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TRAS Chapter 127: A Friend of Your Father’s
🕑 Added 2025-06-29 17:37:33 +0000 UTCTottering through the corridors, using her future sight to avoid maids and manservants, Bea went searching for the man who was going to take her to Amière.
It was a knight—a member of the White Knights, specifically. Long before she’d ever kissed her mother’s forehead good night, Bea had already seen her path. The city where all of fate’s threads met was just a horse ride away.
He was somewhere in the barracks—in a big, stony room, filled with a lot of weapons sitting in wooden racks. It was kind of like a library for swords.
She walked into a big room with tall suits of armor, and a big, fancy tapestry hanging on the wall. It looked important. The word heraldic fluttered through her mind like a leaf, but she didn’t fully grasp what it meant.
She mostly got the sense that the tapestry was important, because it told you something about the person and made the person feel special. Just like how the butcher back in Venlind had a picture of meat above his door. Everyone in the village knew that you had to go to him to get tasty food.
The picture that was knitted into the tapestry was a huge turtle with a shiny silver shell. And when Bea saw it, she imagined the turtle as Aristurtle’s grandson, who grew up to be big but was maybe a little too materialistic. He probably wasn’t a bad turtle. But he wasn’t wise like his grandpa.
“A rich turtle… would be a target for hawks…” Bea said, shaking her head. “Don’t you think so, Aris—”
Bea’s heart sank. Aristurtle wasn’t with her right now. She bit her lip, but she realized she’d gotten distracted and kept moving.
After passing a big room where all the knights in it were either talking too loud or too focused on swinging their swords to notice her, she entered the stony room where she’d seen the knight who’d take her to Amière.
There he was.
He was sitting alone at a worktable. His back was to the door, and he didn’t seem to notice that Bea had come in.
“More time than I’d like was lost at the Company of Deft Hands—hunting down a mage to send a message…” he murmured with a soft grouse. “But the festivities shan’t begin for a while, yet. A moment this sweet should be pristine, such that it crystallizes perfectly in the mind—it calls for a sword to match.”
He was polishing his sword, a bottle of oil sitting on the table next to it, a rag already in hand. There was an open leather case on the table, filled with smooth, dark stones. They looked wet. Bea guessed he’d just been sharpening his sword, and maybe the oil helped with that part too.
Slowly she walked up to the knight. Then, when she was a few feet away, she called out to him.
“Does… polishing… make it sharper, too?” Bea asked.
The knights’ hand slowly stilled. He didn’t have a jerky reaction to her, but the hesitance of his movements showed his shock.
“There’s naught more pitiable than a rusty blade,” the knight said with a smile. “And if a babe as young as you made it through those fearsome halls unseen, then my comrades’ blades must be positively groaning with rust. Are you lost, little one?”
“Yeah…” Bea lied. “My name’s Bea… like a bzz. And I’m looking for my papa…”
“Bea, like a bzz?” he chuckled, giving her a little bow of acknowledgement. “A charming name. Short for Béatrice, I’d wager. It sounds like your parents were overjoyed to welcome you to this world—and young lady, know that I’m just as delighted to make your acquaintance. Alas, I must confess—our meeting, though momentous, finds me on the cusp of departure. I’ve a prior appointment most urgent, and I must entrust you to one of my fellow knights such that he can help you find your father. For you see, there is a silver wolf who howls by moonlight, joining the chorus of the Singing Mountains—his coat so rare and gleaming, a fair princess has begged me, for three days and two nights, to hunt him down and claim his pelt…”
“My papa’s name… is Sigherd,” Bea said.
The knight froze, mid-explanation. “...And can you tell me your mother’s name, young miss?”
“My mama’s name is… Ciel. We’ve been here for a few weeks… ‘cause my mama knows the boss,” Bea said, mixing truth and lie. “And when I heard some of the knights say my papa’s name… I thought one of them might be able to help me find him.”
She looked at the ground. Then she said something she really meant. “I… I really want to meet my papa one day…”
“My fair lady, could you tell me what you’ve heard about him? the knight asked. “It sounds to me as if I may have made your father’s acquaintance—nay, if it is the man I am thinking of he’s…”
The knight paused. “He’s my dear friend.”
“Papa, um… I think he’s the boss of a bunch of knights…” Bea hesitated, trying to remember something about Camille’s uniform. “They wear a badge… with a silver wolf. And they’ve got blue capes…”
“Ahhh, I know him indeed!” the knight exclaimed, his voice bright with recognition. He strode over to Béa and, without hesitation, swept her up into his arms. “Bea, your father was a comrade of mine, and I am the knight known to friend and foe alike as valiant Sir Voltus… the lionhearted.”
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The day was coming to a close as Ailn and his companions neared Amière, and the winds howling through the Singing Mountains grew unexpectedly harsher, layering into a dissonant chorus which came careening through the pass.
A certain fae creature shivered, tossed about by its whims as she related her findings to her new human friend.
‘I found him by the northwest pass, with all the zigzags—AHH! I hate windy days!’ Sorelle whined as she zigzagged herself, shockingly vulnerable to her natural element. She waved her arms frantically to stay in place, as if she were treading the air. ‘The angrier, armoreder you has the same stone, but he’s scared of it for some reason! Do humans kill humans as a pastime? ‘Cause he seems really good at it. Last I saw, he was already by the pla—wait, no! No! Stop, OWWW!’
As Sorelle drifted over Ailn’s head, she was suddenly blown downward by a gust. The sylph passed right through him.
All Ailn felt was a light mist. But Sorelle cried out like she’d stubbed her toe terribly.
‘My mother was right! Humans only cause pain!’ Sorelle bellowed, as she reformed. ‘Why do I never listen?!’
“...If you’d told me to move, I would’ve,” Ailn said, scratching his head. He didn’t realize sylphs had mothers. “Anyway, I appreciate your help—not sure how I can repay the favor.”
‘Teach me a song or tell me a secret—or throw flower petals through me, or give me chimes to fly through!’ Sorelle piped, already recovered. ‘Later though! I need sleep!’
And with a soft salute, she shot into the sky, leaving Ailn behind.
“Well, it all seems pretty straightforward,” Ailn mused. His theory was more or less confirmed.
Someone had sent Sigurd an echo stone. They were somehow threatening him. And it seemed pretty likely they were working with the voice changer to do so, tricking him into believing they’d kidnapped Ciel and Bea—hence, his urgent and inevitably fatal course toward Amière.
Ailn liked to keep things simple.
If someone was running into a death trap, then the simplest way to save their life was to run into them first and tell them to stop. All they had to do was follow Sigurd up the path he already so helpfully cleared, and let him know that Ciel and Bea were actually safe.
He related as much to Camille and Alera.
“The northwest pass?” Alera mumbled thoughtfully. “It’s certainly possible…”
She’d clearly been surprised to hear Ailn—who shouldn’t know the mountain’s terrain at all—accurately describe the switchback paths. And for a moment, the skepticism in her eyes faltered toward uncertainty.
“...Nay, I cannot believe he would abandon his horse,” Alera said, finally. “I’d sooner think the former duke would attempt a desperate ride through the titan’s porch.”
“His Grace Sigurd would never take such a gamble,” Camille said. Her lips pursed as she turned toward Alera.
“A lone man, hurling himself at a mountain as if he were an army unto himself—gamble would be a generous assessment,” Alera said, arching a brow. “The terror of futility is best quashed by clinging to rage and a steed’s neck.”
“...His Grace Sigurd is not some witless berserker who needs to scream atop a madly dashing steed to find his courage,” Camille said icily. “To what end did you accompany us if you believed him a dead man riding?”
“With all luck the former duke has been captured and… merely maimed,” Alera said, looking away uncomfortably. “I could infiltrate my comrades’ ranks and attempt to free him, then guide his escape. The crags are impossible to climb, but just barely amenable to descent.”
She turned back toward Camille, meeting the younger knight’s increasingly icy glare with a gaze pensive, yet unflinching. “...If I deem the situation untenable, however, I won’t hesitate to stop you, or the new duke—whether by force or reason.”
Ailn frowned. Alera sure was confident in her ability to bring them both to heel.
But he didn’t say anything. Judging by Camille’s placid smile, the pot really didn’t need any more stirring.
“You underestimate us,” Camille said. “To say nothing of our knight commander, who cuts through the Argent Guards’ rust-bitten blades so ably that even the wind whispers about it.” She gave Alera an insouciant shrug. “Did she not attest that Sigurd had made his way to the mountain’s shoulder?”
It seemed Camille was so pissed, she was willing to wholeheartedly embrace the idea that Ailn could talk to sylphs.
“This is the stuff of fairy tales, Dame Camille,” Alera said. Her tone was resigned rather than angry. “Sylphs cannot talk to humans. Your knight commander, no matter how exceptional, cannot single-handedly vanquish scores of men. This is not some chivalric romance where he simply storms the mountain—”
The lecture continued unabated until they found a horse neatly tethered at the bottom of the northwest pass—near it, a member of the Argent Guard who’d been thrown to his death from the switchback paths above.
With that, Alera fell completely silent.
“Say,” Ailn started. “You said you were willing to sneak into the enemy camp, right?”
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In Calum’s dungeons, the Azure Knights were having quite the novel experience—noting with some despair that their cells weren’t that much less comfortable than their quarters back home.
For one thing, they didn’t have to share them.
…Unlike in Varant, where most of the knights slept in a common room.
“We receive meat, even as prisoners?” Dartune asked incredulously, as his meal was delivered to him.
“...Do prisoners not in Varant?” Ashton asked, grimacing at the dungeon’s new residents. “I suppose Varant faces dire circumstances, that don’t allow such luxuries for those who’ve committed crime.”
Dartune just stared at him. Then his shoulders slumped.“Yes,” he muttered. “Varant’s prisoners. Of course.”
Kylian frowned, thinking of all the knight’s cake they’d consumed through the winter.
Ashton walked up to his cell, facing him with eyes unamused. “Sir Kylian, don’t you think it’s time to find a proper liege? I may not yet be duke, but I assure you—I don’t skip meetings. Better yet, I’ve managed to avoid committing treason up to now.”
“...You make a strong case,” Kylian said. “And yet I’ll have to decline.”
“Knowing full well you may end up rotting your life away in dungeons?” Ashton asked, incredulously. “Even the life of a knight is beneath your talents—to waste away as a prisoner would be a shame all the greater.”
He continued to make his case. “If it’s your homeland you yearn for, then that’s but another reason to join the White Knights. Knights take vacations. Criminals do not.”
Kylian sighed, offering no reply.
Ashton’s reasoning was sound—uncomfortably so. But loyalty wasn’t always born of reason. And at times, even those bound by it struggled to explain its hold.
Realizing, however, that his chances to speak to the heir of ark-Chelon would be rare, Kylian asked the future duke a question.
“Do you truly believe that was Ailn?” Kylian asked.
“Does it matter?” Ashton asked, his gaze sharpening. “Treasonous whispers have sent men to the gallows on hearsay alone—and the entire Great Hall heard a voice that sounded like your duke. Even if Princess Isolde doubts it was truly him, she has her pretext. And thus, her permission to hunt.”
“Perhaps Ailn will find his impersonator,” Kylian said with a shrug.
He leaned back against the stone wall. At least now he could just sit down and rest.
Ailn had disappeared from Calum before he was caught—along with his cousin Camille. Kylian wanted to believe that was because he had a plan.
From his cell, Dartune piped up.
“Nor will I yield,” Dartune said. “No matter how pleasant this city’s amenities.”
Ashton stared at the master-at-arms of the Azure Knights. He closed his eyes, taking a deep sigh before leaving.
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Ciel was tossing and turning in bed.
Something felt wrong. Even asleep, she could feel it. She was still dreaming. All she knew was that she was suddenly very cold.
But she was too deep in sleep. She didn’t even know that she was asleep. There was urgency without direction coursing through her body, disturbing her slumber. The anxious need to do something, the deep dread that it was too late—both these feelings escalated until they were finally loud enough to wake her.
She woke up in a cold sweat.
For a moment, she didn’t even know where she was. The room was unfamiliar, the trickle of memories slow.
She looked all around.
Where was Bea? Why were her stuffed animals in the bed? Ciel tore the blanket off and scrambled in the dark.
She threw open the door, letting light from the corridor filter into the room. As she frantically looked around for any sort of hint, Ciel’s mind flooded with desperate pleading and denial.
Bea couldn’t have gotten far. How would a little girl go anywhere? Surely the same trick wouldn’t work twice—how many supply carts were there for her to climb into? How many knights could she possibly fool?
Bea wouldn’t… Bea wouldn’t rebel like this.
Then, Ciel saw something on the desk. There was a note. Someone had left a note.
Ciel’s heart stopped.
She walked over slowly. And from the childish handwriting, it was clear Bea had written it.
So, she had actually run away. Perhaps she was actually rebelling. Ciel would… have to ground her for longer. Maybe this all called for a stronger punishment which she’d been too fainthearted to give out.
Ciel desperately wanted to believe that Bea was throwing a tantrum. That she was angry she was punished, and just wanted to hurt her mother’s feelings a bit. That a servant was pouring her a glass of milk and she’d be brought back to the room with a pout.
That’s why children wrote their runaway letters, right? She’d taken to reading and writing so young—perhaps rebellion arrived ahead of schedule as well. Bea had just… finally reached that phase.
But Ciel picked up Bea’s letter. And it felt like someone had stabbed her in the heart.
‘Dear mama,
I’m sorry. I don’t like when I make you cry. But if I don't go to Ameer, papa won’t be saved.
When I come back, you can ground me forever. I’ll be okay. Because I want to live with you, mama. And we’ll be happy.
I love you a lot,
Bea
Comments
Arthefom
Thank you for the new chapter
