“I am Chevalier Roel, and my companion is Celeste de la Foret de Printemps. Our business is to seek lodging for the night.”
“And have you a smith or an armorer?” asked Celeste.
The ward of the gate canted his head in assent. “Oui, demoiselle, Monsieur Galdon; he is a fine smith as well as a gifted armorer.”
“And where might we find Monsieur Galdon?”
“We would see your mayor, too,” added Roel.
“You have a need to see our mayor?”
“Oui,” replied Roel. “We might have some welcome news.”
“Welcome news?”
Gesturing at the palisade and the ballistas above, Roel said, “I note you are well defended. Is it perchance to ward off a giant Ogre?”
The man nodded. “Oui.”
“More than one?”
“Non, Chevalier Roel. Just one.”
“Would his name be Lokar?”
Alarm filled the man’s face, and he looked over the fields in the direction of the unseen woodland. “Oui, that is his name. He shouted it often when he came to our walls.”
“Stay calm, Sieur,” said Roel. “You have nought to fear.” He gestured at Celeste and added, “For my companion slew Lokar three days past.” A look of disbelief filled the guard’s features. “Non.
That cannot be. A mere demoiselle slay such a monster?
Non. You are making a mockery of me.”
“I swear on my honor as a chevalier it is true,” said Roel, “and that is why we would see your mayor.” Celeste growled, “And this ‘mere demoiselle’ would also see your armorer.”
The guardsman called his captain, and Roel repeated to him that Lokar had been slain by Celeste. The captain shook his head in disbelief; nevertheless he escorted the two to the town hall. Mayor Breton of Le Bastion was a tall yet portly man, bald-headed but for a ruddy fringe of hair running ’round the back of his head from one ear to the other. He invited them into his humble chamber, and there Roel introduced Celeste as la Princesse de la Foret de Printemps.
A gleam of skepticism shone in the mayor’s eye; even so he bowed to Celeste and treated her with deference.
When they were seated, Celeste told of her capture by Lokar, and her subsequent slaying of him.
Making noncommittal comments throughout the telling, the mayor clearly did not believe her. And when she was finished, Breton said, “Your tale is very interesting, Princess, and you describe him well, but perhaps you slew someone else, for Lokar is a giant of an Ogre.” Celeste sighed in exasperation, and before Roel could reassure the mayor, Breton said, “Tell me, what brings you two to my ville?”
Stifling his own frustration, Roel said, “We are on our way to rescue my sister and my two brothers.” The mayor frowned as if searching for an elusive memory. “And where might they be?”
“In the Changeling realm,” replied Roel.
“The Changeling realm? I warn you, Chevalier Roel, no one ever returns from- Wait! Wait! Now I remember. You are the third knight to come through my town seeking the land of the Changelings.”
“Laurent nearly seven years past? Blaise nearly four years agone?”
“Oui, those were their names.”
“Hai!” exclaimed Roel, clenching his fist in joy. “They are my brothers, and they went seeking my sister, Avelaine, stolen by the Lord of the Changelings himself.” Breton looked closely at Roel. “I see the resemblance now, for you do favor them. Ah, me, but they were brave, these brothers of yours, for each in turn helped repel Lokar from our very walls. And each promised to make an end to him upon returning from the Changeling realm. But, alas, they did not heed my warning, and I fear both are lost.”
Now the mayor looked at Celeste and then back to Roel. “And you say you slew Lokar?”
“Not I,” said Roel, “but Celeste instead. Mayor Breton, what we tell you is true. As I said to your gate wards, I swear it on my honor as a chevalier.” With wonder in his gaze Breton turned to Celeste.
“Princess, you must forgive me, but I found it altogether preposterous to believe that a mere slip of a fille had succeeded in slaying Lokar. Such is quite improbable.”
“I thought so, too,” said Celeste. “Nonetheless, I did so.” Tears suddenly welled in Breton’s eyes. “With Lokar dead, I can lead my people back to our lands.”
“Back to your lands? Is not this ville your home?”
“Non. We fled from Lokar. Starwise is where we belong. On the other side of the forest.”
“Did you have a manor there?”
“Oui. But Lokar came on a night of celebration, and only a few of us escaped his dreadful grasp. Some days after, I alerted the countryside. We fled through the forest and settled here. But seasons later Lokar found us, and he raided our farms and slew many, and took the corpses back with him. To prevent such a calamity in the future, we built this fortress and called it Le Bastion.”
“That must have been some years ago,” said Roel.
“Seasons upon seasons past,” said Breton. Then he looked at the chevalier. “You are from the mortal lands?”
“Oui,” replied Roel. “But how did you know?”
“Your use of the term ‘years.’ ”
“Ah, I see.”
“Mayor,” said Celeste, “your manor remembers that night still.”
Again tears welled in Breton’s eyes, and he said, “As do I, for my own daughter was slain by that monster. It was her betrothal we were celebrating.” Of a sudden Celeste gasped, and said, “Did she have hair the color of yours?”
Breton touched his fringe of red. “Oui.” Celeste reached into her pocket and withdrew the silver locket she had all but forgotten, and handed it across the desk to the mayor, saying, “Perhaps this is rightfully yours.”
Breton’s eyes widened in recognition, and he took it up and opened the leaves and burst into tears. After long moments he said, “My Melisande and her Chanler.” He clasped the locket to his breast. “Princess, where did you find this?”
“In Lokar’s cavern. He had it in a chest along with other possessions of those he had slain.” Breton looked again at the portraits. “I gave this to her on the eve of her betrothal. Oh, Melisande, Melisande.” Once more he clutched the keepsake to his breast.
Again long moments passed, as tears slid down Breton’s face. Finally, he closed the leaves and placed the pendant on the desk and said, “Merci, Princess. Merci.” Celeste canted her head in silent acceptance.
Breton then pulled a kerchief from his sleeve and blew his nose. Then he called out, “Sauville!” and when the door opened and a small man appeared, Breton said, “Tell the town criers that Lokar is dead, slain by Princess Celeste de la Foret de Printemps.”
“M’sieur?” His eyes flew wide and he looked at Celeste.
“Oui, she is the one,” snapped Breton, and he snatched up the locket by its broken chain and held it up and said, “I have here the proof. Now go, Sauville, go!” The small man rushed from the office, and for moments quietness reigned, though shouts from the street began breaking the silence. Finally, after one more look at the portraits, the mayor slipped the keepsake into his pocket. “Princess, my captain said you wish to see our armorer. Was your long-knife damaged when you slew Lokar? If so, we will gladly replace it.”
“Non. My long-knife is quite satisfactory. Instead, I would have Monsieur Galdon blunt half my arrows.” Breton glanced at Roel and then back to Celeste.
“Blunt half your arrows? Whatever for?” Celeste shrugged. “Whatever for? That, Monsieur Breton, I do not know.”
The news of Lokar’s death hurtled throughout Le Bastion. Impromptu celebrations erupted. An innkeeper offered Roel and Celeste his very best rooms, but the mayor would have none of that, and instead put them up in his own modest residence. Armorer Galdon was fetched, and shaking his head, he took away half of Celeste’s arrows to refit them with blunt ends.