sabeau was awakened with a start to a soft rapping on her bedroom door. She clutched her sheets to her breast, disoriented by a fog of sleep. Her heart pounded as if she had emerged from a nightmare. The insistent knocking repeated, more urgent this time. Rising hastily, she shrugged into a gauzy night robe before padding toward the door.

“What is going on?” she demanded, cracking it open and whispering hoarsely through it.

“Isabeau?” said Tristan’s voice, barely audible beyond the door. She drew the door open and he squeezed past it, instantly closing it behind him with a soft click. He was dressed for travel. She recognized his thick-soled boots and the sturdy leathers of his attire. To her shock and dismay, he also cradled Micah’s sleeping form in his arms. The blankets of the boy’s little bed were wrapped around him.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, noticing how pale he looked. His fear bore a cold metallic taint.

“The Confessor’s men were here today. He had plans for you. He still does.”

Isabeau felt the burn of tears behind her eyelids. She could tell by the desperate flare of Tristan’s psyche that there was more.

“They know you are here, too,” Isabeau demanded, “How did that happen?”

“That doesn’t matter…”

“Yes it does. Why do you take such pointless risks?”

“Do not berate me. I will never forgive myself for what I have done,” Tristan said, cutting her off. He felt responsible for all that had gone wrong and to some degree he was right.

“I am angry at you, but I still love you,” Isabeau said quietly, “You may have drawn unwelcome attention from the White Mantle, but I understand now that their attention would have come to us sooner or later.”

“I’m sorry for everything,” Tristan said fiercely, “I would sooner die than let them harm you. That is why we are leaving.”

Isabeau glared at him, annoyed that he had not consulted her prior to this moment.

“I am not leaving until you tell me what you are planning to do,” she said.

Tristan blanched, his grip on Micah tightening.

“I did some research regarding the alliance whose members rescued you at the Fool’s Glade. Apparently, one of their member guilds offered sanctuary to anyone who felt they would be persecuted were they to return home.”

“You did this research? You left the house?”

He looked away from her, unwilling to admit that he might have been rash. His evasiveness only annoyed her further.

“Conrad has… connections in the Shining Blade. They know where this sanctuary is… his contacts have already taken several families to safety. We feel that since you talked to the leader of that guild and she is already familiar with your situation, she would be willing to shelter you.”

Isabeau opened her mouth to protest but it was as if her voice had disappeared. A mixture of blank horror and shock caused her to stand there and shudder.

“Father will not leave,” Tristan said bitterly, “I implored him to gather our family and servants and start over in Cantha. Our contacts there may be tenuous at best, but at least that land is not about to become a bloodbath.”

“If father chooses to stand and fight for our home, then so will I.”

“If we are not here, they will look for us elsewhere. If nothing else, it will remove the eye of the White Mantle from our home. Perhaps father will change his mind once he has had time to reconsider.”

“Father won’t change his mind,” Isabeau replied coldly, “If anything, he is more stubborn than you. I would rather take my chances behind these walls.”

“Do not be a fool. The Confessor has placed a bounty for your capture. Our presence here endangers our family.”

“I’m not going to just run away and hope for things to get better!” she nearly shouted. Abandoning her home was unthinkable. He hushed her, which served only to increase her sense of rage and betrayal.

“I go to serve the Shining Blade,” Tristan said and for a moment all she could do was stare at him, wondering if there was anything else he could possibly say that would make the situation worse.

“You cannot throw yourself away like this,” she said, her voice hoarse, “Stay and at least fight for something meaningful. You have a son…”

“He will go with you,” he said, cutting her off, “Father does not believe the tales he hears about the White Mantle’s brutality. House Gyrelle was murdered – man, woman and child – and yet he refuses to take the threat seriously.”

Tristan laid Micah gently on her bed. With infinite tenderness he rearranged the blankets so that the toddler continued to sleep soundly. Only when he was satisfied the boy would not awaken did he return to her side. She could sense his horror and disgust. He knew the gruesome details but was once more trying to spare her. Isabeau sighed, pushing down her anger at his over-protectiveness. The loss of her unborn child had only intensified his need to look after her. It was an older brother’s prerogative but it seldom sat well with her.

“Do you believe this will be the fate of our family?”

“Yes,” he replied, his face lined with strain, “Promise me you will fly from here. Promise me you will protect my son.”

That was how she was convinced to leave home. Tristan had spent the day preparing for their departure and she had only to fill a bag with a few articles of clothing and change into more sturdy clothes before they were off. Tristan called upon his pale wolf companion, Lyall, to scout the forest surrounding the estate so that they could pass unnoticed by the White Mantle patrolling outside of its walls. It was a good thing, as well, for Micah awakened terrified. There were several anxious moments when the little boy made small wails of fear that only Tristan seemed capable of soothing away.

Conrad met them at the appointed place. There were three others with him but Isabeau did not recognize them nor did they offer their names. A tiny skiff had been drawn up onto a small patch of rocky beach and she watched as her brother and his servant placed her possessions into the craft. Tristan embraced her tightly and kissed her brow, his eyes glistening with sadness as he nuzzled his son a final time. Before she could protest, he was gone with the others, leaving her alone with Conrad and the tiny boat.

Rain lashed them as they bobbed and swayed upon the open water. Micah wailed piteously in her arms, his fear melding with hers. It took all of her effort to calm him as they crossed the open water to reach their mysterious destination. Just when she was beginning to give up hope, however, the boat surged through pale surf and ground ashore. Conrad put aside the oars and leapt over the gunwale to land thigh-deep in the foaming surf. He grasped a sturdy cord that was bound to the little boat’s prow and dragged it after him until its keel was firmly entrenched in the rocky soil. Only then did he help her out of the boat and wrap she and Micah in an oilskin. She stood at the edge of the dripping forest in frustrated silence as Conrad fumbled around in the starlight to hide the boat with debris on the shoreline.

“There is a camp in the woods somewhere around here,” Conrad said quietly, “I am not certain where. We may have to walk several miles.”

“You have never been here?”

“No.”

His worn visage contrived to look sad and grim in the shadows and somehow that grounded her. She took her bag from him for he was overburdened by the items he and Tristan had arranged for her exile.

“Milady, no, I can carry that. You have Micah…”

“And he is clinging to me just fine. I can carry this,” she said, swinging the bag over her shoulder. Squaring her narrow jaw grimly, she clutched the crying child to her breast and forged on after Conrad.

“Shh, little one, we’ll be alright, I won’t leave you,” she whispered.

Micah cleaved to her willowy frame like a burr, his little head pressed against her collar while a pudgy fist clung to a hank of her golden hair. She had little time to consider their fate or that of her brother. In the rain-washed darkness, it was all she could do to keep moving without falling over. The sodden forest was a maze of twisted roots and grasping branches. They waded rushing streams and thrust through duff so thick it curled around her shins like a snowdrift.

Exhausted and chilled to the bone, she staggered after Conrad’s rugged form. Every scrap of clothing was soaked through and her golden mane was plastered to her scalp beneath the hood of her traveling cloak. Eventually they staggered to the crest of a low hill and made out the faint glimmer of firelight. It was their first sign of habitation. They caught their breaths and gazed down into the valley. Isabeau silently prayed they had found the fabled sanctuary.

“Who goes there?” boomed a powerful voice. She froze and a hex prowled behind her clenched teeth. She heard Conrad’s sword ring free of its scabbard. Micah whimpered and began to cry.

“Go gentle on them,” said another voice as firelight flared and a lantern was unhooded, “Clearly they are refugees.”

The face that emerged from the shadows was not human. She moved instinctively away, biting back a cry of fear. There were four of them, goat faced and massive. Only their torsos resembled men, the rest was equine and massive. There were centaurs here? But the Maguuma pride was notoriously violent and hateful of humanity.

“As you wish, Dabar,” said a third.

“More refugees?” rumbled another, the lantern light glistening on his spear and shield.


“Have I guessed correctly?” asked the one called Dabar. Isabeau turned to gaze upon him, straightening her back to appear centered and powerful. He was leaner than the others, but no less imposing with his dark coat and black legs. He turned his horned head to study her with his left eye, then proffered a bow.

“Yes, Masters,” Conrad said, his harsh with barely contained fear, “We flee the White Mantle. Please, we mean no harm nor offense.”

“The White Mantle are no friends of mine,” said Dabar coldly, his ears flicking with annoyance, “yet it is clear to me that you are not villagers fleeing a massacre. I require you to follow me to the fortress for questioning.”

“We have done nothing wrong,” Conrad protested, “Please, do as you wish with me, but do not harm the lady and the child. They require shelter and rest.”

“Both shall be provided. If you are wanted by the White Mantle, then I am required to bring you to the leader of the alliance,” replied Dabar, “Come.”

Despite her misgivings and the queasiness in her gut, she was relieved to be unburdened when the centaur took their bags and surrounded them. She understood Conrad’s fear of the creatures; they had all heard stories of their brutality. Dabar, however, stayed close to her and his demeanor was so placid and gentle she was put at ease.

“Are you from Elona? You speak with the same inflection as those I know from there,” she asked.

“Yes. We are both refugees, it would seem.”

Micah grew silent and clung to her, his green eyes round in the lantern light. Isabeau was grateful for that at least, it made carrying him easier. Heavy leaf litter and pounding rain hounded them until they broke free of the forest and walked upon a loamy trail. They labored up a steep hill and crossed a bridge that threaded past the rain-swollen waterfall.

Her legs were weak with exhaustion when they reached the mighty gates of the fortress and were escorted into a courtyard. The looming profile of a great building rose over them and she made out the high curtain walls that enclosed the yard. It was still at least an hour before dawn and the rows of windows that gleamed over the flank of the vast hall were largely dark.

“Who is the lord of this hall?” she asked the centaur.

“The humans who dwell within will answer your questions,” Dabar replied, his manner grim but not unkind. It was clear by the way he gazed upon the place that he found it distasteful somehow. Another pair of centaurs awaited them near the stairs and the creatures greeted one another with chest smacking salutes. As if on cue, the door opened and a young Canthan male, barely an adult, came forth to take their burdens and guide them inside.

Despite the tropical climate, Isabeau was shivering now that her gown was completely sodden. Micah, she realized, had grown quiet out of exhaustion and possibly exposure. A pang of dread caused her to step quickly past the open doors. Another sleepy servant arrived with blankets and tea while the other urged them to sit around a stout brass brazier as sturdy chairs were brought in. She hastily shucked the damp clothes from her nephew and wrapped him in a blanket. His protests and cranky noises reassured her that he was alright.

The practiced hospitality of the servants made her imagine for a moment she was at home and safe. The tea was equally calming with its warmth and faint flowery odor. She urged little Micah to take a few sips and was relieved when he immediately reached for a meat-filled bun when one was offered to him.

“Thank you,” she said in Canthan, hoping she had said it correctly. It had been a long time since she had visited that far away land or had any reason to practice her small collection of pleasantries and important phrases. The serving woman smiled and nodded, politely responding with the traditional equivalent of think nothing of it.

“Master Bei is sleeping and is not to be disturbed until morning,” said the man servant upon his return, “A place for you to rest is being prepared.”

Isabeau could only nod and thank them again. Her sensitive mind picked up no deceit and there was no fear when they spoke their master’s name, which boded well. Hopefully Conrad had not led she and Micah into danger. Her misgivings were renewed, however, when Conrad was led away while she and Micah were brought to a chamber on the second floor. Once she and Micah were alone in their room, Isabeau riffled through her sodden bags and put out her hastily packed clothing to dry, relieved to find a dry shirt for Micah and a silk shift for herself.

“Well, little one,” she murmured as she gently helped her nephew change into new clothes, “looks like one of us is going to sleep well.”

Having consumed the bun and gotten a good portion of it on his pudgy face, he was now limp with weariness. For once he did not fight the dampened rag as she cleaned off mud and food with water from the washstand jug. He nodded off almost the moment she had him under the freshly warmed sheets. She pinched out the candle and curled up beside him in the bed. And lay awake.

“Damn you, Tristan,” she groaned into her pillow, her fury the only thing keeping her from weeping. Next time they met she would give her brother a piece of her mind. With nothing left to do but lie there, she could no longer hide from the horror of her plight. She might never see her family again. She was cast off and alone and utterly at the mercy of strangers. She bit her knuckle to stifle her sobs, weeping in silence while her brother’s child slept blissfully beside her. Isabeau chided herself for her weakness, annoyed that with all of her training and practiced poise she could still melt into the little girl who cried herself to sleep.

“Tristan, you’d better survive this and come back for us. I’ll never forgive you otherwise!” she thought, reaching for the anger that sometimes helped her side step grief and helplessness.

But of course she would forgive him. She always did in the end.