Before it was even light the next morning, Tristan left the camp to scout ahead. He hadn't slept since he realized Toril was gone, and the ability to sit still had never been one of his strong qualities, so he saddled Filia, whistled to Theron, and left the camp as silently as a ghost.
The night before he had followed the footprints made by Toril as she strode away from the camp, but the trail had stopped suddenly without another clue. He rode past it again that morning, but came to the same conclusion. She didn't want to be followed. So he continued on his way, only half-conscious of the fact that with every beat of his heart he was hoping he would see her again.
The trail took him further into the mountains, to a frozen lake that lay in a sheltered valley. Tristan stood silently at the edge of the lake for a long moment, his mind racing, trying to think of another way through the treacherous mountain pass that didn't have the possibility of ending in a watery grave. There was nothing. So he walked across the lake and back again, testing to see how thick the ice was. It held his and Filia's weight without a sound, but there was no telling how it would respond to two score people and several wagons loaded with supplies. He clenched his jaw slightly and squinted towards the east where the sun was just beginning to rise. They didn't have a choice.
His path back to the camp took a slight detour, higher into the mountain pass. When Filia could no longer climb, Tristan continued on foot, his mind's eye focusing on a ledge he had seen the day before. It would be a good vantage point to see where the Saxon army was.
Tristan reached the ledge within a few minutes, its location exactly where he had remembered it to be. The only exception to his memory was that it wasn't just a ledge, but a large plateau hidden into the side of the mountain. A thick forest of trees clustered there, and the wide space was large enough that they could have camped there the night before, wagons and all. Tristan scanned the area with his piercing gaze, but saw no one, so he crouched down and stole to the edge of the cliff, lying on his belly in the snow to peer over the side.
To his right was their camp, exposed only by the thin stream of smoke issuing from a single failing fire, just visible in the new light. Far to his left was the Saxon camp, the smoke from its fires more brazen, more indifferent to searching eyes. With long practice Tristan judged the distance between the camps and found it desperately wanting. They had to be on their way immediately, otherwise the Saxons would overtake them before they had a chance to cross the lake.
Suddenly the hair on the back of Tristan's neck stood up and his skin pricked. He was being watched. His hand slipped to his breastplate and grasped one of his throwing daggers as he looked over his shoulder and scanned the trees. His sharp brown eyes saw nothing out of place except a great white owl, which held his gaze for several seconds before spreading its large wings and swooping off without a sound. Either this forest is being overrun by white owls, or there's only one and it has a purpose. Still the feeling of being watched persisted, and Tristan crawled away from the ledge and stood as soon as he knew he wouldn't be seen from either camp below. His eyes still searching the trees, he drew his long curved sword and held it ready.
Before he could probe deeper into the forest, however, the sound of voices caught his ear. Several people, all male, all speaking a language he didn't recognize, were following the trail on the other side of the trees up towards the plateau. The barest ghost of a smile crossed Tristan's lips, and he adjusted his hold on his sword. It was about time he found some Saxons to kill.
It only took a second before they came into view, and when they saw the lone man standing on the ledge they grew silent. For several seconds they stared at him, at the sword in his hand, and at his ready stance. Tristan took those several seconds to size them up in return. There were nine of them altogether, all with the look of battle hardened soldiers. Tristan smiled grimly. A harsh command flew from the throat of one of the men in the back, and the four closest to him advanced slowly, their swords ready.
When they were close enough, Tristan whirled, his curved blade just a flash of light as it cleaved through two Saxons in rapid succession, then rose to sever the head of a third before buying itself to the hilt in the fourth. He drew it out slowly, watching the other five Saxons as they stared at him warily, not really knowing how to proceed, but knowing that they had to attack.
Before anyone could make a move, however, Tristan heard a thunk and the Saxon closest to him made a strangled sound and collapsed at his feet, a crossbow bolt buried below his left shoulder. Almost before he could blink, the other four men dropped to the ground in a similar fashion, all with arrows protruding from their bodies. Tristan stared warily into the woods, not knowing how many and what manner of people were in there, and not knowing if he would be the next casualty. Suddenly a form appeared between the trees, and his eyes widened, his heart skipping a beat. It was Toril.
But not the Toril that he had carried to the wagon two nights before after burning daggers had been pressed into her sensitive flesh, and not even the Toril of the previous night, the one who gingerly held herself erect even as she teased his fellow knights. This woman stood proudly, painlessly, with her shoulders squared and her beautiful, regal head held high, every inch a queen. The dark tattoos on her high cheekbones contrasted sharply with her creamy skin, clean from all the grime and gore she had collected in the dungeon, and glowing with health. Her cheeks were slightly pink, her lips were red, and her pale blue eyes shone as she looked at him. Her silky blonde hair framed her face and cascaded down her straight back almost to her hips, and on her forehead was a pendant of beaten gold, supported by a thin circlet that was woven into her hair. Instead of rags or Tristan's spare clothes or a borrowed Roman gown she was wearing a simple white dress which outlined her muscular body perfectly, clinging to her smooth curves like a second skin, loosely tied at her collarbones, and bound at her slim hips with a tan leather belt. A wide pattern of pale greens and blues was embroidered into the bottom of the skirt. Her shoulders were covered by a rich white fur that fell to her feet, which were shod in small leather shoes. Several fingers displayed sparkling gems set in wide rings, and one hand had a strong grip on a thick-looking crossbow. Without breaking her gaze from Tristan, Toril tossed the crossbow towards him and it landed in the snow right beside his feet. Tristan glanced at it, his jaw working and his hands solidifying their grip on the hilt of his sword. For a moment he felt sure that his lack of sleep was affecting his gaze; that Toril wasn't really there in front of him, like one of the other knight's goddesses in all her glory. He felt sure that it was just a trick of his imagination, that it was an illusion, that it was a front for some attack. Toril's red lips curled into a slight smile as if she knew what he was thinking.
"Peace, Tristan of Sarmatia." His grip faltered as he heard her say his name for the first time since they had met, and then he frowned, his voice harsh.
"Who are you?" Toril's gaze softened slightly and Tristan again got the distinct impression that she knew what he was thinking. It was unsettling, but at the same time, somewhat soothing. His grip relaxed on his sword and he straightened, letting the tip of the blade rest gently on the ground. Toril's gaze grew solemn again.
"I am high priestess of the hoard that are mere steps behind you." Tristan's curved sword was instantly in his hand and his eyes narrowed, cursing himself as he wondered why he hadn't seen it yet.
"You are Saxon." She nodded.
"I am of their blood, yes. Once of their people. But no longer so, now. Now I only seek deliverance from the harsh rule of their king." Tristan's non-expression flickered slightly as he suppressed a frown.
"Their warlord?" Toril nodded gravely.
"Cerdic, yes." This time Tristan didn't try to hide his glare.
"You put up a appealing front, Saxon, making yourself known long enough to spin a web, then retreating and waiting for your enemies to fall into your trap. How many men are waiting to swarm the camp and destroy all in their path? How many do you have under your pretty little thumb, waiting to obey your every command?" Toril's eyes grew sad and Tristan cursed under his breath as his heart clenched within him. He would not be pulled in again.
"I am not going to deny how it looks, Tristan. You asked who I was, and I gave you the title I have been identified by. But it has no meaning for me now. I have seen too much, heard too many screams at the hands of my kin and their lord, and witnessed the destruction of too many innocent people to ever take pleasure in what used to be my life. I am a high priestess, yes, but only because I have a Gift that no other bears at this time. And it is because of this that I hold a position of power over the people. They follow me and trust me because they fear me. And because they fear Cerdic."
Despite his anger at her apparent treachery and almost against his will, Tristan found his heart growing soft towards Toril again. He sheathed his sword after a long moment, crouching on the ground in a relaxed pose. His voice was low.
"If you are so important to your people, why were you in a Roman torture chamber?" Toril's eyebrow flickered slightly.
"To make myself known." Tristan frowned, and Toril's mouth softened and turned up at the corners.
"There is not enough time to explain it all to you this morning, as you are needed back at camp, but suffice it to say for now that in you and your fellow knights I foresee my deliverance from the hands of my oppressors." Tristan held his ground.
"Foresee?" Toril sighed and smiled at him, the first real smile he had seen that morning. It took his breath away.
"Yes, foresee. I have the gift of divine sight, Tristan. Some people call me a Prophetess, some call me a Seer. What it basically boils down to is that I constantly see two things happening at once. Almost as if my eyes see different things at the same time. One sees what is happening now, like everyone else does, while the other sees what is to happen in the future. Sometimes the visions are for months or even years away, while sometimes I see it only a split second before it actually happens. If I concentrate I can filter out what is happening in the present and focus solely on the future, even so far as hearing what is being said. It is because of this that I have been raised to such a high rank over my people." Tristan nodded shortly.
"Useful for a man bent on conquest." She nodded immediately.
"I can tell Cerdic which battles to choose and how to fight them, and which he should bow away from. I can tell him which countries are ripe for the picking and which would put up the most resistance. I can even tell him which of his soldiers are planning an attack on his life, and if his second-in-command, his son Cynric, is fit to lead when he dies." Tristan's gaze grew hooded.
"And you no longer want this life? You must be valuable above all else." Toril's eyes slid shut for a moment, and when she opened them they were filled with pain.
"Cerdic and Cynric see me as a tool, a means to ensure their conquest. Several years ago, we were planning an assault on a country north of here...closer to our home. And everything I saw..." Her voice died. Tristan watched as her gaze grew distant, remembering. He rose without a sound and approached her, no longer feeling as if she would betray him, and needing to be near her, for her sake as much as for his. He drew close enough that he could smell the fresh scent of her hair and see tiny droplets of water pool on her skin where snow had dripped off the trees; close enough that he could feel the slight heat rising from her body into the cool morning air. Toril's eyes opened slowly and her voice dropped to a whisper.
"I was younger then, and too naive to know how bloodthirsty and violent Cerdic was. When he asked me to advise him how to conduct his attack, all I could see were thousands of innocent lives being ravaged for no reason other than to satisfy a power-hungry and evil man. These visions continued for days until I could no longer eat or sleep. For a month this continued, into the campaign he conducted, guided only by my incoherent ramblings as I was slowly driven mad by the sheer waste of human life I saw both in my mind and in front of me. Finally he grew angry with me, and caused me to be beaten until I could no longer speak for pain.
"As soon as the campaign was ended, the visions stopped and I was able to regain my sanity and health. But from that moment on, I have wanted only one thing: to be free from his tyranny and away from those who take lives only to further themselves. Including his son, the man I am to marry as soon as this war is finished." Toril's eyes slid closed again and she bowed her head, resting it against Tristan's chest.
"And then in my visions I saw you. I saw you and Arthur and Lancelot and the others, and I knew that you were the ones who could bring Cerdic to his end and free me. And so I spoke of this land to him, and filled his mind with tales of it until he was so obsessed that he could do nothing but come. I allowed myself to be captured by Marius Honorius' guards and imprisoned for several days so that I would be made known to you without risking a battle. And now my intentions are to shadow you, neither staying with you nor rejoining my lord, but to work from the side against his schemes. Those men we killed were sent by Cerdic to find me, to bring me back so that I may approve his work. I know what his plans are. And I know how to be a thorn in his side until the day comes when I can face him in battle and thus decide my destiny."
Toril lifted her head from where it rested against Tristan and looked him in the eyes, her pale blue gaze soft as she read his expression.
"On the very slight chance that I may not be able to prevent myself from being seen with you, I will not endanger the group with my presence any longer. But until that final battle you will always be able to find me, Tristan. If ever you need me." Tristan felt captivated by Toril's intense gaze and just stared back into her deep blue eyes, matching her look with one of equal strength. Almost of their own accord, his hands reached to cup her face, the pads of his thumbs running over the tattoos on her cheekbones. Toril tipped her face towards him and leaned into him slightly, her small hands coming to rest on his arms, her eyes closing as he softly stroked her smooth skin with his battle-roughened hands. A small sigh escaped her lips and Tristan bent his head to gently capture her mouth with his, kissing her slowly but thoroughly; feeling her body melt into his, moving his hands from her face to her slim back and waist underneath her fur cape, tasting mint and ice on her soft, supple, warm lips. Toril's eyes fluttered when she felt his lips on hers, every nerve in her body tingling at the touch of his hands, his lips, his tongue.
But then...
When Tristan finally raised his head to regain his breath, he saw that Toril was standing stock-still, her eyes racing underneath their fragile lids, her hold on his shoulders loose. He frowned slightly and stepped away.
All of a sudden Toril's eyes flew open, and in a smooth, fast motion that Tristan almost couldn't discern, she whipped a small dagger out of its sheath in her belt and threw it full force into the trees to her left. There was the thick sound of the blade meeting flesh, and another Saxon soldier toppled into view with Toril's knife sticking at an angle from his forehead. Toril immediately turned to Tristan with an apologetic look on her face.
"We missed one." He flicked an eyebrow at her, but didn't respond. She shook her head.
"Sometimes I need to act immediately, or all would be lost. He would have killed you and dragged me directly to Cerdic. It --" Her voice dropped again and her eyes slid shut for another moment before springing open. Her voice was low.
"Dagonet is attacked. Marius has a knife to Lucan's throat. Dagonet is powerless to help...but an arrow is shot from Guinevere's bow and kills Marius. His guards throw down their swords before Arthur...and then you ride into the camp." She shook her head and grabbed him by the arm, propelling him forcefully through the fallen Saxons, across the plateau, down the trail he had climbed earlier, grabbing the crossbow on their way by.
"It has not happened yet, but will soon. You are needed at the camp, Tristan, to guide your people to safety. Take them across the lake. The horde you saw this morning is only two hundred of Cerdic's infantry, led by Cynric. The main army travels south towards the wall. Do not hinder Dagonet, he is your salvation; but pay special attention to Cynric's archers." Tristan's head spun slightly as he sought to take all the information in at once.
"Where will you be?" Toril grinned.
"I will be on the cliffs above the lake. There are nine bows on your side this day, Tristan." Tristan was about to ask her another question when they leapt the last few feet to level ground and landed beside Filia, who snorted softly at their sudden appearance but didn't move. Tristan turned towards the woman at his side.
"Toril..." What he was about to say was cut off by the appearance of a great white owl who swooped in to settle on Toril's shoulder. Tristan immediately recognized it as the one he had seen several times during their journey, and he watched silently as it bent its soft head to place something from its beak into Toril's mouth. It then sat back, satisfied, and nibbled affectionately at her ear, hooting softly. Toril grimaced slightly, but managed to swallow whatever it was the owl had given her, buried her hand in its thick feathers and stroked gently, while whispering to it in a low, guttural language that Tristan didn't understand, but recognized as the same one the Saxon men were using. Toril soon turned back to him with a smile.
"This is Karina, my dear little sister. She is shrewder than many humans I know...when I have not been well, she believes it is her duty to supply me with food. Her tastes seem to have improved slightly...raw hare is not the worst thing I have been given, by far." Tristan shook his head slightly and smiled at the grand owl perched on Toril's slim shoulder.
"Theron does the same for me, although he doesn't feel the need to feed me himself." Toril shook her head in mock dismay, then pursed her lips and uttered a low whistle. Tristan turned at the sound of hooves and saw a massive white war horse moving gracefully through the woods behind them, wearing a bridle but no saddle, with a pair of large bags slung across his powerful shoulders. He walked straight up to Toril and Karina, pushing at Toril with his soft nose. She laughed quietly and scratched behind his ear, smiling as he turned to give Tristan and Filia a cursory snort.
"And this is Medwin, my protector and friend. He does not feel the need to feed me, but he will not stop carrying me away from danger until he himself drops from weariness." Karina spread her wings and lifted from Toril's shoulder, only to settle on the thick strap joining the two bags. In one smooth motion Toril grasped Medwin's mane and the reins in one hand and swung onto the huge horse's back, ignoring Karina's disgruntled squawk at being disrupted. The light from the rising sun caught her burnished pendant, making it look as though a star had come to rest on her forehead as she looked down at Tristan, her eyes growing soft again. Tristan didn't hold her gaze, however, and focused instead on the intricate leather work of the bag nearest him, his heart and mind in turmoil about how Toril had reacted back up on the plateau after he kissed her. But before he could think of anything to say, Toril's small hands had gently cupped his face and tipped it towards her. Leaning down in the saddle, she pressed a gentle but insistent kiss to his lips, sighing softly as she did so. After a moment she reluctantly pulled away and straightened, her blue eyes locked with Tristan's brown ones. Her voice was quiet.
"As much as I would rather stay here...we are both needed elsewhere. You will always be able to find me, Tristan...if ever you need or want to." Then without a backwards look she urged Medwin into a canter and was soon out of sight around the corner.
Tristan stood for several seconds to collect his thoughts, and then shook his head with a faint smile, swung into Filia's saddle and headed back towards the camp at a lope, the Saxon crossbow slung across his shoulder.
Oh, I definitely want to.