Theophanna hurried across the rutted streets attended by two of her ladies in waiting. A pair of priests and an armsman in the blue and cream livery of Mommerae appeared to lead her through the city of tents to a large white pavilion. Several other tents were being erected, splendid things laced with cloth of gold. Jean de Cleson did not have a reputation for ostentation, quite the opposite, he had made his name as a ruthless frontier fighter whose loyalty to the late King had elevated him to the rank of one of the most powerful Peers in the realm. His holdings were not rich, but were vast, and he had been vested with the power of the Constable of Tirche, a position which allowed him to marshall a great number of the King’s forces to his banner.

“My Lady d’Orbai,” a rough voice greeted Theophanna as she stepped through the flap to the tent. She had never met Jean de Cleson but the Constable was instantly recognisable from tale and song. His broken misshapen nose, broken in dozens of brawls and battle, his narrow face, disfigured by pale white burns across the right side, the bright red hair that proclaimed his western ancestry. He was clean shaven and well groomed, and he wore a fine doublet of green silk slashed with white, but there was no disguising him as a court dandy, this man was a killer, a wolf in sheep’s clothing if ever Theophanna had seen one.

“I sent word as soon as I arrived,” Cleson went on smoothly, gesturing to a bed where three nuns in starched white wimples were at work. Their hands were slicked with blood as they worked on a bloodied man. It was Albrecht. He was a ruin. His left arm and leg were badly broken, jagged white bone protruding from the bloody ruins of his leg. His face was a mass of bruises, the left orbit of his skull had been shattered, giving his face a lumpen and unfinished look. His uninjured eye was large and black, its pupil expanded till it all but swallowed the iris. He struggled weakly as the nuns reset his leg with a horrible sound of grinding bone that made Albrecht scream then sag limply, his flesh white and clammy where it wasn’t discolored by bruises. 

“You sent word to me? Why not my husband?” Theophanna asked sharply. Cleson shugged his shoulders expressively.

“I sent messengers to find him too, my lady, he has not yet arrived,” Cleson said. “We recognized your crest on the wrecked carriage.”

“Will he live?” she demanded. Cleson shrugged again, his face sympathetic but his eyes unconcerned.

“Who can say, I have known men who have died from bee stings, and men who have survived falling from the Orlean Tower,” Cleson said. “The sisters tell me that his spirit is strong, if that is of any comfort to you.” It was of little comfort to Theophanna who had never much liked Albrecht very much.


“I am pleased that you arrived first Lady d’Orbai,” Cleson added unexpectedly.

“Why is that my lord?” she asked, taken aback by the Constable’s apparent chatty mood.

“Your confessor seems to be a man of particular devotion, the only word he has spoken since we pulled him from the wreck was your name.” Was it Theophanna’s imagination or was there a slight emphasis on the word ‘spoken’ there. A shiver tried to run up her spine but she repressed it with the ruthless discipline instilled by seven years in the Convent.

“Priests are often fanciful when it comes to their mistresses I fear, particularly when they are foreign. You would not believe the things I have heard bandied about as facts regarding the Eastern Nobility. I often share such foolish tales with my Aunt who finds them most amusing,” she replied. Cleson tipped his head slightly in salute of a well played hand, but one that didn’t conceded the game. Dimologia, or the Words of Creation, was a legend, stained with the dark pagan ways which prefigured the coming of Il-Who-Brought-Order-To-The-Cosmos. Even in the east the use of The Words was a blasphemy which in theory was punishable by death. In the West, witchcraft of any kind, was against the express law of the Church and could bring the Inquisition with their fire and instruments of torture. As a foreigner Theophanna was more vulnerable to such accusations, although by referring to her Aunt, the Emperess Apolystyia, she had reminded Cleson that she was not completely without patronage. Her husband was a powerful man too, which was why Cleson was interested at all, King Quent the younger was a grasping and ambitious man, and with the Western Provinces largely pacified, his gaze turned to the riches of the Duchy of the Five Sisters. Any excuse to intrude would be welcomed by the King, and a boon to Cleson, who needed to prove his utility to the Son of his great Patron.

“They can be foolish I agree, always with their talking and their secrets,” Cleson seemed to agree.

“We shall of course….”

“Brother Albrect! By Il-Who-Trampled-Leviathan!” The Count d’Orbai gasped as he pushed through the tent flap, followed by two armsmen of his own. He squeezed Theophanna fondly and bustled past her to the Cleric’s side. Albrect moaned without content and his head lolled sideways in exhaustion as the Count began to fuss over him. Cleson’s gaze had not left Theophanna.

“If you were about to say take charge of our friend, I am afraid the Sisters of the Hospital have told us that it is too dangerous to move him again so soon. There is talk of a miracle that he survived this long, after being abandoned in that carriage,” Cleson said. Theophanna didn’t grind her teeth but instead forced herself to make a make a graceful nod.

“Perhaps we may repay your kindness when next you visit Orbai My Lord,” Theophanna told him.

“I should be delighted to visit you lovely home my lady, just as soon as my Lord the King grants me leave to do so.”