Out in dismal, dank fog and teasing, drizzling rain, outside the western palace gate, the Royal Guard stood armed and ready.  They faced the fog that blanketed the wide, carriage and wagon-rutted path that made the King’s Highway.  Beneath their oilskin rain capes, gleaming breastplates, and water-logged plumed helms, everyone sweated beneath crimson uniforms despite the tingling, cold air.  They were still, silent, straining to listen for any sound that betrayed the approach of an enemy.  Even the officers’ horses were as statues, ears pricked forward, nostrils flaring to catch the first whiff of danger.

    Then somebody sneezed, a wave of second-hand embarrassment and annoyance silently pervading.

    Mounted beside Captain Fontaine, Lieutenant LaNotre resisted the urge to check his pocket watch.  He was not a superstitious man.  However, were there no unseasoned lads in the rows nearby, he would have satisfied his habit of touching the old timepiece.  The boys needed their officers to be confident so they could be too.  After all the strange, ethereal horrors witnessed the past two years, their uneasiness could not be faulted.

    Aware of the necessity for a stalwart example, LaNotre kept his shoulders back, spine straight and tall in the saddle despite the air’s damp chill that lanced to the bone.  The rain had already turned the exposed parts of his auburn hair a wet, dull brown, reddened his thin nose, and paled his suntanned face to a nearly-fashionable, noble white.  Tired and cold and as ready for sunshine as the rest of them, there was only one priority that mattered: protecting the Dauphin and the Regent.

    Battalions posted at each palace gate had been standing in a rotating, continuous guard for three days.  It was now the 15th of Thermatilis, 1783, a day that usually was sunny and bright in the Kingdom of Duna’Liet. Although summer storms were not uncommon, LaNotre had been tasked to settle the men on more than one occasion.  Too many presumed the poor weather to be an ill omen.  Some had whispered that the legendary Corps d’Noir had lost against Kilhaven’s private army of witches.  Even Captain Fontaine’s currently bleak expression bespoke a lack of faith in Corps d’Noir coming back triumphant against the traitors driven down to Velmendois Province.

    As water beaded and ran down along his helmet’s chin strap, icing the jugular, LaNotre understood exactly why they all shared that trepidation.

    Word had quietly come down that Corps d’Noir’s messengers had not shown up to their expected rendezvous.  Twice.  Which was why the Royal Guard endured being posted outside the gates in the middle of a summer storm, expecting to be the last line of defense against Kilhaven’s devilry.

    It was an utterly ridiculous notion, in LaNotre’s book.

    Who wasn’t impressed with the skillfullness of Duke Edouard Montmercy as a swordsman?  Or felt confident in his leadership over Duna’Liet’s most exceptional warriors?  From what distant moments LaNotre had the privilege of witnessing of the Contra’Vagus during the campaign against the coup, the young nobleman deserved the accolades he received.  All the thoughtful anticipation of enemy moves, the tightly-timed maneuvers that safeguarded soldiers yet foiled the opposition!  No offense meant to his own superior officer, Captain Fontaine, but Lieutenant LaNotre just felt it was wrong to give in to doubt and despair.

    On the other hand, Captain Fontaine warned him that displays of optimism were not always a welcome virtue either.

    LaNotre’s muscles instinctually tightened.  So did everyone else’s.