel.

          “The number; first one to four, then four to ten, then ten to sixteen.”

          “That is not the ideal way to do it; surely they realize that! It all depends on-”

          “No matter,” Gabriel cut in. “The trip is good for you. It will get that girl out of your system.”

          “You don't like her,” Francois frowned.   

          “I don't trust her.” Francois shot a nasty look out the window, then turned around and snapped his bag shut.

 

          The soldiers were being organized. People ran this way and that, trying to form lines. Of course, this was when Francois and Gabe were separated; Francois fought on horseback but Gabe was a foot-soldier. They were in two entirely different parts of the army.

          “Your nose should be behind someone's head!” a thin-lipped man screamed at the foot-soldiers. “Your shoulders should be lined up with two other peoples!”

          It was surprising how well that worked. Soon the quadrants were organized into lines and columns, and everyone stood still. Then, came the fateful cry.

          “All march!”

         

          The army reached an outpost a day and a half into their journey. It was a small, nearly vacant campus situated behind locked gates, and it would be their base of command. The soldiers funnelled into the courtyard to receive their orders.

          “Quadrant sixteen,” the commander, Ethbrig, shouted. He spoke into a cone that made his voice louder, but his words fuzzy and garbled. “You are going to maintain the fort. There is cleaning to be done and supplies to be organized. You will operate the infirmary, and reply to calls of distress �" but I want at least 200 men here at all times! Am I understood?”

          “Yes sir,” the Quadrant shouted back.

          “Then get to work; out of this square!” As Quadrant 16 left, the soldiers were able to spread out a bit; before, they had been standing shoulder to shoulder, back to chest, packed in tight like sardines.

          “As for the rest of you,” yelled the commander. “We are here to quiet the riots. Reports are that they come in floods; they are especially overwhelming because of the narrow streets.

          “Quadrants fourteen and fifteen; move out to the West, along the border. It is mostly Farmlands out there; we believe there is illegal trading going on. The hills will likely hold safe houses for the rioters. Find them, and dispose of them.

          “Quadrants twelve and thirteen; head East. The mountains cut through there; hiding spots are plentiful. There are many small villages around there; secure them all.

          “Quadrants ten and eleven; you will secure Coulliore. That is the largest city. It is sprawling, and the streets are very narrow. The number of intersections is great, so watch your backs. I want a patrol of at least twenty men for all twenty-four hours of the day �" every day! And all your men will go on foot. Any mounted Knights in Quadrants ten and eleven are to leave their horses in the stables, here �" today!

          “If anyone does not understand their orders, they will speak out now while I am of an ear.”

          Silence.

          “Good. In two hours' time, each Quadrant must be leaving or have left. I wish you luck in your endeavours. Now, move!”

          Francois groaned. Why did he have to be in Quadrant Ten? Slowly he dismounted, and handed Isaac to a stable-boy. Francois could not remember a battle he had not fought on horseback. He stumped off to get fitted to a foot-soldier's armour, grumbling to himself the whole while.

 

          “How do you stand it?” Francois exclaimed. “All this goddamned marching!”

          “Pace yourself,” was Gabriel's unhelpful answer.

          It was not difficult to tell who from Quadrant Ten was normally a foot-soldier. They powered on ahead, ploughing through the fields in even lines with long steps and a steady gate. The soldiers who usually fought on horseback, however, straggled behind, tripping over ruts in the ground.

          “It wasn't fair for Ethbrig to unhorse us like that,” Francois puffed. “We fight best on horseback! He's sticking us in an entirely new field of battle, with new weapons and armour, and foreign tactics. That is a decision that ought to get us all killed!”

          “Life is not fair,” Gabriel told Francois. “But, still �" bad decision. You folk get in the way, and can't use the weapons.”

          “So we cannot walk, or fight?” Francois asked, dramatically laying a hand over his chest; a pose ruined by his heaving lungs and clinking armour. “That hurts, my friend.” Gabriel smiled.

          “You men are good to sit on horses and look pretty, like women, but always leave the real fighting to us foot-soldiers.”

          Francois' mouth fell open.

          “All halt,” came the command from up front.

          “You and I aren't finished talking,” Francois stage whispered. In response, Gabriel clapped one hand over Francois' mouth �" and the other across his own �" to muffle their laughter.

 

          One they entered the city, Francois understood why Ethbrig would not allow horses to fight in the city. The streets of Coulliore were narrow and winding, and in many places Francois could touch the houses on either side of the street at once. Horses would be big and bumbling and accident-prone.

          As the soldiers marched on, they noticed something wrong. The streets were completely empty. Deserted. What about the uprisings? Where were the rioters?

          The gutters were stained red with blood, and there were gruesome splotches on the house walls too. The bodies had been cleaned up, and removed. Perhaps the riots were over �" but still the windows and doors were boarded shut.

          Francois shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. The foot-soldier's armour bit into his skin, and every time he relieved one pain, another two filled it's place. It was like a bunch of wasps had built their nest in his clothes.

          Everything was foreign to Francois. The weapons were not his, the armour did not fit, and the streets were as unfamiliar as the silence. His legs and feet ached from walking half the day in shoes that cramped his toes, and his shoulders were knotting. He wanted to fling himself down and sleep the day, no �" the week, away but he could not.

          The town was dangerously calm, like the sea before a Tsunami. Where were all the people? It was not long before that question was answered.

 

          Annette and Löhan were riding hard; they had been all day. When they could, they avoided civilization, thundering down the countryside, flying over dirt roads. It was the best feeling; being completely one with someone, or something, when the only language needed to communicate was the one of thoughts. Walk, Annette thought, and the minute shifts in her position told Löhan to do so.

          Neither of them wanted to stop, but they had been riding too fast for too long. Between Annette's legs, Löhan's heart hammered furiously against his ribcage, steam rose from his neck and sweat glistened on his rump. Even so, he tossed his head and pranced, wanting to gallop again.

          “Whoa,” Annette said sternly. She dismounted �" faster than planned �" and her knees almost buckled upon impact with the ground. Feeling shaky, Annette looked up at the sun. It was well past noon, maybe four or five hours past.

          Suddenly, acid curdled in her stomach. Annette had forgotten to eat, and her last meal had been the day before. Cramming a hunk of bread in her mouth to calm her nausea, Annette lead Löhan to the river.

          They had been following the Eyzielles all day, heading upstream towards Versailles. It was not long before both horse and rider were standing in the water, drinking from the stream. With a laugh, Annette splashed water onto Löhan's back, hitting him repeatedly with walls of cool water.  Finally Löhan had enough, and he shook himself hard, spraying droplets of water everywhere.

          Annette hadn't specifically packed food for herself, or any sort of supplies, but, thankfully, she always kept emergency stores in her pack. The bag itself was folded from canvas, and opened into a large square of the waterproof material, which inevitably became a tent. It was lined with a thin wool blanket and held a sack of high protein grain for Löhan. The pack also carried a loaf of somewhat stale bread, a few strips of dried meat, a water-skin, and several poultices.

          Presently Annette was wearing her travelling clothes, so her fighting gear was shoved into the bag as well. Her weapons were fastened to the outside, and they clinked together and jangled when she moved; riding became a sort of moving concert. The whole thing fit snugly on her back, and as she had to carry it everywhere, she had learned to pack light.

          “Thank the heavens Rivion taught me to pack all of this �" right, Löhan?” Annette said, sinking her teeth into a strip of meat. It was tough and salty, but it brought her energy levels up, and pushed the dizziness aside.

          In response, Löhan blinked, and took another bite of grain. 

          “Finish up quickly, Lö, and then we'll leave,” Annette said, but as Löhan stepped closer to where she lay sprawled on the grass, her sense of urgency evaporated. It was so nice here, and she was so comfortable. The grass grew long and thick, and Löhan dug into it happily. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to take a break...

          Face sun-warmed, and hunger appeased, Annette felt sleep coming to claim her. She looked once more at Löhan, and seeing he was dedicated to trimming the area's grass, she let herself go. Before long, they were both dozing by the river, under the sun.

 

          The sun was going down but there was still no sign of people. Francois had spent a long and weary day on his tired feet. He slumped on a bale of hay for his dinner break, thoroughly worn out.

          They had done no fighting �" yet �" but the stress of the unknown was a heavy weight. They had to be constantly on their toes, not knowing when an attack would come, and on whom. It seemed to be a sort of border-war; French against Spain, but one that did not spread out of the Border Cities. Perhaps some management issue? Francois did not know.  

          He raised his cup to his lips and -

          Bang!

          His visor came crashing down, the rim of his helmet biting into his skin, letting loose a stream of hot blood that ran into his eyes. His drink cup clattered to the ground, and he followed suit, pain searing in his knees as he hit the cobblestone. Little white specks danced in his vision.

          Something gleaming silver came hurdling towards him �" and stopped. Francois was being lifted, hauled up by the scruff of the neck. His feet scrabbled, finding solid ground, but he was jostled sideways. The grip on his arm was familiar.

          “Gabe,” Francois gasped, blinking hard.

          “The riots have begun,” his friend said solemnly, “but perhaps 'riots' is an understatement.” Then, Gabriel disappeared into the crowd. 

         

          They had felt the full force of the fight for several hours, and had herded those they could into a temporary prison. It was obvious the people were very violent, and passionate about their cause. The question was, what was their cause?

          King Louis XIV did not make a habit of telling his troops the reasons behind his actions. He stuck to the basics; riots on the border �" stop them. But that was a soldiers life; follow orders blindly, out of loyalty to the King. He tells you to run, you run. He tells you to fight, you fight. But if you break a bone in the process, or loose a limb, or a friend, you don't blame the King's bad directions. You blame yourself for not trying hard enough.

          Doubts and thoughts like these fought their way into Francois' mind. Ones that bordered on treason. But Francois did not stop them.

          “Why are we doing this, Gabe?” Francois asked, staring up at the darkness of their camp.

          “We were told to,” Gabe said, a little confused.

          “But is that enough?”

          “I do not understand.”

          “Should we not know why we're fighting, at least? What if there is something more behind these riots? Some way to stop them besides losing lives? What if the King is wrong, Gabe? We're going into this completely blind!”

          “You think too much,” Gabe said. “Good trait for a philosopher, bad for a soldier.”

          “Thanks,” Francois said, voice dripping sarcasm.

          “Why does this come to you now?” Gabe asked, suddenly angry. “This is how we always fought! We never knew why and you never cared until now!”

          “Rivion says-”

          “Not him again. Rivion this, Annette that.”

          “He says a man cannot fight his best without conviction! Conviction comes from knowledge. The Clans all know the reasons behind their fights, and they can often settle disputes without violence!”

          “Well if they're so great, why don't you join them?” Gabe snapped. “You're constantly going on about them.”

          That had never occurred to Francois �" he could join the Clans.

          “Could I?” he asked, suddenly excited. “Could I become a Clansman? I have the riding and fighting background, and a horse and-”

          “No.” Francois did not hear the harshness in his friend's voice. He was too preoccupied with his thoughts.

          “Why not?” he asked. No reply. “Gabe?”

          He must have fallen asleep.

 

          Annette had always viewed cities like paintings; pretty things you will see once or twice, but never come back to. Not anymore. She focused on the details, wondering could I live here? Could I do it for Francois? Live in a stone box and knead bread, and sew clothes?

          “As long as I have Francois, and Löhan, I could,” Annette decided, but the thought was not a happy one.

 

          Versailles was amazing. One could even call it awe-inspiring, for all the detailed architecture. Annette had been there not long ago, but once again the enormity of the palace struck her. 

          The front courtyard was under the survey of the many statues crowning the buildings. Kings, queens, soldiers, horses. Annette stared into their dead eyes until a guard came. The sculptors of this age had a tendency to outline the eyes, but add not iris or pupil �" a habit Annette thought rather awful.

          “State your business,” the guard said.

          I'm Francois' lover, she wanted to say, and I'm here to see him. She held her tongue.

          “I am Annette of the Themsdale clan, and I am here to see Laurel and Metuso the Clans' new representatives in parliament.”

          “Do you have an appointment?”

          “No �" but they'll see me.”

          “Have you any way to prove the truth of your statements?”

          “Yes,” Annette said. “Give them this.” Carefully she twisted a metal bracelet from her wrist, and passed it down to the Guard.

          “Wait here, please, in the visitor's box.”

          The 'Visitor's box' was a cramped corridor between the inner and outer gates. The gates were said to be gold, and they sure looked it, but gold was soft and would not hold against an attack. It would be a stupid idea to make them entirely from gold; stupid, and pompous, but then again, that sounded like the King.

          Quick as a flash, Annette struck out at the gate, angling her pocket knife down. It sliced easily through the soft gold, then stopped. Casually, Annette peeled the gold layer back. It was as she suspected; an iron gate, merely coated with gold. Carefully she pressed the gold bit back into place, then withdrew her hand.

          Perhaps the king wasn't such a fool as she thought he was �" when it came to battle, that is.

          “Ahem.” Annette turned around; the guard was back.

          “You have been approved,” he said. Annette looked down at his empty hands.

          “Where is my �" what I gave you?” Annette asked, eyebrows raised.

          “Oh,” the guard said, glancing at his empty hands. “The Misses Laurel kept it. She wants to see you immediately. May I stable your horse?”

          “I'll take care of it,” Annette said, blowing past the guard into the courtyard.

 

          Gaudy, Annette decided. She had been trying to find a word to describe the painted ceilings, papered walls and furniture of the palace �" not to mention the clothes the people inside of it wore. The fancy rooms and paintings all seemed to blur together; before she knew it, Annette was in Laurel's office.

          “Annette,” the older woman smiled. “Back to Versailles so soon?”

          “Only for a while,” Annette told her. “I assume you are adjusting to the new lifestyle?”

          “I am. It is not so bad �" you get use to it.” Laurel narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “You're here for the boy, are you not?”

          Annette looked down.

          “Sure, normally one marries inside the clans, but I suppose you �" ” Suddenly her excitement vanished. “Oh dear.”

          “What is it?” Annette asked sharply.

          “One moment. What part of the army is Francois in?”

          “Quadrant Ten,” Annette replied. “Horse cavalier.” Laurel looked away.

          “Quadrants ten to sixteen were deported to a battle on the Spanish border �" Coulliel, to be exact.”

          Annette froze, her emotions piling up so high they overloaded. For a moment, she was silent, struggling for breath. Trying to find words.

          “What should I do?” she whispered finally.

          “Go,” Laurel said. “Ride there, if you really love him. And hope to the Hills he is unharmed.”

          Annette nodded, blinking back tears. Laurel handed her bracelet back, pressing the rope of bronze, silver and gold into Annette's hand.

          “Thank you,” Annette said again, and staggered out the door.

          The guard was in the hallway, but Annette looked past him. It felt as though someone was driving a railway spike into her chest. Was Francois hurt? Has he �"

          “Do you and Laurel know each other personally?” the guard asked, jerking her from her thoughts. “Pardon me for prying.”

          “No worries,” Annette said, fixing her brimming eyes on a painting. The guard looked expectantly at her. “Yes, um, we do know each other.” Annette's eyes moved to the ceiling. “She's, well �" she's my mother.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PART THREE

Annette

 

          Gabriel wished he hadn't planted that stupid idea in Francois' head. The whole morning Francois had been withdrawn, no doubt thinking about becoming a Clan member. Once this assignment was over, Gabriel feared his best friend would pack his bags and take off in the pursuit of a flighty dream.

          “See Gabe,” he grumbled to himself, “this is why you don't talk. You say stupid things and people get hurt. Bad things happen.”

          Now Francois was going to give himself over to that girl. Annette. Gabriel didn't like her. No, that was not it. He didn't think he would commit to Francois.

Heaven only knew of the love Francois would fork over �" love Gabe feared Annette would not return.

          “Very bad idea, Francois,” Gabe had said.

          “It was your idea.”

          “A very bad one.”

          “Don't you want me to be happy?” Francois had retorted. “I love her.”

          “She left you. Ran away.”

          “You don't know anything about that!” Francois had snapped.

          That was this morning at breakfast. Gabe had not seen him since �" apart from a brief glimpse at the back of his head as he marched into battle. Gabriel hoped he wouldn't do anything stupid in his anger.

         

          Gabe wrapped a massive arm around his attacker, dodging the man's blind punch. He tightened his grip around the man's ribcage with a jerk. The man went limp, and Gabe tossed him to the side.

          At first they had only arrested those who brought violence to the protests. Now, of course, that was everyone �" even the women �" and their jails were full. At this rate, all of Coulliel would be behind bars.

          One of Gabriel's fellow soldiers was having some difficulty with a rioter. One moment the soldier was on top, the next the other man as they rolled on the cobblestones, each trying for a death-grip on the other's neck. Gabe lunged forward, grabbed the rioter by the back of the shirt and slammed him into the wall several times, hard.

          “Thanks,” the soldier said, out of breath. Together, he and Gabe hauled the unconscious rioter to the side.

          “When does this become war, not riots?” the soldier asked.

          “When all of this,” Gabe gestured at the maddened streets of Colliel, “becomes formal.”

          “I see,” the other soldier said, then they both plunged back into the raucous crowd.

 

          So many feelings and emotions had invaded Annette's mind back in Versailles, she had just shut down. Not bothering to sort them out, she shoved them aside, leaping on Löhan. Constant motion distracted her from the situation at hand, so she kept busy, using Löhan's rocking gate to lull her anxiety.

          Wind whistled in her ears and whipped her face, making her eyes tear up. She had given Löhan the reins, let him pick the pace �" and he had chosen full gallop. Of course.

          Löhan's steel shod hooves collided with the cobblestones with enough force to make sparks. His muscles rippled and clenched under Annette, and she pressed herself off his back to give him room to move. It was exhilarating.

          That's what Annette loved about riding; there was no time to brood on the past. When moving as one with your horse, dodging low hanging branches and leaping streams, there is only now. Nothing else matters, and it all evaporates from one's mind as though it was never there.

          Riding �" the true definition of 'In the Moment.'

          And at this rate, she would be at the border in just a few hours.

 

          Gabriel felt for Quadrant Sixteen. They had to staff the camp, man the jails and tend to the wounded. Worst of all, they had to collect and identify the fallen soldiers.

          Gabe was back at the camp now, with the rest of his shift. The light was growing dim, and as usual, the Waggon of the Dead was pulling in. It was the covered cart that brought the corpses back to the camp.

          Slowly Gabe stood up and made his way towards the waggon. Usually Francois and him helped unload the injured men and bring them to the infirmary, but the Medics Waggon had not yet arrived and his partner in crime was nowhere to be seen. Pushing away his worries on the latter subject, Gabe settled for unloading the dead. A grim business it was, but someone had to do it.

          “Ho, Gabriel,” the Waggoner called down. “How goes it?”

          “Well enough,” Gabe replied. “Can I be of assistance?”

          “Most certainly. There is recognition to be done.”

          Sometimes the Waggoner did not know all of the fallen, or the wounds were such that the recognizing the dead was almost impossible. At that point, other soldiers would be called in to help identify the body. It was gruesome.

          One by one, they grabbed the blanketed sacs, hauling them from the waggon to the ground. Then, the driver would turn back the blanket and document who it was and how and when they died. Then, they would move the bodies into lines to be prepped for burial or cremation.

          “Now,” the driver warned, “there was an awful accident on 'Rue des Tois Amis,' and, well...” He trailed off.

          Gabe peeled the blanket from the first victim of the accident.

          The remains were mangled; shards of glass and bits of rock mixed in with the flesh like some sadistic stew. Though the helmet had been removed, the visor had been smashed so horribly into the poor man's face it was best not touched. Even so, Gabe recognized the man immediately.

          He would know those dark curls anywhere, even in that tangled and bloodied state. The colour drained from Gabe's face, along with the air from his lungs. He turned around and wretched.

 

          Steep-roved turrets rose up before Annette along with battalions that looked like rooks from a chess game. Stone walls circled the castle, and there were many tents within the courtyard. On the horizon, Annette could see houses �" and smoke. The Spanish border.

          It was almost dark. Annette knew by some instinct that this was the soldier's base of command. If the guards recognized her, they would let her in. If not, they would treat her like a rioter. She decided to chance it.

          At a walk, Löhan carefully navigated his way through the shadows. The moon was hidden behind a cloud and the darkness was startling. The way to the castle was plagued by waggons, and piles of �" firewood? No. Piles of boddies. Dead ones. Annette shivered and looked away.

          There were torches by the Castle gate, and muffled voices. Someone was there, moving around. Annette approached.

          “Who's there?” a ragged voice demanded.

          “Annette Themsdale, of the Northern Clans.” The person �" a man �" approached. The torch cast strange shadows across his face and body.

          “Sir Gabriel!” Annette cried, recognizing him instantly as Francois' best friend. “Can you help me find Francois? I need to speak with him.”

          Gabriel didn't know where the anger came from. It knotted in his stomach like a beast. He glared at Annette.

          “You want to see Francois?” The girl nodded; so foolish. “Come with me.”

          Annette followed Gabriel �" away from the castle. Suspicion rose like bile in her throat. Francois is on guard duty, she told herself, but someone walked on her grave carrying a paintbrush dripping blood.

          “Here he is,” Gabe snapped, then bent down and tore a blanket off �"

          Annette's stomach flipped.

          It was Francois. His mangled corpse had lost the entirety of his blood, and the layers of flesh and tissue were clearly visible. Annette gagged; someone was trying to churn butter from her stomach contents.

          She made it four steps before she threw up. Another two and she was on the ground. For a second, Gabe almost smiled.

          It was Annette's fault Francois was dead. If he hadn't gone into battle with his mind cluttered with twisted emotions that all involved a particular raven haired horse-woman, he would have lived. He and Gabriel would not have fought. Gabe's heart would not feel as though someone poured acid on it.

          Annette was laying on the grass, curled tightly into the foetal position, her horse standing protectively above her.

          “This is all your fault,” Gabe hissed. “You made him upset, his head foggy. You killed him!”

          Annette looked up at him as though he had just carved out a piece of her flesh and eaten it. Her eyes burned with pain, as black as the night sky. Suddenly Gabe hated himself for hating her. For causing her more pain than she was already in. He had been awful, and he could never ever take it back.

          “What can I do?” he asked softly, trying to convey his emotions in those four words. It didn't work. Annette looked him right in the eyes and spat.

          “You can go to hell!” she said, vehemently. Then she blacked out.

          Gabe cursed himself. Why did he always make a mess of things? Now he had to take her back to the castle and deal with this s**t. He bent down to pick her up.

          “Don't,” Annette gasped, coming to. Gabriel ignored her. Annette struggled against him, but her heart wasn't in it. She felt sick.

          “Let me go,” she snapped. “I need to go, ride...”

          “I cannot let you leave. You are not stable right now.”

          “And you are?” she asked, looking pointedly at his left fist. The knuckles were raw, bloody and bruising.

          “If you wanted to be, you would be on your horse this minute,” Gabe told her. “You know that. Sleep tonight, in a bed for once, then leave tomorrow.”

          Annette ignored him, set her jaw and looked away. Before Gabe knew what happened, she was on the ground beside him.

          “I can walk,” she said, her voice hoarse but guarded. She didn't trust him �" why should she, after what he just did?

          Gabe looked at her sadly. He had gone through the same thing; paralysing grief at first, then a numbness, like you're in a dream and just need to wake up. But it would set in, he knew. The horrible weight of reality.

          Gabe's hand was pressed flat on the small of Annette's back, propelling her forward. Francois had done the same thing when the two had walked in the King's Gardens, but his pianist's hands had been gentle; guiding, not pushing. Funny, Annette noted with clinical detachment, that it was just moments after he died, and she was already referring to him in the past tense.

          Gabe towed Annette into a holding room.

          “I'll lock the door,” he said. “Sorry, but I do not trust you not to do something stupid.” Annette looked at him sadly.

          “I can pick locks.”

          “I'll be creative,” Gabe told her before he left. There was a scuffling outside; he was securing the door. But Annette didn't want to leave.

          She wanted to die.

          Annette sank, exhausted, onto the thin palette at the back of the room. She hadn't slept properly in days, and all of this was draining her both mentally, and physically. Tired as she was, though, she could not sleep, and laid staring red-eyes at the wall until Gabe came to get her in the morning.

 

          Gabriel thrust a piece of paper at Annette. She glanced at it with sandy eyes, but the letters swam across the page and refused to be read. She gave it back to him.

          “They're orders,” he told her gently. “I must see you safely to Versailles. After that you're on your own.”

          Gabe expected her to protest, but Annette merely glanced at the floor, then trudged off to get Löhan.

          “I don't ride,” Gabe warned. “We walk.”

          “That takes more than three times as long,” Annette said with a sigh.

          “It's not a race,” Gabe told her. Then the two of them settled into a dead silence.

 

          Annette had thought the weather might be a little more understanding. The sun hung suspended in a cloudless sky, content to shine at an eye-piercing intensity. A veil of heat clung to Annette's skin, and her stomach rolled uncomfortably. A headache was beginning at the base of her skull. It was supposed to rain when people died, but there was not a trace of water in the air.

          They fell into a pace, Annette and Gabe, breaking every few hours for food and water. At these points, Annette would drink a few mouthfuls and methodically eat her portions of food. She had heard what grief did to people and she was guarding against it.

         

          “We'll camp here,” Gabe said. They had left the border at dawn, and now the sun was low on the horizon; a bloody ring of fire.

          “Make a fire and watch Löhan while I hunt. Please,” she added as an afterthought. Gabe nodded, but clenched his jaw �" she was treating him like a burdensome child. As Annette walked away, however, Gabe's anger fizzled to an all-time low. He headed out in search of firewood. 

 

          The landscape could not decide between weedy fields and craggy mud, or tangled underbrush and large forests. Annette figured the latter was a better hunting ground, so she stalked through the trees, bow ready. There was a high-pitched shriek, and something large and feathery and edible took flight.

          Annette acted before she thought, and with one swift motion, let loose the arrow that felled the bird. It was some form of goose, she decided as it fell. Breaking into a run, Annette raced toward where the thing would land �" it would do her no good if it fell into a muddy swamp.

          The undergrowth clawed at her legs, catching her with every step. Just then her foot hit something hard. Before she knew it, Annette was falling. She hit the ground hard, clothing snagged in many places on low branches or thorny bushes. She swore, and picked herself up. How could she be so careless?

          At least she found her kill �" it was definitely a goose. As she hefted the bird over her shoulder, her arm screamed in protest. She looked down with detachment at the thorns of various sizes that protruded from it.  Shaking her head sadly, she headed back to their camp.

          Gabe made quick work of the goose, plucking it expertly, then shoving it into the fire. Annette sifted through the medical supplies in her bag; she would rather not cut the thorns from her arm with a knife. She succeeded in finding a pair of pincers and a sewing needle, and set to work.

          In between thorns, Annette ate her meat and sipped her water. She was carefully regulating her food intake, else she would forget to eat at all.

          “There was some amount of excitement at the Fort last night,” Gabe told her. Annette raised her eyebrows, more for the soldier's benefit than for any real interest.

          “Around midnight, they found out someone stole Isaac.” Francois' horse. A good, dependable mount.

          “B******s!” Annette swore, and savagely yanked another thorn from her palm. Finally, she set the pincers down and unrolled her blankets.

          “Good night, Gabriel,” she said sadly.

          “Good night.”

 

          Sleep took Annette to dark places, haunted places she would really rather she didn't visit. She was flying through a distorted sky, looking down at ravaged fires and battle-fields, reliving the most gruesome kills. Something knocked her from the smokey sky, and she tumbled down, down, down. She opened her mouth to scream, but could not make a sound.

          She landed in a heap of straw, orange and burning. She tumbled down as fast as she could rolling onto the grass. Into something. Francois.

          She screamed, over an over again, and sobbed unintelligibly. He was dying, dying, dead. Moaning, she turned around and wretched.

          A man cloaked in black walked up to her, appearing out of nowhere.

          “You love him?” he asked.

          “I do, I do, I do,” she cried, but the man looked sceptical.

          “Do you want him to live?”

          “Of course I do!” she sobbed. “More than anything!”

          “I can bring him back,” the man told her. “For a price.”

          “Anything,” Annette cried, “I'll give anything.”

          “Even your life?”

          “Yes! Even my life! Just bring him back!”

          The man pulled a dagger from his belt and drove it into her chest. She stiffened, pain ballooning in her chest. There was blood everywhere. She was scared, so scared. She fell back, the world going in and out, turning white. But even as she died, Francois did not heal. He did not come back.

          “You did this to him! You killed him!” the man told her. “You deserve to die.” The he pushed back his hood.

          It was Gabriel.

          Annette woke up, sobbing and sweaty. She threw up a couple times, then curled into a shaking ball. Gabe would not see her like this, he would not. Then, she pulled the blanket over her head and cried herself to sleep.

 

          Gabriel watched Annette closely. She was withdrawn, but she was eating and drinking and �" he thought �" sleeping. Her injured arm didn't seem to be bothering her too much; the thorns had all come out, and all that was left were angry red welts.

          He also examined himself. Yes, Francois left a void. Yes, there was pain �" a whole lot of it. But his grief was not debilitating. He would live, he knew, and move on. All would be well. He hoped Annette felt the same way.

 

          It took them four days to reach Versailles; four days and three awful, dream haunted nights. Finally, the palace reared up before them, and with it came a flood of memories. Meeting Francois. Walking with Francois in the gardens. Kissing Francois in the gardens.

          Annette blinked back tears, shoved the thoughts away, and forced herself back into a state of numbness. Feeling nothing, she thanked Gabe for travelling with her and wished him well.

          “You don't mean it,” he said with a wan smile. “You don't like me.”     

          “I don't like the circumstances,” she corrected him. “You and I are in the same boat �" best not make ourselves enemies. Good bye Gabe.”

          Without another word, Annette disappeared into the stables to tend to Löhan.

 

          There was no thinking or feeling. Just movement. Annette was going through the motions like a marionette. Wouldn't it be nice to be made from wood, and never have to feel anything ever again? Puppets have no hearts to be broken.

          Annette pushed the thoughts away. She was a rock, and an island. Rocks feel no pain, and islands have no friends.

 

          Laurel's door was heavy. That was the first thing that registered in Annette's mind since she un-tacked Löhan. She pushed it open.

          Laurel was sitting at her desk, head bent over her work, greying hair falling in her face. She looked up as the door opened. Annette strode in like a storm cloud, if clouds had legs.

          “Annette,” she said softly, taking in the curtain of horror and bewilderment her daughter dragged along.  

          “He's dead,” Annette said hoarsely.

          Suddenly she was being hugged, her mother's crooning voice in her ear. A torrent of emotions battered her, and threatened to pull her under. Annette shoved them aside �" along with the embrace that triggered them.

          Annette looked at her mother's sympathetic face; Laurel's lips curved the way they would had she been looking at a motherless child.

          “I don't want your pity,” Annette snapped.

          “I'm not giving it to you,” Laurel retorted, pulling away. “When my father passed away�"” 

          “I don't want to hear it,” Annette said wearily.

          “Oh, you don't? It's all about what you want, isn't it. Sorry �" for a minute there I thought what I want matters, but there you go!”

          That hurt, badly. Annette wanted to burst into tears, but she held herself together.

          “Mother, this is childish.”

          “Is it now?”

          “I have just come to tell you my best friend died and that I'm leaving! I'm going home, to the clans, tomorrow! So there you go.”

          “You'll at least join me for dinner,” Laurel said, her words coated in ice.

          “But of course,” Annette sneered, with a mocking curtsy. The anger kept the grief at bay.

          “Seven O’clock, my chambers,” Laurel said.

          “Oh, right, you have chambers now. Goodness me. See you then,” Annette said, fraying at the seams. Then she turned, and stalked from the room. Once she crossed the threshold, however, the anger turned to despair. Annette put a hand on the wall to steady herself. Her whole chest hurt.

          Laurel glanced out the door. Her heart ached for her daughter. Annette was leaning against the wall, head bowed. Annette rarely let anyone in, rarely showed anyone her emotions.

          That single moment of weakness told Laurel how much Annette had loved Francois. His death hurt her more than she cared to admit, and she was scared by the intensity of her grief. Then, as though Annette felt Laurel looking, she squared her shoulders and marched off down the hallway as though she hadn't a care in the world.

 

          By the time Annette got to the courtyard, she was running. Her temples ached from holding back tears and she was trembling, threatening to unravel. She had been holding herself together for too long and her guise was shattering.

          She had lost Francois, and now her mother too.

          Like a storm, she burst into Löhan's stall. He looked at her, brown eyes huge and understanding. His nostrils flared and he blew gently on Annette's forehead. She placed a hand on his neck.

          As though that single touch freed her tangled emotions, they all came crashing down on her. Annette wrapped her arms around Löhan's neck, and buried her face in his fur. She gave herself away to her tears.

 

          There was a hand on her shoulder. Was she imagining it? No, it was really there. Annette unhitched herself from Löhan, sparing a glance at the patch of fur on his shoulder that was wet and salty from her tidal wave of tears. Taking a deep breath, she turned around.

          The air was immediately knocked from her lungs. She was hallucinating �" what she was seeing was not possible. She was going crazy.

          Francois.

          Annette stretched a hand out, towards her love. Her fingers came into contact with skin. Real skin, soft hair, familiar cheekbones. She didn't know what she looked like, but she didn't care.

          “Francois,” she whispered.

          “Annette, darling,” he breathed. He was not real. He could not be, it was impossible. He was dead. But as he stepped forward, his lips found hers, and he felt real enough.

          Annette stood stalk still, shocked. Francois' hair was windswept and his breaches were dirty as though he had just gotten off a horse. And there was Isaac, standing behind him. It was too much to take in.

          “But, you're �" you're dead.” Francois smiled, shaking his head. His eyes were filled with love.

          “At the border, I got thinking �" that I would be happier elsewhere. I found Rivion, but he said you had come here�"”

          “I found your body. I saw it, I saw you dead.”

          “I left the border five days ago and have been riding ever since, with Isaac. No one saw me leave �" if they did, I would not be here now.”

          “But you're dead,” she whispered again.

          Francois pulled her close to him, and kissed her. She knew the ripple and flex of his muscles by heart, and she could tell by the hammering of his heart against his chest that he was very much alive, and very much Francois. And then she was laughing and crying and kissing him. And she wanted to die �" of happiness this time.

 

          They were walking in the gardens of Versailles, everything familiar yet foreign at the same time. Francois was back. Alive. Hers. Annette glanced at him, and couldn't keep the smile from gracing her face.

          Francois took her hand, a simple gesture. The nightmare of the past few days was over, really and truly. Annette had never been so happy.

          “I love you,” Francois said, kissing her knuckles. “I hope you know that.”

          Words resurfaced on Annette's consciousness as she nodded. Words whispered like a secret in the warmth of the barn, earlier that day. 'I'm here for you, darling. Forever.' Annette froze.

          “I'll stay.” Francois' eyebrows shot up, then he laughed.

          “There's no need, my dear.” He pushed up his sleeve, showing off a thin metal band, braided from bronze, silver and gold.  Annette's eyes widened.

          “I'm a part of your clan now,” he said with a smile.

          “There's just no end to the surprises,” Annette managed.

          “I was tired of the life of a soldier,” he chuckled. “Besides, Isaac will love your lifestyle.” Annette nodded, tears prickling in her eyes. Francois reached up, brushing a finger across her cheekbone.

          As though that unlocked all the words she had held back for the past four days, she began to talk, words tripping from her lips. All the silence and sorrow of the last week came pouring out. Francois sat and listened, his dark, intent eyes fixed on her face. And then he kissed her �" there seemed to be a lot of that lately �" and something cold and slender slid onto Annette's finger. She looked down, startled and confused at the ring on her finger. Francois spoke.

          “I don't know what the Clan's custom is, but where I grew up, this was the best way to show one's commitment.

          “Will you marry me Annette Themsdale?” Annette looked at him and began to laugh.

          “What's so funny, my darling?”

          “I don't know what marriage is, really,” she told him, “but I find myself saying yes!”

Epilogue

 

          Löhan and Isaac were grazing happily. Annette and Francois lay side by side on a blanket, gazing down the Eyzielles river. The sun was shining, a breeze blowing, and Annette could not imagine a more perfect day.

          She and Francois had been married, a European custom. They had also been 'Joined' �" a Clan custom, committing them to each others side, in life and in battle. It had been a while since then, and Annette had never been more blissful.

          Francois pulled Annette closer.

          “Do you still think you made the right decision?” Annette asked. She checked periodically, just to make sure. Even though she knew the answer.

          “Of course,” Francois chuckled. “I'll love you forever.”

          “Forever is a long time, by Clan standards,” she smiled. “When we say forever, we mean eternity. Hundreds of years.”

          “I've noticed,” Francois chuckled, glancing pointedly at Annette's skinny jeans. Then, he rolled onto his back, listened to the hum of the car engines and watched the aeroplanes make cloud trails in the sky. 

          “How's Rivion?” Francois asked suddenly.

          “Old,” Annette chuckled. “Very old.” Francois, joining in her laughter, took her hand, kissing her knuckles as he had done so many times before.

Author's Note

I'm considering adding more detail to the plot and turning it into a full fledged novel. Is it worth it?