Residua

Finlay barely heard the shouting of the nightwatch for the thunder in her ears–the thunder of her galloping horse’s iron-shod hooves, the thunder of the violent storm pelting her with heavy rain, the thunder of her heart.

Blood dripped in her eyes, blurring her vision.

She clung to her horse with all the power in her legs, but still barely managed to stay mounted in the pouring rain. Her left arm, broken in many places, hung limp at her side. Her right arm curled around her horse’s other rider, a woman, slumped unconscious in the saddle in front of her. To her left and her right and behind her rode a dozen other knights, their steel armor scorched by dragonfire, all in similar states.

Not far now.

The heavy gates of the castle of the Marais swung open and sodden guards ran out. Other figures sprinted behind them, unarmored and half-dressed, roused from slumber by the alarm.

Finlay and her comrades barreled into the castle courtyard. Their horses slipped and slid on the stone pavement, trying to halt their momentum before they and their riders crashed into the wall of the keep at the other side of the yard. With a sudden crack, Finlay’s horse went down, leg broken. In the brief moment of fall, Finlay tucked herself around the unconscious woman, trying to protect her charge.

Finlay hit the ground hard. The back of her head slammed against stone. Her world went dark.

[] [] []

The chapel in the evening was quiet, empty, and dark. In the west, the sun was setting and no flame was allowed in this sacred place. Finlay’s every step echoed in the chamber. She had not come here in some time. She did not remember it being so lonely.

At the apse of the chapel, a shadowed statue of Marika, arms outstretched, towered over an empty grail. Behind her loomed her ring of runes, wrought in stone.

Finlay took a seat in one of the pews farthest from the statue.

Rather than bow her head, she looked up at the figure.

The Golden Order taught that Marika was a god.

If she was, then she was a cruel god. Or perhaps she was merely weak.

Some time passed before Finlay heard the door to the chapel open and then close behind her, and then soft footsteps, the sound of bare feet on stone. The newcomer sat next to Finlay. He was a boy, a boy of agonizing beauty, terrible to endure, with long hair the color of white-gold and pale blue eyes. His features were delicate, and he shone with some light unique to himself, casting long shadows in the gloom.

Finlay looked at the boy for a moment, then returned her attention to the statue. She knew some who when they saw him then had eyes only for him. But she never could look at him long. Something about him unsettled her. “My lord,” she murmured.

“Sir Finlay,” Miquella replied. Though he spoke softly, his voice carried the weight of dominion.

“Do you require something of me?” Finlay asked.

“I must return to Leyndell for a time,” Miquella said. “I leave in three days.”

Finlay shut her eyes. She shut one eye faster than the other–heavy scarring from an old infection slowed part of her face. It often made it difficult for others to read her expressions, and it forced her to form her words carefully when she spoke, lest she slur them. She took a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. “You would leave her? Now?”

“I leave her in good hands,” Miquella replied.

Opening her eyes once more, Finlay forced herself to look at Miquella and his glory. Balling her hands into fists in her lap, she forced herself to stare him down. “She needs you here.”

Miquella met Finlay’s gaze. Solemn, he pronounced, “I can help her little as I am.”

“I can’t help her at all,” Finlay spat.

“I must go,” Miquella said again. “So I must believe that you will support her in my absence.”

Having said his piece, Miquella stood and departed, leaving Finlay alone.

During their short conversation, the sun had finished its descent into night. Without Miquella, the chapel had gone truly dark now.

Lips pressed in a thin line, Finlay raised her right hand, open, fingers out, palm up. She thought of the Erdtree and the Golden Order and Marika, and she willed herself to believe. For a brief moment, a gold spark formed before her, quivering in the shadows.

Then, it went out.

[] [] []

Crashing waves on a tired shore resounded everywhere in the grim castle of the Marais. They could be heard loud from the ramparts, dull in the basements, and constant in the many courtyards of the fortress. Inescapable too, were salt, damp, and decay.

Seated on a bench at the edge of a drill yard, Finlay scowled as she checked her sword for spots of rust. It disconcerted her how quickly even metal went to pieces in this swamp by the sea. High above, the mid-morning sun beat down mercilessly. Though Finlay wore loose clothes, nevertheless sweat poured from her like she was in full armor. For autumn, this part of Marika’s lands burned terribly hot.

“If you scowl hard enough, the rust’ll be too scared to come back.”

Finlay looked up. A large, stocky man with graying hair and wearing a white tabard emblazoned with a golden crown of a tree stood over her, arms crossed, grinning. A sword with a plain, weathered hilt hung at his hip.

“Elphael,” Finlay said. The unscarred corner of her mouth quirked up in a lopsided grin of her own. Her disfigurement made her grin come across something like a grimace, but any who knew her understood her intent. The captain of Miquella’s lordsworn was ever possessed of humor and cheer, and it was as infectious as any disease. “If that were how it worked, I’d have stopped scowling long ago.”

Elphael took a step back and uncrossed his arms. Then, gesturing, he said, “Come on. Let’s walk.”

Finlay stood and slipped her blade into the sheath at her side. Although Elphael had already started towards a set of stairs up to the walls, as Finlay’s legs were quite long she pulled even with him in only a few steps.

“Miquella asked me to speak with you,” Elphael said, immediately making his intentions known.

That was one of the things Finlay liked about him. No tricks. No brooding. Just… Just the will of his lord. And some cheating at cards.

“He came to me,” Finlay said.

“Aye,” replied Elphael. “And you rebuffed him.”

Finlay shrugged. “That’s a strong word.”

As they neared the walkway along the top of the walls, a sea breeze whispered against Finlay’s skin, offering some relief from the relentless heat of the afternoon. The breeze smelled, however, of dead fish. Finlay wrinkled her nose.

“My lord is accustomed to having his way,” Elphael said. “And he does always have his way in the end.”

“Is that a threat, Elphael?” Finlay asked, tone too light for her words to be taken in any way except for how she meant them. She went to one of the wall’s merlons and leaned against it, setting her elbows on the stone and looking out towards the jagged canyon in the distance, past the patchwork of swamp and fields carved out from swamp, leading farther inland. Where Miquella would soon be headed, she supposed. “It sounds like a threat.”

“Ah, I know better than to threaten a Cleanrot,” Elphael replied, waving a hand dismissively. “You might tie my boots together when I’m not looking.” He joined Finlay at the edge of the wall, propping up his own elbows on an adjacent merlon, mimicking her posture.

“More likely to spew in them than tie them together,” Finlay said.

Elphael let out a bark of a laugh. “Hah! See? Don’t threaten a Cleanrot.”

“You don’t like our gifts?” Finlay asked mildly.

“Like cats, you are,” said Elphael.

“Cats?” Finlay tore her eyes away from the horizon to look at Elphael quizzically.

“I had a cat once when I was a boy,” Elphael replied. “Arrogant as anything, with sharp claws, and liked to leave dead songbirds and hairballs on our pillows. Mum used to say that only a cat that really loves you will puke on your pillow.”

Not quite understanding Elphael’s point, if he even had one, Finlay shook her head and then looked back out at the canyon. “Delightful. I’ve no interest in creeping into your rooms to puke on your pillow though.”

“Us liegemen of Miquella, we’re more like dogs,” Elphael mused. “Not good for much except loving him.”

“And warding off adoring crowds,” Finlay remarked.

She’d seen it before–Miquella trying to walk down a street and being thronged by masses who thought that just touching him would bring them all the blessings in the world and then some. His lordsworn were old hands at forming a cordon around him to stop him from being trampled by swooning mobs. This was something that the Cleanrots never had to do. Their lady inspired a very different reaction when she passed.

Elphael sighed. “He doesn’t believe in folks unless they’re worthy of it, you know.”

“He’s a son of Marika, not a god,” Finlay snapped. When she heard the sharp note in her words, she instantly regretted them. She did not, however, apologize. Softening her voice, somewhat, she continued, “They’re not omnipotent, and they’re not infallible.”

Elphael didn’t reply.

He waited, Finlay thought.

For her to become uncomfortable with silence.

It didn’t take long.

“It’s getting worse,” Finlay muttered. “Prayers do nothing. Bandages do less. They just rot too. And the wounds she took aren’t healing. They... very rarely do. And this is not one of those rare times.”

“You think Miquella being here will change that?” Elphael asked, not unkindly.

Finlay slumped forward, leaning bodily now on the stone battlements. “He is a child of Marika, and peerless in the faith arts. If he can’t help her, who can?” she asked.

Elphael set a hand on Finlay’s shoulder. Finlay startled. After the Cleanrot’s months-long stay, many in the castle had lost the reflex of backing away from the knights and averting their eyes, but, still, very few would willingly touch them.

She shouldn’t be surprised that Elphael, out of all those not sworn to her lady, would touch her though. He had served Miquella, and, by extension, his sister, since before Finlay had joined the Cleanrots.

“His prayers don’t work either,” Elphael said. “But he wouldn’t go if he didn’t have a reason, a plan. I’ve served him for a very long time. He always has a plan. And he loves her too.”

[] [] []

Matinal fog clung to autumn grass, silver on gold, when the small procession set out from the southern gate of the castle. Four mounted knights and three dozen mounted lordsworn, Elphael among them, accompanied the Lord Miquella on his way back to the capital. Behind the lord and his armored escort trailed a gaggle of squires with a small baggage train.

Mouth set in a half-frown, Finlay watched them go from a castle tower.

Even by horse, with such a great train it would be a two week journey to Leyndell in the best of times. These were not the best of times. After Gransax crashed through the walls of the capital however many years ago it had been now, the roads, even the well-patrolled highways, had been perilous. Not only were there dragons about, but brigands taking advantage of the chaos in Marika’s realm remained plentiful.

Brigands, at least, would know better than to attack a column of two score heavily armored soldiers.

Finlay’s frown deepened.

Dragons, on the other hand, might see the party as a valuable target.

There shouldn’t be many left in the area though.

Her left arm twinged. While it had been several months now since the arm had been mended, her body remembered still the impact of being hurled some thirty feet by the lash of a tail of stone that was thicker than a horse was tall. Eight of the dragons that had fallen upon their company in the dead of night were dead. Finlay and her comrades had seen to that, at great cost. More than four out of every five knights who had fought had fallen. The ninth dragon though, the biggest, the one with four legs instead of two, had escaped after her lady took one of its eyes and half its face.

If the dragon had any sense, after its retreat it curled up in a dank cave and died.

Finlay glanced up at the sky. It was gray with low clouds. Such was often the case in this area, at least in the morning. The sun would drive them back before long. But in the interim, the clouds made good cover for the approach of a monster.

A shiver ran down her spine.

Did she fear it now? The dragon that had killed so many of her friends? That had dealt blows to her lady that were as near to mortal as any Finlay had ever seen her suffer? Now that Finlay had touched fire and been burned?

No.

She did not fear the dragon returning. If it came, she would fight, and that would be that. But the reflex to cower shivered through her nonetheless. She was human, after all.

Finlay stayed on the tower long enough to see Miquella and his company fade out of sight. Then, with a sigh, she turned for the ladder down to the ramparts. She could not put off the inevitable any longer. The wood planks of the tower platform creaked under her step. Everything in this forsaken place was decaying. Everything.

The tower ladder led down inside the tower to a small, empty guardroom. Finlay passed out of the guardroom through a side door onto the ramparts, then descended a narrow set of stairs to the main courtyard of the castle. From there, she headed towards the central keep. A few castle inhabitants, soldiers, knights, servants, were idling in the yard. They bowed when they saw her come near. Lost in thought, she barely saw them and strode by without acknowledging their respect–a lapse of protocol that she’d have regretted, had she noticed it.

Miquella was departed.

The care of his sister now fell solely to her.

Finlay found the lower levels of the interior of the castle’s central keep to be dark and dank and generally unpleasant. Though it was not much better, she preferred the barracks in the far wing. Whatever mad architect had designed the fortress a hundred or more years ago had been far less concerned with the safety of common soldiers than the lords of the land and so the barracks were built more of wood than stone and had more windows. The air was still salty and often humid, but at least it was fresh.

The higher levels of the keep were less claustrophobic. As Finlay climbed stairway after stairway, she caught glimpses of natural light more and more often. At last, she reached a door that led to an open, sunlit courtyard near the very pinnacle of the building. At the center of this courtyard rose a small fountain, and around its edges ran an ornamental garden, though none of the plants in the garden were currently in bloom. Littered about the courtyard were a collection of statues of men and women, all in varying poses and of good quality. At the opposite end of the courtyard from the entrance that Finlay stepped through, there was a short flight of steps up and another door, this one guarded by two fully armored knights carrying swords and tall spears.

Finlay took her time in approaching the knights and the door.

Now that the sun was clearing the gray morning clouds, it was a not unpleasant day. And the courtyard soared so high above the swamp below that Finlay could almost imagine she couldn’t smell rancid fish. There was even a steady breeze here to tug at Finlay’s dark hair, which, as always, she wore in a practical braid.

The peace of the courtyard, however, was not why Finlay tarried.

As she drew near the knights, Finlay nodded to them. The knights nodded back. Though they wore their full armor, including closed helms, she knew them. She knew every knight in her company, and she handpicked those who would have the honor of guarding their lady.

Steeling herself, Finlay set a hand on the door and pushed it open.

On the other side of the door lay a well-appointed parlor, part of the personal chambers of the keep’s castellan and his family, should he have any. The current castellan, a mere boy, the last of his line, did not. Portraits of long-dead members of the Marais family hung on the walls. Here, unlike at the tower before, the wood floor stayed quiet when Finlay walked on it.

Faint sounds of conversation, too faint for Finlay to discern words, were coming from a room adjoining the parlor. Finlay moved towards them. As she approached, the conversation quieted. She finally came to a halt by the open door to a small sitting room lit by sunlight streaming through an open window.

Inside the room, a very young child sat perched on a chair, too short for his legs to reach the floor, and a woman reclined on a couch.

The child, Castellan Maleigh Marais, was gaunt, unusual for one of his standing. His skin was pale in a manner that suggested infirmity and sickness, and his posture was somewhat bowed, shoulders slumped. Clad in a blue robe so ill-fitting that it threatened to swallow him, he looked as if he might collapse at any moment. Nevertheless, he had a carefree light in his gray eyes, full of life.

A strange child. More comfortable around the Cleanrots and their lady than any child should be.

The woman’s expression was not so carefree. Dressed in bronze-colored silks, she was possessed of a crushing solemnity that radiated from her and threatened to overtake the entire room, the entire castle even. Beautiful, although not in the manner of her twin brother, Malenia’s most striking features were her clear green eyes, red hair that she wore loose and flowing down almost to her waist, and the fact that she had but a single arm.

Unwillingly, Finlay’s eyes fell to the emptiness where her lady’s sword arm once was.

The decay had resisted all cures, all magics, all prayers. When the limb had finally become more hindrance than help, though they’d taken it with a clean cut, it still had taken every scrap of devotion in Finlay’s soul just to staunch the bleeding and bandage the stump. That was how she’d first come into her lady’s personal service. Not because of her prowess on the battlefield–though she was as good as any of her comrades, and her comrades were each and all superbly skilled at their arts–but because of her preeminent faith. If called upon to perform the feat again, however, Finlay doubted her courage to even try, much less succeed.

Finlay cleared her throat. She bowed low to Malenia. “My lady,” she greeted. Then, to Maleigh, she offered a shallower bow. “Castellan.”

Expression unreadable, Malenia nodded to Finlay. Then, to Maleigh, “Castellan, would you excuse us?”

Maleigh hesitated. Wide-eyed, he stared at Finlay.

“Why don’t you ask one of my knights outside to tell you the story of the blind swordsman?” Malenia suggested gently. “That is your favorite, is it not?”

Smile breaking across his face, Maleigh looked back to Malenia. Quickly, he pushed himself off his perch on his chair. He bowed very low to Malenia, lower than Finlay had, and so low it seemed for a moment that he might topple over. “Yes, Lady Malenia. Thank you!”

Finlay stepped aside so that the child could hurry past her, off to… be a child, Finlay supposed. After spending so many years in and out of Miquella’s company, she found Maleigh a bit odd–though surely he was not.

Once Maleigh had left the residence, gone out into the courtyard, Finlay stepped fully into the sitting room. She moved to stand at a loose attention, hands clasped behind her back as she faced her lady.

“Sir Finlay,” Malenia said. Her voice, strong and level, betrayed nothing of her thoughts or feelings. “I have not seen you in some time.”

“My apologies,” Finlay replied. Suddenly, she felt very far away from herself. Numb.

“I did not elevate you to command my knights so that you could hide from me.”

Finlay bowed her head at the rebuke.

Malenia pushed herself up on her couch into a seated position. Her back was straight, her posture impeccable. “You’ve come to report my brother’s departure?”

With eyes still downcast, Finlay replied simply. “Yes.”

“Is that all?”

“I do not intend to change much on account of his leaving,” Finlay said, speaking as much to the floor as she spoke to her lady. “We will continue to garrison this castle and patrol for the remaining dragon until you have recovered. However, without his men to bolster our forces, I will reduce the patrols. Do you approve of this?”

Malenia did not answer immediately. Then, she did not answer at all. “He told me that you desired that he remain.”

Finlay hesitated before replying. “I did.”

“Why?”

Finlay swallowed thickly. She would not deny her lady a true answer, but the truth was difficult to say. “I was…” Finlay started. She paused, knowing that she had not quite found the words. “I am afraid.”

“Of being in my presence?”

With a start, Finlay raised her head. “No.”

For a moment, something flickered in Malenia’s eyes. “I had not thought so,” she said, somewhat more softly than she’d been speaking before. “What is it that you fear, Finlay?”

Finlay pressed her lips together. What should she say? What could she say?

Malenia arched an eyebrow. “Dragons?”

Finlay’s face flushed. “Not dragons,” she said, vehement.

A touch of humor entered Malenia’s voice now, Finlay thought–though it was hard to tell. For a moment, Malenia showed a ghost of a smile, the barest shift of expression, so fleeting that it could have been a figment of Finlay’s imagination. “You’ve proved that often enough. You fought valiantly in the ambush.”

“Thank you,” Finlay said. “I am proud to do my duty.”

“We slew more dragons in a night than Radahn has defeated in his entire campaign thus far,” Malenia remarked. Then a shadow crossed her face. “Though we lost many.”

For a moment, Finlay thought of the comrades she would not see again. Then she pushed them from her mind. They were gone, as was always to be their fate, and, someday, hers. She had lost many friends in battle. In days to come, she would lose many more.

“Have you healed well?” Malenia asked.

“Yes,” Finlay answered.

Malenia offered a small nod. “I am glad.”

Finlay’s reply was stiff. “You have not.”

There was a pause now in the conversation as Malenia seemed to contemplate her response–or whether to respond at all. Her face betrayed nothing of her thoughts, only her mood.

She was sad, Finlay thought.

Not despairing.

Merely sad.

“I have been as I am since long before you came to be,” Malenia finally said.

Finlay’s heart ached. “And you will be as you are long after I am gone,” she replied.

Malenia nodded.

Finlay bowed. “I should return to my duties,” she said. “I will proceed as I have outlined. By your leave.”

“It is yours,” Malenia replied. “Do not reduce the patrols. If the dragon survived and flies still, I want it found.”

“By your will,” Finlay said. Straightening, she asked, “Shall I ask the child to return?”

Malenia shifted to lean against the back of her couch. She looked away from Finlay, towards the window and sun beyond. “No,” she said. “If he wishes to return, I will entertain him. But I do not require his presence, and his tutors will look for him soon.”

Finlay bowed again. “My lady,” she said. Then, she turned and she left.

[] [] []

In truth, there were few duties to occupy Finlay’s time in the castle. The knights that she commanded were well-disciplined, and they’d fought for one another so many times that they rarely quarreled. And as the castle watch was seen to by Castellan Maleigh’s men, there were not many posts for Finlay to assign by roster. While she did send out patrols of knights to search for any signs of the dragon, she herself could not join those patrols–as commander, she was bound to stay behind unless there was a true threat of battle.

All there really was to do around the castle–aside from stagnate–was train.

With the Cleanrots in residence, the castle’s practice yard was never empty–not in the early morning, not in the scorching heat of midday, not at vespers, not in the dark hours. Malenia’s Cleanrots were not the most famed of the liegemen hosts for lack of brutal dedication. Though their numbers were vanishingly few, especially when compared to the Radahn’s horde of Redmanes or even the Praetorians of Rykard, each one of them was worth at least a score of the lesser warriors who served the other children of Marika.

As Finlay moved through a drill, the steady reverberations of her blunted steel practice sword striking her comrade’s weighted training shield again and again and again lulled her thoughts to silence. With a blade in her hand, there was only movement. She flowed through her forms like a river running its course, forever forward, never ceasing. In this, there was peace.

When she’d pushed her partner, Dauricus, to the edge of the yard, she traded sword for shield and began the same drill in reverse.

Defending did not offer her the same calm. Though she moved with the same fluidity, holding a shield set her on edge. There was a sense of inevitability, a loss of control, in using a shield. A shield accepted that a blow would come that could not be met, only received and endured. Cleanrots fought without shields. Only for the sake of creating a way to train without needing to check a blow, and sometimes for practice fighting against them, did they use them in drills.

After each blow she took, Finlay took a step back, slowly leading Dauricus back across the yard. He was a big man, a head taller than Finlay and much broader. He hit hard, but his strikes were slow enough that Finlay could easily reckon their path, block, and brace. As they fell into a rhythm, her mind began to wander.

How far had Miquella traveled?

It had been four days since his departure. By now, he might be halfway along the winding road that ran along the bottom of the canyon between Altus and Gelmir. Along that shaded path, Finlay thought, he should be safe. The cliffs were too close, the way too narrow, for a large dragon to reach travelers there. And at the end of the canyon, there stood a well-fortified outpost of Leyndell guards.

Finlay had sent as many knights with Miquella as she felt she could spare. There were very few Cleanrots left, and Miquella was not their charge. Finlay had kept the great bulk of her remaining force at the castle. Her lady had never known defeat, but that meant only that she had yet to engage in a battle she could not win. And as her lady was, she was not fit to engage in battle at all–though Finlay would surely expire of shame before she uttered such notions aloud.

Thud .

Like instant retribution for impious thoughts, the unchecked blow from the left caught Finlay in the ribs, staggering her.

Thank the Tree she wore armor.

“Marika’s tits!” Dauricus shouted. “Are you alright?”

Clutching at her side, Finlay groaned. “Yes,” she hissed. Her chest felt horribly tight and she wanted to cough, but she suppressed the urge. It hurt so much to breathe, and coughing would be agony. “I was distracted.”

Dauricus laughed. “It happens to the best of us.” He gestured to her. “Clearly.”

Finlay tried to give an answering laugh, then promptly regretted it. “I hate shields.” Her ribs might be bruised, she thought. “I need a moment.”

“Of course,” Dauricus said. He removed his helm, revealing a grinning face. With short dirty blond hair, blue eyes, and an unremarkable face, he looked like any one of many men who originally hailed from the mountains north of Leyndell–except for his missing ear. During the dragon ambush, he’d lost it, and then in the chaotic aftermath of the battle, when there’d been little time to spare for cleaning and dressing wounds, rot set in. Now, he wore a bandage over the place where his ear used to be. It once was white, but at the moment it was soggy with sweat and stained yellow from the inexorable seeping of his unhealing injury.

Finlay returned Dauricus’ gesture, moving gingerly to remove her helm as well. Then she managed a half-bow. It sent a stabbing lance of pain through her torso, making her breath catch, which then triggered another wave of pain. The blow had definitely bruised her ribs–or worse. She preferred not to think of what worse may be. Most blunt injuries could be healed easily with a few words of faith, but there were some exceptions. “Well met.”

Dauricus gave a half-bow in response. “Well met.”

Going slowly in a vain attempt to avoid too much jostling, Finlay dragged herself over to a bench at the edge of the yard. Propping herself up as comfortably as she could, she set a hand against her armor, over the dent where she’d been hit. In her mind, she pictured the Erdtree, rising up above Leyndell as a golden pillar of light that branched into a luminous cloud of radiance. Though speaking made her chest feel afire, she whispered a prayer for grace to Marika.

Nothing.

Finlay grimaced.

She squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to stand next to the Erdtree, to reach out and touch it, feel its rough bark under her fingers. She summoned up the sound of a full choir singing with her as she prayed again. By Marika’s grace, she would be restored.

Again, nothing.

Shit.

[] [] []

Hunched over a bowl of steaming soup in a dark corner of the barracks mess, Finlay glared at anyone who looked like they might approach her.

It was unkind of her, but she wasn’t in the mood for camaraderie, and the other knights respected that. Over the years, from time to time, they all had experienced the urge to be in a mood. She’d been one of them for far longer than she’d been their commander, and though a tantrum was more unbecoming of her station now than then, it would hardly change their view of her.

Slurping down soup was agony.

So was breathing.

She could ask for help, she knew. Although, aside from Finlay, all the best healers among the Cleanrots had fallen in the ambush, a few of her remaining fellows had enough training to mend small injuries. While they specialized in offensive incantations, simple healing was a basic art. However, Finlay judged that asking for help with something that should have been trivial for her would be even more humiliating than being a recently risen commander sulking in a corner during dinner or even having been struck in the first place. She intended to rest, and to try to mend herself again tomorrow.

Maybe being miserable, with relief only one heartfelt prayer away, would remind her of the power of Marika.

The soup was something with fish in it.

Everything in this castle was salt, sea, rot, and fish.

Finlay was growing to despise fish.

Grim, she stabbed her spoon down into the liquid and braced herself for another horribly painful slurp.

When she finished her meal, Finlay pushed herself to her feet, then tottered off to her room, leaving her empty bowl behind for a squire to collect and avoiding everyone. When she reached her room, which she shared with no one on account of her rank, she gingerly undressed, then laid herself down in her bed. As exhausted as she felt though, she did not sleep. Her chest ached and every way she positioned herself felt worse than the last.

It was a terrible night.

[] [] []

The morning was no better.

Ill-slept, Finlay bit back a groan as light slipped through her shuttered window.

But perhaps the misery of her ribs would be motivation to try harder at healing them.

Hiding her eyes from the light in the crook of one elbow, she set her other hand on her ribs, then hissed at the bright flare of pain sparked by even that gentle contact.

Taking as deep a breath as she dared, Finlay tried to remember the Marikan church near the village where she’d been a child.

It had been a small stone hall, just a bit taller than the other buildings in the village. The interior hadn’t been decorated–there had been a bare stone floor and bare stone walls and wood pews hewn from local timber. A country chapel. Not at all like the urban cathedrals that dominated the skies of cities like Leyndell. At the apse, there’d been a stone statue of Marika rising about twice the height of an adult, though, as Finlay had been young, the statue had always seemed much larger.

The village priestess had been an elderly woman who worked double duty as the village wainwright. Her face had been a map of deep laugh lines, telling the story of a life well-lived. Finlay had liked her, even though she smelled a bit funny up close.

Every week, at dawn on the first day, all the village would go to the chapel and sit in the pews and their old priestess would say a sermon. Sometimes the sermon was a rousing story about how Marika and her consort Godfrey led the soldiers of the lands against the fell giants in the far north. Sometimes the sermon was about how children should not tease the miller’s donkey or else the death-wielding Godskins would crawl under their beds and torment them in their sleep.

At the end of the sermon, the priestess would take a grail filled with dew collected from the trees of the local forest and anoint each and every parishioner.

Finlay held the feel of the cool dew on her forehead and prayed.

Nothing again.

Not even a spark.

Finlay let out a growl.

What was wrong with her?

She flexed her fingers, pushing them into her bruised skin and sending a wave of pain shuddering through her.

The Tree! Gold! Gold leaves! Dew! Sap! Tree!

“Marika fucking help me,” Finlay snarled.

A sudden horrible coughing fit caught her, and she spat scarlet blood onto the sheet covering her rough field bed.

Withdrawing her arm from her eyes, Finlay stared at the bloodstains.

She hadn’t coughed blood in some time. When last it had happened–it had been years ago during an excruciating march through the frigid wastes north of Leyndell. They’d been hunting a dragon but, when they finally caught sight of their quarry in the distance, a blizzard overwhelmed their column. Though Malenia and a group of knights reached the dragon and slew it, Finlay and many others spent months lost in the wilds.

Finlay had been fortunate. She found a handful of comrades quickly, and together they fought their way back to the garrison at Rold. By the time they’d arrived though, she’d been hacking up blackened bits of lung, and she had open, weeping sores on most other parts of her body–weeping, at least, to the extent they hadn’t frozen over during the long trek. Lichens had taken root deep in half her face too, and they’d had to be cut free from her flesh, leading to the scarring that now made it difficult for her to pass as anything but a Cleanrot, or to show her emotions to any except those amply accustomed to her. Dragging herself back to health had taken months.

Others had not been so fortunate though. Alone, they’d succumbed to exposure, despair, and rot, leaving only armored husks behind for their fellows to find.

But this coughing now, Finlay assured herself, had nothing to do with that. It was a mere training injury, and it would heal as soon as she said enough prayers, drank enough dew, hugged enough trees, repented all her transgressions, vowed to be a better person. Marika always forgave–wasn’t that how Malenia herself and her brother had come to be?

With great effort, Finlay pushed herself into a sitting position.

“Hail Marika, full of power,” she muttered, “May Radagon plow you hard.”

The Marais castle was in a swamp on a beach. By Godfrey’s tarnished brazen balls, where was she going to find a fucking tree?

A crisp knock at Finlay’s door interrupted her increasingly blasphemous thoughts.

Biting back yet more profanity, she called, “A moment!”

When Finlay had pulled on a shirt and finally stumbled to the door and yanked it open, she found her second in command, Veitchi, on the other side. He was on the thin side for a Cleanrot, more of a dancer than a brute in his combat, and he kept himself, his shoulder-length brown hair, and his absurd mustache impeccably well-groomed always, even in the worst muck of marches. He was no less rotted than Malenia’s other knights, but he, at least, had avoided any injuries to the parts of him that passerby could see.

Finlay glared. Veitchi offered a sheepish smile.

“Yes?” Finlay asked.

“Lady Malenia has asked for you. She’s decided to go riding.”

Finlay blinked, owlish. “Riding? Where?”

Veitchi shrugged expansively, twirling his hands a bit. “Out?” he hazarded.

Somewhat confused, Finlay said, plaintive, “But she’s not well. She’s supposed to rest. Miquella said so.”

Veitchi shrugged again. “Miquella isn’t here to talk sense into her, and I’m a mere messenger. And maybe she’s feeling better. You wouldn’t know–you’ve been hiding from her.”

“No I haven’t,” Finlay snapped. Immediately, her ribs protested and she choked back a groan.

Veitchi waved a hand dismissively. “None of that now,” he said. “I’m sure you can justify everything, but I haven’t enough days left in me to waste any dealing with your horseshit.” He paused, wrinkled his nose, then added, “And speaking of you and horseshit, you look like horseshit.”

Finlay ground her teeth as the realization sank in that not only did her lady intend to go out for what surely was an unwise adventure, but that Finlay herself was expected to accompany her as the commander of her guard. Which meant that Finlay needed to present herself, in full arms, immediately.

Veitchi pointed at Finlay’s face. “And you’ve got a bit of…” He reached out and wiped at her mouth. He then pulled his hand away and wiggled his fingers at her, showing that they were smudged with crimson.

Finlay sighed, then regretted sighing for the pain in her chest. “I’m having trouble praying,” she said. Presenting herself to Malenia half-crippled from a training error was perhaps the only thing she could imagine that might be more humiliating than asking for assistance with her predicament. “Could you help? Ribs. I think at least one is cracked. It’s worse than I thought it was yesterday.” She waved a hand to indicate the general spot where she’d been hit the day prior.

Veitchi cracked his knuckles. “Your wish is my command, madam,” he said. Then he added, “Though you know I’m horrid at this. Can’t do anything with the fiddly bits. Would you like to sit?”

“No,” Finlay said, resigned. She shifted to lean against the doorframe. “Just fix them. However much you can.”

Gently, Veitchi placed both his hands on Finlay’s chest. He closed his eyes, and then a soft golden light shone from his hands up to his elbows. Immediately, Finlay’s breathing eased. After a moment, Veitchi withdrew. “That’s the best I can do,” he said. “Maybe there’s someone with more of a knack among the Marais garrison.”

Finlay sagged. That was so much better. It wasn’t a full healing and she still had noticeable pain, but it was more than enough to restore her to a semblance of function. The difference between her state now and her state a few moments ago was so great that she felt drunk on relief. “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t… I don’t know what’s come over me.”

“Crisis of faith,” Veitchi said with a shrug. He spread his hands wide. “Maybe you’ve never had one, but for us mortals it’s like a seasonal cold. It will pass as soon as you forget about it. Or you’re having a midlife crisis. Take your pick.”

Finlay laughed–without having to double over in agony. She reached out and flicked his ear. “Mind your manners. I’m not that old.”

Veitchi rubbed his ear and grinned. “You’ve been rotting at dragons for–what? A decade? Longer? By Cleanrot standards, that’s ancient. Though you’re remarkably well-preserved. Barely a fungal growth on you these days. And you still have all your fingers and most of your toes.”

“I didn’t realize you loved latrine duty so much,” Finlay replied.

Veitchi snorted. “We’re not on the march. In this castle, we have toilets.”

Finlay straightened somewhat and shook her head, then took a step backwards into her room. “I need to armor up,” she said. “Get some horses ready, and an escort. Twelve knights, I think.”

Twelve was a full half of the garrison, not counting those knights out on patrols–but there was nothing better for them to be doing in the castle. Before the ambush, the Malenia and her knights had almost finished scouring the region of dragons, and now it seemed truly empty of foes.

As Veitchi started to bow, Finlay shut her door in his face.

[] [] []

When Finlay left the barracks clad in full armor and with her sword strapped to her belt, the stablehands had already led out a dozen horses and were at work checking that the horses’ tack was secure. One horse, a warhorse with a coppery coat and a blond mane, stood taller than the rest. No ordinary horse could carry Finlay’s lady to battle.

Finlay’s lady herself remained yet absent from the gathering, though several knights who would be her guard waited near the horses, talking amongst themselves. Finlay set out across the courtyard towards them. As she approached, they bowed, but then they straightened and went back to their conversation–about whether this ride was prudent. All seemed to agree that it was not.

Finlay frowned. She did not disagree. She’d indicated as much to Veitchi earlier in the barracks. Miquella himself had counseled his sister to rest. But all of this had been said privately.

Clasping her hands behind her back, Finlay cleared her throat loudly to demand the knights’ attention. “Dauricus. Ostia. Jishanen,” she said, naming the three most senior members of the group. “If you wish your thoughts on our duties heard, you may speak with me about them somewhere other than this courtyard, surrounded by strangers,” she said. “Or you may air them with our lady directly. But this is not the proper forum.”

Dauricus and Jishanen looked properly rebuked. Dauricus in particular, with his missing ear and stained bandage, had the appearance of a true penitent. Ostia, however, persisted. A tall, well-built woman with light brown hair, Ostia had been with the Cleanrots longer than most, but not quite as long as Finlay. “Finlay,” she started, “She’ll listen to you. Do something.”

Finlay did her best to look imposing, though in attempting to make herself seem larger, she managed to provoke a jet of pain in her ribs again. She pushed it out of her mind. “Our duty is to serve,” Finlay said. “When our lady fights, we are her sword. When she speaks, we are her messengers. When she wishes to ride, we ride with her.”

The look Ostia gave Finlay was pitiable, and Finlay at once felt guilt for her tone.

Any further conversation was cut short, however, by Malenia’s entrance into the courtyard from the castle keep.

Dressed in her customary bronze silks, Malenia stood with as much poise as anyone could while leaning heavily on a crutch. Unusually, that crutch was a sheathed sword, wide, with a curving blade, and as long as a full-grown man stood tall. Were she to stand up straight, Malenia would, of course, be somewhat taller. With the exception of Miquella, all the family of Marika cut towering figures. Though Malenia’s clothing was court-weight, she wore heavy boots and closed greaves of steel plate.

Finlay and all the other knights turned to their lady and bowed. Then, Finlay stepped forward. “My lady,” she greeted.

“Sir Finlay,” Malenia replied. She briefly set her eyes on Finlay, then flicked her gaze to her other knights, to their horses, and then to her own horse. Her lips quirked upward into a hint of a grin. Now with eyes only for her horse, she began to hobble forward, relying on her sword-crutch and avoiding putting weight on her left leg. As she moved, her back remained straight and somehow she still projected such power that none could doubt that she was a child of Marika herself.

Perhaps Ostia, Finlay, and their comrades had been wrong.

When Malenia reached her horse, however, she paused, expression stony.

Realizing the problem, Finlay strode forward as quickly as she could without running. When she reached her lady’s side, she knelt and held out her hands, lacing her fingers together. She glanced up, expectantly.

Malenia’s features softened. She nodded to her commander. Then, leaning on her sword, she set her right foot in Finlay’s hands. With some difficulty–Malenia was solid muscle and weighed as much as that entailed, and Finlay’s chest was not at all healed enough for such effort–Finlay stood, boosting her lady up to the point she could swing her other leg around and climb into her saddle. “Thank you,” Malenia murmured, too softly for anyone but Finlay to hear.

Finlay bowed her head. “It is my honor,” she murmured in reply.

Mounted now, Malenia turned towards the other knights. She nodded to them. Voicing no dissent, they all quickly moved to mount horses of their own.

Finlay’s horse had been killed in the ambush that had taken so many of her other comrades. She found a dark bay that no one else was taking and climbed up into the saddle, ribs protesting all the while. Though this horse she trusted would serve her adequately, she missed the one she’d lost. He’d been a steady companion for nearly a year, and had never shied from battle. But the blow that had shattered Finlay’s arm had done worse to him.

Reaching out a gauntlet-clad hand, Finlay patted the neck of the horse she’d chosen.

With any luck, she could protect this one better than her last.

[] [] []

Surprisingly, except for the constant awful jostling of Finlay’s half-healed ribs, the ride was not unpleasant. Although Finlay would normally broil in her armor due to the sun, they took a road along the shore where a strong ocean breeze kept the weather bearable. And it was… nice, being outside the confines of the castle.

The road ran close enough to the beach that on Finlay’s left she could see the endless gray-green expanse of level ocean, and the occasional white-crested wave rolling in. However, the road was not so close that it was at great risk of being washed away, except in a particularly bad storm. Off to Finlay’s right were dunes that blocked her view inland. She knew that past the dunes were a break of scraggly shrubs too small and gnarled to be called trees, and beyond that a few scattered farms dotted the swamp that dominated the region. The land was not particularly suited for grain the way the plateau of Altus was. Most food in the area came instead from the sea.

Until mid-morning, the company rode in companionable silence. When the sun had run about a quarter of its daily course, they paused to rest. To give the horses some relief, all dismounted. Finlay herself slid from her saddle hastily so that she could get to her lady’s side to help her down. Given the difficulty she’d had getting into the saddle, it was clear that her legs wouldn’t support her weight unaided. As the other knights politely looked away, Malenia twisted so that both her legs were on one side of her horse, and then Finlay got an arm under them, and her other arm around her lady’s back, to half-catch, half-lift her in the dismount.

All the while, Finlay’s ribs screamed bloody murder–penance for her doubting ways.

Once Malenia stood on her own strength once more, Finlay offered a bow. “My lady.”

Malenia offered her a small smile. “Sir Finlay,” she said. “I chose you well.”

Finlay’s cheeks flushed. “Thank you, my lady.”

They’d stopped on a sandy hilltop where only a thin cover of hardy grass held shifting earth in place. A few knights drew trail rations from saddlebags and passed the dry fare around to their comrades to share. As Finlay munched on hard biscuit, she looked up to the clear sky above. There was hardly a cloud in sight. And, importantly, there were no signs of dragons.

For months now, not a single one of Finlay’s patrols had reported so much as a whiff of dragon dung. But the beasts could cover in half a day a distance that would take a mounted rider half a week. While there were probably few, if any, left in the region after the Cleanrots and their lady killed so many, the four-limbed dragon that had fled from Malenia was still unaccounted for. There were no signs of it, whether alive or as a corpse.

Although Finlay hoped, dearly, that the dragon was dead, part of her would prefer to know that it were alive, and to know its whereabouts as well, rather than to stay in the limbo of uncertainty. If it were to be found, she suspected, it would not be found until it was recovered and ready for vengeance.

After a time, Malenia called for the party to ride once more. Finlay helped her lady mount again, and then they set off farther down the shore road.

Around midday they reached the village by the sea.

The settlement contained perhaps two or three dozen dwellings that Finlay could see, making it one of the larger outposts of civilization to dot the region. The road that the company traveled ran straight through the center of the village. As they approached, on either side of the road inhabitants of the village–mostly children and the elderly, for the rest would be out fishing–opened doors and windows to stare at the strangers. None, however, came out to greet them.

Though their armaments marked them as Marikans and their leader was instantly recognizable as a child of the goddess from the many tokens of her and her family that circulated in the lands, smallfolk rarely wanted anything to do with Malenia and her queer knights.

Rather than advance along the road through the village, Malenia signaled her party to halt at its outskirts.

As the day was half over, should they go farther it would take them until after nightfall to return to the castle. And, Finlay knew, Malenia was not unaffected by the reactions her presence inspired in country settlements. Finlay herself was not unaffected by the reactions either, and the same could be said for many of her comrades.

Before they could turn to leave, however, a figure emerged from one of the village houses. They had a shock of white hair and walked bent with age, but still moved with alacrity towards the riders. To Finlay’s surprise, the figure’s robes marked them as a minor sage of Sellia–one of the few centers of sorcery not affiliated with Raya Lucaria. But the figure did not wear a glintstone crown, and, moreover, Sellia lay in Caelid, on the other side of the continent from the holdings of the Marais. Sorcerers rarely traveled far from their bastions of study.

Finlay set a hand on the hilt of her sword.

If he meant harm, Finlay would not allow it.

“Hail,” the figure shouted as soon as he had come close enough for his voice to carry. “Malenia, Goddess of Rot! Bless us! Bless this town! Bless us with your abundance!”

Malenia recoiled.

In the village, another door opened. An elderly woman came creaking from her home, holding a rolling pin. She advanced on the shouting man in sage’s robes, and a quarrel broke out. Several more elders emerged shortly thereafter to separate the two. In the chaos, a few children slipped out into the street as well. Two of them, a girl and what must have been her brother, made a sprinting beeline for the company, still watching from the village outskirts.

Finlay pushed her horse forward so that she blocked the way to her lady. She kept her sword sheathed, however. She would not draw on children without more cause than this. She turned to her lady. “We should leave,” Finlay urged. “Whatever this is, we should have no part in it.”

“Wait!” the girl shouted. With a child’s agility and reckless abandon, she and her brother darted under the legs of Finlay’s mount, causing it to rear. Finlay kept her seat, but in the moment of her distraction the children reached her lady.

“Bless us!” the boy demanded, reaching out. He was so short that he managed to clasp only Malenia’s armored knee. “Rot us!”

“Please!” added the girl.

Dauricus and Ostia surged forward, each seizing a child by the back of their shirt and hoisting, yanking them back from Malenia and holding them aloft so that they could not escape. The children didn’t struggle, they just let themselves hang, eyes wide with excitement and hope.

Malenia had to take a moment to compose herself, something that Finlay had seen her do on only a handful of occasions over the years. She was shaken.

“No,” Malenia said, voice tight. “Dauricus. Ostia. Set them down back at the village.”

Before her knights could carry out her order, Malenia wheeled her horse about, away from the village, and spurred it to a gallop. As Dauricus and Ostia headed back to the village to deposit the children, the rest of the knights turned about and followed her. Though after a time Malenia slowed her horse to a less demanding trot, and then a walk, she did not call for any rests on the way back to the castle. On the ride, no one spoke.

When the company reached the castle in the evening on exhausted horses, they were still beset by an acute sense of unease.

In silence, Finlay assisted her lady in dismounting. Having done this more than once now, it was a less awkward movement than before–though Finlay’s ribs felt no better than they had at the beginning of the day’s excursion. Indeed, they felt worse. Still, she strove to comport herself as if she were uninjured.

Before Finlay could turn to fully devote herself to overseeing the knights and squires leading the horses back to the stables, Malenia spoke. “Finlay, come with me.”

At once, Finlay fell in a half-pace behind Malenia as her lady began to walk towards the keep, leaning on her sword with every step. They did not exchange any further words until they reached the base of the first long flight of steps up within the structure.

Malenia paused, readying herself for the climb.

Finlay stepped forward. Knowing the gravity of her request, she went to one knee. She wet her lips, then, “My lady, there is no need for you to exert yourself here. By your leave, I would be your legs.”

For a very long time, Malenia said nothing, only looked down at Finlay.

Finlay bowed her head and stared at the stone floor. Her heart thundered in her ears.

At last–

“You may.”

Finlay rose once more. Steeling herself for her task, she rolled her shoulders, ensuring they would do as she required. Though she still wore her armor and Malenia, as she knew well, was not light, she was not one to ever fail a duty owed to her lady. As gracefully as she could manage, Finlay put one arm around her lady’s waist and the other under her legs to lift her up. Malenia wrapped her single arm around Finlay’s shoulders tightly, helping Finlay balance.

Confident, at least in her hold, Finlay started up the stairs.

Finlay’s ribs ached and her legs burned and more than once she worried she might slip on a step, sending them both tumbling. But, miraculously, she did not slip, and she did not falter. As best she could, she pushed her fears of exhaustion to the back of her mind and focused on the way Malenia’s head rested in the crook of her neck, warm breath tickling Finlay’s skin. She was strong enough for whatever her lady required.

When finally they reached the courtyard at the top of the keep, half Finlay’s body felt numb from exertion. But if she collapsed dead on the spot, at least she’d die knowing that the last thing she did had been in her lady’s service. Although her muscles protested at being asked for fine movements, she set Malenia down on the courtyard flagstones as gently as she could manage.

Across the courtyard, the knights tasked to guard the private residence where Malenia had been quartered all these long months were seated, as was the Castellan Marais. The sickly boy had the knights both involved in some kind of children’s game involving tapping hands together. Finlay quelled her first instinct, which was to reprimand the knights for not focusing on their watch. There was little danger in this, and Malenia liked for the child to be humored.

Upon seeing Finlay and their lady, however, the knights pushed themselves to their feet and bowed, as did Maleigh.

“Was your ride good, Lady Malenia?” the boy asked.

Finlay glanced at her lady in time to see a shadow briefly pass over Malenia’s face. “It was,” she said. “You hold lovely lands.”

The boy beamed. “My family holds them in your mother’s name, my lady,” he said. “As we have done for eleven generations.”

“You have my gratitude, Castellan,” Malenia replied. “I would ask you–there were some in a village today who… acted strangely at my presence. What do you know of this?”

Maleigh avoided looking at Malenia. “Uh,” he started. “It might be… not everyone here worships the Tree,” he said. “Some people worship the swamp. Which… you know… and they have, for a very long time. The swamp has always been here, as long as the sea has. And they’re… not Tree worshipers.”

“I see,” Malenia said. She forced a smile, though she had little skill in this and it looked more like a grimace. “Would you send for dinner? For myself, for you, and for my knight.”

A panicked guilt swept Maleigh’s face. “Ah, I already ate,” he said. “I was hungry. And I didn’t know when you were getting back.”

“A wise choice under the circumstances,” Malenia replied, gracefully. “Then for myself and my knight only then.”

Maleigh bowed. “At once, Lady Malenia.” With haste, he then trotted off, past Finlay and Malenia and down the stairs to the rest of the keep.

Malenia waited long enough for the boy to surely have passed out of earshot before she addressed the knights who had been posted on watch. “What is your sense of him?” she asked.

“He remains like any of us,” one of the knights said with a small shrug. “He is not well, but he grows no worse.”

“I don’t see how he’ll ever be able to fulfill the duties of his house,” the other knight said. “He’s too weak.”

“His duty is to serve to his best ability,” Malenia said. “And he will do so, I think.” She glanced at Finlay. “As we all do.”

[] [] []

The dining room of the castellan’s chambers was an affair of dark wood and thick carpets the color of congealed blood. Finlay was not one for aesthetics, but the decorations of the chamber were not of the kind she would have chosen had she been tasked with obtaining furnishings.

Malenia took a seat at the head of a long table–long enough to seat twenty, if not more–in the place of the head of the estate. She leaned her sword against the table to her left, within easy reach. Then, she gestured for Finlay to take the first seat at her right.

Although unaccustomed to sitting beside her lady in such a setting, Finlay felt grateful for a chance to rest, and she took her place quickly. The chair was cushioned so much that Finlay felt herself sink down into it–a somewhat disconcerting sensation. It was not unpleasant, but it was not altogether comfortable either.

Unsure for what purpose her lady had requested her presence, Finlay removed her gauntlets, placing them on the floor by her chair, and then sat as still as she could, trying not to fidget.

Neither one of them spoke.

Without anything else to do, Finlay stared at Malenia–though, as politely as she could, not directly.

Malenia was covered in grime and sweat from the day. It was not unusual for her, though it seemed out of place in the Marais dining room, in all its opulence. Finlay supposed that she herself was also grimy, also out of place, and, moreover, in her battered armor–entirely unfit for their surroundings. The two of them would go perfectly in a camp, but not here.

As if sensing Finlay’s staring, Malenia shifted, turning her head to stare back with her strikingly clear green eyes. Her face was impassive. Unreadable. Malenia’s beauty shone so differently from her brother’s, but it was radiant to no lesser degree. Miquella had the light of innocence, above and apart from the world. Malenia, however, had suffered and endured and survived no less for it–she was more, even. She was a mountain that stood firm and unbowed against the howling of the winds, for months, years, however many centuries she had seen and would see in the future ages.

“You have a question,” Malenia said.

Finlay swallowed nervously. Then, she ventured, “My lady, is there a reason you desire my presence?”

Malenia offered no immediate reply. Servants had come with food–fish, cooked better than what was served in the barracks mess, but still tasting strongly of fish–and they had both eaten when she finally gave her answer. “My brother has departed,” she said. “I tire of resting. And I tire of being alone.”

Whatever Finlay had expected, it hadn’t been that. She opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it and closed her mouth once more. After some thought, she tried again. “I offer my apologies again for my absence,” she said. “I have… I did not understand the extent of my failure.”

Malenia frowned. “You have not failed me. That was not my meaning.”

Finlay stiffened in her overly soft chair. “My duty is to serve you in all things. Whatever is in my power to provide, it is my duty to offer it.”

A flash of frustration crossed Malenia’s face. But at what? “Finlay, when you swore yourself to me, did you understand the consequences of joining my service?” she asked, sudden heat in her voice.

Confused by the abrupt change of topic, Finlay nodded. “Of course. It is part of our oath.”

“Your oath is to fight for me,” Malenia replied. “It is not to rot with me.”

Stubborn, Finlay shook her head. “Our oath to you is ours, not yours. Your knights decide the metes and bounds when we give it. You have no say in that.”

“And my payment for your oath is my protection,” Malenia snapped. “I should not command you to share my curse. My siblings do not ask their retainers to leave the cycle of the Tree for their gain.”

Finlay drew her shoulders back. “We did not choose to serve them,” she said. “We chose to serve you. That is a greater purpose than merely returning again and again for the sake of the return.”

Malenia shook her head slightly. “Is that what you truly believe?”

Finlay hesitated.

Malenia’s eyes narrowed.

Unwilling to give ground, Finlay pressed forward. “I have little understanding of the mysteries of the Tree,” she said. “But I don’t need to understand the Tree or drink its dew to be pledged to you, to fight for you, to serve you, and to someday go to nothing at your side.”

“You’ve been favoring your right side all day,” Malenia said, accusatory.

Finlay immediately put a hand on her side, covering her injured ribs. Heat rose in her cheeks. “I made a mistake in a drill yesterday,” she said. “It is nothing. It’s not…”

Malenia’s face darkened. “I have watched every one of my commanders before you decay,” she said. “And I have regretted that I did not tell them more plainly of their value and my gratitude for them. It would have cost me nothing to speak, but for them it would have meant everything.”

“This was but a common injury, my lady,” Finlay said. She briefly recalled the bloodstains on her sheets from her coughing. She shoved the memory as deeply down and away from her conscious thoughts as she could, lest she do something to betray her misgivings. Her lady had troubles enough. “I am sorry to have concerned you.”

Malenia’s green eyes found Finlay’s own and bored into her soul. “You have served me for many years. Longer than most. I have never seen you unable to attend to such an injury.”

“I had some difficulty with my healing,” Finlay said. Her face felt somewhat warm. “Only a small difficulty. It happens from time to time. To everyone.” Or, she thought, so Veitchi had told her.

Malenia’s expression finally softened somewhat. “You will tell me if you require rest,” she said. It was not a request.

“I shall, my lady,” Finlay replied, giving the only possible answer to such a command. She had no intention, however, of requiring rest.

Satisfied, Malenia offered a nod and then she at last looked away from Finlay, gaze going out towards something in the middle distance. “So go now,” she said. “Sleep. Recover your strength. The day you spend the last of yourself for me need not be today, nor need it be tomorrow.”

Dismissed, Finlay rose. She collected her steel gauntlets from where she’d set them on the floor earlier, then bowed, then left.

[] [] []

The next day, Finlay made a point of ascending the keep to the castellans’ quarters just after breakfast. Her ribs bothered her still, but no worse than the previous day. Since today she wore simple clothes and was unarmed and unarmored except for her sword, she moved much more easily.

She found Malenia sitting outside in the rooftop courtyard, perched on the side of the central fountain. Her lady was looking up at the sky, watching a dark bird circle high above. Probably a bird of prey, or a carrion bird, if it flew alone. It was too small to be a dragon.

Finlay went to her lady. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of her horrifically scarred reflection in the fountain’s waters. A woman she didn’t recognize. As soon as she saw it, she looked away. Wordlessly, she took a seat next to Malenia.

They passed most of the morning together in companionable silence.

When the sun started to near its apex, Malenia, still looking heavenward, spoke. “You need not bore yourself here, Sir Finlay,” she said. “Though I am… glad of your company.”

“My lady, I took the blow to my chest during training because I was bored of that,” Finlay replied. She turned to look at Malenia. Her lady’s hair blazed like fire in the direct light of the sun, and her skin shone with an echo of her brother’s radiance. “And I am bored of reviewing duty rosters as well. And I am bored of reading supply requisitions. And I am bored of dice, cards, gambling, and all the other ways soldiers pass time. I am not bored of you.”

“My convalescence has kept us from our purpose,” Malenia said. She brought her gaze down from the skies to rest on her knight.

Finlay’s reply was on her lips at once. “I am serving my purpose now,” she said.

Malenia frowned. At what though, Finlay could not guess.

Searching for what might improve her lady’s mood, Finlay tried, “Perhaps tomorrow you would like to ride again? The east road, I think, away from that village.”

Malenia’s frown softened. “Yes,” she said. “I would like that.”

Finlay found herself smiling. “By your will then,” she said. “I look forward to it.”

“It is not often that I have been so stagnant for so long,” Malenia remarked. “Not since I was a child, I think.”

Finlay let her head tilt to one side as she considered her lady. “It is hard to imagine you as a child,” she said at last.

This, finally, brought a bit of light to Malenia’s demeanor. “Think of Miquella,” she said. “But prettier.”

Finlay lost herself to spluttering as she attempted not to laugh.

“Inquire of him someday,” Malenia suggested. “He is too polite–he will not deny it.” She paused, then asked, “What of you, Finlay? Who were you when you were young?” Frowning slightly, she corrected her question. “Not young–merely, in the time before you joined me? I think that you were young when you came to my knights, as mortals reckon these things. And, in my eyes, you are young still.”

Finlay shrugged. “I wasn’t much of anyone,” she said. “My family was from Limgrave. We lived in a very small village. The most interesting thing anyone ever did was forget to close the gate on the sheep.”

“That sounds very peaceful,” Malenia said.

“It was,” Finlay replied.

“Your parents?” Malenia prompted.

Again, Finlay shrugged. “My mother ran off to follow some traveling priestess when I was too young to remember her,” Finlay said. “My father and brothers and I never agreed on anything except that she was probably happier wherever she’d gone. I left when I could. Drifted. I haven’t thought about them in years.”

Malenia spoke slowly when she replied. “When Radagon left Rennala for Marika, he…” She hesitated, seeming to go somewhere far away in her thoughts for a moment. Then she continued, speaking each word with great care, “I do not think that he is happier for his choice, if it was a choice. He suffered for it, Rennala suffered for it, and their children suffered for it as well. He should never have become Elden Lord.”

Finlay stared in horror. “That’s heresy,” she muttered. Then, realizing what she’d just said, and to whom she’d said it, she flushed. As quickly as she could, tripping over her words, “Forgive me–please, my apologies, I did not… I did not think before I spoke.” Belatedly, she slipped down from her perch on the edge of the fountain and knelt.

“Rise, Finlay,” Malenia said, sounding somewhat weary. She gestured to the spot at her side that Finlay had vacated. “Sit back down. You meant no offense, and I have taken none. Marika and Radagon are… complicated.”

Aggrieved at herself beyond what her lady could forgive, Finlay reluctantly retook her place. No wonder that her prayers had gone unfulfilled of late.

Malenia slumped forward somewhat to rest the elbow of her single arm on a knee. “I do not know how to explain them to you. Radagon loves Rennala still. I think he does not love Marika–not in the way he loves Rennala. But he cannot resist her. He cannot help himself.”

Unwilling to chance speaking out of turn again, Finlay said nothing.

“If you doubt Marika, it is only natural,” Malenia said. “She is imperfect.”

This drew a sharp response from Finlay. “I do not doubt her.”

Solemn, Malenia considered the liar seated next to her. “I think you are running out of blind faith, Finlay. I think you will not find it again in orthodoxy. I have never found any faith there.”

“We walk in Marika’s light,” Finlay recited. The words fell dull and lifeless from her lips. “She is blessed, and her children are blessed. We who are leaves in the wind, may she gather us up and return us to the Tree to become sap once more.”

“The world existed before Marika,” Malenia said. “And the world will exist still after her.”

Finlay shook her head. Her lady was right in all things. But not in this.

Malenia sighed. “Go back to my knights,” she said. “Attend to your duties. But consider what I’ve said.”

Finlay stood, face set in a grim mask. She gave Malenia a nod, then turned and left.

For the rest of the day, her lady’s words haunted her.

Distractedly, she signed her name on half a dozen supply orders having barely read them. She heard a patrol officer report that a villager far to the west of the castle had reported that another villager might have seen a dragon in the distance–but she didn’t listen. When Dauricus suggested that Veitchi’s mustache resembled a figure in one of the lewd pamphlets that circulated in Leyndell, Finlay stared blankly at the far wall of the mess.

It was one thing for someone like Finlay, a no one in the workings of the Greater Will, to wonder at Marika’s godhood. Mortals faltered. Often. For Malenia to make such insinuations was something else entirely. It disturbed Finlay, beyond what she had words to describe.

When she finally turned in for the night, Finlay lay in bed, unable to sleep.

[] [] []

When the sun rose, Finlay rose with it. She ate quickly, and when she saw that most of her fellows had also eaten, she ordered an escort to arm themselves and for horses to be made ready. She ordered too that a message go up to the castellan’s chambers. Despite all else, she had not forgotten that slight brightening in her lady’s face at the prospect of leaving the castle again.

In her own quarters, she donned her gambeson, mail shirt, and steel plate alone. It was not easy without a squire’s aid, but not impossible. The armor bore many dents and scratches from years on campaign. With the Cleanrot’s disdain for shields, Finlay’s cuirass had saved her life more times than she could count–most recently in the training yard.

Her ribs twinged, a reminder of her mistake, and of all her other failings.

With a shake of her head, Finlay dispelled the memory as she buckled her sword belt. The time had come to move, to act, to do something.

Out in the courtyard, Finlay was one of the first of the party to arrive. That said, Malenia was already standing by the entrance of the castle’s keep, watching the horses be led out from the stables. Upon seeing her lady, Finlay automatically strode towards her to stand at her side. They exchanged no words. When the horses and escort were ready, still silent, Finlay helped Malenia up into the saddle. The party then set out.

This ride went much like the last. They rode out for half a day, then turned back. Though the company passed two small villages, they gave each a wide berth. From time to time, a few of the knights sang old marching songs, the kind they would have sung when they were footmen in Marika’s armies traveling from one corner of her realm to another. Though the Cleanrots had a few songs of their own, most were redolent with gallows humor and no one could ever tell if their lady found them amusing or in very poor taste. Finlay wouldn't be surprised if it was a bit of both.

On the way back to the castle, when its dark walls were in sight, Malenia signaled a halt. She turned her mount towards the sea and simply… sat. Gazing out at the water. Finlay attempted to track her line of sight, but it seemed that all Malenia looked at were the grey-green waves lapping against the sandy shore.

Quiet, Finlay and the other knights waited.

Only when the sun had almost slipped away to leave the world in darkness did Malenia resume the ride. The torches of the nightwatch had already been lit by the time they reached the castle’s gates.

As Finlay assisted Malenia down from her horse in the castle courtyard, her lady asked, “Finlay, would you dine with me again?”

“I would be honored, my lady,” Finlay replied.

As they approached the keep together, Malenia spoke. “I appreciate your company.”

“It is yours whenever you wish it,” Finlay said. “You have only to ask.”

When they reached the castellan’s quarters, Malenia led them to the sitting room. Finlay was silently glad for this. Though the sitting room was furnished in the same manner as the rest of the Marais’ private rooms, it was less oppressively opulent than the dining hall. In the sitting room, Malenia went to her couch, and Finlay found a not uncomfortable wood great chair with armrests that reminded her somewhat of a miniature throne. No sooner had they settled in than a young page entered to ask them if they were ready to eat. Malenia nodded, and the page quickly departed.

“Have you thought about my words yesterday?” Malenia asked.

Finlay’s face tightened. “My lady, the way to restore my faith is not to stoke my doubts,” she said.

Malenia considered this for a while. Finally, she replied, “I see. I… nevermind.”

Before long, the page returned with several other castle staff. Together, they brought a large plate with a giant cooked fish of some sort, as well as bowls, utensils, and a small table to set it all on. Malenia thanked them and then sent them away.

On account of her continuing vendetta against the seafood provided at the castle, Finlay at first picked at the meal, but then she discovered that this particular fish was actually quite good. Having made that discovery, she tucked in with more enthusiasm than she’d shown for any food in months. Malenia too seemed to like the fish, and between the two of them they finished it quickly.

Contentedly full, Finlay allowed herself to relax in the chair she’d chosen for herself. For once, she mused, the constant beat of waves on the shore in the distance did not annoy her.

For a while, Malenia and Finlay simply sat together quietly, in peace.

Peace was an odd feeling–one Finlay did not feel often.

When the watch called the compline, Malenia rose, leaning on her sword as always. “I will retire now,” she said. “Thank you for spending this time with me.”

Shaking herself back to full wakefulness, Finlay reluctantly stood as well. She found that she did not want to leave.

Finlay gathered her courage. “My lady, may I attend you? As I once did?”

“No, I will…” Malenia started to refuse, but then she hesitated. She looked at Finlay, and something she saw made her change her mind. “Very well.”

Together, they left the sitting room and went deeper into the private chambers of the ancient castellans of the castle. When they reached the bedchamber given over to Malenia for her stay at the castle, Finlay helped her to a seat on a small couch. Like every other room in the castellans’ quarters, this room was wood-paneled and decorated in deep reds. Glintstones placed in sconces along the wall cast the room in a soft blue-violet glow.

“Where are the bandages?” Finlay asked.

Malenia used her head to indicate a dresser on the other side of the room. Finlay went to the dresser and from it took two rolls of white linen cloth of sturdy thickness and about a hand’s width across. She also took a clean rag and a metal basin that stood at the foot of the dresser, and with all of this she returned to Malenia on the couch.

“It has been some time,” Malenia remarked as Finlay took a seat on the floor before her.

“Yes,” Finlay replied. “Not since before you discarded your other arm.”

With a professional sureness of movement, Finlay unclasped Malenia’s steel greaves from her legs and set them aside, then set to work unlacing her tall boots before removing those as well. Beneath the boots, from Malenia’s knees down her legs were a mass of sodden bandages and putrefaction.

Her legs looked as her lost right arm once had. In the ambush by the dragons, she’d been thrown along a jagged face of a cliff, and she’d left most of the flesh of her legs behind on the rocks as she’d passed. Her wounds were always slow to heal. But in the days since the battle these had grown worse rather than better–they’d been so grievous that when they did not heal swiftly enough, necrosis set in.

Malenia’s left leg and foot were the worse, by far. Though the bandages currently covering it were surely barely a day old, they were already black with clotted blood and smelled overpoweringly rank. Hands steady, Finlay unwrapped the fetid linen as gently as she could. Sodden lumps of something came away with the cloth, but it was impossible to tell in the low light if it was thickened pus or sloughed-off flesh. In some places, the cloth itself had rotted and part of it came away in Finlay’s hand while the rest stayed stuck to what was left of Malenia’s skin. Careful, Finlay picked at the bits of cloth, trying to free all of it. All of the detritus that came away went into the metal basin she’d brought from the other side of the room.

Later, she would burn it all.

Whenever Finlay’s fingers brushed against what on her own foot would have been a knobby bone, she suppressed a flinch. The parts of Melania’s foot that should have been hard were soft, and the parts that were naturally soft had started to decay to a pulpous sludge.

Throughout, Malenia watched silently, face tight with unexpressed pain.

When Finlay had cleaned away as much rot as she could without fear of removing flesh that wasn’t yet too far gone, she dabbed at places that seemed to ooze more than others with her rag. Then, she set to work applying fresh bandages.

As Finlay worked, she murmured prayers–prayers that, even when she’d had faith to make them, had never amounted to anything. It was a habit though. A comfort, even now when her hands remained dark.

“Thank you, Finlay,” Malenia said.

Without looking up, Finlay replied, “Of course, my lady.”

For Malenia, anything.

Finlay was securing the last bandage when she heard… voices, coming towards them. They were soft, like the speakers were trying not to be heard.

Finlay stood and moved towards the door of the room, right hand drifting towards the hilt of her sword. Then she recognized the voices.

Veitchi and Jishanen.

Withdrawing her hand from her weapon, Finlay stepped out into the hall. The two of them, having been approaching, stopped in their tracks. Their faces were grim. While Veitchi wore a tunic and trousers, Jishanen wore muddy armor.

“Why are you here?” Finlay asked quietly.

Jishanen’s eyes flickered towards the open door behind Finlay.

Veitchi spoke, voice barely louder than a whisper. “Jishanen’s patrol saw the dragon and tracked it,” he said. He too glanced at the open door. “It has a nest. Southwest, towards Gelmir. Four day’s ride.”

Finlay froze in place. Then, she grimaced. Now she understood why they were sneaking about–though, as Cleanrots, they were bad at it.

“We have to tell her,” Finlay said, keeping her voice as low as she could.

“Tell it to her gently,” Veitchi said. “Tell her we have it under control. She needn’t get involved.”

“Tell me you have what under control?” Malenia asked. She’d come up behind Finlay and leaned heavily against the doorframe, clear green eyes fixed on her knights with a predator’s focus.

Finlay turned. Whatever thoughts she may have entertained of handling the matter without their lady’s involvement were now fled. Bluntly, she said, “A patrol has found the dragon and its nest.”

“Where?” Malenia asked. Her tone carried an edge of anger and excitement intertwined.

Finlay glanced at Jishanen. “Jishanen?”

Jishanen stepped forward. A small woman–though anyone who voiced that sentiment would be made to regret it–she was one of the best riders among Finlay’s remaining knights. “Four days to the southwest of here, my lady,” she said curtly.

“Then in five days we will slay the beast,” Malenia said. “Prepare to move out the day after tomorrow.”

Jishanen and Veitchi shared a look. As the senior of the two of them, Veitchi spoke. “My lady, we must counsel that you remain here,” he said. He quickly knelt, as did Jishanen. They both bowed their heads.

Finlay bit her lower lip. Should she join them?

“My lady, it is not safe,” Veitchi said, beginning again. “Lord Miquella wished that you rest.”

“Everything is safer than battle,” Malenia replied, tone unreadable. She looked to Finlay. Her expression betrayed nothing. “Sir Finlay?”

Finlay swallowed. If she joined her comrades, their lady might listen. Their lady would listen.

“Finlay!” Jishanen hissed.

“You are Malenia, daughter of Marika,” Finlay began, speaking slowly as she assured herself of her own counsel. “You have never known defeat. The dragon cannot be allowed to fly while you do not. And it is yours to slay.”

[] [] []

The next day dragged by. As commander, there was precious little for Finlay to do to prepare for their march. The logistics of supply and camp were handled by her quartermaster. The actual communication of the orders were handled by Veitchi and the lower ranking officers. Though there were a few knights still out on patrol, a message would be left for them at the castle to ride swiftly to join the march after it departed. All that was left for Finlay to do was–

“Why didn’t you talk her out of this?” Dauricus demanded. Behind him, Ostia bristled as well. They were not the first knights to come to Finlay with this grievance, and she knew they would not be the last either.

“She can barely walk,” Ostia added. “How is she going to fight a dragon?”

“She can ride,” Finlay said mildly. She sat in the mess, holding court in her own way as every knight under her command came to her endlessly with the same concern.

Dauricus leaned forward and rapped his knuckles against Finlay’s table for emphasis. “And you could ride too. Last time. Right before the beast took your horse out from under you.”

Finlay scowled.

“Veitchi said she asked for your opinion,” Ostia pressed.

“We are her sword,” Finlay said. “A sword does not choose the battles that it fights.”

“No one asks a sword for its opinion,” Ostia muttered darkly.

“Finlay,” Dauricus started. He pulled back slightly, and spread his hands wide, beseeching. “You–

“Enough,” Finlay said. She was very tired of this argument. She stood. “Our lady will go forth. You may accompany her, or you may forsake your vow and remain here. I cannot make that decision for you.”

Having said her piece, Finlay left the mess, headed for her room. The march to reach the dragon would be exhausting, and then there would be the battle itself. Her ribs were not yet healed. She would not entertain more of these endless and endlessly repetitive complaints while she could be resting.

[] [] []

When the sun broke the horizon, Finlay had already eaten and had donned her full armor, as had all her comrades. All of them. The air hummed with a nervous energy. Swords, always well-cared for, were sharpened. Hafts of spears were checked for any sign of rot. Prayers were said to holy Marika and the Erdtree.

Finlay herself did not pray.

Her ribs twinged. For weeks her prayers had done nothing. This day would be no different. She would live or die by strength alone, Marika be damned.

At sunrise, Finlay and her comrades trooped out of their barracks. Horses were already waiting for them in the courtyard, brought there by the stablehands. Carrying packed saddlebags, each knight went to a horse and made their individual preparations.

Then they waited.

They did not have to wait long.

When Malenia strode out from the keep, she dressed in her own full armor–of a design similar to the armor worn by her knights, but somewhat less bulky, allowing for swifter movements at the cost of defense. Though she used her sword still as a crutch to walk, her limp was far less apparent when she was clad in steel. At her side, Maleigh accompanied her, carrying her winged helm.

Moving as one, all of the assembled knights–two score in total–bowed. Malenia gave them a nod in return and then went to the great coppery horse that was hers. Already in position, Finlay knelt to assist her into the saddle. They exchanged no words.

Maleigh handed Malenia’s helm up to Finlay, and then Finlay handed it to her lady, who donned it.

Finlay then went to the horse she’d claimed as her own, the same dark bay as before, and swung herself into the saddle. A squire passed her spear up to her, and she propped the butt of it on the top of her foot, leaning the shaft against her shoulder. She was the one who called for the company to mount, and then to depart. At once, the thunder of iron-shod hooves on stone filled the air as nearly two score knights began their procession of shimmering steel.

The Marais men opened the gates for the Cleanrots, and then closed the gates again behind them.

All day they rode, following Jishanen’s lead along the path her patrol had taken.

Unlike the previous days’ rides from the castle, they went inland, away from the shore, into the deeper swamps that the Marais lands were known for. They followed no road, and this made for difficult progress. The ground was muddy, and there were all sorts of flies swarming about.

Rather than push as far as they could, some time before the sun began to set they stopped when they found enough dry ground to pitch camp on. Always, they watched the skies.

When Finlay finished seeing to Malenia’s feet that night, she replaced her lady’s greaves.

Everyone slept in armor.

Dawn of the second day found the company on the move again, and it and the third day passed much the same as they trudged through the Marias swamps. Towards the end of the third day, at least, at least, the ground they traversed started to shift from swamp to gravel. They were nearing the slopes of Mt. Gelmir.

On the fourth and final day, tension lay thick in the air when they broke camp. They headed out when the sky was light but the sun had yet to break the horizon. Jishanen reckoned they would reach the nest in the mid afternoon and no one wanted the coming battle to drag into the night. Although against any humanoid enemy they might prefer to camp again somewhat closer and fight in the morning of the next day when they were most fresh, such a tactic could not be employed against a dragon. Every moment they tarried within its range, they risked turning from hunters to prey. They would break around midday, and then they would finish their trek.

When the sun had reached about a quarter of its way through its course in the sky, the gently sloping plain they traveled became a steeper climb of dry dirt and dark, blackish stone. Everywhere, boulders littered the ground. Though the day was cloudy, the air here weighed less humid than what they’d been traveling through, and it only became crisper as they ascended Gelmir. The slight change in their surroundings was welcome, as Finlay and her knights all rode with their helms closed.

The last stretch of the journey seemed to Finlay to be the longest. At the start of the ride, anticipation had coursed through her, making her tense and driving her heart to pound loud and fast in her ears. But as the ride went on, her nervous energy began to burn out, leaving her tired and leaden.

It was during the company’s midday rest, when some knights had dismounted to stretch their legs and rest their mounts that the dragon struck.

It came roaring down on the company from directly above, with the sun behind it, having flown up high enough that no one had seen its approach.

The knights who were mounted scattered across the plain to avoid the diving strike. The knights who weren’t mounted scrambled into their saddles, urging their horses to run even before they were seated. Two knights weren’t swift enough and were crushed when the dragon struck the ground, landing with such force that the ground shook and two more knights fell as their horses lost their footing.

Finlay was among the knights who successfully avoided the first blow of the battle by bolting away. When she heard the sound of the dragon making landfall, she wheeled her horse about from their flight and beheld it.

The dragon loomed massive.

Finlay had last seen it in the dead of night, and in the night she had been unable to comprehend its full size. Though it was not as large as Gransax, it was built to a similar scale. Its head alone was the size of a cottage, and every one of its teeth was like a broadsword. At the shoulder, the dragon’s arms seemed to each be as thick as a castle tower, and when it spread its grey, stony wings, those wings blotted out the sun.

Quickly, Finlay cast about, taking stock of her surviving knights, searching for her lady.

There.

A flash of red–Malenia, charging the dragon on her coppery warhorse, sword held out behind her as she readied her swing.

Finlay shouted for her knights to join the melee, though they’d know to do that without the order, then brought her spear around, tucking the butt end of it under her arm and leveling the point towards the dragon. A guttural warcry ripped its way from her throat and rang in her ears as she kicked her horse to a gallop.

Up close, the bulk of the dragon seemed even greater than from afar.

Finlay steered her horse towards one of the dragon’s rear legs–other than the dragon’s legs, nothing except the tail was in reach, and hacking at the dragon’s tail would do no good. The rear legs were a priority over the front legs, as the dragon would be unable to take flight and escape if it could not push off from the ground from its hindquarters. Nearing impact, Finlay grit her teeth, lowered her head, and braced for the moment when her spear would stab into the dragon’s stony flesh.

After the first pass, Finlay lost her spear. It stuck deep in the dragon’s leg, and she had no way to yank it free as her horse’s charge took her past. She let it go and drew her sword. Nearby, she saw two knights who were also completing a charge do likewise. One of them called on their faith to summon a holy imbuement for their blade, shrouding the steel with golden lightning. Though it was hard to tell with everyone in full armor, she thought it might be Dauricus based on the knight’s size.

Finlay turned her horse for another charge.

On this pass, Finlay did not fare so well. Though she landed a strong blow on the dragon’s leg, at the moment she struck, the dragon took a step back, catching her and her horse full on and sending them both to the ground.

Finlay hit the rocky plain hard and rolled.

Her horse did not.

As the horse screamed, shrill, the dragon’s foot came down, crushing it as easily as a child crushes an ant. Hot red blood splattered out, drenching Finlay in gore.

Hastily, Finlay scrambled to her feet, backing up, trying to find the best way to continue her assault without sharing her horse’s fate. She was somewhere beneath the dragon’s underside, but she was too dazed to determine quite where. The ground shook from every one of the dragon’s steps, and she could barely keep upright.

“Finlay!”

Finlay looked up to see the big knight–Dauricus–galloping towards her. He held out a hand.

Finlay locked her shoulder into place as best she could as she held out her own hand, hoping that what was about to happen wouldn’t rip her arm from its socket.

It did.

Finlay held on doggedly as Dauricus dragged her out from under the dragon. Her boots left deep furrows in the rocky dirt behind them.

When they’d gotten just barely out of range of the dragon’s feet, Dauricus let go. Finlay went skidding over hard ground. Dauricus himself turned his horse about and then went charging back towards their foe.

Finlay pushed herself up in time to see the dragon turn its head–its wounded head, it was missing an eye and a chunk of its upper jaw from its last fight with Malenia–and bite Dauricus’ torso from his legs.

Finlay swore.

Dauricus’ horse escaped, but there was no way she could corral the animal as it had charged off to the other side of the battlefield now, and would probably keep going out of fright. She looked all around, hoping and fearing that there would be other horses that had lost their riders.

She saw dead horses, and she saw dead riders, but she saw no live horses with dead riders.

With her left arm hanging limply at her side, having composed herself now, Finlay clutched her sword tightly in her right hand. If there were no horses to be had, she’d have to approach the dragon on foot once more.

Finlay had taken only a few steps, when a horse and rider surged past her in a blur of red and copper.

Malenia.

Peerless on horseback, Malenia urged her mount to weave this way and that, avoiding the dragon’s blows as she landed deep cuts on every part of it within reach.

Though all the wounds from Malenia and from her knights, numerous and deep, slowed the dragon, the beast did not falter. Doggedly, it snatched at Malenia again and again, trying to grab at her as she danced about beneath it. It swept its head around, lashed about with its tail, contorted itself in every way to get at her, all to no avail. She was too fast for so large a monster to catch.

Finlay broke into a run towards the dragon. She knew without looking that every one of her knights did the same, whether on horseback or on foot. A few battlecries rent the air, barely audible over the crashing of the dragon’s attempts to swat away the nuisance stinging its stony hide.

Upon reaching one of the dragon’s hind legs, Finlay landed a heavy slash against it, but then her blade caught in a stoney scale and she struggled to pull it free. As she wrestled with her weapon, the dragon kicked, catching her in the head and sending her flying. When she landed, on her back, briefly, the world went dark, then she came to, with only enough time to register the dragon’s tail at the edge of her vision before the world went dark again.

Finlay couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, could only feel the horrific weight on every part of her as the beast dragged its tail over her–an incidental blow to an enemy it likely didn’t realize was even there.

When Finlay finally saw light again, her world swam. Her ribs, half-healed before, were agony. Her plate cuirass had crumpled, and she could barely inhale against it. She turned on her side in time to vomit bile and blood through the flattened grill of her helm.

With her good arm, Finlay pushed off the ground, trying to stand again.

Somewhere nearby, the dragon roared, shaking the earth, sending Finlay sprawling once more.

Fighting desperately for every shallow breath, Finlay crawled to her knees. She couldn’t see through the filth coating her helm. She ripped it from her head, then looked over towards the monster they fought.

Malenia fought still.

No–

A sweep of one of the dragon’s clawed hands landed a lucky blow, slamming into Malenia and her horse, swatting them across the field. They landed heavily and skidded to a stop some ten feet from where they first hit. The coppery warhorse lay motionless. Malenia crawled upright, clutching her sword. With grim determination, she tried to regain her feet, using her sword as a lever.

Her movements were slow though.

Too slow.

The dragon reared back, licks of red-gold flame forming around its mouth as it prepared to scream fire down on the fallen child of Marika. Then, with a roar, the dragon unleashed its fury.

Finlay’s lady could not fall.

This she knew with an absolute certainty.

Her lady would never know defeat.

“Malenia!”

As the holy name left Finlay’s lips, a shield of brilliant gold, bright as the sun, burst into existence, forming a dome of protection around Finlay’s lady.

The dragonfire collided with the shield with a thunderous crash. The flame skittered off the shield, scorching the ground all around the golden dome. Hardy mountain grass turned to ashy sand and then to glass in the heat. When the dragon at last finished its blast, it wailed in surprise and frustration, a shrill keening that rattled Finlay’s bones.

Then, the dragon turned with predatory intent back to its enemy.

Malenia still did not stand. She was on her knees, one of her rotted legs having given out beneath her. She held her sword in a guard position, for all the good it would do her.

Acting on instinct, Finlay raised a hand and screamed her prayer, scarlet blood spraying from her lips with every word.

Spears of gold, hundreds upon hundreds, blazed into existence in the space between Malenia and the dragon, and then they slammed forward, driving the dragon back one, two, three steps.

With eyes bleeding gold fire, Finlay clenched her outstretched hand.

In an instant, resplendent golden wings, the light of them blinding, with petals for feathers burst from Malenia’s back, lifting her up. Finlay could just make out that her sword was now poised for a strike. With a sense of certainty in her task, Finlay made a sweeping gesture, and Malenia went hurtling forward at the dragon.

The strike landed true.

The dragon roared in pain and fury as Malenia’s blade pierced its heart. It staggered, unsteady on its four legs, as blood poured from its wound.

It fell.

Finlay clung to consciousness long enough to bring Malenia softly to earth once more. Then, duty done, her world softly faded to black. She had gone before she hit the ground.

[] [] []

When Finlay regained her senses, she did not feel half as much pain as she rightfully might have expected. Slowly, she opened her eyes. She lay on her back on the ground, under the open sky. Someone had removed most of her armor, and her breathing was unencumbered. She ached, yes, dreadfully, and there was something distinctly wrong about her left shoulder, but she was alive and would likely stay that way for a while yet.

Finlay shifted, meaning to sit up, but her ribs screamed in protest. She relented with a groan.

“Oh, look who’s awake!”

Veitchi’s face came into Finlay’s vision. He was looking down at her and grinning ear to ear like some demented ghoul. Covered in dirt and blood, he seemed far too pleased with himself.

Finlay groaned again, then squeezed her eyes shut. “Report.”

“Dead dragon,” Veitchi said. “Alive liegelady. Alive commander. What more could a humble second ask for?” He paused, then added, “Oh, and I patched you up a bit, but as you recall, I’m shit at it.”

Finlay said nothing, waiting.

“We lost seven,” Veitchi finally said.

Seven.

To fell an ancient dragon, that was… acceptable.

“Who?” Finlay asked. She kept her eyes closed. She felt very tired.

Veitchi named them.

“They died as they lived,” Finlay mumbled.

“In service to our lady,” Veitchi finished.

“Pyre?” Finlay asked.

Cleanrots traditionally burned their dead–the only Marikan sect to do so. All others held to Erdtree burials for heroes and boneyard ceremonies for the rest, and they considered it sacrilege to allow the same rites for Malenia’s knights.

“Not enough fuel around here,” Veitchi replied. “But there’s enough stone about to raise cairns.”

Finlay took a very deep breath, then regretted it. Veitchi had done his best with her, but his best was terrible.

Moving very slowly, Finlay moved her good hand to rest on her chest.

In her mind, she pictured her lady, sitting on the fountain in the courtyard of the castle of the Marais, light in her face, suggesting that once upon a time she was prettier than her twin.

Gold dripped from Finlay’s fingers, seeping into her body. It knit torn muscle, and it mended broken bone–though it did nothing for the whispers of dark that were rooted deeper.

Finlay took another breath. For the first time in a week, she inhaled and then exhaled without pain. Moving a bit quicker, she touched her shoulder and again plied her heresy.

Doubly exhausted now, first from the battle and then from her prayer, Finlay fought to remain conscious. There was work to be done. Cairns to raise. She started to sit up, but Veitchi stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Rest,” he said. “I’ll take care of things. And when you’re ready, our lady asked for you–but she said not until you’ve rested. She said to be very firm about that.”

Finlay gave a shallow nod. Thankful. Then she slipped back into darkness.

[] [] []

That night, too spent to begin the long journey back to the castle, the company made camp near the stony corpse of the slain dragon.

Throughout the late hours, Finlay flitted in and out of wakefulness.

She did not dream.

When dawn came the next morning, Veitchi and the less injured knights were working on the cairns.

Finlay was still weary, but not too weary to rise. Stiff as a corpse, she stood. She found that though Veitchi had gotten her out of her steel plate, he’d left her in her arming jacket, still crusty with sweat, mud, and dried blood. Although over years of campaigning Finlay had developed a robust tolerance for living in her own filth and the filth of her comrades for weeks at a time, she still recognized that she and her jacket were absolutely disgusting. With tired fingers, she slowly unlaced the garment’s ties and then shrugged out of it, dropping it onto her pile of armor. The shirt she had on underneath was also sweaty and a bit bloody, but it was a distinct improvement.

Though part of Finlay felt obligated to go to the cairns, before she’d slipped away, Veitchi had told her that Malenia requested her presence. Her lady’s command came before all else.

She found Malenia sitting in the rocky dirt at the edge of the camp, watching the knights work. Her sword lay on the ground next to her. She was no less dirty and bloodstained than any of her knights.

On stiff legs, Finlay approached and, when she had come near enough, knelt.

Malenia glanced over at her. “Stop kneeling, Finlay,” she said. She sounded as tired as Finlay felt. “Sit.”

Grateful for the reprieve, Finlay moved to sit, legs crossed, at her lady’s side.

Malenia looked at her knight. Her clear green eyes seemed distant for a moment, then focused on Finlay. “You saved my life,” Malenia said.

Finlay bowed her head somewhat. “I did my duty.”

“You did your duty admirably,” Malenia replied. “I am in your debt.”

“I am your sword,” Finlay said. “And your shield. You can owe me no debt.”

Malenia shook her head slightly. “I am not like you. And I do not see the world as you do. I am in your debt.” She hesitated. “But because I am not like you, and because I do not see the world as you do, I do not know how to repay it.”

For a while, Finlay rolled Malenia’s words about in her head. She didn’t know what to make of them. Finally, she looked at her lady, gaze steady, “You can repay it by living.”

Malenia’s brow furrowed. “I…”

“You asked me before what I feared,” Finlay said. Her words, held within her for so long, tumbled out. “I fear that you will lose yourself. I fear that the rot will take you. That you will let the rot take you.”

The look in Malenia’s eyes–in anyone else’s eyes it would have been pity. In hers, it was compassion. “Finlay…” Malenia allowed herself to trail off. “Finlay, I will lose my legs soon,” Malenia said. “And I will lose more than my legs before my curse runs its course. You carry my rot. You know this.”

Finlay’s cheeks were wet. She was crying. Why?

Malenia reached out, gentle fingers brushing against Finlay’s heavily scarred face, wiping the tears away. “It is one thing to rot,” she said. “It is something worse to watch rot consume what you love. I vow to you that I will fight it even after I have no strength left to do so. Now. Sit with me.”

Finlay bawled then. Great heaving sobs shook her body, and they turned to violent coughs, and she spat scarlet blood onto the earth.

Malenia set her single arm around Finlay’s shoulders. Through it all, she held her knight.

[] [] []

Two days later, they began the long march back to the castle.

The journey went slowly. They had lost most of their horses and traveled at the pace of foot. Though they sent a rider off to the castle to report their victory and request aid, there would not be enough mounts left in the castle’s stables to send spares. Her armor having been damaged beyond use, Finlay walked in only her jacket, carrying what steel could likely be salvaged in her pack. Though she appreciated not broiling inside a metal shell, the weight of the unworn armor was ill-distributed, making marching with it quite tiring.

Malenia, of course, rode one of the few remaining horses. To lessen its burden, she too went unarmored. The various pieces of steel she normally wore had been passed amongst the knights so that no one carried more than their fair share–though any would have been honored to haul her entire armament if asked.

While they moved slowly and all carried burdens now that they could not shift to their horses, the heavy tension that had pervaded the march out to meet the dragon was gone.

They were not unscathed, but they were victorious.

When the castle sent out supplies and a few additional horses, it was decided that no one would go ahead without the rest. Not even Malenia. Especially not Malenia. Her place, she said, lay with her knights, despite her condition.

Dragon having been slain, none would gainsay her.

While it had taken merely four days of riding to reach the dragon, the long march by foot back to the castle took some sixteen.

When finally they heard the crash of waves and saw the hold of the Marais in the distance, a weary cheer rose up from the beleaguered knights.

That evening, Finlay thought she had never been so happy in her life to take a bath, even though the water was frigid, salty, and smelled a bit like fish.

[] [] []

It was some three weeks after Malenia and her knights returned to the castle that Miquella and his attendants returned as well.

Finlay lazed in the castellan’s quarters, in the sitting room, slouched in her wood greatchair, watching Malenia tell the young Maleigh about the land of distant Caelid. It was late afternoon and the sun streamed through the open window, warm, lulling Finlay to sleep.

What was it Elphael had said?

She and her knights were like cats?

A page came to the door of the room and bowed to all of them.

When Malenia heard of her brother’s approach, her smile lit the room, making the cozy sunlight pale in comparison. She tousled Maleigh’s hair affectionately, then turned to her knight. “Finlay, help me up.”

Finlay rose at once and crossed the room to her lady’s side. She her shoulder under Malenia’s armpit and wrapped her arm around her lady’s shoulders. Her lady returned the gesture. The rot had progressed to the point where Malenia could barely stand, even with assistance.

Once Finlay had gotten Malenia onto her feet, together they, and Maleigh, departed for the castle gate.

When they reached the castle grounds, Miquella and his company had not yet arrived. Malenia shifted her weight towards the stairs that led to the walkway along the castle walls, and Finlay understood her intent. Without exchanging words, they went to the stairs and Finlay carried her lady up.

From the battlements, it was clear that the travelers were still a ways off. Even from a distance though, and even in the light of day, Miquella shone, a beacon of empyreal grace at the head of his train.

When they finally arrived, Finlay took her lady back down the stairs to meet her twin.

Miquella looked as he always did–too beautiful to bear, and not entirely of the mortal plane. Astride a horse, when he saw his sister approach, he beamed. “Sister,” he greeted. He looked then at Finlay. “Sir Finlay.” Elegantly, he dismounted his horse, which a squire quickly collected and led away. When he embraced his sister, she did not remove her arm from Finlay’s shoulder to return the gesture. But she did smile down at him.

“I missed you,” Malenia said.

Face buried in his sister’s midsection, Miquella’s reply came muffled. “I missed you too. They told me that you did not heed my advice that you rest.”

Malenia’s smile shifted to become more of a smirk. “I found slaying another dragon very restful.”

Not far away, Maleigh watched them, wide-eyed at the two children of Marika together.

Finlay shot the child–the real child–a reassuring, though lopsided, grin.

When Miquella pulled away, he turned solemn. “I brought you something,” he said.

“Oh?” Malenia asked.

Miquella half-turned back, and Elphael was already there at his side, lugging a chest, which he set on the ground at his lord’s feet. While Miquella had turned solemn, Elphael seemed quite pleased with things. The lordsworn popped the latches of the chest and pulled back the lid.

Inside were…

One was a leg, from foot to knee, made of some golden material. Wood, Finlay thought. Wood from the Erdtree. The other was similar, but went only from foot to just past the ankle.

How had Miquella…?

Around Finlay’s shoulders, Malenia’s arm tightened.

“I hope you will find them suitable,” Miquella said.

For a while, Malenia said nothing. Eventually though, her grip relaxed. “I think I will,” she said. “With Finlay’s assistance.”

Miquella turned his pale blue eyes to Finlay, expectantly.

Finlay understood the request.

And she knew she could meet it.

She looked to Malenia.

“My lady, if this is your wish, then it would be my honor.”

Notes:

Eternal thanks to my friends Cherepashka and Krisslona for being my beta readers always.
I do realize that I've made some decisions that might clash with how some folks view the lore (like putting the war with the dragons during Radagon's lordship rather than Godfrey's). Please give me some grace on this? My goal here is to write a fix fic that stays true to the major lore beats (i.e., the Night of the Black Knives and the Shattering have to happen, Malenia has to go to Caelid and fight Radahn, etc.), but also carve out enough space to propose a way things could have gone better via OTP magic. I'm generally trying to limit my canon-meddling to only things that are less definite (e.g., the timing of the war with the dragons is fair game, but Marika is most definitely Radagon), and I hope that's acceptable. (Plus I have some of my own ideas about aspects of the lore, lol, like, i think when morgott calls miquella and malenia the "twin prodigies," there's a double meaning in that he's calling them very talented/gifted people but also calling them omens.)
Anyway, thank you for reading! I have the second chapter about half written, but I'm doing monster chapters that have their own beginning-middle-end arcs so that no chapter will ever end on a cliffhanger, so it could take me a while to get it done.

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Chapter 1: The Shaded Castle

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