The Lake Fairy of France A Burgundian Legend of the Hundred Years’ War Part One: The Prince and the Enchanted Lake Chapter I: In Which Young Alberic Rides to War In the year of Our Lord thirteen hundred and sixty, when the Hundred Years’ War between England and France had scarcely begun its long and bloody course, there lived in the Duchy of Burgundy a young prince named Alberic. He was the third son of Duke Philip the Bold, a boy of seventeen summers, with hair the color of autumn wheat and eyes like the clear blue waters of the Saône River that flowed through his father’s lands. The boy had been raised on tales of chivalry and romance, on stories of Lancelot and Tristan, of faeries who dwelt in forest glades and beneath the surfaces of still waters. His old nurse, a woman from the countryside who had suckled him at her breast, would tell him of the fées of ancient Gaul, those immortal beings who had dwelt in the land before the Romans came, before the Franks, before even the memory of men. She spoke of the Lady of the Lake who had given Arthur his sword, of Melusine who had built castles with her magic, of the water sprites who lured knights to their doom or to their salvation, depending on their hearts’ true nature. “The old gods are not dead, my little lord,” she would whisper to him in the firelight. “They have only retreated to their hidden places, beneath the hills, within the standing stones, under the surfaces of deep waters. And sometimes, when the moon is full and the world is still, they emerge to walk among men.” Young Alberic had listened to these tales with wonder, never knowing that one day he would become part of such a legend himself. In that year of 1360, King Edward III of England had marched his army through northern France, and the Duke of Burgundy, though his loyalties were divided between his French blood and his English alliances, had agreed to send a contingent of knights to support the English cause. Young Alberic, burning with the fire of youth and desperate to prove himself in battle, had begged his father to let him ride with the army. “You are too young,” Duke Philip had said at first. “I am seventeen, Father,” Alberic had replied. “Alexander had conquered half the world by my age.” The Duke had smiled at his son’s earnestness, but still he hesitated. “War is not glory, my son. It is mud and blood and screaming. It is watching your friends die around you.” “I know, Father. But I must go. I cannot stay here in the castle while other men fight for our honor.” In the end, the Duke had relented, but with conditions. Alberic would not ride with the main army. Instead, he would travel with a small escort of trusted men, keeping to the safer roads, observing rather than fighting. “You will see what war truly is,” Duke Philip had said. “And then you will understand why I wished to keep you home.” So it was that on a morning in late April, when the cherry blossoms were falling like snow upon the roads of Burgundy, young Prince Alberic set out with five men-at-arms: old Sir Gauthier, who had fought in the Scottish wars; two young knights named Roland and Thibault; and two archers from the northern marches, men of few words but deadly skill with their longbows. They rode north through the forests of the Île-de-France, following the course of the rivers that would lead them toward the English army. For three days they traveled without incident, camping in woods and meadows, eating what they carried or what they could hunt. Alberic found the life of the road exhilarating—the dawn mists rising from the rivers, the songs of birds in the greening trees, the feeling of freedom that came from being away from the constraints of the court. But on the fourth day, disaster struck. They had been following a track through the Forest of Fontainebleau, a vast wilderness of oak and beech that stretched for miles in all directions. The path was narrow and winding, overgrown with last year’s bracken and shadowed by the dense canopy above. Sir Gauthier rode in the lead, his old eyes scanning the undergrowth for danger, with Alberic close behind him, the two young knights following, and the archers bringing up the rear. They had just crossed a small stream, their horses splashing through the cold, clear water, when they heard the sound of hooves ahead. Sir Gauthier raised his hand for a halt, and the party drew up, listening. The hoofbeats were numerous—many horses, moving fast. “Bandits?” Alberic whispered. “Or worse,” Sir Gauthier replied. “French patrols. If they find us here, in these disputed lands…” He did not need to finish the sentence. The war had made enemies of neighbors, and a small party of Burgundians deep in French territory would be easy prey for any company of soldiers looking for plunder or prisoners to ransom. “We must hide,” Sir Gauthier decided. “There is a track to the east that I know. It leads to an old hunting lodge. We can shelter there until they pass.” He turned his horse and led them off the main path, pushing through the undergrowth into a narrower track that seemed little used. Branches scratched at their faces and caught on their cloaks. The forest closed in around them, dark and silent. They rode for what seemed like an hour, though it was probably much less. The track wound deeper and deeper into the forest, and Alberic began to lose all sense of direction. The trees seemed to close behind them, erasing their path. The light grew dimmer as the canopy thickened overhead. And then, suddenly, Sir Gauthier stopped. “What is it?” Alberic asked. The old knight did not answer. He was staring ahead, his face pale in the dim light. Alberic rode up beside him and looked. The track had ended. Before them was a wall of thorns—blackberry bushes grown wild and thick, twisted together into an impenetrable barrier that stretched as far as they could see in both directions. “This is not right,” Sir Gauthier muttered. “The path should continue. I have ridden this way before.” “Perhaps we took a wrong turning,” suggested Roland. “There were no turnings,” Sir Gauthier said. “The path was straight.” They sat in silence for a moment, the horses shifting uneasily beneath them. The forest was utterly still. No birds sang. No insects hummed. It was as if they had entered a place where life itself had been suspended. “We must go back,” Thibault said. “Yes,” Sir Gauthier agreed. He turned his horse. But when they tried to retrace their steps, they found that the path behind them had vanished. The undergrowth had closed in, leaving no trace of their passage. In every direction, the forest looked the same—an endless maze of trees and shadows. “We are lost,” one of the archers said, and there was fear in his voice. “Nonsense,” Sir Gauthier snapped, though his own voice was strained. “We have simply wandered off the path. We will find our way back. The sun is still high. We have hours of daylight left.” But the sun, which had been visible through gaps in the canopy when they entered the track, now seemed to have disappeared entirely. The light was diffuse and gray, as if they were moving through a perpetual twilight. They tried to push forward, hacking at the undergrowth with their swords, but the forest resisted them. Every direction they chose seemed to lead them deeper into the wilderness. The trees grew closer together, their branches intertwining overhead until the riders could no longer see the sky. Hours passed, or what felt like hours. Alberic’s initial excitement had long since faded, replaced by a growing anxiety. He could see the fear in his companions’ faces, though they tried to hide it. Even Sir Gauthier, the veteran of a dozen campaigns, was sweating and muttering prayers under his breath. And then, just as Alberic was beginning to despair, they emerged from the dense forest into a clearing. It was a small clearing, perfectly circular, as if it had been deliberately made. The grass was green and soft, dotted with wildflowers—bluebells and wood anemones and the first pale stars of stitchwort. In the center of the clearing stood a single oak tree, ancient and massive, its trunk twisted and gnarled with age, its branches spreading wide to catch what light filtered through the clouds above. But it was not the tree that made Alberic catch his breath. It was what lay beyond it. Through a gap in the trees on the far side of the clearing, he could see water. A lake, perfectly still, its surface like polished silver, reflecting the gray sky above. Mist rose from it in wisps and tendrils, drifting across the clearing like the breath of some sleeping giant. “Water,” Thibault said, his voice thick with relief. “We can water the horses. And perhaps there is a village nearby.” They rode toward the lake, emerging from the trees onto its shore. The water was clearer than any Alberic had ever seen. He could see the sandy bottom, dotted with smooth stones, and the shadows of fish moving in the depths. The mist hung low over the surface, obscuring the far shore. “This is strange,” Sir Gauthier said, frowning. “I know this forest well, or I thought I did. I have never heard of this lake.” “Perhaps it is too small to be marked on maps,” Roland suggested. “Perhaps,” Sir Gauthier agreed, but he did not sound convinced. They dismounted and let the horses drink. The water was cold and sweet when Alberic cupped it in his hands. He drank deeply, feeling it cool his parched throat. As he straightened up, wiping water from his chin, he saw something that made him freeze. On the far side of the lake, through the mist, he could see a light. It was faint at first, like a will-o’-the-wisp, dancing and flickering above the water. But as he watched, it grew brighter, resolving into the warm glow of lanterns or torches. “Look,” he said, pointing. “There is a house over there. Or a village.” The others turned to look. Sir Gauthier squinted into the mist, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I see nothing,” he said. “There,” Alberic insisted. “Can you not see the lights?” But the others were shaking their heads. They saw only mist and water. “You are tired, my prince,” Sir Gauthier said gently. “The forest has played tricks on your eyes. We should rest here for a while, then try to find our way back.” Alberic blinked. The lights were still there, clearer than ever. He could see what looked like a pavilion or a tent, made of some shimmering fabric that caught the light and reflected it in rainbow hues. And around it, figures moving—small, graceful figures, like women in flowing gowns. “I see them,” he said again. “There are people over there. Women, I think. They are dancing.” Sir Gauthier exchanged a worried glance with Roland. “My prince, there is nothing there. The mist is thick, and your eyes are weary. Come, sit down. Rest.” But Alberic could not tear his gaze away. The pavilion was growing clearer, the figures more distinct. He could hear music now, faint and sweet, like harps and flutes playing a melody that seemed to tug at his very soul. The women were dancing in a circle, their movements graceful and fluid, their gowns flowing around them like water. And then, one of them turned and looked directly at him. Even across the distance, across the misty water, he could see her eyes. They were green, the green of deep forest pools, and they seemed to glow with an inner light. She was beautiful—not in the way of mortal women, with their imperfections and their fleeting youth, but with a beauty that seemed eternal, carved from moonlight and starlight and the first light of dawn. She smiled at him, and Alberic felt his heart stop. “Do you not see her?” he whispered. “The lady in white? She is looking at us.” “There is no one there, my prince,” Sir Gauthier said, his voice tight with concern. “You are feverish. The strain of the journey…” “I am not feverish,” Alberic said. He took a step toward the water. “She is calling to me. I can hear her voice.” “My prince, stop!” Sir Gauthier grabbed his arm. “The lake may be deep. You cannot swim in armor.” But Alberic barely felt the old knight’s grip. The woman was walking toward him now, gliding across the surface of the water as if it were solid ground. Her feet did not break the surface; she walked upon it, leaving no ripple behind her. Her gown was white, shimmering with threads of silver and gold, and her hair fell around her shoulders like a cascade of dark water. She reached the near shore and stood before him, close enough to touch. She was taller than he had thought, taller than any woman he had ever seen, and her presence seemed to fill the clearing with a soft, golden light. “Alberic of Burgundy,” she said, and her voice was like music, like the sound of water flowing over stones. “I have been waiting for you.” “You know my name?” Alberic breathed. “I know many things,” she said. “I know that your heart is pure, and that you have dreamed of magic all your life. I know that you are weary of the world of men, with its wars and its cruelties. I know that you long for something more—something beautiful, something eternal.” “Yes,” Alberic whispered. “Yes, I do.” “Then come with me,” she said, holding out her hand. “Come to my realm, beneath the waters, where time moves differently and sorrow cannot enter. Come, and be my guest, and I will show you wonders that no mortal man has ever seen.” Alberic reached for her hand. It was cool and smooth, like polished marble, and yet it was alive, pulsing with a warmth that spread through his body like wine. “My prince, no!” Sir Gauthier cried, trying to pull him back. “It is a trick! A fairy enchantment! She will lead you to your doom!” But Alberic could not hear him. The woman’s eyes held him, green and deep and endless, and he felt himself falling into them, falling into a world of light and beauty and wonder. “Come,” she whispered. And Alberic went. He stepped onto the water, expecting to sink, but his foot found solid ground. The surface of the lake supported him, firm as stone, and he walked across it behind the fairy woman, following her toward the pavilion on the far shore. Behind him, he heard Sir Gauthier shouting, heard the sound of horses whinnying in fear, heard the clash of steel as the knights drew their swords. But the sounds grew fainter and fainter, drowned out by the music that swelled around him, until they were nothing but a distant echo, a memory of a world he was leaving behind. He did not look back. He could not. The fairy woman’s hand was in his, and her eyes were before him, and he knew that he was going somewhere he had always been meant to go. They reached the pavilion, and the other women surrounded them, laughing and singing, their faces bright with joy. They were all beautiful, all graceful, all dressed in gowns of shimmering silk and samite. But none were as beautiful as the one who had called to him, the one who still held his hand. “Welcome, Prince Alberic,” she said, turning to face him. “Welcome to the realm of the Lake. I am Melisande, daughter of the ancient kings of this land, keeper of the waters and guardian of the old magic. And you, if you will accept my hospitality, shall be my honored guest for as long as you desire to stay.” “I accept,” Alberic said, and his voice seemed to come from very far away. “Gladly, I accept.” Melisande smiled, and the world seemed to brighten with her smile. “Then enter,” she said, drawing aside the curtain of the pavilion. “And let your new life begin.” Alberic stepped through the curtain, and the waters closed over his head—not to drown him, but to welcome him, to carry him down into a world he had never dreamed existed, a world of crystal palaces and gardens of coral, of fish that sang like birds and flowers that glowed with their own light. He did not know it then, but he had crossed a threshold that few mortals ever crossed. He had entered the realm of the fairies, the Autre Monde, the Otherworld that exists alongside our own, hidden from mortal eyes except by magic or by fate. And he did not know—could not know—that when he returned, if he returned, the world he had left behind would be utterly changed. For time moves differently in the realm of the fairies. A day in that enchanted land might be a year in the world of men. Or it might be a century. Alberic was about to learn this truth, but not yet. For now, he was lost in wonder, lost in beauty, lost in the green eyes of the fairy woman who had called him across the waters. His adventure had only just begun. Chapter II: The Crystal Palace Beneath the Waters When Alberic passed through the curtain of the pavilion, he expected to find himself in a tent, or perhaps in a small building of wood or stone. Instead, he found himself descending. The pavilion was merely an entrance, a doorway between worlds. Beyond it, a staircase of crystal spiraled downward, its steps glowing with a soft, blue light. The walls around him were not walls at all, but water—clear as glass, held back by some invisible force. He could see fish swimming in the water beyond the barrier, their scales flashing silver and gold in the light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. “Do not be afraid,” Melisande said, still holding his hand. “The magic of my realm will protect you. You can breathe here as easily as you breathed in the world above.” Alberic took a breath, and found that she was right. The air was cool and sweet, scented with something he could not identify—like flowers, but not any flowers he knew. It filled his lungs easily, and he felt no dizziness, no discomfort. “Where are we going?” he asked. “To my palace,” Melisande replied. “To the heart of the Lake Kingdom, where my people have dwelt since before the first stones of Paris were laid, since before the Romans brought their eagles to Gaul, since before even the ancient Celts raised their standing stones to the sky.” They continued down the staircase, and as they descended, the light grew brighter, more colorful. Alberic began to see shapes in the water beyond the barrier—great buildings of coral and pearl, towers of mother-of-pearl that shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow, gardens of seaweed that swayed like trees in an invisible wind. And then they emerged into a vast cavern, and Alberic gasped at what he saw. Before him lay a city—a city beneath the waters, more beautiful than any city he had ever seen. Palaces of crystal rose like mountains from the sandy floor, their spires reaching up toward the distant surface. Streets of polished shell wound between the buildings, and along them walked the fairy folk, hundreds of them, dressed in robes of silk and samite, their faces fair and ageless. In the center of the city stood the greatest palace of all, a structure of pure crystal that caught the light and refracted it into a thousand rainbows. It was built in the shape of a great shell, spiraling upward to a point that seemed to touch the very roof of the cavern. Around it flowed a river of liquid silver, and across this river arched bridges of pearl. “Behold the Palace of Aqualuna,” Melisande said, her voice filled with pride. “My home, and now yours, for as long as you wish to stay.” “It is…” Alberic searched for words, but found none adequate. “It is beyond anything I could have imagined.” Melisande smiled. “The world of men has its beauties, I am told. But they are fleeting, mortal. Here, nothing fades. Nothing decays. The palace has stood for ten thousand years, and it will stand for ten thousand more.” She led him across one of the pearl bridges and through the great gates of the palace. The gates were made of a substance Alberic did not recognize—something like ivory, but harder, more lustrous. They swung open at Melisande’s approach, though no hand touched them. Inside, the palace was even more magnificent than its exterior. The walls were lined with tapestries that seemed to move, depicting scenes from the ancient history of the fairy folk—their wars with the giants who had once ruled the earth, their treaties with the dragons who slept beneath the mountains, their dances with the stars on midsummer nights. The floors were of polished marble, inlaid with patterns of gold and silver, and the ceilings were so high that they disappeared into shadows. “You must be weary from your journey,” Melisande said. “I will have my servants prepare a chamber for you, where you may rest and refresh yourself. And then, when you are ready, I will show you more of my realm.” She clapped her hands, and instantly a dozen fairy servants appeared, bowing low before her. They were smaller than Melisande, barely reaching Alberic’s shoulder, with pointed ears and delicate wings that shimmered like dragonfly wings. They wore simple tunics of green and blue, and their eyes were large and curious as they regarded the mortal prince. “Take Prince Alberic to the Chamber of Moonlight,” Melisande commanded. “See that he has everything he desires.” The servants bowed again and led Alberic through a maze of corridors, each more beautiful than the last. They passed chambers filled with music, where fairy musicians played on instruments Alberic did not recognize—harps with strings of moonlight, flutes that sang with voices of their own, drums that beat in time with the pulse of the earth. They passed gardens where flowers bloomed that had no names in the language of men, flowers that changed color with every breath of wind, flowers that sang soft songs as you passed them by. At last they came to a door of silver, which opened to reveal the Chamber of Moonlight. Alberic stepped inside and caught his breath. The room was circular, with walls of crystal that looked out upon the underwater city. The floor was covered in soft moss that glowed with a pale, silvery light, and in the center of the room stood a bed made of shells, its mattress filled with something that looked like down but felt like clouds when Alberic touched it. There was a table laden with food—fruits he did not recognize, breads that smelled of honey and spices, wines that glowed like liquid jewels in crystal goblets. There were garments laid out for him, robes of silk and velvet that seemed to have been made to his exact measurements. “If you require anything else, my lord,” one of the servants said, bowing low, “you have only to speak. We are yours to command.” “Thank you,” Alberic said, still overwhelmed by everything he had seen. “This is… more than I could have hoped for.” The servants smiled and withdrew, leaving him alone in the chamber. Alberic sat on the bed, running his hands over the soft coverings, and tried to make sense of what was happening to him. Only hours ago, he had been riding through a forest with his father’s men, bound for a war he did not understand. Now he was in a palace beneath a lake, the guest of a fairy princess, surrounded by wonders that defied all logic. It should have been terrifying. He should have been desperate to return to the world he knew, to his father and brothers, to the life of a mortal prince. But he was not. Instead, he felt a peace he had never known before, a sense of rightness, of belonging. He had always been different, he realized. At court, he had never quite fit in. The other nobles talked of hunting and feasting and the affairs of state, but Alberic had preferred to wander in the gardens, to read old books of romance and magic, to listen to the stories of the common folk. He had dreamed of adventure, yes, but not the kind of adventure that came with swords and bloodshed. He had dreamed of magic, of mystery, of love that transcended the boundaries of the mortal world. And now, somehow, impossibly, he had found it. He ate some of the food, though he was not particularly hungry, and drank a little of the wine, which tasted like starlight and made him feel light and giddy. Then he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, expecting to lie awake for hours, his mind too full of wonders to sleep. But sleep came upon him instantly, deep and dreamless, and when he woke, he felt more refreshed than he had ever felt in his life. He did not know how long he had slept. There were no windows in the chamber, no way to tell if it was day or night in the world above. The light was the same soft, silvery glow that it had been when he arrived. He rose and dressed in the garments that had been provided for him—loose robes of deep blue silk, embroidered with patterns of waves and fish in silver thread. They fit him perfectly, and he wondered how the fairy folk had known his size. As he finished dressing, there was a knock at the door, and Melisande entered. She had changed her gown. Instead of the white dress she had worn when she called him across the water, she now wore robes of pale green, like the color of spring leaves, with a girdle of emeralds around her waist. Her dark hair was unbound, falling around her shoulders like a waterfall, and she wore no crown or jewelry except a single pendant of moonstone that hung between her breasts. “You are awake,” she said, smiling. “Good. I feared you might sleep for days. The journey between worlds can be exhausting for mortals.” “How long did I sleep?” Alberic asked. “A night and a day, by the reckoning of my realm,” Melisande replied. “But do not concern yourself with time here. It moves differently in Aqualuna. What seems a day to us might be but an hour in your world, or it might be a year. The passage of time is… fluid, in the realm of the fairies.” Alberic frowned. “But my men—Sir Gauthier and the others—they will be worried. They will be searching for me.” “Let them search,” Melisande said gently. “They will not find you. The entrance to my realm is hidden from mortal eyes, except by my will. And even if they searched for a hundred years, they would not find the way.” “A hundred years…” Alberic felt a chill run through him. “But I cannot stay here forever. My father—my duty—” “Your duty is to yourself,” Melisande interrupted, her voice soft but firm. “You are young, Alberic. You have your whole life ahead of you. Why waste it in the petty wars of mortal men, fighting and dying for causes that will be forgotten in a generation? Here, you can live forever, in beauty and peace. Here, you can be happy.” She stepped closer to him, and Alberic caught the scent of her perfume—like water lilies, like rain on fresh grass, like all the sweet smells of spring combined. “But I am not of your kind,” he said. “I am mortal. I will age, while you remain young. I will die, while you live on.” “Not if you do not wish to,” Melisande said. “The magic of Aqualuna can preserve you, keep you young and strong for as long as you desire. Many mortals have chosen to dwell here, over the centuries. They have lived for hundreds of years, never aging, never sickening, surrounded by beauty and wonder.” “Hundreds of years…” Alberic repeated, awestruck. “Yes. And you could be one of them. If you wish it.” She was very close to him now, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her green eyes, close enough to feel the warmth of her body. “Why?” he asked. “Why do you offer me this? You do not know me. I am a stranger to you.” Melisande smiled, and there was something sad in her smile, something ancient and wise. “I know you better than you think, Alberic of Burgundy. I have watched you, in my scrying pool, since you were a child. I saw your dreams, your longings, your loneliness. I saw a soul that was meant for more than the world of men could offer. And I…” She paused, and for a moment, her composure seemed to falter. “I have been lonely too, Alberic. For a very long time.” “You? Lonely? But you have your people, your palace, your magic…” “I have all of those things, yes. But I do not have love. The fairy folk do not love as mortals do. Our hearts are too old, too cold. We have lived too long, seen too much. We take our pleasures where we find them, but we do not bind ourselves to one another. We do not give our hearts.” She reached out and touched his face, her fingers cool and soft against his skin. “But you, Alberic—you have a heart that is capable of great love. I saw it in you, even when you were a boy. And I thought… I hoped… that perhaps you might learn to love me.” Alberic stared at her, stunned. This beautiful, immortal being, with all her power and magic, was asking him—begging him—to love her? “I…” He struggled to find words. “I do not know what to say.” “Say nothing,” Melisande whispered. “Only stay. Give me a chance to show you my world, to win your heart. And if, in time, you find that you cannot love me, then I will release you. I will send you back to your world, with no memory of this place, and you may live out your mortal life in peace. But if you can love me…” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “If you can love me, then we can be together forever.” Alberic looked into her eyes, and he felt something shift inside him. It was not love, not yet. He had only just met her, after all. But it was something close to love—a longing, a desire, a hope that what she offered might be real. “I will stay,” he said. “For a time, at least. I will let you show me your world, and I will try to open my heart to you. But I cannot promise more than that.” Melisande’s face lit up with a smile that seemed to illuminate the entire chamber. “That is all I ask,” she said. “Thank you, Alberic. Thank you.” She took his hand, and together they walked out of the Chamber of Moonlight, into the endless wonders of the fairy realm. And so began Alberic’s sojourn in the Kingdom of Aqualuna. Chapter III: The Wonders of Aqualuna In the days that followed—though “days” is perhaps not the right word, for time in Aqualuna did not follow the patterns of the world above—Melisande showed Alberic all the marvels of her realm. She took him to the Gardens of Eternal Bloom, where flowers from every age of the earth grew side by side: roses from the gardens of ancient Babylon, lilies from the temples of Egypt, cherry blossoms from the imperial gardens of Kyoto, and flowers that had no names in any human language, blooms that had existed only in the dreams of poets and the visions of mystics. These flowers never faded, never died. They bloomed forever in an eternal spring, their petals soft as silk, their scents intoxicating. “In your world,” Melisande explained as they walked among the blossoms, “flowers are symbols of transience. They bloom, they fade, they die. But here, they are symbols of eternity. They remind us that beauty need not be fleeting, that joy need not end.” She plucked a rose of impossible blue—blue as the sky on a summer day, blue as the depths of the sea—and tucked it into Alberic’s hair. “For you,” she said. “A token of my affection. It will never wilt, never fade. As long as you wear it, you will remember this moment.” Alberic touched the rose, feeling its soft petals against his fingers. It was cool and smooth, like polished stone, and yet it was alive, pulsing with a gentle warmth. “Thank you,” he said, and he meant it. She took him to the Library of Forgotten Lore, a vast chamber filled with books that contained all the knowledge of the ages. There were books written in languages that had been dead for thousands of years, books that contained the secrets of alchemy and astrology, books that told the true history of the world—not the history written by kings and conquerors, but the secret history, the history of magic and mystery, of the hidden forces that shaped the destinies of nations. “Here,” Melisande said, pulling down a volume bound in leather that seemed to shift and change color as Alberic looked at it, “is the true story of your Hundred Years’ War. Not the story of English kings and French princes, but the story of what lies beneath—the ancient enmities, the old magic, the forces that have been struggling for control of your land since before the first stone was laid in Paris.” Alberic opened the book and found that he could read it, though the language was like nothing he had ever seen. The words seemed to enter his mind directly, bypassing his eyes, filling his head with images and knowledge. He saw the ancient Gauls, worshipping their gods in sacred groves. He saw the Romans coming, bringing their eagles and their roads, suppressing the old religions but never quite destroying them. He saw the Merovingian kings, descendants of a sea monster, ruling with the power of the old magic. He saw the Carolingians, the Capetians, the Valois—each dynasty rising and falling, each one touched by the fairy folk in ways that the historians never recorded. And he saw the current war, the war that had just begun, not as a struggle between nations, but as a struggle between forces older than nations—between the magic of the land and the magic of the sea, between the fairy folk of the forests and the fairy folk of the waters, between the ancient powers of Gaul and the newer powers that had come with the Normans and the Angevins. “The war is not what it seems,” Melisande said, her voice soft and serious. “It is not about crowns or territories. It is about the soul of France, about whether this land will remain a place of magic and mystery, or whether it will become just another province of a cold, rational empire.” “And which side is right?” Alberic asked. Melisande sighed. “Neither side is entirely right, and neither is entirely wrong. The English bring new ideas, new ways of thinking. They challenge the old order, the old superstitions. But they also bring destruction, the burning of villages, the slaughter of innocents. The French fight to preserve their land, their traditions, their way of life. But they also cling to the past, to privileges and powers that have become corrupt.” “And where do you stand?” Alberic asked. “You and your people?” “We stand apart,” Melisande said. “We have always stood apart. We are the guardians of the old magic, the keepers of the ancient ways. We do not interfere in the affairs of mortals, except when those affairs threaten the balance of the world.” “But you interfered with me,” Alberic pointed out. “You called me here.” Melisande looked at him, and her green eyes were deep with emotion. “Yes,” she admitted. “I did. And I broke our oldest law in doing so. The fairy folk are forbidden to love mortals, Alberic. It has always been so. Our love is too powerful, too consuming. It can destroy the mortal it touches, burning them up like a moth in a flame.” “Then why did you call me?” Alberic asked, feeling a chill run through him. “Because I could not help myself,” Melisande whispered. “Because I looked into my scrying pool and saw your face, and I knew that I would rather burn than live another century without you.” She turned away from him, her shoulders trembling, and Alberic felt his heart ache with a pain he had never known before. “Melisande…” He reached out and touched her shoulder, turning her to face him. “I do not understand. I am nothing—just a boy, a mortal, a prince of no great importance. Why would you risk so much for me?” “Because you are not nothing,” Melisande said, her voice fierce. “You are everything, Alberic. You are the hope I have waited centuries for. You are the love I thought I would never find.” She reached up and touched his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek. “I know it is too soon. I know you do not feel what I feel. But please, Alberic—give me time. Let me show you what we could have together. Let me teach you to love me.” Alberic looked into her eyes, and he felt something shift inside him. It was not the overwhelming passion she described, not yet. But it was something real, something powerful—a connection, a bond, a sense that their destinies were intertwined in ways he did not yet understand. “I will try,” he said. “I promise you, I will try.” Melisande smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through clouds. “That is all I ask,” she said. In the weeks that followed, Alberic settled into life in Aqualuna. He learned the customs of the fairy folk, their manners and their rituals. He learned to eat their food—fruits that tasted of memories, breads that filled you with dreams, wines that made you see visions of beauty. He learned to wear their clothes, flowing robes of silk and samite that seemed to weight nothing at all. He learned to speak their language, a tongue of music and poetry that made ordinary French sound harsh and crude by comparison. And slowly, gradually, he began to fall in love. It was not the sudden, overwhelming passion of the romances he had read, the love-at-first-sight that struck like lightning and burned like fire. It was something deeper, something more enduring. It was the love that grows from shared moments, from small kindnesses, from the gradual revelation of another soul. He loved Melisande for her beauty, yes—how could he not? She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, with her dark hair and her green eyes and her skin like moonlight on water. But he also loved her for her kindness, her wisdom, her loneliness. He loved her for the way she laughed at his jokes, for the way she listened when he spoke of his dreams and fears, for the way she held him when the weight of his mortality pressed down upon him. They spent their days exploring the wonders of Aqualuna, and their nights in each other’s arms, talking until the eternal dawn of the fairy realm crept through the crystal windows. They made love in chambers filled with moonlight, in gardens where the flowers sang soft songs, on beaches of silver sand beside the river of liquid light. And Alberic was happy. He did not think of the world above, of his father and brothers, of the war that was raging without him. He did not think of Sir Gauthier and the others, searching for him in vain. He did not think of the future, of what would happen when the enchantment finally broke. He lived in the moment, in the eternal present of the fairy realm, and he was content. But even in paradise, there are shadows. One day—Alberic did not know how many days had passed, for time in Aqualuna was fluid and strange—he woke from a dream. It was a dream of his father, standing in the great hall of the castle in Dijon, looking older than Alberic remembered, his face lined with worry. “Come home, my son,” the dream-Duke had said. “Come home, before it is too late.” Alberic woke with a start, his heart pounding, and found Melisande sitting beside him, her face pale and troubled. “You dreamed,” she said. It was not a question. “Yes,” Alberic admitted. “I dreamed of my father.” Melisande looked away, and Alberic saw that her hands were trembling. “What is it?” he asked. “What is wrong?” “It is beginning,” Melisande said softly. “The call of the mortal world. It grows stronger every day. Soon, it will be impossible to ignore.” “I do not understand.” Melisande turned back to him, and her green eyes were bright with tears. “You are mortal, Alberic. No matter how much magic surrounds you, no matter how much you wish to stay, you are still a creature of the world above. Your soul is bound to that world, to the cycle of birth and death, of growth and decay. You cannot remain here forever, no matter how much we both wish it.” “But you said—” Alberic began. “I said that the magic of Aqualuna could preserve you,” Melisande interrupted. “And it can, for a time. But not forever. Eventually, the call of your world will become too strong. Eventually, you will have to choose—stay here and fade away, becoming nothing more than a shadow, a memory, or return to your world and live out your mortal span.” “How long?” Alberic asked, his voice barely a whisper. “How long do I have?” Melisande was silent for a long moment. Then she said, “A year, perhaps two. No more.” “A year,” Alberic repeated. “In this world, or in mine?” “In this world,” Melisande said. “But in your world… it would be less than a day.” Alberic stared at her, stunned. “A day? But you said—when I first came, you said that time moved differently here. You said a day here might be a year in my world.” “I said that time is fluid in the realm of the fairies,” Melisande corrected gently. “It moves as we will it to move. When you first arrived, I slowed the passage of time, so that your men would not worry, so that you would have a chance to know me before you had to choose. But I cannot maintain that enchantment forever. Already, it is beginning to fail.” “And when it fails completely?” Alberic asked. “Then time will resume its normal flow,” Melisande said. “A day here will become a day in your world. And if you stay here for a year, a year will pass in France.” Alberic felt a chill run through him. “And if I stay longer? If I stay until… until I fade?” Melisande looked away again, and when she spoke, her voice was barely audible. “If you stay until your mortal soul can no longer sustain itself, then you will die, Alberic. Your body will dissolve into mist, into moonlight, and you will become part of Aqualuna forever. But you will not be you. You will not remember me, or yourself, or anything of your mortal life. You will be… nothing. A whisper in the wind. A ripple on the water.” “And if I go back?” Alberic asked. “If I return to my world?” “Then you will live,” Melisande said. “You will grow old, as mortals do. You will die, as mortals do. But you will have lived. You will have had a life, children perhaps, a legacy that will outlast you. And I…” Her voice broke. “I will remain here, alone, remembering what we had, what we could have had, until the end of time.” Alberic reached out and took her hand. It was cold, so cold. “I do not want to leave you,” he said. “I love you, Melisande. I know that now. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone or anything.” “I know,” Melisande whispered. “And I love you. More than you can possibly imagine. But love is not always enough, Alberic. Sometimes, love means letting go.” “No,” Alberic said fiercely. “I will not let go. I will stay here, with you. I will find a way to make it work. There must be magic, some spell or enchantment, that can bind me to this world permanently.” “There is no such magic,” Melisande said sadly. “The laws that govern the worlds cannot be broken, not even by the fairy folk. You are mortal, Alberic. You were born to die. And I… I am immortal. I was born to watch those I love wither and fade, century after century, forever.” She pulled her hand from his and stood up, walking to the window that looked out over the underwater city. “I should never have called you here,” she said, her back to him. “I knew it was wrong. I knew it would end in sorrow. But I was selfish, Alberic. I wanted to know love, just once, before the endless years consumed me entirely.” “Do not say that,” Alberic said, rising and going to her. He put his arms around her, feeling her tremble against him. “I am glad you called me. However this ends, I am glad. These days we have had together—they are the happiest of my life. I would not trade them for anything.” “But they must end,” Melisande said, turning to face him. “Sooner or later, they must end. And the longer we delay, the harder it will be.” “Then let us not delay,” Alberic said. “Let us make the most of the time we have. Let us fill every moment with joy, with love, with wonder. And when the time comes… when we must part… we will part with no regrets.” Melisande looked up at him, and her eyes were filled with a mixture of love and sorrow. “You are wise beyond your years, Prince Alberic of Burgundy,” she said. “Wiser than many who have lived for centuries.” “I have had a good teacher,” Alberic replied, smiling. Melisande returned his smile, though there were tears on her cheeks. “Then let us begin,” she said. “Let us fill the time we have with all the love and beauty we can create. And when the end comes… we will face it together.” She kissed him then, and in that kiss was all the passion of their brief time together, all the joy and sorrow of love that knows it must end. And Alberic kissed her back, holding her as if he could hold back time itself, knowing even as he did that time was slipping through his fingers like water, like mist, like dreams upon waking. But he did not let go. Not yet. Not while there was still time to love. Chapter IV: The Parting of the Ways The seasons turned, or what passed for seasons in the eternal twilight of Aqualuna. Alberic and Melisande filled their days with love and laughter, with exploration and discovery, with all the pleasures that the fairy realm could offer. They traveled to the far corners of Melisande’s kingdom, to places that no mortal had ever seen. They visited the Caverns of Singing Stone, where the rocks themselves hummed with music that told the history of the earth. They sailed on the River of Stars, which flowed through the heart of Aqualuna, its waters filled with the reflected light of a thousand distant suns. They danced in the Hall of Eternal Twilight, where the fairy folk gathered for their great festivals, their movements graceful and strange, their songs in languages older than human speech. And through it all, they loved each other with a passion that seemed to transcend the boundaries between mortal and immortal, between the world of men and the world of magic. But even as they loved, the shadow grew. Alberic began to notice changes in himself. He tired more easily than he had when he first arrived. His appetite diminished, and he found himself craving the simple foods of his childhood—bread and cheese, roast meat, apples fresh from the orchard. He began to dream more frequently of the world above, of his father and brothers, of the castle where he had grown up. And sometimes, in the quiet hours of the eternal fairy night, he would wake with a strange ache in his chest, a longing for something he could not name. Melisande noticed these changes too, and she grew more solemn, more withdrawn. She spent long hours in her private chambers, consulting her scrying pool, seeking answers that she would not share with Alberic. And when she emerged, her eyes were always sad, always distant. “What do you see?” Alberic asked her one day, after she had spent an entire night in communion with her magic. “I see the future,” Melisande replied, her voice hollow. “I see what must be.” “And what is that?” Alberic pressed. Melisande turned to him, and her green eyes were filled with a sorrow so deep that it seemed to have no bottom. “I see you leaving me,” she said. “I see you returning to your world. And I see… I see what awaits you there.” “What awaits me?” Alberic asked, feeling a chill run through him. But Melisande shook her head. “I cannot tell you. The future is not fixed, Alberic. It changes with every choice we make. If I tell you what I have seen, you might try to change it, and in trying, you might make things worse.” “Worse than leaving you?” Alberic asked. “How could anything be worse than that?” Melisande did not answer. She only held him, tightly, as if she could hold back the future itself. The end came on a day that seemed like any other. Alberic woke with a start, his heart pounding, his body drenched in sweat. He had dreamed again, but this dream was different from the others. It was not of his father, or his home, or the life he had left behind. It was of war—of smoke and fire, of swords clashing and men screaming, of a land torn apart by conflict and suffering. And in the dream, he had seen a figure. A young woman, dressed in armor, carrying a banner. She was leading an army, her voice ringing out across the battlefield, calling the French to victory. And though he could not see her face, he knew—he knew with a certainty that transcended reason—that she was Melisande. “You dreamed of her,” Melisande said, and Alberic turned to find her sitting beside him, her face pale and drawn. “Who?” Alberic asked, though he already knew the answer. “The Maid,” Melisande said. “The one who is to come. The savior of France.” “I do not understand.” Melisande sighed, and when she spoke, her voice was heavy with the weight of centuries. “The time has come, Alberic. The enchantment that has held you here is failing. Soon—very soon—you will have to return to your world. And when you do, you will find that much has changed.” “How much?” Alberic asked, fear rising in his throat. Melisande looked at him, and her eyes were ancient, timeless. “Nearly a century has passed in your world, Alberic. The year is now fourteen hundred and twenty-nine. The Hundred Years’ War still rages, but it is nearing its end. And France… France is on the brink of salvation.” “A century?” Alberic whispered, stunned. “But that is impossible. I have been here only…” “A year and a half, by the reckoning of Aqualuna,” Melisande finished. “But time moves differently between our worlds. You know this. I warned you from the beginning.” “A century,” Alberic repeated, his mind reeling. “Everyone I knew—my father, my brothers, Sir Gauthier—they are all dead.” “Yes,” Melisande said softly. “They are gone. The world you knew is gone. In its place is a new world, a world of war and suffering, but also a world of hope. The Maid is coming, Alberic. She will save France, drive out the English, restore the rightful king to his throne. And she needs you.” “Needs me?” Alberic laughed, a bitter sound. “What can I do? I am nothing—a boy who disappeared a century ago, a prince of a line that is probably extinct. What use am I to anyone?” “You are more than you know,” Melisande said. “You have dwelt in the realm of the fairies. You have drunk our wine, eaten our food, breathed our air. Some of our magic has entered you, Alberic. You are not the boy who wandered into the forest that spring day. You are something more.” “What, then?” Alberic demanded. “What am I?” “You are a bridge,” Melisande said. “A bridge between the world of men and the world of magic. The Maid will need such a bridge. She will need someone who understands the old ways, who can see the forces that move beneath the surface of events. She will need you, Alberic.” “But I do not want to go,” Alberic said, his voice breaking. “I want to stay here, with you. I love you, Melisande. I cannot live without you.” “You can,” Melisande said, and now there were tears streaming down her face. “You must. Your destiny lies in the world above, Alberic. Not here, in this shadow-realm. You have a part to play in the great drama of your age. You cannot hide from it forever.” “And what about you?” Alberic asked. “What will happen to you?” Melisande smiled, and it was the saddest smile Alberic had ever seen. “I will go where I am needed,” she said. “I have a destiny too, my love. I have a people to save, a nation to restore. The magic of France is dying, Alberic. The old ways are being forgotten, the old powers fading. Someone must remind the people of who they are, of what they can be. Someone must be the symbol of hope, of faith, of divine purpose.” “The Maid,” Alberic whispered. “You are the Maid.” Melisande did not answer directly. She only said, “When you return to your world, you will hear of a young woman named Jeanne. Jeanne d’Arc. She will come from Domrémy, in the region of Lorraine. She will claim to have heard the voices of saints, to have been sent by God to save France. And she will do it, Alberic. She will do what no army, no general, no king has been able to do. She will turn the tide of the war.” “And you?” Alberic asked again. “Where will you be?” Melisande reached out and touched his face, her fingers cool and soft. “I will be where I am needed,” she repeated. “And so will you.” She leaned forward and kissed him, and in that kiss was all the love they had shared, all the joy and sorrow of their time together, all the hope and despair of their parting. “I will find you,” Alberic said when the kiss ended. “However long it takes, however far I must go. I will find you again.” “Perhaps,” Melisande said. “Or perhaps not. The future is uncertain, my love. All we can do is play our parts and hope that fate is kind.” She stood up and held out her hand. “Come,” she said. “It is time. The way back to your world is open. I will guide you as far as I can, and then… then you must go on alone.” Alberic took her hand, and together they walked through the crystal halls of the Palace of Aqualuna for the last time. They passed through the Gardens of Eternal Bloom, where the flowers seemed to bow their heads in sorrow. They crossed the River of Stars, its waters dimmer than Alberic remembered. And at last they came to the staircase of crystal, spiraling upward toward the world of men. “This is where I must leave you,” Melisande said. “The path beyond is yours alone to walk.” “Melisande…” Alberic began, but she placed a finger on his lips. “Do not say goodbye,” she whispered. “It is not goodbye. It is… until we meet again.” She reached into her hair and pulled out a single strand, weaving it into a ring. She placed the ring on Alberic’s finger, and it settled there, glowing with a soft, silver light. “This will protect you,” she said. “It will guide you when you are lost, comfort you when you are afraid. And someday, perhaps, it will lead you back to me.” Alberic looked at the ring, then at Melisande. He wanted to say so many things—to tell her how much he loved her, how much he would miss her, how empty his life would be without her. But the words would not come. They were too small, too inadequate for what he felt. So he only kissed her, one last time, and then turned and began to climb the crystal staircase. He did not look back. He could not. If he looked back, he knew he would never be able to leave. Behind him, he heard Melisande’s voice, soft and sad, singing a song in the fairy tongue. It was a song of parting, of love that transcends time and space, of hope that endures even in the darkest night. And then the song faded, and Alberic was alone, climbing toward the light, toward the world he had left behind, toward a destiny he did not understand. He climbed for what seemed like hours, though time had little meaning on the staircase between worlds. The light grew brighter, the air warmer. He began to hear sounds—birds singing, wind in the trees, the distant murmur of voices. And then he emerged, blinking, into the world of men. He was standing on the shore of a lake, but it was not the same lake he had left. The water was darker, murkier, covered with algae and reeds. The trees around him were ancient, their trunks thick with moss, their branches gnarled and twisted. The clearing was overgrown, choked with brambles and weeds. And the pavilion was gone. There was no sign of it, no trace of the fairy realm he had left behind. Only the lake remained, silent and still, its surface reflecting a sky that was the color of old pewter. Alberic stood on the shore, the fairy ring glowing on his finger, and felt the weight of a century settle upon his shoulders. He was alone. Truly alone. In a world that had moved on without him, that had forgotten him, that had no place for him. But he was not afraid. The ring on his finger pulsed with warmth, and in its light, he seemed to hear Melisande’s voice, soft and distant. “Find her,” the voice whispered. “Find the Maid. She needs you. France needs you.” Alberic took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and began to walk. He did not know where he was going. He did not know what he would find. But he knew that his story was not over. It was only beginning. Part Two: The Return Chapter V: A World Transformed Alberic walked for three days through the Forest of Fontainebleau, and by the time he emerged, he knew that everything Melisande had told him was true. The forest was different. The paths he remembered were gone, overgrown or washed away by time. The landmarks he had known—the ancient oak, the standing stone, the hermit’s hut—had vanished, replaced by new growth, new formations, new dwellings. The forest was older, wilder, more untamed than it had been in his time. And when he finally found a road, and followed it to a village, the truth became even clearer. The village was called Moret-sur-Loing, and it was a place Alberic had never heard of. The people spoke a dialect of French that was strange to his ears, full of words he did not recognize, pronunciations that had shifted over the decades. They looked at him strangely, this young man in outlandish clothes—his fairy robes had transformed into rough woolen garments as he walked, though the ring on his finger remained—speaking an antique tongue, asking questions about places and people that no one remembered. “Burgundy?” the innkeeper said when Alberic asked about his homeland. “The Duchy of Burgundy still stands, if that’s what you mean. But it is much diminished from what it once was. The last Duke, Philip the Good, he is a powerful man, but his power comes from his alliance with the English, not from his own strength.” “Philip the Good?” Alberic repeated, confused. “But my father was Philip the Bold.” The innkeeper laughed, a rough sound. “Philip the Bold? That was four Dukes ago, lad. Philip the Bold, John the Fearless, Philip the Good—though why they call him ‘Good’ when he burns villages and sacks towns, I’ll never know.” “Four Dukes,” Alberic whispered, the reality of his situation crashing down upon him. “How long? How long since Philip the Bold ruled?” The innkeeper scratched his head. “Let me see… Philip the Bold died in, what, fourteen hundred and four? Something like that. It’s been twenty-five years since the last of that line passed.” “Fourteen hundred and four,” Alberic repeated. “And what year is it now?” “Fourteen hundred and twenty-nine,” the innkeeper said. “Though what month it is, I couldn’t tell you. Time blurs together in these dark days.” Fourteen hundred and twenty-nine. Nearly seventy years since Alberic had ridden into the forest with Sir Gauthier. Seventy years, and the world had changed beyond recognition. “What of the war?” Alberic asked. “The war with England?” The innkeeper’s face darkened. “Still raging. Though there are rumors… whispers of a miracle. They say a Maid has appeared in the east, a young woman who claims to have been sent by God to save France. They say she has already raised the siege of Orléans, driven the English from the field. They say she will lead the Dauphin to his coronation at Reims.” “The Maid,” Alberic breathed. “Jeanne d’Arc.” “You know of her?” the innkeeper asked, surprised. “I have… heard tales,” Alberic said carefully. “Where is she now?” “Last I heard, she was marching on Paris,” the innkeeper said. “But that was weeks ago. Who knows where she is now? The news travels slowly in these troubled times.” Alberic thanked the man and left the inn, his mind racing. Melisande had been right. The Maid had come, just as she had foretold. And Alberic knew, with a certainty that transcended reason, that the Maid was Melisande—or at least, that Melisande was somehow connected to her. He had to find her. He had to see her again, even if only from a distance. He had to know if the woman who was saving France was the same woman who had loved him in the crystal palace beneath the lake. But first, he had to survive in this strange new world. Over the following weeks, Alberic made his way across France, traveling from village to village, town to town, learning what he could of the new world he found himself in. It was a world at war, a world of suffering and fear. The Hundred Years’ War had raged for nearly a century, and the land was exhausted. Villages lay in ruins, fields untended, populations decimated by plague and famine and the constant depredations of armies. The English held large swathes of northern France, and their soldiers roamed the countryside, taking what they wanted, burning what they could not carry. But there was hope too. The people spoke of the Maid with something like reverence, a belief that she had been sent by God to deliver them from their suffering. They told stories of her victories—how she had raised the siege of Orléans against impossible odds, how she had defeated the English at Patay, how she had led the Dauphin to his coronation at Reims, crowning him Charles VII, rightful King of France. “She is a miracle,” an old woman told Alberic as he sat by her fire one night, sharing her meager supper. “A true miracle sent by God. She hears voices, they say. The voices of saints—Michael, Catherine, Margaret. They tell her what to do, where to go, how to fight. And she obeys, without question, without fear.” “Have you seen her?” Alberic asked. The old woman shook her head. “I am too poor, too insignificant. But my nephew, he saw her once, at Orléans. He said she was like no one he had ever seen—small, slight, with short hair like a boy’s. But her eyes… he said her eyes were like nothing human. They glowed, he said, with a light that came from somewhere else.” Alberic felt a chill run through him. “What color were they?” he asked. “Her eyes?” The old woman thought for a moment. “Green, he said. Green as the forest in spring. Green as…” She paused, searching for words. “Green as the depths of a lake.” Alberic closed his own eyes, remembering. Green as the depths of a lake. It was her. It had to be her. “Where is she now?” he asked. “Do you know?” The old woman shook her head. “The last I heard, she was at Compiègne. But that was some time ago. The English are closing in, they say. They want her captured, dead or alive. They call her a witch, a heretic. They say she is in league with the devil.” “She is not,” Alberic said fiercely. “She is… she is something else. Something more.” The old woman looked at him strangely. “You speak as if you know her.” “I… I have heard tales of her,” Alberic said, careful to keep his voice neutral. “Tales from… from my childhood.” The old woman accepted this, though her eyes remained suspicious. “Well, if you seek her, you should go north. To Compiègne, or beyond. But be careful, young man. The war is not kind to those who wander without purpose.” “I have a purpose,” Alberic said, touching the fairy ring on his finger. It pulsed warmly, as if in agreement. “I have a very specific purpose.” He reached Compiègne two weeks later, only to find that he was too late. The Maid had been there, yes. She had fought a battle against the Burgundians—Alberic’s own people, or what remained of them—who were allied with the English. She had been captured, betrayed by the very town she had tried to save. The Burgundians had sold her to the English, and she was now a prisoner, held somewhere in Normandy, awaiting trial for heresy and witchcraft. Alberic stood in the market square of Compiègne, listening to the rumors, the whispers, the speculation, and felt his heart sink. He had come so far, searched so hard, and now she was gone, taken from him before he could even see her face. “Where?” he asked anyone who would listen. “Where have they taken her?” “Rouen,” a merchant told him. “To the fortress there. The English intend to try her, to discredit her, to prove that she is not a saint but a witch. They hope to break the spirit of the French, to show that their ‘Maid’ was nothing but a fraud.” “When?” Alberic demanded. “When is the trial?” “It has already begun,” the merchant said. “It has been going on for months. They say she is stubborn, defiant. She will not recant, will not admit to heresy. They say she will burn.” “Burn,” Alberic repeated, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “It is the punishme