Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dragon lounged on the battlements, lazily observing Jane practising her jousting. The midday sun was high, beating down on the kingdom of Kippernia. Jane had yanked off her helmet to wipe her brow, her face redder than her hair, streaked with sweat and dust. The summer sun had burnished her cheeks with freckles. She trotted Cleaver towards the beginning of the tilt barrier, a rope along the middle of the courtyard for Jane to line up her strike against the jousting target. Her lance upright before she took up her position again, helmet tucked under the other arm, she steered her horse with her knees. 

Dragon shut his eyes against the glare of the sun on her armour, and would have fallen asleep hours ago if it weren’t for all the noise she was making. Back at the beginning of the tilt barrier, she guided Cleaver into position to approach the quintain. A bag of sand was suspended from the other side of the frame that swung round with the force of Jane’s blow. Her first few attempts had seen Jane dismounted by the sandbag every time, but now she rode deftly - or so Sir Theodore had said earlier, observing from his balcony above the courtyard. The high midday heat had driven the old Knight back into the shade of his rooms, but Jane had yet to take a break. The tournament was in three days, and each of the squires from the surrounding kingdoms were keen to show off their skills.

Jane donned her helmet and set off towards the quintain at a gallop, lowering her lance; it smacked against the shield with a crack, and the lance shattered. The sandback swung around viciously, dismounting her, and she landed on the ground with a metallic thud. Cleaver trotted free of the destruction. Dragon looked up apprehensively. The first few times she’d fallen, he’d flown down to help, and been lightly told off by Jane for spooking the horse. Now Dragon simply called her name, and if she responded, he went back to sleep. Or, as close to sleep as he could get before her next round.

“Jane?”

“I’m fine, Dragon,” she grumbled, through gritted teeth. She pushed herself out of the dirt, tossing her helmet aside. “Oh, maggots. I had it last time!”

“But not the time before that. Or…before that.”

“I had it every time I practised this morning!”

“But not this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Dragon.” She stood and snatched her helmet off the ground, but left the broken lance in the dirt.

“Jane, you must stop for a while.” 

They turned towards the high-pitched, imploring voice of Pepper, the castle cook. She was a stout young woman with bright eyes, a pale face, and jet-black hair that hung in a thick ponytail down her back. Today she wore forget-me-nots in her hair, a gift from her sweetheart, the gardener Rake. Pepper smiled brightly, offering Jane a plate of bread and cheese and a mug of small beer. “You must be tired.” 

Jane jogged across the yard towards her. The bread and cheese were gone in moments, but she took only a swig of the beer before turning back towards the quintain. 

“Thank you Pepper, but I must keep practising.”

“Actually, I think Cleaver needs a rest.” 

Jethro Junior, or 'Smithy' as everyone called the blacksmith, stepped out from the shade of his forge across the courtyard, where he’d been hammering out dents in the shield Jane had all but destroyed the day before. He stood between Jane and Cleaver. “And so do you. This heat will do you no good, Jane.” 

“Jane?”

Jane groaned, and turned towards the sound of her mother’s voice. Lady Adeline Turnkey was lady-in-waiting to the Queen; as a sign of respect, Pepper and Smithy dipped their heads at her approach and retreated to their own work, to give them space to talk.

Jane sighed. “Yes, mother?”

“Goodness, look at you,” she said, lip curling in poorly concealed distaste. “Dirty. Sweaty. And, well, rather…unfragrant. It’s all rather unbecoming of a Lady.”

“But rather becoming of a Knight,” Dragon interjected cheerfully.

Adeline continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “And to think…you’ll be looking like this in front of all of the nobles of Ironhold, Fairhaven, and Maltthorpe?”

Jane rolled her eyes. It was all her mother had spoken to her about in the approach to the tournament; what the other kingdoms attending would think of her appearance.

“Looking like a Knight, you mean?” Dragon called out again.

Jane couldn’t stifle her smile, so she dipped her head. “You’re right, mother. Over five years of training to be a knight, and I think I’d like to give it all up before my first tourney! Tell me more about the dress you’d have me wear? Who is on my dance card? How should I style my hair?” Jane laughed. “Any prospective suitors for me to meet? I should so love to be the one giving the Knights my favour, and not the one receiving it.”

Dragon burst out laughing, joining Jane in a chorus of cackles and snorts, but Adeline pursed her lips. 

“It wouldn’t hurt for you to consider some of these things, Jane.” She righted herself, smoothing nonexistant wrinkles in her skirt. “But I will leave you to it. However, I do recommend you have a bath - even Knights need not smell like that.”

And she swept haughtily from the courtyard, leaving Jane to shrug to Dragon, before turning on her heel to check on Cleaver. 

Dragon settled down again to sleep, but his attention was interrupted by Gunther on the other side of the wall, staggering up the hill towards the castle, struggling beneath the weight of an enormous wooden crate of his father's wares. Like Jane, he was a squire; his father the merchant paid for his training, though he still expected Gunther to assist the family business.

The high heat and the higher climb to the castle meant Gunther’s slick black hair was plastered to his face.

Dragon tilted his head as he watched Gunther struggle. "What's all that?"

Gunther dropped the crate heavily, panting. "Deliveries... for the castle." He leant against it.

Dragon snorted. "You're playing Delivery Boy? Why aren't you training?” Dragon looked back across the wall to the pieces of shattered lance Smithy and Jane were now collecting from the courtyard. “Jane's been practising for the tournament non-stop all week!"

Gunther rolled his eyes, and returned his attention to the crate, sunk deep into the dust of the carriageway. "You could always help," he grunted, lifting one end. "My father needs these delivered for the tourney."

Dragon swept down beside Gunther and lifted the crate easily from his arms, turning it over in his claws thoughtfully. "Must you always do what the merchant says?"

"He's my father."

"Well, that's no reason. Jane never does what her father says. Or her mother, for that matter." He shook the crate, oblivious to Gunther's pained expression as the wares inside rattled noisily. "Especially her mother. And your father's a-"

"I have quite a different relationship with my father than Jane does with her parents," Gunther interrupted.

"All shortlife parents look after their young." Dragon craned his neck up to look across to the castle gardens accusingly, where Princess Lavinia was practising handing out favours to knights with the court jester, forcing Ivon to kneel on his hands and knees between them, as the jester's horse. Prince Cuthbert sat in the shade of a manicured tree, chortling to himself, eating cakes no doubt stolen from the kitchen. The King and Queen looked on, politely hiding their own laughter. "In some cases, a little too well," Dragon added under his breath.

"Not all of them," Gunther said quietly. "If you're not going to take the crate, I-"

Dragon narrowed his eyes. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

"It means," Gunther sighed, "I need to deliver these to the castle. As soon as possible."

"Or what?" 

"Or they will not be delivered in time."

"And then what?"

"What do you think, Dragon?" Gunther snapped. Dragon paused, then set down the crate carefully. He sat beside Gunther. If dragons had cogs instead of brains, they'd be turning over noisily as Dragon considered what Gunther had said.

Gunther clenched his fists and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Dragon. I just need these delivered, now. It's really quite important." 

"No, it's...okay," Dragon said thoughtfully. "I'll help you with the rest, if you like."

Dragon delivered the remaining crates; varying in size, weight, and awkwardness to carry, it would have taken Gunther until nightfall.

“Why not use a pony and cart?” Dragon asked. 

“All of the ponies - and all of the carts - are taking my father’s Company to greet and escort the nobles to the castle.”

“For the tournament?”

“For the tournament.”

“Your father couldn’t spare you even one?”

Dragon did not get a reply to that; instead, Gunther excused himself and thanked Dragon most profusely for his assistance, sprinting to the courtyard to try his own hand at jousting.

Chapter Text

The high heat of the day finally melted into a warm still evening, and the shadows grew longer, the sun straddling the horizon. The shutters to Jane’s tower bedroom were open. She had eaten lunch with Smithy, Pepper, and Rake, and commenced some more training before she had bathed and dressed as her mother had suggested; now she wore her usual apparel of a tunic, paired with the soft brown leather leggings Jester had gifted her for her last nameday. She had outgrown the old ones, and the ones before those - she was forever grateful to Jester for providing them, as her mother still denied her the means to purchase new clothes if they were not gowns, a fact which endlessly infuriated them both.

Dragon sat with his head framed by her open window, inspecting his magnificent claws. 

“You smell much better now,” he remarked.

“Lavinia gifted me some of her lavender water after training today, and made me promise to use it.”

“Do you think she was trying to tell you something?”

Jane pulled on her shoes. “I think they all were; even Smithy made a comment at lunch. Several, in fact.”

“Nothing wrong with smelling like hard work, that’s what I always say.”

Jane laughed, pulling the towel out of her hair. On rare occasions like this, where it was soaked through, her hair hung obediently downwards rather than in a mane about her head. “You? Hard work?”

“I helped Gunther today, I’ll have you know.”

Jane picked up her comb from the mantelpiece and commenced a battle with her hair. “I take it back, then - that was kind of you.”

“Yes, it was rather big of me.”

“And you are so…” she paused to rip the comb through a particularly resilient knot, “modest.”

“I am a Dragon of many virtues.”

“And what brought about this act of generosity?” 

“Is there any doubt that I am generous and kind-spirited? That I would lend a weak shortlife a hand?”

“There is some doubt.”

Dragon sighed. “Fine. He said something about his father. ‘Not all parents look after their young’.”

“Oh,” Jane set the comb down on the mantelpiece, and looked at Dragon evenly. “And did that…make you think of your own parents?”

She had been careful to ask gently; they had found so little in recent years to help him in his quest to discover more about dragons. Bits and pieces, here and there - more empty caves, more indecipherable runes, the occasional reference to dragons in the heraldry and records of the castle, more myth than history. The lack of new information had left them both frustrated, talking in circles some nights, taking long detours on patrol to places referenced in old records, but nothing substantial had emerged - not like her sword in his cave, the secret pipe to summon dragon in its handle, nor like Sir Theodore’s dragonslayer heritage, or the discovery that Dragon was born in Kippernium. Jane worried they’d found everything substantial there was to find at home. What worried her more with each disappointment was that Dragon became more hurt by it.

“I wasn’t thinking of me! You shortlives and your…your…” he raised a clawed paw indignantly, “ conjecture -”

“That is a new word for you -”

“I was only thinking of Gunther -”

“You are deflecting -”

“Nonsense!” Dragon huffed. “Jane, if you need me, I shall be in my cave. Away from your shortlife drama,” he ended with a flourish, and leapt off the wall, into flight. 

Jane sighed, watching him go. She would talk to Dragon again tomorrow. Over the years, they’d fallen into a habit of patrolling a short while after dawn, and he always landed outside her room in the mornings, whether they’d had an argument or not. On mornings when he felt particularly offended or proud, he might arrive late; which meant she could afford a slightly later night tonight.

Jane turned her attention to the sounds of the castle; she could always tell when everyone had settled for the evening. Tonight, Gunther had retired his jousting practice, and returned to his father’s house in the town; the pig wheel was at a standstill, Smithy’s hammer silent; Pepper and Rake’s hushed laughter that often flickered between the garden and the kitchen had long since lapsed into soft snores. Usually, Jester played the lute in his room, windows wide open, whatever the weather. On nights when he did not play, Jane struggled to sleep - though she would not admit that to anyone, even Jester. In its absence, she set out to find him. 

The jester sat on the swings, in his full court outfit. If he had a real name, no-one knew of it. For as long as they could remember, he had gone by the name of Jester. 

Jester’s raiment was a patchwork of stripes and jigsaw pieces; he had sewn it himself. Over the years, he had had to replace the pieces where they had worn from daily training he engaged himself with in acrobatics and dance, seeking new ways to entertain the King who had so generously housed him these past twelve years, and permitted his education. The jigsaw pattern also enabled him to add more pieces as he grew. Though not as broad as Smithy, nor as tall as Rake, there had been a fair few pieces added over the years to accommodate his height and strength.

The jacket included two pockets. Ordinarily, they housed juggling balls, broken quills, scraps of parchment and spare lute strings; today, tucked into one pocket, was a wooden box. Neatly folded inside was a flower stem, preserved in sand and salt. It had been delivered to him at the dockyard that morning. 

Jester walked the dockyards most mornings at dawn, before the castle truly woke, taking in the news from the sailors and fishermen, the market-stall holders, and fishwives. It had started as an exercise in songwriting; the workers had taught him a great many shanties as they worked on the docks or wove fishing nets, and had many marvellous stories to tell from their time at sea. As he’d grown older, he’d occasionally join the sailors at the local tavern of an evening. The flagstones of The Goodwater Inn smelled as though they’d been steeped in beer and brine, and a few other things besides - but the songs and stories were so colourful that Jester would stay long into the night to hear them all. There he would receive his drinks for free, in exchange for leading a few rounds of drinking songs. Meanwhile, his own drinks were covertly watered-down by the innkeeper’s daughter, Meri, at Jester’s own request; too much ale clouded his mind. The innkeeper was more than happy with the exchange.

That morning had been no different, and he’d bumped into Meri, the innkeeper’s daughter, in the open door to the Goodwater Inn as she swept away the sand traipsed in by the patrons the night before.

“Jester!” She waved. “I’ve not seen you all week! You missed quite the story last night.” Her voice dropped to a whisper he had to lean in to hear. “Cadan claimed to have seen a siren - the most beautiful woman, with a fish tail of pure gold.” She said it so seriously, eyes wide, with a burring accent typical of the workers at the docks; but then a smile cracked, and she laughed, tossing her golden-brown hair over her shoulder. “Of course, we cannot tease too much. We share a kingdom with a dragon, after all, and we all thought that that was rumours too. But Cadan said the creature had the most beautiful voice of all, none could hold a candle to it, which means it was surely a lie - we all know the most beautiful voice is yours.” 

Jester felt his cheeks burning. 

“Or perhaps yours,” Jester blurted in response, and received a playful nudge from Meri. 

It was true that Meri had a wonderful voice, just like the sirens of the stories; Jester had always meant to write a song in which she sung the part of a siren and he a sailor, for them to perform at the tavern together - but the fishermen were superstitious, and insisted that goading a siren would incite bad fortune on the harbour and the fishing boats. Meri thought the superstitions were nonsense, but Jester did not want to be held responsible if they were correct.

She took his arm so they wouldn’t be swept apart by the crowds forming between market stalls, and they fell into step. Her face turned more serious.

“Cadan also said the Merchant hired the Free Company to escort the kings of Ironhold, Fairhaven, and Maltthorpe to Kippernia. The Inn was full of their soldiers all week; the rest are camping near the tourney grounds.” She paused to point over the crowds, across the docks to a collection of ships anchored out at sea. “Those are their ships; they come from all over the place - the soldiers, that is - and go wherever the money takes them.”

Jester frowned. “Why would the merchant need to hire the Free Company?”

Meri shrugged. “He raised our taxes last year. Cadan says it’s to pay ‘em. Now that’s him and the king’s taxes. Don’t he have enough of his own money?” 

Jester smiled; her accent would always strengthen when she was incensed, usually by the Merchant’s wrongdoings. 

“He already owns most of the ships, businesses, and…” she waved about, “buildings around the port - along with the local quarries! He’s raised taxes, rent, and prices, the pay’s piss, and works the men like dogs. Worse, the king does nothing .”

Jester had explained more than once that the Merchant extorted the King in much the same way as he did the townsfolk, but it fell on deaf ears. Jester understood why; it was one thing owing the merchant money from a palace, quite another to owe it from a ramshackle two-a-bed house on the seafront where it was increasingly hard to put food on the table. The King’s recent spending on the tournament had also not gone down so well at the docks, though they appreciated the trade it would bring. 

And Meri was not concerned for herself, but for her community; her own father owned a small tavern closer to the docks, not the one Ivon frequented beside the castle and opposite the Merchant’s own house. The prices set by Meri’s father were much fairer - too fair - which was why most working men preferred it; though it was the worst kept secret in Kippernia that that was because he had links to foreign smugglers.

Meri paused at a stall to purchase bread; a harried-looking woman pushed between them, and Jester was momentarily swept along in a flood of children pushing through, playing. He had been about to make his way back to Meri when a grizzled old man spied Jester across the marketplace. He approached with such a ferocity that Jester’s first instinct had been to run. But then the man had called his name - his true name, not the sobriquet he went by in the castle - and Jester was rooted to the spot. The old man had roughly palmed a worn package into Jester’s hand and informed him that it had travelled all the way from Port Cale across the sea, no he didn't know who it was from, it had been handed to him weeks ago from another band of travellers on their way about.

Before Jester could ask anything at all, the man had disappeared into the crowd.

Jester did not need to guess who had sent it. He elbowed his way back to Meri to let her know he had to be on his way, and hurried back to the castle, holding the package close to his chest. He’d passed Sir Ivon asleep on early sentry duty, deftly avoided Rake in the garden, and darted past the courtyard where Jane was already engaged in jousting practice, overseen by Sir Theodore. 

He’d spent some time in his room, just holding the package, turning it over in his hands, before he untied the brown string, and unwrapped the linen packaging. Inside sat a beautifully carved wooden box, flowers engraved in the lid. Inside that, a single preserved flower stem, among salt and sand, dried and somewhat damaged with age and travel. A richly dyed green ribbon was tied in a bow around the stem.

It had been then that he remembered his lessons with Lavinia and Cuthbert, for which he was now late; carefully, Jester closed the lid, wrapped the linen back around it, and tied it again with the brown string, and tucked it safely in his pocket. When lessons were done, Jester had been commanded to the gardens by the princess to play the role of Knight whilst she practised handing out favours in the tournament, like she’d heard in stories and songs. She ordered Ivon to act as his noble steed, much to the amusement of the King Caradoc and Queen Gwendoline. 

“Are you not a little old for that?” Jester had laughed, voice low, in a mock bow.

Lavinia gave him a conspiratorial look, reaching out a hand for him to kiss in their pantomime. “I must have command of my Knights, Jester. Full command.” And, gracefully, she’d ordered Ivon to his knees.

Later, when Jester found himself alone, Dragon had taken flight, and the castle had begun to sleep, he left the Royal Gardens for the swing outside his bedroom. There he took the package from his pocket once again and opened it. Inside the lid were two initials, carved less expertly, but they made him smile. He lifted the flower stem carefully, turning it gently in his fingertips. Tomorrow, he would go to the library and look up the flower, where he would discover, to his amusement, that it was called a snapdragon ; he would read all about the land it grew in, and the people who lived there - anything to learn more about whatever land his family found themselves passing through; to picture it; and picture them. 

Then, he would deposit the box safely inside the locked chest he kept beneath his bed, where he kept all the bagatelles his family had sent from their travels. He wore the key to the chest on a cord around his neck. Despite all the souvenirs he’d been gifted or bartered for that decorated his room, these were his greatest treasures; a brooch; a whistle; an acorn; a feather; a shell; sea glass; a ring; a foreign coin; and now a flower; each one in its own carved box, wrapped and tied with one of the ribbons his mother had always worn in her hair. 

He untied the ribbon from the stem, running it between his fingers thoughtfully. 

Jane’s door creaked open, loud in the close night, and Jester swiftly restored each item: flower, box, linen, string, pocket. He picked up his lute, and began to play. 

“Jester!”

Jester startled at the sound of Jane’s whisper-shout. Then he noticed the ribbon, still on his lap, and hastily tucked it into his pocket.

“By the swings,” he whispered back.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, the warm evening lit by the hazy blue of a midsummer night. Jane bounded through the archway to the courtyard, face still flushed from bathing. Her usually unruly hair was wet, slicked into a rope of bronze that curled like a snake over one shoulder. A few finer streaks clung to her cheeks. She had let it grow out in recent years, so that it was easier to twist it up and tuck it down the neck of her tunic when she was training, or flying with Dragon. She plopped down beside Jester on the other swing; she had brought with her a mug of spiced wine from the kitchen, having snuck past Pepper, fast asleep, to get it. 

They sat quietly for a while, until he finished his melody, and she clapped softly, speaking in a hushed voice.

“That was wonderful. Will you play it at the banquet?”

“That depends on whether my audience is as enthusiastic as you are.”

She laughed. “I am sure they will be. Your performances are excellent.”

He smiled at her warmly, and set the lute aside to take a sip of Jane’s wine. “Now that is excellent.” He offered her the mug back, but she let him keep it. He took another grateful sip.

Jane sighed. “I am sure Pepper will be glad when all this is over. She has been working so hard all week.”

“So have you.”

“Gunther beat me to the quintain this afternoon; I could have used the extra practice.” They looked at it across the yard.

“That is one of the many perils of bathing. You should not do it again.” He smiled at her smile, and continued, “And Sir Theodore called your performance exemplary. You have mastered every challenge he has set. Why are you nervous?”

Jane laughed, took the mug of wine. “It would be foolish not to be. This will be the first time the other kingdoms have seen a girl knight in a tourney. If I perform poorly, it will follow me around forever.” 

“You can be safe in the knowledge that you will always out-perform Gunther.” He reached for the wine, and she handed it to him.

“Oh, Gunther.” Jane buried her face in her hands. “If I out-perform him, I will never hear the end of it. His father has already implied that they will all go easy on me, and any victory I gain will be hollow.”

“He is only playing mind games with you Jane, to boost Gunther’s chances.”

“Gunther might have better chances if his father did not run him so ragged.”

“True,” Jester agreed. “It is an unenviable position that he is in. But I think that is the Merchant’s specialty: Gunther; the townsfolk; the King. All of them owe something to the Merchant. Did you know the merchant has hired mercenaries?”

Jane lifted her face from her hands. “Yes, the Free Company. The King views the tourney as an opportunity to strengthen alliances and forge new trade agreements with the other kingdoms; he wants us to look more…imposing. Impressive. Prosperous.” She lowered her voice further. “The Merchant bought their services and the kingdom is now in even more debt to him. Sir Theodore has said nothing, and my father is tearing his hair out; we were already deep in the Merchant’s pocket.”

Jester could just imagine Jane’s father, the Chamberlain, practically vibrating with repressed horror at the idea of giving more money to the Merchant. 

“An unenviable position indeed.” Jester took a thoughtful sip of wine; something about the King’s reasoning for hiring the Free Company didn’t make sense, but he wasn’t sure howm and to him, Sir Theodore’s silence reeked of disapproval. But he would say nothing to Jane, not yet anyway; she had enough to worry about.

“The King gave me a gift of fabric for a new outfit,” Jester said instead, “in the spirit of projecting prosperity , I now understand. I think you will be quite impressed.”

“I am sure I will be. Are you looking forward to your role in the tourney?”

Jester leapt to his feet with a jingle. “Of course! Meet Jester, Master of Ceremonies! Well, of sorts. I will announce the Kings of each Kingdom, the Knights in the parade, each competitor in the jousting, and the teams for the melee, and I will announce the winners. And provide a few jokes along the way.”

“Are you going to the banquet?”

“To perform, yes. I have a great many ballads, new and old, I would like to share. The nobility of Ironhold, Fairhaven, and Maltthorpe haven’t set foot in Kippernia since they helped King Cedric defeat Harrowmere’s invaders. I will sing a song of our Kingdom’s great deeds - as we are the hosts this year.” He struck a pose, a mock Knight. “Sir Theodore, arriving in Kippernium in the Wilderness Years and leading an army of allies that took back the kingdom! It is the perfect ballad to celebrate the kingdom and our alliances.” He jabbed an imaginary sword. “Do not underestimate us!”

Jane stifled a laugh at his theatrics. 

“Sir Theodore warned that the others may underestimate me. Perhaps I can use that to my advantage.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Jester seated himself beside Jane, wine on the ground, and began to play the lute idly. “They won’t know what hit them.”

“What do you think of my clothes?” Jane said abruptly.

Jester paused, and took a moment to observe Jane properly. She wore a tunic unlike anything she’d worn before, but Jester recognised it. It was a dark green that Rake had helped him to achieve with vegetable dye, with fine leather details on the shoulders and sleeves created by Smithy. Beneath it she wore brown leggings that matched the brown of the leather, ones he had also gifted her, and on top she wore a belt of the same colour, cinched at the middle with three small buckles. The belt was decorated with perforations forming the shapes of dragon runes. It was not what women of the court usually wore, but nor was it what the men would sport - for Jane though, Jester thought, it was perfect.

“The…clothes I made you? Oh,” he laughed nervously. “Is it a good fit?”

“You tell me,” she beamed, leaping up to twirl in a circle, a movement Jester did not think he’d seen Jane perform before outside of swordplay. “I think it is quite fetching.”

Jester cursed himself for not thinking of a wittier reply, but Jane’s smile often knocked all of his thoughts out of order. 

“I would have to agree.”

“I want to wear it to the banquet, after the tourney is done.”

Jester raised his eyebrows. “To the banquet? That is perhaps the most important event, second only to the tourney itself. You will spend time with nobility, bow before the other kings, dance with them, with other knights, meet potential suitors -”

“I will not be meeting potential suitors.” 

Jester picked up the wine. “Well, in any case - are you sure you want to wear an outfit made by such a humble Jester? And -” he added as an afterthought, “by Rake and Smithy? And Pepper helped with the design.”

Jane fussed with the neckline and smoothed the skirt of the tunic, suddenly nervous. “Do you not think I should wear it? Only, my usual clothes are not smart enough, and I refuse to wear the gown my mother picked -”

“You will knock them dead. Though not literally, I hope. Save that for the tourney.”

She laughed, and snorted, covering her face with her hand. “Oh, bother.” She took the mug of wine, burying her embarrassment with a swig, before handing it back. “I suppose I am afraid that if I look too much like a lady, they will not take me seriously. And at the same time, my mother has made me afraid that they will think poorly of me if I am not ladylike enough.” Jane touched her hair; in the heat, it had already begun to break free of the neat twist she had wrested it into. “And in this heat will make my hair get in my eyes, and I will make a fool of myself over a simple step.”

“The role of Fool is already taken, I’m afraid. But…” Jester touched his pocket hesitantly, “I might have just the thing. Turn your back to me, Jane.”

“What are you doing?”

“Just trust me.”

And so she did; she jumped slightly when his fingers touched her hair, gently brushing it through from her ears to the nape of her neck and down her back. Wet, it came to just below her shoulder blades; by the time it was dry, it would puff outwards into messy ringlets, barely passing her shoulders. While she waited for Jester to finish whatever he was doing, she observed the detail of the wall, each stone and mortar subtly outlined by the dying fire of the forge, ivy climbing the walls. Through the arch, she could just make out the outline of Rake’s vegetable garden, and beyond, the walls to the kitchen.

“This would be easier with a comb, but…” Jester said, more to himself than to Jane, and continued making thoughtful, confused, frustrated, and finally triumphant sounds as Jane felt her hair being manipulated.

“Are you…braiding my hair?”

“I am. There,” he said eventually, “all done.”

Jane pulled the plait over her shoulder to take a closer look, gently tracing it down with her fingertips, until at the end she found a beautiful green ribbon. Jester had not tied it in a bow, perhaps because he knew that she would hate that; instead, the ribbon was braided into the lower half of the plait, knotted at the base, and then wrapped around the knot a few times before he’d concealed the loose ends within the plait itself. The green complimented her red hair beautifully, and more importantly to Jane, the result looked nothing like how the ladies of the court wore their hair, nor like Pepper’s soft plait. More than anything, it reminded her of the kinds of things Lavinia described from stories of Norse warrior women raiding the northern coasts.

“I have put it low in your hair so it is less likely to whip you in the face, or you can still tuck it down the neck of your armour, or twist it around and pin it to the back of your head,” Jester was babbling, “or you could just take it out. It should last a few days, if you keep it.”

Jane laughed. “Where did you learn to do this? Princess Lavinia?”

“No, I… I have two sisters.”

The night felt quieter than it had before; even the crackling from the forge seemed to die down. In all the years Jane had known Jester, he had spoken of his family only a handful of times. Each time felt like a gift.

She reached across to touch his hand. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

They sat in the kind of friendly silence that comes from years of friendship, enjoying the warm buzz of a summer’s night spent with a friend, sharing a mug of wine, swinging out of time with one another. Eventually the last of the summer light faded, and they were lit only by the fading glow of the forge and a waxing moon.

“You should get some sleep,” Jester said eventually. “Big days ahead.”

As if on cue, Jane yawned. “I think you are right.”

She stood to leave, hesitant. 

“I just… When I told people I wanted to be a knight, you were the only one who did not laugh. You gave me your armour.” Jane fiddled with her plait. “And so I wanted to thank you, Jester. Now I am to compete in my first tournament. This was your dream, and now instead it is mine.”

Jester stood, and leant in close. “I told you to dream it for me,” he whispered. “Good night, Jane.”

She kissed his cheek. “Good night, Jester.”

Chapter Text

After Jane’s door had closed, and the candle in her room extinguished, Jester released a breath he did not know he had been holding. He looked up at the constellations, noting his favourites: Cassiopeia, Draco, Lyra. At times when he desperately wanted to speak to his family, he would look to the sky and imagine them around a campfire, looking at the sky too.

Distantly, a door opened, somewhere near the Keep, shaking him from his reverie. Lute in hand, he made his way towards the Royal Gardens. All the shutters of the Keep were closed, but the door to the balcony was open. Jester made his way towards it, playing a tune as he went, singing softly of the great deeds of Sir John D’Ark, First Knight to the King.

Jester had come across a simplified version of the events of the Great Returning as little more than a footnote in an old record some years ago, and - thinking it had been forgotten amid the turmoil and redemption of the Wilderness Years - had composed a song for Adeline for her birthday, a great ballad about her father.

It was D’Ark, not Sir Theodore, who had stormed the main gates with an army of allies, while Sir Theodore and King Cedric and their men attacked from within the castle, emerging from tunnels hidden somewhere in the castle grounds. D’Ark had died in the battle. Unspoken in the lyrics were the rumours of Cedric pulling an enemy arrow from a comrade and using it to kill D’Ark, though in the chaos of battle it was impossible to tell for sure. Unsung was the tale of the man who had sacrificed his life for a King envious of the Knight’s popularity with the people. A statue of D’Ark had been erected outside the castle gates where he had died, to placate his admirers, but the nameplate had never been completed. To this day when they celebrated the Great Returning, D’Ark’s name was never mentioned; Theodore took on his role in the myth. But Jester had not known the full story when he wrote the ballad; Adeline had confided in him after. Jane had missed the whole thing - it was perhaps the only time Adeline had been grateful that Jane was out on patrol.

Adeline had cried when she first heard the ballad, and forbade him to play it in company - but she had also thanked him, and asked him to play it again. He was happy to provide her that comfort when the rest of the castle only knew the myth of the Great Returning. And so, on quiet summer nights, he would sit on the steps of the Royal Conservatory to play it for her. 

But tonight, Adeline was not on the balcony.

“Jester.”

He bowed. “My lady?”

“You play the most marvellous music.”

Jester raised his eyebrows. “Oh, um - thank you, my lady.” Of all the directions he’d assumed the conversation might go, that was not even on his list.

“Are you excited for the tournament?”

Jester tried his best not to let the confusion reach his face. “I am, my lady. Jane is eager to show off her skills. I am sure you are very proud-”

She held up a hand. “For a moment, let us speak plainly. I know you care for Jane. You are her closest...human friend,” if she had tried to keep the disdain out of her voice, she had failed. Jester did not know whether it was meant for him or Dragon; perhaps both. 

“And I think you are a good man. But as you say, this is Jane’s moment. Tomorrow, the nobility will start to arrive; she will be exposed to the gentry of Ironhold, Fairhaven, and Maltthorpe. I know, here in Kippernium, we have fallen on hard times; the lines are blurred between King and commoner, and there is little space in between.” She laughed, sadly, perhaps bitterly, but continued. “And perhaps that has made us more compassionate. That is not the case in these other courts. They have maintained order. Hierarchy. Tradition.”

“I am sorry, my lady, what do you -”

“I mean to say that she will face so many challenges, both in this tournament and on the path she is forging for herself. She is a woman, who is training to be a Knight. And she will be riding in on a dragon. The perception of others matters, and she faces enough obstacles in gaining their respect. Do not add to them; do not make her a joke. Jane is the daughter of the King’s Chamberlain, and of the Queen’s Lady-In-Waiting; and Jane is a Knight. Forgive me, but you are nothing more than a jester.” 

She bobbed her head goodbye and turned to leave, as casually as though they had spoken about the weather.

Jester followed her.

“While we are speaking plainly , my lady, I think Jane deserves to know the truth about her grandfather.”

Adeline stopped so abruptly that Jester had to skip sideways to avoid crashing into her.

“I think it would…give her more confidence, a sense of history and family to live up to. And others knowing it would lend her more credit in her quest to become a Knight.”

Adeline’s eyes were bright with tears and rage, but her voice was calm. “Do you think I do not know that? That this conflict does not tear me apart?” She wiped away her tears, leaving streaks in the chalk powder she wore as makeup. “That I do not also lie awake at night and fear that one battle, one wrong choice, one misstep with her dragon might condemn her to the same fate as my father?” She took a step closer. “I know King Caradoc is not his father, but I must protect my daughter. And if that means not digging up skeletons from the closet, then so be it."

"She does not need protection, she needs honesty."

Adeline smiled, sadly. “And is that what you offer her, Jester? You arrive here without so much as a name, and all this time later - does she even know it?” She touched his shoulder. “I can see that you care for her. I thank you for supporting her. So I suggest we make an agreement; I will tell Jane about her grandfather - when I am ready. But do not pursue her. Do not permit her to pursue you. And we both give her the best chance.”

Chapter Text

Jane woke before dawn, the pallid light peeping through the gaps in the shutters. She opened the shutters, taking a breath of cool morning air, admiring the way the early morning light desaturated the world and muddled its edges.

She squinted at the view she’d become accustomed to, picturing the keep as some foreign palace; the clouds as distant mountains; treetops as ancient monuments. It was not that she was ungrateful to study and train to become a knight here, for the freedom to do it alongside her promise to Dragon. But on the mornings when she woke early like this, her world obscured in the half-light, Jane dreamt of exploring beyond Kippernium, tracing the tall tales of dragons she’d heard from adventurers. One such adventurer was due to arrive at the Kingdom soon: Sir Theodore’s old friend, Haroldus. 

On his last visit, Haroldus had brought the most excellent gifts for his friend and hosts, which he had revealed at a banquet in his honour on his final night at the castle. For Sir Theodore, Turkish delight; for the King and Queen, a gilded atrium of canaries. The atrium had been installed as a feature in the Royal Atrium. Shortly after Haroldus’ visit, a new chick had hatched, delighting the Prince. He had named it “Fligling”, to please his mother, as the word meant “flying” in her native tongue. He had taken up lessons in the language just to please her; the Prince had now learnt to use it fluently enough to be seen chatting and making jokes upon the most recent visit by Queen Gwendoline’s father only last year. Prince Cuthbert still tended the birds dutifully, and he and his mother spent most mornings together enjoying the canary song, and conversing in her native tongue. 

Haroldus had not intended to provide a gift for anyone other than the Royals and his old friend; but he had been so impressed with Jester’s talents in the performing arts that Jester had received an unexpected gift of a war mask, acquired from Haroldus’ adventures in Africa. An avid collector of rare and unusual items, Jester had mounted it on his bedroom wall immediately, overjoyed at receiving a gift alongside the likes of the King and Sir Theodore. The memory of Jester dragging her by the hand to look at it still made Jane smile.

Being a collector of rare items and knowledge himself, Haroldus had been sure to meet Jane and Dragon, eagerly answering their questions, diving into tales of dragons, dragon riders, magic, and distant lands. Jane hung onto every word, and wrote them down feverishly in her journal that night. 

Jane retrieved the journal now from the chest at the foot of her bed. She had since added more notes; runes, the translations they knew, sketches of Dragon’s treasures that he had collected; snippets of stories Jester relayed from the Goodwater Inn. She traced her fingers down the accounts and illustrations, hoping she might interpret something new.

After patrol, she was due to train with Gunther, before cleaning up and attending lessons with Sir Theodore for the afternoon. But it would be some time before Pepper awoke and Jane could go down for breakfast; even longer before she expected to see Dragon for patrol. And so, for a while, she had time to stand in the window with the journal open before her, squinting at the familiar outline of her home - and dreaming she was somewhere else.

The day passed in a haze of noise and heat; the castle had welcomed a host of new staff in recent months, but today it felt as though all of them had descended at once, making final preparations for the tournament. Under Smithy’s guidance, the apprentices polished and fine-tuned weapons and armour; repaired, brushed, cleaned, and polished tack; and began packing up the equipment into carts, to be hauled down to the tournament grounds. In a cacophony of pounding metal, Smithy finished some newfangled weapon for Sir Ivon to bring to the melee. Pepper commanded a small army of kitchen staff, laughing and yelling to one another across the kitchen to hear over the clank of pots and pans. The warm air was heavy with the smell of woodsmoke, fresh bread, meat pies, spiced wine, and lavender cakes; less sweet in the mix was the smell of the kippered herring for which the kingdom was known. 

A beleaguered Rake had forbidden anyone else from touching his garden. Instead, Smithy offered to instruct Rake’s workers, and they groomed and mucked out the horses in the stables, filling troughs and buckets with chaff and water ready for the arrival of the visiting Kings. 

Above the stables, in the Knight’s Quarters, Jane and Gunther were straining to hear Sir Theodore’s lessons over the commotion. They had begun with the history and geography of their guests’ kingdoms, and the appropriate etiquette to greet them at the parade, and had now moved on to the finer details of the tournament. Jane’s mind had wandered to the edges of the map; what laid beyond their allies’ kingdoms?

“Jane, do I have your full attention?”

Jane refocused her eyes. “Yes, Sir Theodore.” 

Her wandering mind was not helped by the fact that the timber walls of the Knight’s Quarters had spent the day absorbing the sun, warming the room around them; this day was hotter than the one before. Jane envied the horses below, doused in water during their grooming session, and Sir Ivon, who she was sure she could hear snoring amid the surrounding commotion. She also envied Dragon, who had returned to his cave to wait out the sun after an uneventful morning patrol. Jane’s mind had wandered even then.

“Someone has their head in the clouds this morning,” Dragon had remarked, as they flew over the kingdom. “Literally.”

“Oh, sorry, I was thinking. Haroldus is visiting for the tournament; I may get the chance to speak with him at the banquet.”

“The shortlife with the evil pet and the fabulous stories?”

Jane laughed at the memory of Haroldus’ pet money, dressed up in exotic clothes, wreaking havoc on the castle. 

“The very same!”

Dragon had spent the rest of the flight listing off questions for Jane to remember to ask Haroldus upon his arrival.

Staring at the map before her now, Jane fancied she could see a shimmer of heat on its surface, flickering across the territories of the visiting kings; Ironhold to the northwest, Maltthorpe to the east, and Fairhaven to the southwest. Ironhold was particularly difficult to look at, being beneath a beam of light that had broken through a gap in the thatch and timber.

“When the sun sinks below the battlements, I will release you,” Sir Theodore continued, interrupting her train of thought once more. “Until then - your focus, please. Tonight, the Royal Families from Ironhold, Fairhaven, and Maltthorpe will arrive at the castle. They will refresh themselves after their journeys, and then enjoy a private supper with the King. And tomorrow - the tourney begins.” He paused to admire his squires’ enthusiasm, clapping one another on the shoulders. “First is the parade. This will be your first opportunity to size up your competitors; their weapons; their armour; their gait; their confidence. Ensure you observe everyone - you must know your teammates as well as your enemy. But be warned, they will do the same to you.”

“Dragon has offered to fly me in for the parade,” Jane said, hesitantly. “I was not sure whether that would be…”

“Too much?” Theodore chuckled. “The King is quite eager for you to…show Dragon off a little. We are the smallest of the kingdoms in attendance, with a much reduced military.”

“I understand, sir, but I want to be judged on my merits, not my friendship with Dragon.”

“That is one of your merits, Jane,” Gunther said, surprising the others. When neither of them said anything, he continued, “You are the only person alive who has ever befriended a Dragon - many may not even believe it until they see him. And many of them will likely underestimate you on account of you being a woman. So I do not view it as showing off - it will level the playing field. They will be more likely to treat you as a fellow Knight.”

Theodore raised his eyebrows approvingly, a move that did not go unnoticed by Gunther, who chanced a brief, grateful smile.

Jane nodded, pushing down a swelling feeling of pride and emotion in her chest that might threaten her composure. 

“Thank you, Gunther.”

“And then, when they beat you anyway, I will take the number one spot,” he continued.

“Ha! In your dreams.”

“No, no. Everyone will forget Jane Turnkey and her fearsome Dragon - news will spread fast of Sir Gunther, jousting champion of Kippernium. They will call on me all the way from France.”

“I am sure they will - when Jester is unavailable as Fool.”

Theodore stifled a laugh at their jests with a dignified cough. Despite himself, it had warmed his heart in recent years to see the two squires moving beyond petty bickering into a healthy rivalry, backed by camaraderie rather than spite. 

“If you please,” Sir Theodore continued, and his squires sat to attention once more. “Now, the kingdoms are officially divided into two teams for the games. We already know we will be competing alongside Ironhold this year, with Maltthope and Fairhaven against us. One the second day is the joust. As squires, you will not be permitted to joust against an opponent, but you will have the opportunity to show your skills.” Gunther leaned in at the very mention of jousting. “First, as you know, you will compete using the quintain; it has been modified to include a mannequin rather than a shield, in place of an opponent. It will be weighted, as you are used to, so that with each blow a sandbag will swing around and potentially dismount you. But that afternoon, you will assist Sir Ivon and I as we compete with the visiting Knights. This is also not without risk. Debris from shattering lances, designed to break for the protection of our opponents, can be deadly to onlookers who are not armoured and alert. If a knight is dismounted and gets caught in the stirrups, they can be dragged; being in the arena, you may be in the crossfire, or cornered by a rogue horse. It is not the time to be distracted,” Theodore said, deliberately looking at them in turn. 

“How will the jousting be scored, Sir Theodore?” Gunther asked eagerly, sitting further forward in his chair.

“For the squires, by the accuracy of the hit, with extra points for a shattered lance, and your success in staying in the saddle. For the knights, dismounting your opponent is the largest number of points; it is difficult to unseat a talented, experienced rider. Legal hits anywhere on the body and shattered lances also receive points. Striking a horse means disqualification.”

“And how do we know we - I mean, you - are being scored fairly?”
Theodore suppressed another smile at Gunther’s boyish enthusiasm. “There will be one knight selected from each kingdom to act as adjudicators. They will decide a score together, and -” he continued over Gunther’s next question, “if there is a tie between the four of them, King Caradoc gets the deciding vote, as host.”

Satisfied, Gunther sat back in his seat.

“Now, the melee. The final day. You leave behind your staves and wooden swords, training mannequins and idle threats. You will fight alongside myself and Sir Ivon, and the knights and squires of Ironhold; test your mettle against Fairhaven and Maltthorpe. The weapons we will use will be blunted, but they will be real weapons, and they may cause real injuries. You may wear any armour you choose; you may wield any weapons you choose - provided they are blunted.” He looked to Jane. “This means no dragonblade.”

“Of course, Sir Theodore. I have been training with Gunther’s old sword.”

Theodore turned to Gunther. “How very generous. But what have you been training with?”

“My father gifted me a new sword, for the tourney.”

“I see. Last but not least, then. Following the melee, there will be an awards ceremony, and later that night, the banquet.” Theodore looked beyond the Knight’s Quarters to the sallow sky. “I have kept you long enough. But -” he said, halting them as they were halfway out the door. “I cannot forget the most important part. I am told that there will be an…informal gathering on the camping grounds outside the tournament site tonight. It is something of a tradition for squires and young knights and the townsfolk to congregate there. I will not keep you.” 

They hastily thanked Sir Theodore and raced down the stairs to the courtyard. 

“I can hardly wait!” Jane squealed. 

Gunther drew his sword on the training dummy, lightly jabbing it with his sword. “Imagine the crowds, the crack of lances! The glory,” he lightly stepped out of the way as the mannequin’s weapons swung around.

Jane bounced on the spot. “If we perform well, the neighbouring kingdoms may invite us to their next tourney!” She gave the mannequin a shove, altering its trajectory; Gunther blocked its weapon with ease.

Gunther laughed. “Imagine chasing the tourney circuit, all across the country! The continent!”

“Imagine having someone new to challenge,” Jane teased.

“I must confess, your fighting style has come to bore me somewhat,” Gunther said, sheathing his sword.

“You know what they say,” Jane grinned, shoving Gunther playfully as they headed to the drawbridge to meet their friends. “Familiarity breeds contempt.”

“I see you are itching to begin the games early,” Theodore called from the balcony. Jane and Gunther turned to face him, dropping their arms to their sides, the picture of innocence.

Theodore raised an eyebrow; he knew them better than that. 

“Just promise me you will behave yourselves tonight.”

Chapter Text

Jane bounded to the drawbridge, bathed in pink sunset light. Parked in the driveway were three magnificent carriages; one from Ironhold, Fairhaven, and Maltthorpe. The horses in the stables brayed to one another as they settled in, adapting to their new neighbours. The nobility had arrived without fanfare; there would be enough of that tomorrow.

Pepper, Rake, Smithy, and Gunther were waiting for her. 

“Took you long enough,” Gunther muttered. 

“I had to look for Jester. Have any of you seen him?”

“Not since this morning,” Smithy said. “He left his room shortly after I began work. He made a short poem about Sir Ivon’s new weapon on his way.” He chuckled to himself. “I have been working on it all day. I fear for his enemies in the melee.”

Gunther cringed. “I fear for his allies. Does the thing actually work? I nearly lost a finger last year to his…what was it?”

“Quadruple-Bladed Gyroscopic Knife of Doom,” Smithy recalled solemnly. 

“Yes, that,” Gunther said. “And he was only showing it to me!”

“It is excellent for chopping vegetables,” Pepper chimed.

Gunther shuddered. “And squires.”

“I think I fear for your safety, too, Gunther,” Rake said sympathetically, in his mind’s eye recalling the device roughly chopping a bundle of carrots at once. Gunther patted him on the back gratefully for his concern.

“Yes, all very good - but where is Jester?”

Jane looked at each of her friends in turn. Her gaze settled on Gunther, who wore a mischievous grin. 

“I may have sent him ahead of us, to buy a round of drinks at the Goodwater.”

Jane wrinkled her nose. “The Goodwater? Why?” 

“Because, dear Jane,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and leading her down the path, “the festival will be best experienced at night. Look.” He pointed to the campsite across the bridge. “You can see from here - it has yet to truly get going. We may as well have a drink first.” 

Jane begrudgingly agreed. The group descended the pathway from the castle, towards the crossroads between the lumber yard, the town, and the bridge where the river met the sea. Across it, a sprawl of tents were nestled among the trees where lesser knights, soldiers and squires had set up camp, the clearings pinpicked with bonfires.

“You look especially lovely tonight, Pepper,” Jane said.

“Thank you, petal,” she said, twirling to show Jane the full extent of her new dress; dyed red with rose madder, and embroidered with small roses at the hems. Rake had cut some roses of the same shade from the garden; Pepper wore one in her hair, and Rake wore the other in the buttonhole of his jacket. Even Smithy had changed into fresh clothes. Gunther wore a finer tunic than usual, his sword strapped to his belt. Jane knew that inside the fur-lined scabbard, it was polished to a high shine. She raised an eyebrow.

“It is our first opportunity to gauge the competition. First impressions, Jane.” Gunther looked at her old tunic with thinly disguised distaste. She had not even brought her sword. “What impression are you trying to give?”

“I am not; Dragon will help me with that at the opening ceremony. Tonight is for reconnaissance.”

“You might have worn a dress to be more inconspicuous.”

Jane scoffed. “I would never hear the end of it from my mother.”

“You would look beautiful, Jane,” Pepper chirped.

Rake scanned the sky. “Is Dragon not joining us this evening?”

“No, he wants to stay in his cave tonight so he can make his grand entrance tomorrow,” Jane laughed. “He says you can’t see a dragon for the first time twice.”

At the crossroads they turned away from the bridge towards the harbour.

“So Pepper, how is it having so many staff in the kitchen? It all sounded very industrious today,” Gunther said.

Pepper sighed dreamily. “It is wonderful, I feel like the Queen of the kitchen! Even the Prince stopped by to help yesterday.”

Smithy smirked. “And was he helpful?” 

“Not especially, but it is the thought that counts. I gave him some pastries for his troubles.”

“I never would have seen that coming a few years ago,” Jane laughed. 

“Nor would I expect to see you with your hair up,” Pepper replied, reaching across to inspect the plait. “What brought this on?”

“My hair was getting in my eyes, Pepper.” She waved her away playfully. “Do not overthink it!”

Pepper raised an eyebrow. “Nothing to do with all of the neighbouring princes and knights coming to the castle for the tourney? I hear some of them are very handsome.”

Rake turned to her. “Where did you hear that?” At her meaningful look, he brightened up. “I mean, oh yes. Lots of eligible bachelors. Handsome. Good with swords and the like.”

“Oh, not you as well! Why is everyone so set on finding me a suitor all of a sudden?”

“Who’s everyone?” Pepper asked slyly.

“My mother, mostly. Can we just forget it?” 

They neared the stretch of buildings pressed against the cliffside as the sun dipped below the horizon, turning the sky pink to periwinkle, and headed towards the Goodwater. Streams of people were headed in the opposite direction. Fishermen hoping to catch the fun before the night tide, barrow boys, wainwrights, and salters from the packing sheds, ropemakers, weavers, and traders; they joined the maids and servants from the castle behind Jane’s friends in crossing the bridge in a babble of laughter. Despite Jane’s protests that the festival was starting, Gunther led the charge to the inn, the five of them continued against the tide of people, until they reached the dockyard.

The Goodwater was an unassuming little inn, stuck down an alley nestled amongst the much larger buildings of the smoking sheds, saltery, and ropewalk. It was indicated only by a creaking signboard that barely distinguished itself from the buildings around it, peeled and cracked by the salt in the harbour wind; it depicted a simple image of three cups over a crude representation of the sea, though it was hardly visible in the half-light of the alley. An old fishing net had been nailed across the top of the door for no discernable reason, staining the wood behind it. The windows were thrown open, perhaps seeking a nonexistent breeze to disrupt the still warmth. The sound of soldiers singing a garbled song and hammering the tables in time with a tune met them long before they reached the inn. Gunther led them in.

The inn was largely filled with great trestle tables that stretched the length of the building. At first glance it appeared that every seat was taken by Free Company soldiers, easily marked by their grey-and-black houndstooth surcoats. Makeshift benches had been brought in, planks balanced atop crates to accommodate the extra visitors. More still had diverted empty kegs and upturned buckets to the cause, or dragged down stools from the rooms upstairs, so that there were two or more rows of men crowded at each edge of every table. Smaller tables were pressed against each wall, their benches built into divots in the stone; by some stroke of luck, one was available nearest the door, and they hastily claimed it.

Between the densely packed bodies and the roaring pit-fire running the centre of the room, topped with a long spit and suspended cauldrons of steaming potage and frumenty, it was even closer inside. A barmaid flew through the aisles, replacing pitcher after pitcher of ale, barely able to keep up with demand. Cups were quickly emptied and filled again: overeager, heedless, and more than a little drunk, much of the soldiers’ ale overflowed onto the tables. Jane watched as the innkeeper carefully tallied the number of pitchers in circulation on a wax tablet behind the bar.

It was only after a moment that they spotted Jester through the forest of people, performing in only his undershirt and leggings. He danced across the tabletops, lute in hand, leading the drinking song that the soldiers were stumbling through. 

“That’s it, drink up! Chorus now! And… bring us in good ale, good ale, bring us in good ale! In the name of all that's good, bring us in good ale !” the crowd roared in a jumble of mis-timed and overlapping yells, punctuated by the slamming down of cups on tables over the final words. Jester leapt from the table and approached the bartender with a gleam in his eye. “Winslow! Bring us in no bacon, for that is passing fat - but bring us in good ale, and give us enough of that!” He smacked the bar in a theatrical display of demanding a drink; he received an affectionate smack upside the head from the bartender in return. Jester played it to its full potential, pretending to go reeling forward in a pantomimic display that ended with a cartwheel, bouncing back to take up the cup from the bar. It earned uproarious laughter from the soldiers. Jester held up his cup for the chorus.

“ Bring us in good ale, good ale, bring us in good ale, in the name of all that's good, bring us in good ale !” 

Jester hammered on the bar with his fist to set the rhythm for the spectators to clap while he downed his drink, before wiping his mouth with his arm. Then, he leapt onto the nearest table, lute in hand, to continue the next verse, pointing down at the soldiers below him.

“You, now! Bring us in no beef, for there is many bones - but bring us in good ale, for that goes down AT ONCE !”

Gunther, along with almost everyone else at the Goodwater, punched the air and hollered the final words. Only the table beside them was silent, talking with their heads down against the noise.

Jane rolled her eyes as the chorus rolled around again; she had cleared Ivon out of the tavern adjoining the knight’s quarters more than once, and it had absolved her from any desire to engage in the slurred singing and slapdash squabbling that came with too many drinks. She turned to her friends; Pepper’s parents lived close to the Goodwater, and she was also unfazed, nodding and clapping along politely. Smithy sat with folded arms and a smirk at Jester's; Gunther appeared right at home. Rake watched the ongoing scene like a startled deer.

By now, Jester had been upping the tempo on the lute, stomping on the tabletops to engage the men in the final verse. Jane supposed it was just as well that nobody left their drink untended long enough for it to be set down in his path.

“Last one! Down your drinks!” he called, spinning at last in their direction. They snatched up their cups as he leapt clear of the large table, skipping across the edges of crates and seats like stepping stones through the river of people, before clattering to a stop before them. He nodded subtly to the barmaid; she hurried over with some drinks. With a final wink in Jane’s direction, Jester leapt to the next table, landing awkwardly among the silent men, stomping in time to the beat. He quickly moved along again.

“Eggs, eggs, eggs, now! Bring us in no eggs, for there are many shells - louder! - but bring us in good ale, and give us NOTHING ELSE!” He dropped the lute to swing on the strap about his neck, before deftly leaping back to the ground and strutting between the crowded benches, regaining the soldiers’ broken clapping to something resembling a beat. “Everyone! I want to hear you say more! Drink up now! Final time! Loud as you can! And… Bring us in more ale, more ale, bring us in more ale - in the name of ALL THAT’S GOOD,” Jester punched the air for each word, lute swinging wildly about him, “bring us in…MORE…ALE!”

The inn broke out in inebriated roars and whistles and banging on the table with balled fists and empty cups. A few scattered tables began to sing the song again amongst themselves, others called for food, and the room lapsed into a thunderous confabulation. The barmaid and Winslow hurried to fulfil the demand for refills. A woman with a stern face that Jane assumed to be the barmaid’s mother tended the fire, stirring the vast cauldron of pottage hanging above, ladling some into trenchers. A few of the more impatient patrons pushed back their seats and shoved towards her to be served first. 

Jane observed the crowd amidst the chaos, sipping her drink; it was mostly Free Company soldiers, though she recognised a handful of locals who had not been put off by the influx of mercenaries into their territory. Only the table beside them did not fit into either category. 

There were always some strangers in the town: traders from visiting ships, seasonal workers, craftsmen, couriers. But Jane could not identify what they were here for; everything about them felt false. Their cheap, simple clothes showed no sign of wear or repair, and they observed the crowds like she did, their conversation dropping whenever anyone got too close. 

One of the men had spent the best part of the performance staring at Jane. He was taller than the others, with black hair tied in a long ponytail down his back. Catching her eye, the man raised his mug of ale, then raised an eyebrow suggestively. Jane rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to retrieving Jester and getting to the festival. 

Jester stood behind the bar still, down the other end of the hall, having set down his lute in the back room. He ran a hand through his hair, which had become increasingly disarranged throughout the spirited performance, and wiped his brow. The barmaid came up behind him and rested a hand on his back, all bright smiles and laughter. Jane watched as they pored over the wax tablet together, perhaps gawking at the number of pitchers the soldiers had consumed, so close they were touching. Jester said something that made her laugh; she went into the back room and came out wearing his jacket, hat, and lute, in an impression of him performing. Jane laughed; in physical comedy, her skill even matched Jester’s. 

Smithy squinted through the thicket of bodies, also stifling a laugh. “Who is that?” 

“Meri,” Gunther replied, following their gaze. “The innkeeper’s daughter.”

“They seem like fast friends,” Smithy said, with the air of a man who was too innocent to recognise what sort of mischief he was causing, but Jane caught the glint in his eye.

It got the reaction he’d been hoping for; Pepper gasped delightedly, clapping her hands. 

Gunther rolled his eyes. “Don’t get excited, Pepper. She and Jester only sing together, on occasion.”

“Together?” Pepper said hopefully, wrapping her arm around Rake’s excitedly. He looked at her with a soft smile. 

“Do they meet for his morning walks?” Rake asked innocently. “He often goes in this direction.”

Gunther sighed. “If she happens to be around, yes.”

“What else has he said?” Pepper pressed. “Come along, Gunther - you drink here just as often as he does, my parents have told me so.”

“There was…talk, of him writing her a song.”

“Writing her a song!” Pepper squeaked. “Do you know what about?”

“He was put off the idea of her singing the part of a siren on account of some silly folk stories about inducing storms, and I do not know what his inspiration was after that.”

“My father told me in his last message a story of sirens he’d heard from another boat,” Rake said absent-mindedly. “The most beautiful women with fish tails, who sing songs so pretty the sailors dive into the sea to find them.”

Pepper gasped. “Oh, how romantic!”

“They lure sailors to their deaths, Pepper.”

“Oh, Gunther, do not be such a cynic.”

“A little odd that he has not mentioned Meri to us,” Jane said more evenly than she felt, watching Meri shrug off Jester’s coat and help him into it, doing up the button beneath his chin for him and keeping her hands there a moment longer than felt necessary. For some reason, the sight of it made her stomach flip.

“He will tell us when he is ready to tell us,” Gunther sighed, already bored of the conversation. “If anything is going on at all. He is hardly the type to make the first move.” 

“Meri appears to be making all the moves for him,” Smithy said into his cup.

“So, do you think that they are courting?” Pepper tried again, elbows on the table, resting her chin on her hands dreamily.

Gunther sighed. “Well, I - I do not know. Perhaps. But you did not hear it from me!” he hissed as Jester approached.

Their table fell silent, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Jester.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” he said brightly, taking a seat beside Jane.

“We were just saying how much we enjoyed your performance,” Pepper said innocently.

“And how grateful we are for the ale,” Gunther added, tapping his cup against Jester’s. 

The noise had died down now that many of the soldiers tucked into their food; a few of the more affluent ordered roast meats, herring, and fresh bread; others started to settle up and stagger out, headed for the campsite to resume the festivities there.

Jane peered out the window at the darkening sky. “Drink up, everyone is leaving. The festival must be in full swing by now.”

Gunther took a deep drink, winking at her. She narrowed her eyes; despite their friendship, his laid-back attitude still bothered her some. 

“These were hard-earned today, Jester,” he said. “One of your more lively performances.”

Jester finished his drink and pushed the cup into the middle of the table. 

“I had a very lively audience.” 

As if to prove his point, one of the soldiers reached out to swat at the bells on his hat as they lurched out the door to the festival, and Jester laughed.

“Not them,” Smithy said quietly, nodding subtly to the curious table beside them. “A strange bunch.”

Jane observed each of the men in turn; all except one were snickering and elbowing one another, all perhaps a year or two older than Gunther. But there was one other man seated with them, by far older than the rest. His dispassionate gaze and the occasional sharp look at the younger men when they spoke out of place put Jane in mind of Sir Theodore when she and Gunther had done something to displease him.

Jester drummed his fingers on the table. “They’ve been in here all week, never singing, never joining in - they just talk among themselves. They are not bunking upstairs like the Free Company, they are not local, nor can I tell that they are practising any trade. I cannot place them.”

“Perhaps they are staying in the tavern?” Smithy suggested. “Visiting knights?”

“Or labourers, finished building the tourney grounds?” Rake piped up.

“Just the one knight drinks in here,” Pepper said, looking at Gunther with a giggle. “It is not a place known for its airs and graces.”

“Well, I can hardly drink at the tavern with Sir Ivon, can I? And the prices are much fairer here.”

Jester risked a casual glance to the table of strangers. Unexpectedly, he caught the gaze of the man with the ponytail, and offered a polite smile.

The man returned his gaze, eyes sliding from the bell-adorned hat, to the gold hoops in his ears, to the jigsaw-adorned leggings, with an expression usually reserved for discovering one had stepped in dung. But then he swung his legs over the bench to approach, flashing them all a bright smile.

“Good evening, friends. My name is Robert.” His eyes travelled around the table, inspecting them each in turn, before settling on Jane. “My, such a pretty face. How many freckles do you have, I wonder? Each one, no doubt, for every kiss you have provoked.”

Jane’s face worked as she experienced a flurry of emotions: disgust, rage, amusement, surprise. She could not decide which she felt most strongly.

Her face settled on disgust. She exchanged a look with Pepper. 

Robert reached forward to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. 

Jane slapped his hand down. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Meri turn to face them. 

“Fiery,” he grinned. “Though I should expect no less from the good Lady Knight of Kippernia.”

Jane’s breath caught in her throat. Of course, she had been expecting people to have heard about her, and about Dragon. But there was something about this man that made her uneasy, and he could sense her discomfort. His grin widened. 

Behind her, she felt Jester shift in his seat. Smithy sat forward; Pepper’s lips parted slightly, and she touched Rake’s hand. Gunther’s arm remained lazily resting on the table, cup in hand, though she thought she saw his other hand move to rest on the hilt of his blade. His eyes flickered between the man’s companions at the other table, calculating his odds in the event this turned sour.

“Then I am at a disadvantage,” she said evenly. “For I do not know of you.”

“I am just an admirer of the rare and beautiful; and there is nobody so rare and so beautiful as the woman who, rumour has it, has tamed a dragon. Fiery, indeed.” He reached back to smack his friends on the shoulders, raising his voice for everyone to hear. “Quite the spark, isn't she? Look at her, all that fire in her hair and eyes. Tell me, Lady Knight - are you as fearsome as your dragon?”

“Perhaps you would care to find out,” she said sweetly. She ignored the looks on her friends’ faces, casting about the room; at least the Free Company ought to be good for something other than drinking the bar dry. A curious quiet had fallen over the room as they watched the proceedings. 

Jane tilted her chin up. “Does anyone here have a quarterstaff?” 

“Here,” one of them replied, scuffling about the edge of the room a moment, before handing her a pair of heavy oak staves. 

“Thank you.” She tossed one to Robert. He caught it easily.

“Staves? With you?” Robert laughed and shook his head. “I would never be so ungracious as to fight a young lady.”

“Are you afraid you will be beaten?”

“Not afraid,” he said. He grinned again, perhaps in a way he thought endearing. “In fact, I yearn for it.”

Jane’s face twisted, and she twirled the stave in her hand. “You will wish you did not.”

“Staves!” Gunther called, clapping. “Staves! Staves!” 

Pepper threw up her hands in exasperation, but Jester and Smithy joined in, and so did others in the crowd, keen for a fight. Even Robert’s friends joined the chant, laughing, and slapping him on the back; all except the older man, who sat back with crossed arms. 

Smithy shook his head. “This should be good.”

“Young lady,” Robert called above the din, “you are aware that I am a real knight?”

A knight, then. She would have to be on her guard.

“Oh, and here I thought you were a fool.”

“That would be an insult to fools,” Jester said quietly.

Robert laughed in disbelief. “Very well, as you are so eager. How about a little friendly competition?” he suggested. “If you win, I will pay for your drinks.”

“And buying double!” roared Winslow, laughing loudly.

Jane smiled falsely. “Thank you, but we were just on our way out; however, I’m sure our friends here would appreciate a few more drinks,” she said, gesturing to the room at large.

She received a cheer from the Free Company soldiers and the handful of locals on the outskirts. She’d prefer to have the crowd on her side.

“Very well,” he said, considering her offer. Her eyes narrowed slightly; so he was affluent enough to accept the bet, in addition to being a knight. And yet here he was, at an inn of low reputation, in catchpenny clothes.

“And if I win,” he continued, “we can find a quiet corner and… get to know one another.”

“And count all my freckles in the firelight,” she said, with a mock curtsey.

The soldiers jumped up and shoved tables aside, clearing a space beside the fire. Two smaller tables were commandeered, set a few yards apart. Winslow carried one end of a long plank, his unimpressed wife carrying the other. They set it between the two tables to form a narrow bridge. Jane leapt onto one of the tables and gestured for Robert to take the other. 

“That is your castle. Defend it well. If you fall, you lose. If I take your table, you lose.”

Robert smirked, stepping onto the table.

Jane watched as Robert took up his stance. The crowd had backed against the wall; the locals started to place bets, the noise building with anticipation. 

On the occasions she had removed Ivon from the tavern, she had not done so without her share of sparring - usually incited by Ivon himself. 

Take your training where you can get it, lass. 

In challenging the men Ivon had angered on any given night, she noticed how many would parade their self-assurance against her before a fight; even Gunther was sometimes the same. Full of confidence, Robert stepped forward, his weight on his right foot, twirling his stave in both hands in a show of skill. He baited her with a brief feint, but she did not fall for it; he returned to the same stance, favouring his right leg. Like a game of chess where her opponents’ options fanned out in her mind as she watched their move, she could see he would favour striking down from his right shoulder. 

Jane watched a moment longer, tracing each arc of the twirling stave, counting them like the swish of a skipping rope. One… two, and… She raced forward, closing the distance between them in three steps. She brought the staff into the meat of his left calf. His leg buckled, and he fell from the plank, landing face-down on the ground. The stave clattered down beside him, some distance away. 

Jane jumped down lightly to the other side of the plank, and handed her stave back to the soldier she’d borrowed it from. She turned back to Robert, and curtseyed again. “Thank you kindly for the entertainment.”

Robert’s companions helped him to his feet, ash from the hearth smeared down one side of his face and caught in his hair. Jane returned to her friends as the tables were scraped back into position. Winslow summoned Robert to him.

Gunther looked on, peering through the crowds to watch him go. “He walks well enough. You should have broken it.” 

“His friends will be retelling that story for months,” Smithy chuckled.

“For years!” laughed Jester. “They will celebrate it with a rowdy drinking song. I’ve a mind to write one myself. Excellent performance, Jane.”

Meri hurried over and put a hand on Jane’s arm. “I’m sorry, I know we do not know one another - but are you alright? My father’s taking his money and sending him on his way. Can I get you another drink?”

“If that dolt's paying then can we put another round or two in the stables?” Gunther suggested.

“Right away,” Meri nodded, rushing away again. Jester followed.

Rake frowned. “In the stables?”

“It means for later,” Pepper said gently, patting his hand.

“Another?” Jane said. “The festival, Gunther! Jester, where are you going?” she sputtered as he darted through the crowds towards the bar.

Gunther took her by the arm and led her away from the door to stand among the soldiers. “I have no desire to leave this building and find him waiting outside for another go of it,” he said. “We won’t be a moment. Just long enough to give him a head start.”

Jane sighed. Robert and his associates filed back through the aisles. He had scrubbed off most of the ash with his sleeve, but his face was red with embarrassment, or perhaps anger. Every so often, a group of soldiers would turn and jeer, facetiously thanking him for their drinks. He responded tersely to their ribbing, jaw tight. She could see him searching the crowd for her, and she ducked behind a soldier as he passed. 

Back at their table, Jester had returned, lute in hand, and a smug look on his face. He took a comfortable seat facing the door, feet resting on the table, and began to play a tune. As Robert approached, Jester began to sing. 

“ In the hush of the hall, the silence fell, a knight once proud, now didn't fare well.

A tale of chivalry, now a wobbly fable, of the greatest of knights - who fell from a table !”

Jane pushed closer to watch. Robert laughed at Jester’s japery, though his gaze was cold; he clapped Jester a little too hard on the shoulder and held it there, fingers biting into his arm as they exchanged words, before he stepped into the night.

Chapter Text

“You stand out like a sore thumb!” Gunther exclaimed, looking Jane up and down. 

By now, only the handful of locals in one corner kept them company at the inn, speaking in low voices over a game of cards. The Free Company had left behind a remarkable mess in their haste to leave for the festival, surfaces littered with discarded food and flooded with drink, the floors scattered with upturned chairs and ash trampled from the hearth. 

“It would not be safe for you to attend the festival now. One man has already singled you out - what is your plan for if there are fifty?” Gunther demanded.

“Then I spar fifty men,” Jane retorted, raising her chin. “I will not be dissuaded from attending the festival on account of one man looking to cause trouble.” 

But part of her knew Gunther was right. What if Robert was there now, with his henchmen? How many more at the campsite might mock her, challenge her, seek to discredit her skill? She had expected as much - but not before the tourney even began. The thought made her feel ten years old again, ridiculed for daring to dream of being a knight. 

Gunther rolled his eyes. “Be serious, Jane. You challenged a knight to staves, and you were lucky to win. Next time you may not.”

Pepper crossed her arms. “What else was she to do? Just let him speak to her like that?”

“Everyone in the festival will be deep in their cups by now - Jane may have to prepare for more than just a little flirtation!”

Jane scoffed. “It was not just a little flirtation! He knew me, and sought to get a rise out of me!”

“And he succeeded,” Jester said quietly, still not looking up. He had sat in near silence since they returned to him at the table, gaze resolutely on his fingers moving across the lute’s frets as he played. He had brushed off Jane’s concerns over his and Robert’s exchange, dismissing it as idle bluster from a sore loser; but there was something wrong with his posture, a forced quality to his relaxed demeanour as he sat apart from them, his feet resting on the table’s edge.

“He and his friends are clearly up to something nefarious,” he continued. “And he has taken an interest in you. And we do not know why.”

Jane pressed her lips together tightly. She wanted to be kind - Robert’s words had clearly shaken him - but more than that, she needed to know what had been said. If Robert was a knight, and wealthy, why would he wear such roughspun clothes? Why come here, rather than the tavern where the knights congregated? What interest did he have in her, or in Dragon? Why did his table huddle together and speak in hushed tones, as though afraid to be heard? It made no sense, unless he was up to no good. Anything he had revealed to Jester might add a piece to the puzzle.

Jane’s eyes narrowed. “No, we do not.”

Her tone made him look up, and he held his fingers over the lute strings to silence them, examining her face evenly. “He has said nothing to me that will tell us who he is, I can assure you.”

Jane planted her hands on the table emphatically. “Then what did he say to you? You are not yourself.”

The others tried not to look too curious, and failed, leaning closer to hear the cause of his unease. 

Jester set the lute aside with a sigh. “He had some particularly disparaging comments to make about my appearance and character, that I do not care to repeat. He did not give anything else away - about himself, or his interest in you.”

Jane sighed. Her hand twitched to reach for his, but she decided against it. 

To break the silence that followed, Gunther sat forward. “Jester, are there any Roberts being announced at the parade tomorrow?”

Jester rolled his eyes. “Yes, Gunther, now that you mention it - fortunately I have memorised all of the names, affiliations, and sigils of all of the knights being announced.”

“You have?” Rake said, awed. “That is impressive.”

“No,” Jester said gently, turning to him with a smile. “There are too many, and I have a list to read. But I thank you for your faith in me,” he said, part-bowing to Rake, who chortled. He turned back to Gunther. “There are countless Roberts. I could not say who he is.”

The table lapsed into thoughtful silence. Jane glanced across at Jester, lost in thought once more - is that what Robert had said to him? Jester was no stranger to comments at his own expense; whatever was said, it must have been vicious for him to react this way, and she felt guilty for pressuring him to tell them what it was. Pepper and Rake attempted to engage him in conversation, to a halfhearted response. Meanwhile, Gunther and Smithy were already lost in a quiet yet heated debate about the various merits of chariot racing versus jousting. 

Jane smiled despite herself. No matter the challenges she faced, or the rot that Robert represented, she had allies: both in the kingdom, and sat with her at the table - including a few she would never have expected. Only a few short years ago, Gunther would have laughed in her face, and left for the festival without her. At times, she thought, he might even have turned into a man like Robert. And yet here he sat alongside her, missing the festival just as she was, trying to support her.

Jane stared into her untouched drink. There was nothing more to go on until she saw Robert announced at the tourney. Perhaps Robert was not even his true name - it was common enough, indistinguishable, just like his clothes. But, she had to begrudgingly admit, the ruse was effective - she knew next to nothing about him. 

At last the card game across the room was won; the locals stood, the winner scooping up his gains, and they nodded to each of them as they streamed out the door. Rake sighed, watching them go. “If only there were a way for you to attend the festival without being recognised.” 

“Wearing that ?” Gunther snorted, finally drawn from his sermon on the excellence of jousting. “Not a chance. All the other ladies will be wearing gowns.”

Jane scowled at him, but then the spark of an idea kindled in her mind. She drummed her hands on the table, her face clearing. “You’re right, Gunther!”

He raised his eyebrows. “I am?”

“I cannot go dressed like this ,” Jane said slyly. “I will take a leaf from Robert’s book - I will go in disguise!”

Smithy laughed. “Disguised as what?” 

“As a boy?” Rake suggested. 

Jane raised her eyebrows, nodding. “Perhaps - or…” she prompted.

“Or as a lady!” Pepper blurted, clasping her hands. She was loud enough to draw the attention of Meri, who looked up from behind the bar. “That is excellent, Jane! Oh, nobody would recognise you!” Pepper continued. “But are you sure?” she asked, with more excitement than concern.

Even Rake looked surprised, nodding thoughtfully. “You have always been so adamant.”

Jane’s face spread into a mischievous grin. “Yes, I am sure. I am not missing the festival - I just need to blend in.” 

“You’re welcome to borrow something of mine,” Meri said, appearing beside them. “Save you a trip back up the hill.” 

“Sorry for interrupting earlier,” Meri said, tossing another gown across her bed. She had pulled nearly everything from her armoire already, unrolling each gown and overdress to hold up against Jane to gauge its fit. 

Jane dismissed her concern with a wave. “It is no matter. It is so kind of you to offer to let me borrow something.”

Meri smiled, unrolling another dress, holding it up to Jane. It was a losing battle. Jane was a head taller than Meri, and substantially more robust. Like all the rest, this gown was much too short, falling to Jane’s shins; the fabric was taut before it even approached covering Jane’s shoulders. 

Jane did not register Meri’s growing sense of defeat, instead taking in the details of Meri’s accommodations. The room on the top floor of the inn was deceptively large and well-appointed, for an innkeeper’s daughter, adorned with finely crafted wooden furniture and soft linens, and a thick rug beneath their feet. Jane had been careful to temper her surprise - like everyone else, she had heard about Winslow’s dealings on the side. There were rumours that even Pepper had taken advantage at the King’s discretion, to enhance the dinner table. Jane supposed it was a victimless crime - it was only the Merchant and his tax collectors who would not receive their dues. 

Jane’s attention was caught by a small writing-desk in the corner of the room, fully stocked with ink and quills, a journal wrapped in dark leather sitting neatly at its centre. 

Meri followed her gaze. “Jester sometimes he writes down songs he hears from the sailors.”

Jane ignored the twisting sensation in her stomach at the thought of him in Meri’s room. “You two have grown close,” she said, keeping her tone light.

“I suppose we have,” Meri beamed. She folded the last of her dresses back into the armoire. “He talks about you all the time - and of Dragon, of course - and all you’ve accomplished. He’s so excited to see you perform in the tourney.” Meri waited for Jane to say something. When she didn’t, she continued, “Does he speak of me much?” 

“Jester?” At Meri’s earnest nod, Jane fought the urge to tell the truth in biting terms; that until today, Jane had no idea she even existed. “We hear you have the most magnificent voice,” she said instead, praying that would be the end of it. 

She picked up the journal on the table; inside, Jester’s neat handwriting laid out a series of stories and songs underlined by their musical notation. Some of them were in English, others in French or Italian, and one was in some form of Spanish. In the margins he had made notes on alternate lyrics, or the etymology of individual words; she recognised some Latin, her worst language, alongside other annotations legible only to him. 

Meri had blushed, and continued chattering away, oblivious to Jane’s distraction. “Jester said that? Well, he said it to me once - not in those exact words, but something like that, and the song he was writing…” She shook her head. “Anyway, it is he who can sing and read and write in four languages and play any instrument set before him. Sometimes I think he must be the smartest man in the kingdom. I can only sing.” 

At Meri’s pause, Jane looked up; Meri was gazing at her with large, deep blue eyes, flecked with amber. They put Jane in mind of the ocean reflecting the setting sun. Her cheeks twitched with a smile. “Sorry, I’m babbling. Has… has he said anything else?” 

“Only - only of your beauty,” Jane replied, but it was her own observation; the answer pleased and flustered Meri all the same. 

Meri closed the wardrobe doors and turned her attention to a chest beside it, clearing her throat, and tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “So…when did you and Jester meet?” 

Jane bit the inside of her cheek. “When he first arrived at the castle.” 

Meri smiled, rifling through the trunk’s contents, draping items over its lip before digging deeper inside. “I sometimes forget he is not from Kippernia. What was he like, back then?”

Jane remembered he had an accent, when he had first arrived. It was not one she could identify, and it had faded quickly in the early months at the castle, until there was no trace of it at all. She remembered her mother describing Jester’s family as hailing from the continent, the night they arrived to perform for the King. Jane had been considered too young to attend - but she wasn’t going to let that stop her, and had crept from her room at the first opportunity. Though she could scarcely see the performers through a dense forest of legs, she recalled the night in glimpses of bold colour, the rap of feet against flagstones as they danced, and a chorus of voices and instruments. The performance had gone on late into the night. Jane’s father had found her curled up on the floor outside the great hall, and carried her back to bed before her mother could find out.

The following morning started like any other; Jane sat at her window, lamenting her needlework; it was intolerable without the knights to watch in the courtyard. But the knights were hungover, the performers had gone, and the castle was quiet. And then she heard a lone musician playing in the garden. 

They became fast friends immediately, in the way that children do. He would sprint from the library to sing her a new ballad he had learnt, and she would listen from her window. They would sit on the swings to watch the knights training. On rainy days, they played tag or hide-and-seek in the castle halls - until Jane’s mother reprimanded her for impropriety. They would have lunch with Rake when he started that summer, and then also with Pepper and Smithy, when they arrived in the coming years. 

Ever outgoing, Jester only became shy when asked about his family, his home, and even his name. In trying to be considerate, everyone asked less and less, and soon they barely spoke about it at all. Jane did not ask when he sang and performed excitedly in Italian for travelling dignitaries at the age of nine. She did not ask when his fingers got trapped in a stable door closing hard in the wind, age eleven, and he cried out in a language she couldn’t identify. She did not ask even when he gifted her his armour - though she’d wanted to, more than anything. 

In later years, Jane began to suspect that in addition to the shyness, he enjoyed the intrigue of it all - or at least that was how he would play it, if anyone ever broke the unspoken rule not to ask. 

“Much the same as he is now,” Jane replied, keeping her recollections to herself. “Only perhaps he was a little more timid.”

“I find that hard to imagine,” Meri laughed, emerging from the chest, a kirtle hooked over her arm almost identical to the one Meri wore beneath her apron. “I haven’t had this fitted yet,” she explained, not unkindly, “so perhaps this will be a better fit for you. You can leave the rest of your things here, if you like,” she said, pushing the kirtle into Jane’s hands. “Jester is leaving his lute; no doubt he will visit again tomorrow,” she said, on her way out the room.

It had been an innocent statement of fact, yet it knocked the wind from Jane’s sails in a way she hadn’t anticipated. She stared at the kirtle; aside from the laces at the front, it was unadorned, though a vibrant reed-dyed green that matched the ribbon in her hair.  

Jane rarely concerned herself with what ladies should be like. A ball in the spring had marked the official welcome of the new court attendants. Adeline had keenly introduced Jane to Princess Lavinia’s new ladies-in-waiting, Jane’s age, each meticulously preened, powdered, and perfumed; her mother’s descriptors rang with words like comely, genteel, and elegant - a reminder that she was none of those things. It had been one thing to hear her mother’s exasperated admonishments over the years - it was another when they turned to sharp comparisons. Jane had wept in Pepper’s kitchen that night, her self-assurance washed away like a castle built on sand. They had sat together, Jane hiccoughing her way through her mother’s needled remarks, as Pepper stroked her hair.

Both sturdy stew and sugared sweets have their place at the banquet table, petal.  

Jane had appreciated the analogy. But now, faced with wearing something so near identical to Meri - as beautiful and as melodic as a siren - she could not shake the notion that stew was not nearly so appetising. 

Jane was gone long enough that Pepper came to check on her, only to find Jane already changed, fussing with the laces. Pepper quickly fixed them for her, pinched her cheeks to add a little colour, licked her thumb and smoothed her eyebrows, and teased and twisted a few more locks of hair to tuck loosely behind Jane’s ears. She could not convince Jane to part with her leggings; she wore them still, beneath the skirt. Finally she stood back, admiring her good work: Jane looked like a lady. Perhaps not the highborn lady her mother would have preferred, but wonderful all the same. 

“You look lovely,” Pepper sighed. Pepper reached forward, gently pulling Jane's plait over her shoulder, and led her down the stairs. Jester's lute lay in the corner of the back room. The door to the bar was closed, muffling the voices of her friends on the other side. Paces from it, Jane tugged her hand from Pepper’s grasp. 

“Wait.”

Pepper turned, an amused smile creeping across her lips. She rested her hands on her hips. “Getting cold feet, are we?”

“No,” Jane huffed. “The idea is sound. But…” she held up and dropped the skirt, unable to find the words. Finally she blurted, “Can stew become a sweet?”

Pepper’s eyes widened, and then she giggled. “Not in the kitchen,” she said. “But you are not stew. You are Jane.”

Jane imagined that had sounded more profound in her head. Before she could reply, Pepper had turned on her heel and headed for the door. 

“Pepper! Where are you going?”

“Sending reinforcements,” she called over her shoulder, closing the door behind her. Jane thought she heard her saying, “Honestly, you can march up a mountain and into a dragon’s cave…” as she went.

She heard her friend’s voices fade outside, then footsteps, and finally a gentle knock. 

Jane crossed her arms. “Come in, Jester.” 

He slid through as small a gap in the door as he could manage, eyes closed, feeling his way blindly into the room. He stumbled into a barrel with a nervous laugh. “How did you know it was me?”

She would not say that she could recognise his footsteps just as easily as she could his voice. 

“The bells gave it away.”

“Of course - silly me,” Jester said, giving his head a shake.

Jane smiled to herself. Pepper was right, Jester would have something reassuring to say. He always knew what to say. She pinched her cheeks a final time, straightened her back, and dropped her hands to her sides. Jester’s eyebrows raised at the rustle of fabric, awaiting her instruction. 

“Okay,” she said. She smoothed out the skirt, and adjusted her plait. “You may look. But you cannot laugh.”

“I would never.”

And he opened his eyes. 

Jane looked down at herself; the ringlets Pepper had teased out tumbled into her eyes. 

His silence was worse than laughing. 

Until tonight, Jane had not doubted that she was - what? she accused herself. Attractive? Pretty? By her own admission, she had never given much thought to her own looks, nor to romance. 

But Jester had called her pretty, once. 

She tugged at a loose thread on her sleeve. “You do not like it.” 

Jester rubbed his cheek, turning his eyes to the ground. “No, it’s - it’s…” He fought for the balance between what he wanted to say, and what he should. He reached forward to brush the ringlets from her eyes, but decided against it, lowering his hand, and turning his eyes to the ground. In the back of his mind, he pictured Adeline’s flint gaze when last they spoke. At length, he replied: “The colour suits you well.”

Jane’s face flickered. “Oh.” She tugged the thread again; it snapped off. She flicked it hastily behind her. “That was a lot of thought, for so few words.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Some might say…” In truth, he thought, she looked beautiful all the time; entire ballads could be written about it, and indeed they had - by himself. But he could hardly say so.

“This was a bad idea,” Jane huffed, crossing her arms. 

“No,” he said, taking her hands in his. “No.” He stepped closer. Jane held her breath as he brushed the ringlets from her eyes, fingers curling behind her ears. 

“Some might say that you look so beautiful, the stars themselves have dimmed in envy.”

She looked up, feeling a blush creep across her cheeks. “Some might say?” 

“Oh,” he sighed, one finger tracing the angle of her jaw. “Only a fool would not.”

His finger reached her chin, tilting her face towards his. She wondered if this time he would finally bridge the gap between them, and meet her with a kiss. 

She waited, and together they watched the moment pass.

Chapter Text

In the fields below, the tourney ground stretched out in the moonlight, enclosed by wooden barriers and flanked by elevated stands for the nobles. The colourful banners and tents pitched along its edge were motionless in the still night, washed of colour by the moon. The lists ran the length of the tiltyard, ready for thunderous applause and the clash of lances. But tonight they were silent; it was the festival that roared.

Here, faces and armour were lit in flickering orange by a myriad of torches and scattered bonfires. Pepper clung to Rake’s hand; Rake held Smithy’s collar; Smithy gripped Gunther’s belt, who in turn clutched Jester’s shoulder; and Jester clasped Jane’s hand, as she led them past the hawkers and costermongers that wove through the burbling crowd, advertising their wares at a bellow, alternately selling cherries, pies and sugar treats; good luck charms in the form of rabbit’s feet, acorns, and amulets on leather cords; and roughly hewn flutes and whistles of wood and bone, which had proved popular - their shrill tones pierced the air with erratic chirrups and shrieks. Ramshackle tents leaning against the treeline offered honey wine and ale, each surrounded by rassling crowds and villagers hunched over barrels or in huddles on the ground, betting on games of horseshoes, morra, knucklebones, and dice. 

A towering wrought iron war beacon stood proudly amidst a fire pit vast enough to rival the castle courtyard, lined with stones. Encircling the pit, banners depicting the bear of Ironhold, the Fairhaven stag, and Maltthorpe’s draught horse were brought to life by the flame. What should have been a magnificent sight served as little more than a backdrop for fire eaters and acrobats parting the crowds with their craft, accompanied by flautists and fiddlers, drummers and dancers and singers, holding out hats; they were singing for coins. Still, their purpose seemed only to beckon the crowds toward an animated figure, standing atop a dais. Gilded robes caught the light, his arms outstretched as he addressed an enraptured crowd.

“Is that Haroldus?”

Jester yelped as Jane tugged him forward, the others in tow, into the press of people at the foot of the stage. There she stood on her toes, craning her neck to watch past the heads blocking her view.

“The basilisk also breathes fire,” Haroldus was explaining sagely. A performer adorned in shimmering slate grey slithered onto the platform beside him, blowing a stream of fire into the sky. “But what you may not know is… it also turns its victims,” he said, gesturing to the performer, “to stone…”

The performer froze; his fire died. Behind them, the flames in the pit ducked and guttered to embers, throwing the crowd into darkness. Jane gasped, despite herself; some in the crowd screamed.

“That would be Gorgons,” Jester whispered in the dark, “not basilisks.” 

Jane rolled her eyes, lightly smacking him on the shoulder. She realised she was still holding his hand, and hastily let go.

“For you see, in the days of old, there arose among man a desire to wield power beyond their understanding. Some creatures were not woven into existence by the gentle hands of nature or the guiding touch of divine creation, but by something… much darker.”

The flames in the pit seemed to dim further still, leaving Haroldus as little more than a cloaked silhouette.

“The basilisk was the first of these creatures to be created. And so you see, the basilisk… The basilisk marked the birth,” Haroldus called, the fire lighting once more in time for everyone to see him pressing his fingers emphatically into his open palm, “of the age of dragons.” He paced for a moment before returning to the stage, waiting for the eager babbling of the crowd to settle down. “Tell me,” Haroldus called suddenly, flying from the stage into the silent crowd, and reassuringly grasping the hand of a woman watching with her hands clasped over her mouth, “do you know the tale… of Tinoktem? No?” he said, patting her hand and turning away. “Perhaps it is not wise that I share it, then.” He shook his head, suddenly a frail old man, weary. “Perhaps it is not wise at all. Do you know? Or you?”

Jane gasped; Tinoktem was scribbled in her journal, a fragment of a story that Jester had once heard: the King of Dragons. She pushed him forward.

“In the stories,” he volunteered hesitantly, casting a glance over his shoulder as Jane egged him on, “Tinoktem was the first dragon created.”

Haroldus looked up, shrewd eyes scanning the crowd until at last they landed on Jester. Recognition dawned on his face, quickly concealed. Haroldus lifted his chin in acknowledgement, keen to continue his tale. 

“Quite right, quite right,” he mumbled, one sweeping arm gesturing to Jester briefly, hand outstretched, before it moved along the crowd. In its wake, the band of acrobats wove through. Masks fashioned to look like terrible creatures caught the firelight, adorned with horns, scales, and feathers. They contorted their arms and bodies like animals about to strike, pressing their faces close to those in the watching crowd. Jane stepped back as one approached her, hissing, eyes gleaming unnervingly bright in the firelight beneath the raven mask.

“I will share with you all this final tale tonight,” Haroldus announced, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Tinoktem was the first; his scales were as hard as iron, and his wings stretched from horizon to horizon so that they blotted out the sun. He was the eldest, and greatest, of dragons. When the world was young, Tinoktem and his kin lived in harmony with their creator, mankind. But over time, these creatures - once nurtured, and even revered by man - were torn apart by them, hunted and harvested, their bodies torn asunder and their parts sold, reduced to mere trinkets and tinctures by those who sought to wield the power and wealth they bestowed.”

Jane wrung her hands; she thought of the Merchant trying to get ahold of Dragon’s teeth. Beside her, Gunther dipped his head, perhaps remembering the role he’d reluctantly played in his father’s schemes.

Haroldus continued, his voice raising. “As each dragon fell, so too did the bond that had once united us. Tinoktem, gazing upon the desecration of his kin, turned his fury upon mankind. His breath was as fire… and it was said that the fire rained down,” he roared; behind him, the fire rushed a violent green, sparks snapping into the air. Some in the crowd screamed as the performers grasped them by the shoulders. 

“The people cried out in anguish as Tinoktem laid waste to their fields and villages,” he yelled, the performers in the crowd screaming as though in anguish, the flames behind him glowing red. “No man, woman, or child was spared from his fury - corpses strewn where they stood, ancient citadels did melt and warp under the searing heat of the dragon’s breath, their mighty ramparts reduced to rivers of molten stone that flowed like tears upon the desolate earth!”

Then, silence fell. Jane shifted uncomfortably as the performers who had woven themselves into the crowd disappeared just as quickly, and a tide of whispers began to rise all around her. 

Haroldus raised a hand for silence, bright eyes washing over his audience. Jane thought she felt his gaze linger on her.

“When all hope seemed lost,” he continued finally, “a synod of dragons still loyal to man decreed that they would lend their aid to slay Tinoktem, for they could not stand idly by while innocents suffered. To aid in this war, they forged weapons of such keen edge that it could pierce a dragon’s hide. But… it was not enough. The warriors fell one by one beneath its terrible claws and searing flames. And so, they returned to the synod; and this time it was said that the dragons bestowed upon them a whistle of wondrous sound, whose tones could distract and confound the dragon in its fury.”

Jane gasped, straining to hear his voice above the skirling of the musicians’ flutes.

“And still,” Haroldus called over the noise, “it was not enough. And so the synod fashioned armour tempered in the fires of their breath, that it might withstand the fury of Tinoktem - and still, the knights were no match for the beast’s indomitable strength. Finally, in their despair, they turned to the dark forces which had first wrought the dragons. They conjured forth a plague, a dread pall so dire that it would lay low even the mightiest of dragons, and it spread its baleful grasp across the land. Yet, even as the sickness ravaged their ranks, the hand of man was not stayed. They continued their relentless hunt, pillaging the bodies of fallen dragons for their coveted treasures - heartstring, bone, tooth, and claw; eye and tongue and scale - all was precious, and fast became priceless.”

Jane shivered despite the heat, wrapping her arms about herself. She cast a nervous glance at the hundreds of strangers about her in the crowd. Who knew what they each might want from Dragon, given the chance? 

“Tinoktem, once the King of Dragons, the greatest and most fearsome, was the last to succumb. Or…so we thought. For right here, in the kingdom of Kippernia, high atop a craggy peak,” he gestured to Dragon’s mountain, “there dwells just such a creature of legend and wonder, known as the true last of the dragons.”

Haroldus paused to let the hushed whispers of the mythic last dragon permeate, twirling his silver beard as heads came together to share rumours of what they had heard. Jane cast her gaze skywards along with the rest of the audience; her view was capped by smoke stained a dull orange from the flames below. Dragon could be flying overhead, and nobody would be any the wiser.

“This majestic beast,” he continued eventually, “with scales of emerald and eyes of flame, made its home here. He is a living testament to the fragile alliance between man and nature, and the last living monument to our avarice. I encourage you to revere him, to respect him, as one of the last living wonders that I described here tonight. And with that… I am done.” He bowed, stepping off the stage as the crowd threw overlapping questions. “I thank you all for indulging me,” he called, disappearing into the crowd. “And I thank you for your enthusiasm! Perhaps one of you might buy me a drink, and tell me some stories of your own!”

Without waiting for the others, Jane chased after him. She elbowed her way to the front of his eager audience keen to keep the tales going, as they headed for a vast tent transformed into an alehouse. Raucous laughter and bawdy drinking songs spilled from its walls. 

Some of the performers had run ahead and taken up their acts outside; others still had secured a table, looking so bizarrely out of place in their chimerical costumes that people couldn’t help but stare. They parted to allow Haroldus a seat, which he took with a grateful sigh.

“Haroldus,” Jane gasped, pushing in beside them.

“Jane! Opting for discretion this evening, are we? A prudent choice,” he called, gratefully receiving a drink from an admirer. “My thanks, good man!”

“Thank you, sir - but I was hoping to ask -”

“I presume you're off to witness the, ah, unsanctioned melee here tonight,” he shouted above the clamour.

“Well, no, sir, but -”

“At the far end of the site, farthest from the tournament ground. We wouldn't want any unfortunate incidents to mar the festivities, now would we? Engaging in altercations outside of the tournament is quite frowned upon. Very bad form. Nevertheless, it promises to be quite a show!”

“I’m sorry, sir, but -”

“Nothing can keep me from an event such as this, I tell you. The stories you hear! Is Theodore with you? I have a few that he would appreciate.”

“No, sir,” Jane sighed, resigning herself to letting Haroldus tire himself out before she got to ask her questions. She took the seat Haroldus offered her.

“Shame - he was quite the reveller in his day! Nothing at all like his mentor - what was his name? James? John? Very serious man, indeed. We did not get along especially well, I’m afraid to say.” He took a deep draught of his drink. “ Terminally absurd , I believe he once called me.”

Jane’s ears pricked up, leaning in as Haroldus took another grateful draught of his ale. “Theodore’s mentor? He doesn’t often speak of his training years,” Jane called, leaning into the table whilst subtly extending an elbow behind her to deter the man who kept bumping into her, so packed was the tent.

“Yes, he had an unusual surname - what was it… Black, perhaps? No, that is too banal.” He laughed heartily. “Listen to me, what an old man I sound. I never forget a face, but I retain names like a sieve retains water. Ah, Jester! Finally someone with a name worth remembering!”

Jester slid through the crowd and eagerly accepted Haroldus’ handshake. “A pleasure to see you again, sir! Fantastic performance!”

“You had me for a moment there, in the crowd. What is this dreadful attire you’re wearing? Stick to the jester’s motley, I would. Now,” he said, leaning in, “this may be of interest to you, also. I was just telling Jane of the good Sir Theodore’s mentor, in the years before they retook the castle. There’s a statue of him, just outside the gates. What was the chap’s name?”

“That statue is purely ornamental,” Jane informed him. “Taken from a ballad that was the favourite of King Bartok.”

“Who told you that? Theodore? Ha!” He slapped the table jovially; it was little more than planks overlaid on a barrel, and the performers hastily grabbed their flagons before they were overturned. “Then he’s even more enfeebled than I!” He turned to Jester. “You’re sure you don’t recall his name?” 

“The statue is based on a scene from The Valour of Two Hearts. Have you heard it?” Jester asked lightly, twisting a button on his sleeve. 

The gesture drew the gaze of Haroldus, who sighed thoughtfully, steepling his fingers. “I have not, perhaps you can tell me another time. Perhaps also it is I who is mistaken, then,” he said easily, smoothing his robes. “I have collected a great many tales over the years - some are bound to get muddled with time. Now I’m sure-”

“But you heard that the statue was based on this figure, Sir Theofore’s mentor?” Jane pressed, placing her hand on the table for emphasis, before he could change the subject. 

One of Haroldus’ performers scowled at Jane for her officiousness. Her feathered mask was pulled back atop her head, raven feathers melting into her hair. The charcoal she wore across her eyelids, so that they might be better concealed beneath the mask, had settled in the fine lines beneath her eyes and left streaks down her face from the heat. On her fingertips were iron rings tapered like claws; she tapped them on the table impatiently, raising an eyebrow.

“Come, Cressida, claws away - Jane is a friend,” Haroldus said jovially. 

Cressida eyed Jane as though she were not entirely convinced that this gave her the right to speak to an elder in that tone, and muttered something under her breath. Whatever it was, Jane noted, it had caught Jester’s attention - but her mind was elsewhere. 

“I was under the mistaken impression,” Haroldus said, turning his flagon in his hands, “that it was in memory of a man by the name of… Sir John D’Ark.”

“John D’Ark?” Jane repeated. Haroldus nodded, eyes lowered to his drink.

If she had turned to face Jester, she might have seen him rubbing his neck, eyes flicking between the old adventurer and young knight. Instead, she kept her gaze trained on Haroldus, waiting for him to elaborate. 

“Sir Theodore has told us of all the great knights in the history of the castle, but I cannot remember any by the name of D’Ark,” she prompted.

“I myself was little more than a drifting raconteur in those days, gathering stories at the Goodwater. I could still be mistaken. Perhaps the true tale will return to me, once I have had a chance to speak to Theodore. The curses of age,” he said, wiry brows knitting together.

Jane opened her mouth to press further, but was cowed into silence by Cressida’s sharp look. 

“I understand, sir,” she said lightly. For all his skill as a storyteller, he was not much of a liar. “I wonder, then,” she said, turning her attention back to the issue which had drawn her to Haroldus’ side in the first place, “if instead you could tell me more about the story you told tonight, about the dragons - about the sickness you described, and the whistle, sword, and armour.”

Haroldus sighed, clearly relieved to be back on safer ground; he spread his hands across the table. “After our last meeting, Dragon really was at the forefront of my mind throughout my travels - I’ve learnt a great deal of stories. Of course, Jester here no doubt knows most of them already: of guivres in France, Coca in Iberia, and Tarantasio in Italy.”

Jane nodded eagerly. “I have them all written down in my journal, every detail he could remember.”

Haroldus nodded approvingly. “Here’s what I propose, then - after the parade, you and Dragon should come and find me. We can discuss all of this, perhaps add some more notes to your journal, somewhere a little less… conspicuous.” He nodded. “Yes, that is what we will do.”

Jane suddenly felt acutely aware of all the people close by, waiting their turn to speak to Haroldus more patiently than she had. 

“Thank you, sir,” she said, lowering her voice. “Now I will find the melee you suggested,” she said with the briefest curtsey, and made her way from the tent.

Outside she rejoined the others in time to see Rake pulling Pepper out of the path of a man stumbling towards the treeline to vomit. Gunther watched the man’s suffering gleefully, laughing with a groan. 

Jane wrinkled her nose; all these years later, and bodily fluids were still the height of humour. She caught him by the shoulder and spun him to face the group, relaying Haroldus’ instructions about where to find the melee.

“Splendid,” Gunther replied. “What are we waiting for?”

“Jester,” she sighed, looking around. “He was right at my side! Where has he gone?”

“There he is,” Rake said, pointing further down the treeline.

Jane squinted; true enough, Jester stood with his back to them, locked in a hushed conversation with Cressida. He ran his fingers through his hair agitatedly, nodding, until finally Cressida disappeared once more into the thronging crowds. Jane waited a moment before she approached him at the treeline, his back still facing her. She reached out to touch his arm. In an instant, he switched from taut and distressed to the kind of easy lightness she knew and recognised, spinning on one heel to greet her with a grin. 

Until tonight, she had admired how Jester could meld himself to suit any company, something he saved for his court performances or flattering the nobles. It was not something Jane felt she excelled in. She was the same person across every situation, for better or for worse. But now it disoriented her somehow; she wondered how many times before he had fooled her.

“Haroldus told me about a melee tonight,” she started hesitantly. “We’re headed there now.” She half-turned to where Cressida had disappeared into the crowd. “What was all that about?”

“Nothing,” he said lightly, pushing himself from the tree with his hands in his pockets, and striding into the crowd. “Just exchanging some news.”

She rolled her eyes, following. Wonderful, she thought. Just like earlier with Robert. 

“Keeping it to yourself is not going to help anyone,” she said, jogging to catch up with him. “A problem shared is a problem halved.” 

“There is no problem,” he said cheerfully.

She caught him by the arm. “Your face said otherwise. You might want to have a word with it,” she snapped and, ignoring his stunned expression in favour of taking Pepper’s hand, marched ahead to the melee. She did not look back to see whether Jester had caught up.

Perched atop the weathered fence of an old horse paddock, Jane observed the melee unfolding, her eyes tracing the movements of the combatants amidst the dust-filled air. The sharp scent of sweat and leather filled her nostrils. Amidst the chaos, fists, quarterstaffs, and swords clashed in a cacophony of sound, the clash of weapons resounding over the tumultuous cheers and jeers of spectators, as bets were thought won or lost. 

A group of puerile squires more than a little worse for wear from the evening’s festivities hung over the fence beside her. Closest to Jane, one swayed on the spot, slurring his words.

“All’s I’m saying is that if there was a dragon, someone would’ve seen it,” he explained earnestly. “Finley says it’s all a hoax. Says their captain of the guard’s some fusty old grandam, and their only other knight’s a drunk. So they says they’ve got a dragon!”

His companions nodded in a way that imitated thoughtful contemplation, but it made their heads bob and loll like unmoored buoys on a troubled sea. Jane bit her tongue.

“I might’ve saw it,” one replied eventually, taking a swig from a flask slung around his neck on a leather cord. “The dragon, I mean. The other night.”

Another hiccoughed. His eyes were closed and his head tilted to the sky, the sparse beginnings of facial hair illuminated by the firelight. “Bet you jus’ saw a bat,” he drawled. “Or an owl. Or a -”

“He’s right,” the first interrupted. “You can’t see shit, Amos.” He nodded to the combatants in the ring, some twenty paces ahead. “Can’t even see them.”

“Yeah, well… you can’t stand straight,” Amos muttered, swiping his friend’s arm from the fencepost. He swayed for a moment before landing face-first in the dust, to the sound of his friends’ raucous laughter. Jane groaned. Her disdain did not go unnoticed by the squires, who started to loudly whisper about her behind her back.

Jane turned from the uninspiring staves match happening before her and spied Jester locked in conversation with the most exquisitely dressed man she had ever seen, their arms resting against the fence as they shared a joke. The stranger sported an elegant silver tunic, a sword of exceptional artistry at his hip, and silver bracers at his wrists. Their ornate design left Jane torn between admiration for their craftsmanship and speculation about their practicality - or pretentiousness. He caught her eye, and flashed her a handsome smile before returning to their conversation.

Ordinarily she would take what the squires had said to Jester to discuss - he had developed a knack of overhearing everyone from the King to the Merchant to the maids during his banquets and dinners, in addition to his stories gleaned from visits to the Goodwater, and would surely by now have heard if a man by the name of Finley was spreading rumours. In fact, she reasoned, Jester would be the one person among her friends uniquely positioned to discuss the latest rumours, obscure knights whose deeds were hidden in library tomes, and dragon lore from across the continent. But tonight it felt as though there was nothing left untouched by the complexity of their friendship - not Robert’s artifice, his visits to the Goodwater, or Haroldus’ tales. She only wished he was open to discussing anything at all with her. He certainly hadn’t had any issues speaking with Cressida about whatever sensitive issue was too complex for her ears.

Gunther came to stand beside her. “So,” he said casually, under his breath. “How is the disguise treating you?” 

“Very well, thank you,” she replied brightly. “It would fare better if you did not announce it as such.”

Gunther laughed, eyes settling on the match before them. “We could do better than this,” he decided.

“Yes,” Jane sighed. “We could.”

When Jane didn’t contribute any more to the conversation, Gunther followed her gaze.

“Perhaps you should spend more time at the Goodwater, or the tavern; anywhere that isn’t the training yard,” he said casually.

“Oh?” she said, turning back to the staves. “And why should I do that?”

“Well,” he said, pretending to watch them also. “That way, you might meet someone yourself.”

She rounded on him. “For the last time, I do not need to meet someone!” 

Gunther laughed. “No, you just want Jester to admire you from a distance.”

“ What ?” Jane choked, opening and closing her mouth indignantly. Gunther watched delightedly and mimicked her, gaping at her as though impersonating a fish as he walked backwards away, into the safety of the crowd.

She hopped from the fence to follow him, but he’d disappeared into the crowd. Instead, she found herself paces from the handsome man in Jester’s company. 

“Gwydion, eh?” she overheard him say as she picked her way through to the fence once more. “My father knew a man by that name, said he was the most peculiar man he ever met. Disappeared after crewing on a cog headed for Italy some twenty years ago.” He looked Jester up and down, taking in his ill-fitting clothes and the gold rings in his ears. “My father asked me to listen for his whereabouts. Any relation of yours?”

“Not that I know of,” Jester said brightly, rocking contentedly on the balls of his feet as he watched the swordfight unfold before them. “Born and bred right here.”

“Who is Gwydion?” Rake asked, startling Jane as he lowered his head to whisper in Jane’s ear.

“Jester just said his name was Gwydion,” Pepper relayed, drawing alongside them.

“That doesn’t sound very Italian,” Rake said. “Petunia. Begonia. Azalea,” he listed. “Those are Italian, I believe. Jester once told me so.”

“How about fresco?” Smithy offered, pushing in behind them. Jane gently pushed them back as she was nudged ever closer to being pinned against the fence.

Gunther rolled his eyes, sliding in beside her. “He’d hardly tell his real name to a stranger before us. He’s doing it as part of his…disguise,” he finished, wrinkling his nose at the poorly fitted clothes in such stark contrast to the man beside him. He tilted his head to the side. “But still, this man disappeared on a trip to Italy. Do you think that could be his father’s name, truly?”

“It’s just a name from a story,” Jane sighed. “I have that same name written in my journal. His real name is just another secret .”

She felt the disdain with which she said the word draw the attention of her friends, but she did not meet their eyes.

“Who knew Jester had so many secrets to tell?” Smithy chuckled. 

They stepped back hurriedly as the pair of knights engaged in a swordfight suddenly lurched in their direction, the one on his back foot lunging to avoid being struck. He crashed against the fence.

“They are not secrets,” Pepper said firmly, dusting off her skirt as the pair flew back towards the inside of the ring. “Everything is his story to tell, in time.” 

Jane crossed her arms. “How much more time does he need?” 

“Perhaps speaking of life before the castle makes him homesick,” Pepper suggested, wincing as the knight was disarmed with a shuddering blow, clutching his wrist as he yielded.

“And speaking of Meri?” 

“That makes him lovesick,” Gunther whispered over her shoulder and, sensing an opportunity, leapt over the fence and into the arena in the place of the disarmed knight.

Well, Jane thought. Two can play at that game.

Craning her head to meet the eye of the handsome stranger, she smiled at him sweetly, the way she had seen so many women smile at Gunther when they were hoping to catch his eye. His eyes lit up when he saw her, and he gestured her over.

“There you are, Gwydion,” Jane said, pushing through to stand beside Jester.

“Ah, Peter - allow me to introduce you to my friends,” Jester said hastily, giving her a look she couldn’t decipher. “This is Pepper, and Rake, and Smithy.”

“What unusual names,” he said, his eyes dancing between them, before finally settling on Jane. “And your name, my lady?”

“I…” Jane paused at the subtle shake of Jester’s head. “I - well, my name is…”

“Saffron,” Pepper interrupted. “She works in the kitchens, with me.”

“Yes, forgive her,” Jester continued jovially, clapping Peter on the shoulder. “Saffron here often loses her tongue. Doesn’t get out much, you see.”

Peter laughed, eyes flicking over Jane with some amusement and more than a little delight. “Forgive me for not introducing myself properly, Saffron.” He reached for her hand, and she gave it; he pressed his lips to her knuckles, thumb running lightly across her fingers. “Sir Peter Finley, of Fairhaven.” 

She fought to keep her expression neutral. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said eventually, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ears.

“So,” Jester said, kicking at the dust at his feet. “Peter. You seem to have a handle on the competition. If I were to place some bets, who would be your pick?”

He shrugged one shoulder, not turning from Jane but begrudgingly releasing her hand. “Me.” 

“You are remarkably confident,” Jane laughed.

“It is not unfounded,” Peter replied, finally tearing his gaze from Jane and lightly punching Jester on the shoulder. “You will not waste your coin. The only other one I’d watch out for is Thegan,” he said, pointing across the paddock. “‘The Beast of Maltthorpe’, they call him.”

Amidst the maze of bodies, Jane did not need to guess which man he referred to. Thegan was immense, dwarfing both Rake and Smithy in height and stature, his frame grown larger still from bearing heavy armour and maille and weapons. His nose was flattened and crooked from repeated breakings, and a patchwork of scars across his arms and chest attested past battles. Worse still, he moved with a vicious speed she didn’t think could be possible for a man his size, hefting a battleaxe at his bewildered opponent as though it were no more weighty than a broom. Jane grimaced, and prayed that she would not have to face him in the melee.

“And over there?” she asked innocently, pointing to a pair of men locked in a fistfight, some way behind Thegan and his opponent. 

“Our pugilists are Sir William, of Fairhaven - excellent swordsman, not sure he’s faring as well in hand-to-hand combat - and a squire I believe to be from Ironhold. I hear that William is in serious debt,” he added casually to Jester, “so place no bets with him; he is in no position to pay. And over there,” he continued, turning his attention to a pair engaged in a spirited sword fight, “Sirs Alaric and Nicholas, both of Maltthorpe.” He smirked. “Alaric just got back from a border skirmish in the northeast; he trained Nicholas. No doubt Alaric is checking that all his good work did not go to waste in his absence.” He grinned, leaning closer. “Some say it is because Nicholas is his illegitimate son that he cares so much. But you did not hear it from me.”

Nicholas disarmed Alaric, who yielded with a booming laugh. Jane watched as Alaric returned to the audience, wondering whether his resemblance to his mentor was real, or a trick of the light.

Gossip is gold, as Sir Theodore said; and Peter was only too happy to share.

She pulled her plait over her shoulder, smoothing it beneath her palms. “And what do they say about us?”

He flashed her another handsome grin. “Kippernia?” He laughed. “A great many things. Of course, the greatest are of debts and dragons, but so far the dragon has remained as elusive as the Lady Knight herself. You work at the castle,” he said, turning to face them better. “What do you know of her?”

“A bit of a hothead at times,” Smithy replied absent-mindedly, watching Gunther in the arena. He grunted as Pepper stepped on his foot. 

“She is a fearsome fighter,” Rake said. “Not one to be trifled with!”

“And she is very kind,” Pepper finished, catching Jane’s eye. “That means a lot to us, as staff.”

“No coin like a kind word,” Jane grinned, squeezing her hand.

“She sounds as charming as she is mysterious,” Peter said, resting his hand casually on the hilt of his sword. He turned back to Jester, who stood with his arms crossed, gazing across the paddock. “And you, Gwydion? Have you many dealings with her?”

“No,” Jester said, crooked grin on his face. “I work at an alehouse, and The Lady Knight does not suffer drunken fools.”

“Or regular fools, for that matter,” Jane added. If Jester had heard her, he did not react.

Peter nodded thoughtfully. “I must say, the only other thing that I’ve heard that has piqued my interest is how the son of a family so infamous for making their fortune trading with the invaders during the Long Siege became a squire in service to the king.” 

“Not every man is like his father,” Jester replied absent-mindedly, as Gunther disarmed his rival.

“Yes, I’m sure my father would quite agree,” Peter mused. “The boy seems competent enough - not bad for a squire. Mine are all fools.”

“Perhaps you should be more like the lady knight,” Jester suggested, “and simply not tolerate them.”

Jane clenched her fists, opening her mouth to reply when a man reached forward and took Peter by the shoulder.

“Finley!”

“Devon!” And he disappeared into the crowd to greet his friend.

Jester folded his arms, waiting until there was sufficient distance between them before turning to Jane. “Leaning into the disguise, are we?”

She scoffed, though it gave her more satisfaction than she cared to admit to herself, seeing him jealous. “Me? How about you, Gwydion ?” 

“I could hardly give him my name,” Jester said.

There it is again , she thought: the intrigue . It grated on her nerves tonight. 

“Why not?” she replied pointedly. “It’s not as though we would recognise it.” She saw him turn to look at her, but she kept her gaze on the arena. “Oh, no,” she sighed as the squire she recognised to be Amos clambered into the ring, yelling some obscenity at Thegan about his mother’s honour.

Thegan met him halfway, tossing his battleaxe aside with a laugh, and took up a stave. Without waiting for Thegan to get into starting position, Amos struck; it was a clumsy blow. Thegan responded with a swift parry, the sound of wood meeting wood echoing through the crowd. Around them, betters hastily started to lay down their money for an assured win.

The squire struck hastily, leaving himself open to blows that Jane could see coming a mile off. She knotted her hands behind her back to prevent her arms from twitching as though to block the strikes herself. Thegan pressed his advantage, unleashing a series of strikes, each one landing with precision on their crumpling target.

Jester opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a yell going up in the crowd.

“The girl knight!” 

Jane froze. She felt Jester’s hand on her waist as the crowd staggered and swelled around them; a man barreled through, knocking Jane aside before leaping the fence into the arena. He carried with him a hobby horse, draped in a green caparison cut into the shape of wings. He wore a wimple, and a kirtle over his tunic, ripped at the seams to accommodate his breadth and armour. The competitors in the ring lowered their weapons, doubling over with laughter at the spectacle. The man galloped a few laps of the arena, alternately swooping past the knights and starting play fights with them, flicking the wings of the caparison and twirling his skirt as he went. As the crowd's laughter intensified, he began yelling orders in a mock falsetto voice. 

Jane’s cheeks burned, eyes blurring with tears in rage and humiliation. Pepper’s hand reached for hers, giving it a squeeze. Distantly, she spotted Gunther. Though he did not laugh, he did nothing to stop the demonstration, standing awkwardly with his sword by his side, kicking up gravel. “Behold!” the man bellowed, thrusting the hobby-horse into a torch and holding it above his head. “It breathes fire!”

Amos tried to use the diversion to crawl clear of the arena, but Thegan spotted him; his cowardice ignited a rage lying just below the surface. Thegan swung the stave down on his winded opponent, who rolled desperately to avoid it. Thegan raised the stave again, aiming to bring it down over the squire’s back; another knight across the ring sprinted across to stay Thegan’s arm. He took an elbow to the nose for his troubles, and reeled backwards with blood pouring down his face. The crowd was in a frenzy; Jane could not tell if they supported Thegan or were screaming at him to stop.

Peter reemerged, and leant over to Jane conversationally. “Just as well this squire is not the Lady Knight, eh? How would she fare against such a goliath?”

“Perhaps someone should intervene,” Jester said, turning to him. “A fight like this, outside of the tournament, could result in disqualification,” he added.

Peter nodded, clapping him on the shoulder. “Be a good man, then, and go and remind Thegan of that.”

In the background, the man in the wimple screamed, and took his leave by haphazardly tossing the burning hobby horse away and diving headfirst over the fence, earning him yet more laughter for his exit. Closer still, Thegan brought the stave down against his victim’s back; the guttural sound forced out of him was worse than any scream, and still nobody in the arena intervened. Amos crawled to Jane’s feet, grasping her skirt through the fence.

Jane knelt. “Yield!” she screamed, barely audible above the roaring crowd. Her ears were ringing. “Yield to him!”

Amos rolled onto his back, dragging himself around the edge of the paddock in an attempt to put more distance between himself and Thegan. 

“I yield,” he croaked, repeating it with every step Thegan took. But Thegan did not slow. He raised the quarterstaff once more, and the squire shrunk into himself, not even attempting a defence. 

Jane smacked Finley’s shoulder. “Help him!”

“Not to sound callous,” he replied, “but what did he expect, insulting a man like Thegan? And as for intervening," he continued absent-mindedly, head to one side, eyes sliding over the array of knights who were stepping backwards to avoid getting involved, “who would want to be put out of commission before the tournament has even begun? Thegan could break your arm and your stave in one blow,” he added, as the squire skittered clear of another strike, heaving. Dried mud clung to the sweat on his face. Finley laughed at Jane's expression. “Fear not, Saffron, he won’t kill him - but I’d wager we won’t see him at the parade tomorrow.”

Jane looked over her shoulder at Jester. His head shook almost imperceptibly, warning her not to intervene.  

Heart pounding, she pulled Finley’s sword from its sheath and slid beneath the fence. She sprinted for Thegan, swinging flat of the blade against the back of his knees and grasping hold of his stave as his legs collapsed from beneath him and swinging it round to knock him to the ground. The hushed crowd, a mix of confusion and eagerness etched on their faces, waited to see what might happen next. 

Thegan growled, snatching up the squire’s stave and leaping to his feet. Jane tossed the sword to free up her other hand, thrusting the point of her stave at Thegan’s face before he could strike. She expected him to yield; Gunther would have. 

Instead, he laughed, rubbing the back of his head. Then he grasped the stave, ripping it from her grasp.

“The lady knight, I presume?” he sneered as he forced her backwards, into the centre of the arena. “No dragon to protect you here.”

There was no time for a retort, nor a plea; she skipped clear of his blows, each whistle of the stave past her face turning her further from outrage to fear. Out of the corner of her eye she saw another stave abandoned on the ground - but reaching for it would leave her vulnerable, and besides, her strength wouldn't match his in a direct hit; she could never hope to block it. 

He lunged, and as she stepped back, she trod on the hem of her dress. Down she went, landing hard in the dirt. No time to feel the humiliation of the crowd's laughter ringing in her ears; Thegan loomed over her, one foot planted firmly on her skirt. Distantly, she heard Pepper screaming her name.

Time slowed as Thegan turned his stave towards her; she saw the curl of his lip, twisted into a snarl; muscles in his arms, taut with the blow; and the gleam in his eyes, as the stave planted into the ground beside her cheek. At the same time, another stave swung into view, cracking Thegan over the back of the head. Jane’s eyes widened as his body swayed, and began to keel downwards towards her, eyes rolling back. Gunther held the stave, eyes wide; he yelled something that Jane could not comprehend above the noise of the baying crowd. Strong arms lifted her, half-carrying her across the arena, and threw her over the fence.

Jane held her arms out ahead of her to part the crowd as she was pushed free of the onlookers. She was steered by the shoulders through the campsite, past a contentious game of dice, around the losing team of a tug-of-war, into the tray of an irate hawker selling pies, then through into the treeline; her skirt caught against legs and branches and tent pegs with each frenzied step. Finally, eventually, they allowed her to slow to a stop, on the other side of the campsite. In a small clearing hemmed with bracken and tall grass Jane bent double, and vomited.

Chapter Text

The castle was still. No maids walked the halls to prepare the day for their ladies, no servants traversed the corridors on errands for their masters. Not even the birds had stirred to their dawn chorus, so early was the hour. All were abed, but for a harried chamberlain, hurrying down the halls of the keep to the sound of his leather-soled shoes slapping against the flagstones. Amidst the dimness of unlit sconces, the fire in the throne room flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the figures of three kings - each in varying stages of dress and demeanour - as Jodoc skidded to a halt below the dais.

Hair dishevelled and eyes still heavy from sleep, King Caradoc turned to face him, lifting his chin loftily. “This is most irregular, Jodoc. Most irregular, indeed.” 

Jodoc took care to bow deeply. “I apologise for the lateness of the hour, Your Majesties -”

“The hour is more than late,” grumbled the King of Maltthorpe. He was a broad man in every sense, as wide as he was tall. He eyed the sky through the vast windows of the throne room, a thin slash of copper on the horizon. “In fact, I would describe it as early.”

“Witald,” laughed a fair, slender man in a full set of gold rings and a nightgown embroidered with gold thread; they gleamed in the low light. Fairhaven benefitted richly from the mining of gold and silver ore, so perhaps it should not have been a surprise that even when abed, King Corentin was illustriously dressed for the hour. “Don’t you remember the days of our tourneys? We’d stumble from the party to the parade without so much as a chance to scrub our faces!”

“I’ve grown old since then,” Witald muttered, taking a heavy seat at the banquet table. The torchlight contrasted the shiny baldness developing on the crown of his head, especially stark amidst his dark hair. “And I’ve no mind for the little whelps out mewling tonight.”

“Those little whelps,” declared King Brennus grandly, sweeping into the throne room before Jodoc could announce him, “violated the rules of engagement.” 

The shift in the room was palpable; what had previously been a bemused yet drowsy gathering immediately shifted into something more ascetic. 

Jodoc leapt once more into a floor-sweeping bow; the others merely dipped their heads. Witald did not even bother to stand, eyeing the King of Ironhold warily from his seat. 

“Shall I send for some refreshments?” Caradoc suggested amiably, stifling a yawn. He gestured for one of the servants; Jodoc had not noticed her, meekly waiting in the wings, where the firelight could not reach. She bowed, and dutifully sprinted from the throne room. 

Brennus shook his head, moving to stand before them. “Refreshments or not, Caradoc, I will see them disciplined.”

“Come, Brennus, for something as harmless as a brawl?” Corentin laughed. “Are you out of your mind?”

“All tournaments have their spats, Brennus,” Witald sighed wearily; he rested his elbow on the table and closed his eyes. “I recall your son starting a few, over the years.”

Jodoc pressed his lips into a thin line; he had done his best to quash those particular rumours, apparently to no avail. The servant hurried back into the room, carrying a tray of assorted fruits and cheeses, and ewers of wine and elderflower cordial.

“I’d think you would be more enraged, Witald,” Brennus said, ignoring the drinks she proffered. “It was your knight who was attacked.”

Witald accepted a goblet of cordial, waving it dismissively at Brennus. “Thegan De Loris can handle himself. In fact, I’d wager that The Beast was the one who started it.”

“When the Free Company arrived,” Brennus continued, as though he had not heard him, “Finley, Breech and Turnkey were in the ring against him. De Loris was out cold.”

“I have sent for Sir Theodore to join us,” Caradoc announced. 

He rested his arms behind his back, and approached Brennus with as much authority as he could muster; it was not as effective as he had hoped. Where Caradoc wore a downy nightgown, Brennus was fully dressed, despite the hour, in dark silk and sable. He was a great deal taller, and more muscular. He would be competing in the tournament, and had arrived in the kingdom on horseback, as one would a battle, and the iron carcanet across his breastbone did little to soften his appearance. 

 “Surely you trust the Captain of the King’s Guard to discipline my squires?” Caradoc continued.

“Respectfully,” Brennus said, stooping to reach Caradoc’s eyeline. “I do not. I am aware of certain... indiscretions that have beset your kingdom. Such behaviour will not tarnish the reputation of mine.”

“Indiscretions?” Caradoc replied, in a tone of voice that made it clear to everyone in the room that he was on the back foot. Witald half-opened one eye, and Corentin shifted uncomfortably, twisting the rings on his fingers. 

Some months before the tournament Jodoc had compiled a dossier, and Brennus had spent hours poring over its details. It appeared that the endeavour would serve its purpose now.

Brennus began to pace, circling Caradoc so that he was forced to turn to meet his gaze. “Imprudence, then,” he corrected himself softly. “A local merchant owns more land than yourself, and has more money in his coffers, too, I’d wager. You command no army, and have made the unusual decision to hire mercenaries to enforce law and order - out of his pocket again, Caradoc?” He tutted, ignoring Caradoc’s protests. “And then there is the trouble of The Lady Knight herself. Remind me, Jodoc - how did the Lady Knight gain her station?”

Jodoc knew better than to assume that King Brennus had forgotten a single detail, but he cleared his throat politely all the same. “All of the daubed knights were away at a tournament when young Prince Cuthbert was taken by the dragon, Your Majesty.” 

Brennus nodded thoughtfully. “I see. And Turnkey was the only one willing to fetch him?”

“Yes, Your Majesty - at the age of eleven.”

“Oh,” Brennus laughed, winding Caradoc in dizzying circles. “A child, pretending at being a knight. And that is to say nothing of the dragon itself who - if you’ll excuse my candour, Caradoc - is not under your control at all. If anything, it bends to the whims of a fanciful girl.” He paused, gesturing to his chamberlain. “Jodoc tasked his men with engaging the household staff of Kippernia. Their reports were consistent, and more than a little troubling: the Lady Knight, her dragon, and sometimes even her lowborn friends, are spirited, meddlesome, and prone to challenging the established order of things.” He tilted his head. “If she were to challenge the authority of Ironhold... well,” he sighed, stopping abruptly. “Let us just say that such a confrontation would undoubtedly lead to unfavourable outcomes for them all.”

“What skin have you in the game, then?” Corentin asked to break the uncomfortable silence that followed, taking advantage of the wine.

It was then that Sir Theodore entered the throne room without fanfare, and bowed. “Your Majesty,” he said, the appellation dripping from his tongue like venom, “forgive me. With all due respect, I too fail to see how this concerns Ironhold. The squires, at least, are my responsibility.”

Brennus grinned, eyes alight. “Ah, Sir Theodore,” he said. “Or do you prefer Theo ? That’s what he called you, isn’t it? My father had much to say about you and D’Ark. Wise, honourable, measured.” He laughed. “Well, perhaps it was D'Ark that was those things. You were impetuous; headstrong; unruly - little more than a boy who’d travelled half the world on the whisper of dragons.” He tilted his head. “Rather like that Turnkey girl. No, I will not entrust her discipline to the likes of you.”

Caradoc turned sharply, but did not defend his Captain; instead he begun to rub his chin thoughtfully; it was a tactic, if one could call it as much, that he used to buy time and develop a diplomatic answer. He was spared from answering at all by the arrival of his own chamberlain.

“Your Majesty,” Milton gasped, hurrying to stand before him. He gave a cursory bow, nearly toppling his nightcap. “I heard that Jane was attacked, and I -”

“Yes,” Brennus interrupted, turning to him with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “We were just discussing her punishment.” His eyes quickly flickered to Sir Theodore. 

“Punishment?” Milton sputtered incredulously. “The guards reported that she had to be pulled from the ring!”

“You forget yourself,” Brennus said softly. His eyes lit up with delight when the chamberlain ducked his head.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Milton replied, offering a deferential bow. 

“Brennus,” Witald said, rubbing his forehead, “it is late. What is your point? What is it you want?”

The smile never left his lips. “I want justice. Miss Turnkey struck the first blow, whilst de Loris’ back was turned. She was promptly followed into the ring by Breech and Finley.”

Corentin waved a hand dismissively. “Finley and de Loris have had their spats over the years. This is old hat.”

“Their actions warrant the appropriate consequences,” Brennus said. “Which is why I suggest that Miss Turnkey, esquire Breech, and Sirs Peter Finley and Thegan de Loris have their titles revoked, their lands forfeit, and are stripped of all honours and privileges. They are not fit to train, nor hold the title of Knight; I propose their exile.” 

His smile still did not falter when the room erupted in protests; in fact, it appeared to widen. Jodoc noted that only Sir Theodore did not react, watching the proceedings impassively, though with a hard look in his eye.

“Exile?” Milton yelped. This time Brennus did not even turn to face him, keeping his cold gaze on Caradoc.

“This is an outrage ,” Corentin roared, all pretence at ease evaporating. He slammed his goblet down on the table. “Finley’s one of my finest!”

“You haven’t the authority to do that, Brennus,” Witald sighed.

Brennus turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “No?” He spread his hands on the banquet table, leaning into his peer. “I do recall you seeking to discuss weapons shipments, for your push north. Ironhold is renowned for producing the finest blades; surely, you desire nothing but the best for your endeavours?” He pushed lightly away, and turned to Corentin. “And as for our protection against the Welsh raiders, Corentin?” he said, shaking his head. Finally, he approached Caradoc. “I had envisioned establishing fresh trade routes, loans, and men to fight for your army following this tournament - perhaps enough to help you flourish, and release yourself from the tyranny of the merchant. But I find myself hard pressed to trust in a King - no, in a friend,” he said, holding out his hands beseechingly, the picture of a reasonable man, “who cannot even take charge of his own squires.”

As the first light of morning broke the sky, streaming through the windows, Caradoc cleared his throat. 

“Perhaps there is another conclusion we could reach,” he said, “that pleases all parties.”

The horses in the stables below whickered and stamped as dawn broke. Jane wanted to roll her shoulder. In fact, her entire body wanted to move: to stretch, to crack her knuckles, run to the balcony, or jump up and pace, to search for Sir Theodore, and demand to know why they had been confined to his quarters for so long. At the very least she wanted to move from this position, elbows resting on her knees, head down; but she was afraid of disturbing the fragile stillness of the room. It was the only thing, she suspected, preventing Gunther from finally rounding on her, and chastising her for her stupidity. So instead, she ran through the events of the night before, replaying them over and over in her mind. 

She’d hit her head when she fell. Finley tossed her from the ring. Her shin had hit the fence. She’d collided with spectators, before hitting the ground. Her ribs had taken the brunt of the fall. Jester wrenched her shoulder when he’d lifted her. She’d barely noticed any of it at the time, but now she ached. But worse than any of that was the humiliation; that everyone’s first impression of The Lady Knight was being chased around the ring like a mouse scurrying from a cat, being plucked from harm’s way by a literal knight in shining armour, and being dragged from the festival under the escort of Free Company soldiers. 

Gunther was already waiting in Sir Theodore’s quarters when she’d been returned. His sword had been confiscated, and was now in the possession of the guards at the foot of the stairs. She wished Dragon would come, and she wished Gunther wasn’t so angry; she felt as though she would burst with questions if she had nobody to share them with. Her stomach was in knots; where were their friends? She strained her ears for any sign of them: Pepper’s piping voice, the soft ring of bells. Smithy’s door beneath them had not creaked, and there was no sign of Rake’s own personal dawn chorus of garden tools scratching sun-hardened soil. Not even Ivon’s snores filled the Knight’s Quarters. All she could hear were the soft murmurs of the guards at the foot of the stairs, and the birds greeting the new day. Where was everyone? Where was Sir Theodore? Why were they the only ones here? What was being discussed? Her punishment? What form might it take? And what was taking so long ?

She sighed, dropping her face into her palms. Right on cue, Gunther turned to her sharply. 

“What were you thinking ?”  

She leapt to her feet, relieved to finally have a conduit for her energy. “I was thinking about my duty to protect!”

He stood to face her down. “Oh,” he laughed bitterly, “is that all? Not about your pride?” he snapped, doing an impersonation of the gowned man who had mocked her in the arena, before dropping his hands heavily to his sides. 

A creak at the foot of the stairs reminded them of the presence of the guards. They bit back their argument until they were sure the guards wouldn't come to investigate, before resuming in harsh whispers. 

“Better than standing by and doing nothing,” Jane hissed. 

Gunther shook his head. “I’m sorry, alright? I can’t afford to single myself out and alienate half of the competition before it begins!”

“Neither can I! That’s not what I wanted,” she gasped, flapping her skirt at him to emphasise her point, “and you know it!”

“Look,” he hissed, leaning down to her eye level, “That brute -”

“Thegan.”

“ Thegan is a knight. I had to club a knight over the head - to save you! Because you walked right into a fight that wasn’t any of your business! Can you imagine the consequences if I’d done the same to Sir Ivon, or to Sir Theodore? You know, we’ll be lucky to even compete after this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “Everyone was in that ring. They’d have no competitors left!”

“I don’t see anyone else here with us,” Gunther retorted, and he scoffed. “That idiotic squire,” he said, pointing viciously in the direction of the tournament ground to punctuate each word, “marched right up to Thegan, impugning his mother’s honour - it was their fight! Theirs alone! But, no - Jane sees a problem, and she immediately has to leap to the rescue!” He stalked across Sir Theodore’s quarters, and turned sharply back to her. “You know, you’ve always thought you were special,” he spat, “above the rules. Even as a child. You ride off to fight a dragon and save the Prince, and are rewarded! You were permitted to train to be a knight, and befriended the Dragon! And for the first time that same reckless behaviour has come back to bite you. Well, thank you, Jane, now it has also come back to bite me! Thegan will have it in for me - and that is to say nothing of my father! I should’ve left you there. Perhaps it is finally time you learn the hard way that actions have consequences, even for someone as -”

“That’s enough.” 

They wheeled around to face Sir Theodore. The long night had taken its toll, and for the first time Jane looked up to see her mentor in a new light; an old man, face drawn, hair grey. His eyes, sharp and bright, were dull. He looked tired. 

“Please follow me,” he instructed, leading them from his quarters and across the Royal Walkway that connected to the keep. He gestured for them to lean in. “Listen to me closely. Do not speak unless spoken to. Tell the truth. Accept your role in this. And do not,” he warned, as they opened their mouths to ask questions, “question the Kings.” He drew himself up again, raising his chin as he pushed open the doors to the keep. They followed him in icy silence until he ordered them into the throne room.

Side by side, Jane and Gunther approached the dais; seated upon it were Kings Caradoc and Brennus, flanked by Kings Corentin and Witald. Their expressions were inscrutable. Jane felt her mouth going dry, her insides writhing like snakes as they approached. Not even the sight of her mother and her friends gathered in the hall reassured her, so miserable or taut were their faces. 

Her gaze slipped across the other spectators: courtesans exchanging whispers, and beside her father, chamberlains she did not recognise. Haroldus had entered from the terrace, hands folded neatly before him. Lavinia looked fiercely about, drawing herself up to her full height beside an inscrutable Cuthbert, his mind somewhere else. Closest to the dais, Magnus stood with his thumbs hooked over a jewelled belt, scowling; opposite, three queens stood with their heads bowed, clothed in resplendent gowns of forget-me-not blue, ruby red and delicate lilac. There was a flicker of movement; Jane almost stumbled into the banquet table. A fourth woman stood behind them, wearing an opaque veil the colour of ash that matched her gown and gloves, and had all but faded into the stone walls of the throne room. Though Jane could not be sure, she felt that she was watching her.

She reached the foot of the dais, Gunther beside her. Jane felt suddenly conscious of her filthy clothes and unravelling braid; it slid over her shoulder as she bowed. She heard the scuffle of feet and when she rose, Finley and Thegan were at her side. They, at least, had been permitted to wash and change: Finley wore a delicate sky-blue tunic, and Thegan a leather gambeson. Neither met her eye.

A herald stepped forward. “His Royal Majesty, King Witald, sovereign ruler of Maltthorpe, speaks.” He promptly stepped back as Witald rose to his feet with a heavy sigh.

“Sir Thegan de Loris,” he said, “Knight of Maltthorpe. You stand accused of transgressing the Knight’s Code, disgracing yourself and the spirit of a tournament held in the spirit of alliance. Do you deny these charges?”

Thegan stepped forward, bowing deeply. “I do not deny them, Your Majesty. I confess it was my actions which incited these events, and do not wish to see my brothers in arms punished for my recklessness.”

As he stepped back, Jane’s insides knotted even tighter - brothers in arms? She did not know whether to interpret it as a mere turn of phrase, or something more insidious. 

The herald stepped forward once more. “His Royal Majesty, King Corentin, sovereign ruler of Fairhaven, speaks.”

Corentin rose, sweeping his cloak behind him as he approached the edge of the dais. “Sir Peter Finley, Knight of Fairhaven.” He gestured vaguely to King Witald. “I raise the same inquiry.”

Finley stepped forward with a graceful bow, tapering fingers extending to the ceiling. “Your Majesty, I do not deny the charges - it was an error in judgement. I ask only that you remember my deeds, and recall for yourself my worthiness.” He cast a glance behind him to Jane and Gunther. “If I may, I ask also for leniency for the squires, Your Majesties. It was mine and de Loris’ responsibility to set a better example.”

Thegan turned to Finley and gave him a curt nod. King Corentin exchanged words with Witald behind his hand as he resumed his seat, and the herald stepped forward a final time. “His Royal Majesty, King Caradoc, sovereign ruler of Kippernia, speaks.”

King Caradoc rose reluctantly to his feet, folding his hands behind his back as Jane and Gunther stepped forward to bow. 

“Tell me,” he said, with a heavy sigh, “when you entered the ring, did you do so knowing that acts of force outside of the tournament could be seen as a breach of the chivalric code, and the established rules of engagement?”

Jane felt her cheeks burning. Gunther’s low voice joined hers in a chorus. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I should like to hear just from the girl,” Brennus said suddenly, sitting forward. “Tell us the order of events.”

Jane tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. She could hear her lips parting as she prepared to answer.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she started tremulously. “Thegan was in the ring -” 

“Sir Thegan de Loris.”

She looked up; the King of Ironhold was eyeing her scornfully, waiting for her to correct herself.

“Sir Thegan de Loris,” she said, nodding. She tried swallowing again. “Another squire had impugned his honour,” she explained, desperately hoping not to bring the squire into this. “And they were…duelling.”

King Brennus nodded, urging her to go on.

“And I…felt it had gone too far,” she said cautiously, “and so I intervened.”

“And is that your place?” Brennus asked.

“No, Your Majesty - it was foolish of me.” Her words sounded distant. “I was irresponsible, naive, and brash. My actions reflect poorly on the kingdom, my peers, and on my mentors. I disgraced myself and violated the knights’ code, as well as the spirit of the tournament.”

Brennus narrowed his eyes. “Knights are expected to uphold principles such as obedience, courtesy, valour, and fairness. Does engaging in unauthorised combat, and striking a ranking knight from behind, in a duel in which you had no involvement, meet those principles?”

Jane clenched her fists so that nobody would see her hands shaking. “No, Your Majesty.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Thegan lifting his chin, but it felt defiant, rather than triumphant; but she could not tell who he was trying to defy, and fleetingly she wondered if he knew something she didn’t. 

“Thank you, King Brennus,” Caradoc said, and Brennus leant back in his seat. 

The hall had fallen so silent that she might hear a pin drop. King Caradoc took another breath, though no words followed, wrestling with whatever would come next; and it was this, more than anything, that frightened her.

“Then I am faced with one choice. Squires Gunther Breech and Jane Turnkey,” he said, voice flat. “You are stripped of your rank as squires, and may never bear the title of Knight.”

Chapter Text

Silence reigned. Jane dared not look away, pleading with her eyes for a reprieve; but none came. 

A rising tide of whispers broke the stillness of the room as King Caradoc resumed his seat. Even Magnus, until then stood in glowering silence, growled his displeasure. Jane caught sight of her own father close by him, blocked from approaching the dais by Free Company guards, and further back her mother pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. 

On any other day, Jane might have noticed her friends in the crowd, their faces frozen in stunned disbelief, and on any other day she may also have noticed their crumpled clothes and the dark circles beneath their eyes which betrayed that they too had been held under guard through the long, sleepless night. 

But the news was settling in; it was over. The dream that she had nurtured since childhood - the singular goal that had fueled her every waking moment - lay in ruins at her feet. It felt as heavy as the ocean, and it threatened to drag her to the ground. 

The herald stepped forward, rapping an iron-tipped staff on the flagstones.  

“Then let it be known: in accordance with the decisions of King Corentin of Fairhaven, and King Witald of Maltthorpe, Sirs Peter Finley and Thegan de Loris have earned the kings’ clemency. In recognition of their countless deeds in service of the crown, they are henceforth released from these proceedings, and may return to their duties with all due honour.”

Thegan and Finley stepped forward and bowed deeply, preparing their thanks - but they never got to speak. 

Princess Lavinia ducked free from the coterie of ladies-in-waiting who usually surrounded her, and burst to the front of the crowd. 

“This isn’t fair!”

“Lavinia, that’s enough,” Caradoc cut across quickly, in a voice Jane had not heard before; steely, and as devoid of kindness as she had ever heard it. He did not yell, yet it was quite clear that the matter was at its end. 

Quite clear, that was, to everyone except Lavinia.

“If the knights are excused on account of their good deeds, then why not Jane too?” she demanded. “Has Jane not proven herself? Has she not served our subjects, just as the knights have? Has she not put herself in danger, just as they have? Just because she is not yet a knight -” 

“That, dear princess, is precisely the point,” King Brennus cut across. “It is not for a squire to claim the rights of a knight before they have been earned in full.”

“With the utmost respect, Your Majesties,” Magnus interrupted, stepping forward with a bow so exaggerated it bordered on obsequious. “Far be it from one so humble as I to question the wisdom of kings, of course - these squires have shown themselves as foolish, reckless, and terribly misguided, and perhaps wholly unworthy of the honour they seek to bear,” he said, shooting a pointed glare at Gunther, before resuming his performance of subservience. “Yet it is precisely in such moments that the wisdom of great kings truly reveals itself. Surely, there must be a way for these squires to reclaim their honour, rather than leaving them to languish in disgrace?”

Nobody had ever looked upon the Merchant as admiringly as Lavinia now looked at him. She picked up her skirts and climbed the steps of the dais.

“The merchant speaks the truth,” she said, beaming. “Is it not so in the ballads? Sir Carwyn of the Eastern Marches, who spared his squire after a grievous error, turned a mistake into a moment of teaching, and that squire went on to save his life at Greystone Bridge. Or Queen Iseult, who stayed her hand when others cried for punishment of a rebellious lord, and was rewarded by a period of peace and flourishing trade in the kingdom for a hundred years.” The pearls in her hair glimmered as she turned to King Brennus with childlike sincerity. “Isn’t the lesson of such ballads that forbearance, your majesties, is the true virtue of knights and kings?” 

No doubt that the princess fancied that she resembled just such a figure from those ballads, Jane thought; a noble princess, championing the cause of justice and honour. Jane glanced about the room at the Free Company guards stifling their laughter - because for all she wished it might be, the world was not as pretty as a ballad. 

“Quoting nursery tales now, Princess?” King Brennus asked almost gleefully, teeth bared in a barely contained laugh. “How charming. Shall we rewrite all of the laws of the realm in the spirit of a little girl’s bedtime stories?” 

Scattered, mocking laughter now openly rippled throughout the court. Jane shot quelling looks at those snickering at the princess - for all the good it would do, she thought, because they probably considered her nothing more than a little girl in above her head, as well.

Lavinia narrowed her eyes, but if the taunt bothered her, she did not show it. 

“Then I put it to our subjects,” she announced, sunlight filtering through the sheer silk of her sleeves as she raised her arms to appeal to the crowd. “If there are any here who know of Jane’s deeds, who will vouch for her service to this kingdom, let them come forward now and speak.”

Jane swallowed dryly, turning so that she could pick out faces from the crowd. Among them she recognised the shepherd, whose flock she and Dragon had rescued from the pasture after the river had burst its banks. It had been lambing season. Two rows back was the quarryman, wringing his hat in his hands. Years ago his wagon had collapsed on the docks, nearly crushing his apprentice. That apprentice now had a son of his own, three summers old. The boy, Jostein, could often be found chasing Dragon’s shadow along the quarry’s edge when they were on patrol. Closer still stood the healer’s daughter, flown to safety as the cliffs collapsed on account of a summer storm. The girl shrank behind her mother, who gave a quick, uneasy glance toward the dais. Rock samphire , Jane thought idly. The girl had been harvesting rock samphire. 

The harbourmaster, the falconer, the scribe; hostlers, stonewrights, and tanners; farmhands, farriers, fletchers, and fishermen. All among the crowd were faces that Jane knew, a community that she was part of. Her duty to the king was ultimately her duty to them.

And yet none stirred to vouch for her. What had been a rapt audience only moments before now found their attention curiously focused on the pattern of the flagstones beneath their feet. 

Lavinia lowered her arms, eyes wide with confusion as the hall remained still and silent, the people too frightened to speak. Jane couldn’t blame them. After all, it was one thing to challenge the Kings as a Princess; it was quite another to do so as a commoner. 

Lavinia appeared to have reached the same conclusion.

“Cuthbert!” 

Marching back into the crowd to seize Cuthbert’s wrist, she dragged him atop the dais. 

“Jane was granted the honour of training as a knight for saving Cuthbert - for saving you! Tell them, brother. You cannot allow Jane’s knighthood to be taken from her!”

Jane lifted her head. Could Cuthbert, of all people, offer her a reprieve? 

Prince Cuthbert wrenched his arm from Lavinia’s grasp, darting eyes surveying the room through curtains of greasy hair. Unlike his sister he cut an unimpressive figure. His usually haughty demeanour had vanished, and now the prince hunched under the weight of the court’s attention. 

“It is true,” he said, “that Jane earned her apprenticeship for saving me from the dragon. She has committed many such commendable acts since that day.”

Tears pricked the edges of her eyes; Jane hardly dared to breathe. She risked a glance at Gunther - and realised with a sickening swoop of her stomach that the princess had never asked to pardon him. What little colour Gunther usually had was gone from his cheeks, and his breaths came uneven and shallow. If Jane did not think it would make things worse, she would have reached out for him - and as if the Merchant could read her thoughts, his eyes glinted malevolently as they settled on her, as if challenging her to dare to add to Gunther’s humiliation.

The prince stepped away from his sister, twisting a silver signet ring nervously on his finger as he weighed his next words. Finally he faced the crowd, his mind made up. 

“But,” Cuthbert continued, “it is not our place to challenge the judgement of Kings.” 

King Brennus’ lips curled into a mockery of a smile as Lavinia lowered her arms, looking hurt and confused. 

“And therein lies your lesson, Princess: justice is not blind to consequence.”

“Though apparently it is blind to mercy.”

Jester’s murmur broke the silence of the hall, his words carrying farther than he had intended. The court held their breaths as King Brennus’ gaze landed on him sharply. 

“You, boy. Step forward.”

The crowd shifted slowly, pressing against one another as Jester made his way through. When he reached the foot of the dais he gave a deep bow, but did not raise his eyes when he straightened his back. 

King Brennus studied Jester with sharp, calculating eyes, his gaze sweeping from the golden earrings in his ears to the ill-fitting, threadbare garments draped over him - clothes not  long past their prime, but clearly borrowed, hanging awkwardly on his wiry frame. 

“You seem to think yourself clever, boy.”

Jester still did not meet the King’s eye. 

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Then what is your role in this court, boy, that you feel so emboldened to interrupt? Do you fancy yourself a knight, a counselor, or just a fool with too much to say?”

“Firmly the latter, Your Majesty. My apologies - I did not mean to speak out of turn.”

“I see,” King Brennus said softly, stroking his cropped beard. His gaze lingered on Jester for a moment before sweeping across the room. “I find myself in a court where even the lowest amongst us feel free to speak as if what they have to say carries weight; but Kippernium can no longer be ignorant of the raging storms beyond its borders. If it wishes to stay afloat it must prevent fools and misfits from believing they are worthy of nobility.” His lips curled into something that could hardly be called a smile as he turned his attention to Sir Theodore, gesturing to the old knight to step forward. “Well, Sir, do you have anything to add? Perhaps you wish to speak in defence of your squires?”

Jane searched Sir Theodore’s face for some final sign of solidarity, some hint that this was not the end. But he stood rigid at the foot of the dais, slate eyes still fixed on a point beyond her. 

“No, Your Majesty. My squires have failed to uphold the very code the Princess attempts to invoke - and even if the code does speak thus, my duty lies - above all else - with my king.” 

“Please, Sir, Your Majesties,” Jane blurted, stepping forward with a hasty bow before she even realised what she was doing. “The fault is mine alone, Gunther only sought to protect me. He acted in defence, not defiance.”

She ignored how the Merchant’s jaw tightened, chin twisting sharply to the ground to hide his disgust at her outburst, and the dishonour he clearly thought any association with her would bring his son. 

Clearly, King Brennus appeared to think the same.

“Are they not one and the same?” he asked sharply. Leaning forward, his piercing gaze hardened on Jane. “You have a habit, it seems, of flouting the natural order of things - for challenging authority, questioning boundaries, and dragging others down with you. Tell me, squire, for how long must we indulge your impudence?” 

She fought back tears threatening to well in her eyes as King Brennus’ cruel smile widened, unable to answer. 

“Then let us bring this ridiculous charade to a close. After all, we have a tournament to attend.” He rose from his throne. “This court is adjourned,” he said smoothly, gesturing to the guards. The assembled courtiers and commonfolk began to filter out, their murmurs filling the hall like the distant rustle of the wind. Jane remained rooted to the spot, her mind racing yet somehow unable to comprehend the events that had unfolded. Gunther had been right - 

“Come, lass,” came Sir Ivon’s voice, suddenly at her side. “I’ve been asked to escort you.”

“Where are we going?” Gunther asked, voice low amidst a rush of whispers rising around the room. He bowed his head against the pitiful gazes of the Queens standing at the foot of the dais; again, Jane felt as though the lady in grey was watching her, but her face was too hazy behind the mourning veil to be sure.

Sir Ivon did not answer as they were led from the great hall and continued past the guard room. He plucked a torch from the wall on their way up the tight, spiraling staircases. Gunther and Jane moved in subdued silence in his wake as he led them along shadowy corridors that twisted deeper into the heart of the Keep. 

It was dark here, in the belly of the castle. Unlike the throne room the air was cool and still, untouched by the summer heat. The further they ventured, the darker and more oppressive it became. It was easy to forget from the outside that the castle had once solely been a strategic outpost; that it was only a hundred or so years ago that King Bartok had established the Royal Gardens and the library, marking the castle’s transition into a place of culture and learning; that only more recently still, King Cedric had installed the grand, romanesque Atrium for then-prince Caradoc’s tenth birthday. The innermost corridors and chambers in the oldest parts of the keep still bore the imprint of the castle's early days, built solely for defence - thick, windowless walls designed to withstand sieges, pocked where arrows and catapults had once struck. Here and there, they passed the scars of windows and doors now sealed with stone, marking a history of reconstructions and repairs spanning generations. 

Somewhere along the way Jane realised there were tears streaming down her cheeks. She hastily turned away from Gunther, drying them under the guise of inspecting a series of wooden reliefs that lined the corridor. These carved panels had once been the pride of the great hall, but had since been replaced by the grand tapestry that now hung there. 

The torchlight along the walls cast shifting light across the reliefs, spanning the events from the beginning of the Long Siege up until the Great Returning. The first panel depicted fire raining down on the castle, the flaming arcs of war engines hurling flames - Greek fire, Jane recalled from her lessons. Though its exact composition had been lost to time, she knew the legendary havoc it wrought: burning even in water, it clung to stone and skin alike. The carved flames seemed to dance in the torchlight, licking at the wooden towers and stone walls as Harrowmere’s forces laid siege. Her lessons had once taught her that Harrowmere sought Kippernia for its strategic position by the headland, which made Kippernia not only rich in fishing trades, but an ideal base from which to choke out neighbouring kingdoms - or even to be used beachhead to launch larger invasions into Fairhaven and Maltthorpe. The story went that Harrowmere would finally, perhaps, have taken on the might of Ironhold itself. Such a history was long past now.

The next panel showed the desperate escape of the castle’s occupants through hidden tunnels. Civilians and soldiers alike were shown slipping into the darkness, their faces worn and fearful. All but one of the entrances to these tunnels had long since been sealed or buried, lost to time beneath layers of rebuilt walls and shifting earth; all except the one Sir Theodore had used to win the battle.

Rendered in harsh, jagged strokes were the Wilderness Years, survivors huddled around small fires in the caves, their faces gaunt. The winters had been brutal, food scarce, and many had not survived the hardship - among them, King Bartok. His grave was depicted in its own panel framed in ebony.

Finally, the Great Returning. Here, King Cedric and Sir Theodore led the daring assault to reclaim the castle. King Cedric was depicted guiding a small force of soldiers through one of the long-sealed tunnels, its location kept secret even now, while a contingent of knights staged a diversionary assault at the main gate. Jane’s eyes lingered on the figure of an unnamed knight, sword raised high, leading the charge. He had fallen in the battle, along with many others. 

But their deaths had not been in vain; the last panel depicted the triumphant return of the townspeople after their long exile in the caves. King Cedric stood atop the battlements, looking over his reclaimed kingdom, with Sir Theodore at his side. Above them, the banner of Kippernia flew proudly once again. Harrowmere had been annexed after the war by its closest neighbour, Ironhold, in exchange for the forces they had provided in the final battle. Kippernia’s alliance with Ironhold was a key reason why Kippernia had never needed a large army of its own, not even to defend against border disputes or bandit raids: they remained largely undefended thanks to Ironhold’s protection.

Jane cast her eyes to the ground. None of that mattered any more; she was no longer a knight, and the histories of warfare and strategy were no longer of any use to her.

The halls lightened and the decorations adorning the walls became less oppressive as they approached the far side of the castle, the windows warm and bright, and overlooking the Atrium. It was here that Ivon came to a rough stop. 

“Wait here,” he said, shoving them through a doorway - and, before Jane could so much as think of a question to beg an answer to, he was gone. 

Dragon landed on the wall beside Jane’s quarters. Usually by this time the castle was a hive of shortlife activity, all of them scurrying like ants at a picnic; the cook and the gardener should have been about their business already, the blacksmith hard at work in the stables, Jane and Gunther in the yard, and the jester… well, Dragon still wasn’t entirely sure what Jester’s purpose was, but often he could be found buzzing about wherever Jane was, as surely as a fly buzzed around dung. A mesnie (a word that Jane had reliably informed him meant, essentially, a small army) of new staff had been shipped in from the neighbouring kingdoms, and they were always underfoot these days. And yet none of them were in the courtyard, nor the gardens - not even the kitchens, by the sounds of things. Not the patchwork knights or the straggling stablehands, or the droves who now scurried about the kitchen like mice.

Not this morning, however. The castle was quiet. Suspiciously quiet, given the goings-on; a tournament was about to commence, after all. It was all Dragon had heard about for weeks. 

With his exceptionally large and well-equipped brain, Dragon deduced that there should be more shortlives around. Dragon craned his neck, peering into Jane’s room; when it was empty he scoured the drive, the Royal Garden, the training yard, and finally the kitchen garden. 

“At last,” Dragon grumbled, spying the only shortlife who had not disappeared from the face of the earth. Apparently, unlike every other shortlife in the Kingdom, he was in no particular hurry to be anywhere. Dragon didn’t recognise him; he was a curious figure dressed to the nines, the crown on his head and his lavish robes looking suspiciously out of place in the vegetable patch. 

Jane had spoken at length prior to the start of the tournament about the importance of propriety and respect when conversing with their royal allies; to speak with deference, to never interrupt, and always address them as “Your Majesty” or “Your Highness”. She had emphasised the significance of showing humility, avoiding any actions or words that might be construed as disrespectful, or presumptuous - and especially avoiding crude jests or promises to burn them to a crisp. She’d warned him, multiple times, even waving a finger in his face for good measure. 

And so, with all of that in mind, Dragon took to the skies.

“You! Yes, you!” he called, as the shortlife took a startled step back and almost tumbled into the vegetable patch. Dragon wheeled around in the air above him. Landing in the vegetable garden was too much like hard work, because any minute now, Jane would appear; Dragon was sure of it. 

Still, the shortlife just stared at him with his mouth hanging open. Dragon snapped his claws impatiently. 

“ Hello? ”  

“Sorry,” the shortlife replied, though he hardly seemed sorry at all. If anything, he looked rather impressed. Dragon couldn’t blame him. Standard procedure, when faced with draconic magnificence, Dragon thought.

Dragon craned his neck expectantly, folding his claws before him impatiently. “Where is everyone?”

“They’ll all be inside the throne room,” the short-life said, staring. “There was an incident at the festival last night.”

Dragon narrowed his eyes, a low growl escaping his chest. “What do you mean, an incident ?”

Jane’s tearfulness had faded, replaced by more nervous energy she could only expend by continually and fruitlessly trying to lift Gunther’s spirits.

“There must be a reason they’ve summoned us here,” she said, pacing the King’s antechamber. Despite the day’s growing heat a cool breeze carried the scent of lavender and herbs strewn on the rush matting beneath their feet, lightly lifting the tapestries adorning the walls of the king’s antechamber. “The tournament will be starting any minute,” she continued. “Perhaps they’ll offer us a reprieve, or a pardon - or perhaps Peter and Thegan are arguing on our behalf.”

Gunther was yet to utter a word. He’d taken up a slumped seat on a stool on the edge of the room, arms folded, head tilted toward the ceiling. His silence in the face of her hopeful narrative was worse than if he’d committed to the snort of derision she’d anticipated, increasingly aware with each word spent that she was clutching at straws.

“Surely Sir Theodore will have said something,” she tried again.

Finally, Gunther met her with the derisive snort she’d been waiting for. “I think Sir Theodore made his stance quite clear.”

“Yes, but he knows the Knight’s Code like the back of his hand -”

“And refused to wield it to save our apprenticeships!” Gunther jumped to his feet. “Remind me, what was it that Sir Theodore told us before we stepped into the throne room? Don’t cross the Kings, that’s what!”

“I know, but -”

“And what was the one thing he told us to do before the festival? To stay out of trouble!”

“I was only trying to -”

“ Trying? Oh, you are very trying, Jane,” Gunther snapped. “And what was your trying worth ? You heard King Brennus - associating with you is tantamount to treason! I’d have fared better if you’d outright renounced me! Now, thanks to the Princess, and to Jester, and mostly thanks to you , we’re not just disgraced squires - we’re a complete and utter laughingstock!”

“We were only trying to help!”

“Help to salvage your apprenticeship, you mean. Or did it escape your notice that the Princess barely spared a word for mine?”

“Maybe if you’d done anything noteworthy in the past five years, they’d have had something to say,” Jane shot back, temper rising. 

But Gunther seemed to take it all in his stride. 

“Oh, I’m sorry - but not all of us have a dragon to do our heavy lifting, do we?” 

Jane scoffed. “Don’t be such a beef-brain, Gunther - what did Dragon have to do with it?”

Gunther leapt to his feet. “Dragon had everything to do with it! Who were you saving the Prince from ? And speaking of which, it was rather convenient, wasn’t it, that you two should become such fast friends right after your heroic little rescue?”

“And what exactly are you implying?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gunther said, his tone dripping with mock suspicion. “Convenient that all of the knights had left for a tournament a day’s ride away, at the precise moment that Dragon swooped in. Convenient that Dragon did not harm the prince, and convenient that Dragon allowed you to rescue him. Perhaps you’d already met Dragon beforehand. Maybe the whole thing was some grand plan between you two, to gain your apprenticeship!”

“Ha! Coming from you, that’s a joke - at least I didn’t need my father’s coin to buy my apprenticeship!”

“Oh, yes, how could I forget? I’ll never be as good as the great and noble Jane Turnkey! The only girl knight, saviour of princes, friend to dragons, and so modest about it all!” Jane’s face reddened. She opened her mouth to retort, but Gunther barreled on, his voice rising. “Perhaps my father did pay for my education, but I’ll earn my place on my own terms! But you? Without that overgrown lizard, you’re just a - girl - with a talent for playing the hero!”

They were startled into silence by the door flying open. Gunther nodded curtly to his father, stalking into the room as bitterly as though to the gallows, as Milton swept Jane into a hug. 

In her father’s arms, a sense of despair washed away the red-hot heat of her anger, leaving behind something which threatened to become tearful again.

“My dear girl,” Milton whispered. “Your mother wishes she could be here - but she was instructed to accompany the Queens.” He held Jane at arm’s length, lifting her chin with a finger. “She wanted me to tell you how much she loves you. We’re both so proud, my dear, of how valiantly you took the news. I’m so sorry it came to this.”

Jane nodded, but with the lump in her throat she couldn’t trust herself to speak.

Magnus rounded on Jane, and she stepped back as he pointed a finger in her face. “ You . Gunther’s knighthood, his future, his reputation - all gone, because of his association with you, and your reckless behaviour!”

“Come now, Magnus,” Milton interjected, stepping hastily between them. “There’s no need for such unpleasantness!”

The two men glared at each other for a tense moment, the air between them charged with silent disdain. Magnus’s breaths came heavy, reminiscent of an irate bull, before he finally straightened, smoothing his tunic with exaggerated care. 

“I assume there is another reason we were instructed to gather here with the children?” he drawled, inspecting his nails for imaginary dirt. Behind him, Gunther hung his head.

“Yes, yes of course,” Milton said, clearing his throat. “The King has asked me to - to pass along a message.”

Jane tried, unsuccessfully, to catch Gunther’s eye.

“King Caradoc could not attend himself owing to his duties at the tournament, but… the King has asked me to convey his most heartfelt apologies, to you both, for the disappointment this decision must bring,” Milton said softly. “He says that you may take all the time you need for this news to settle, and that you will always have a place in our kingdom, regardless of your path forward. He is certain that you will both find that path.”

“How touching,” Magnus drawled, “though I fail to see how such empty pleasantries can restore the boy’s honour, or compensate for the years and coin spent on his squandered training.”

For the second time today, Jane found herself agreeing with the Merchant. The King’s words were kind, but empty. What had seemed so certain for so long was gone. The last six years of her life had been dedicated to a single purpose, and now, with that gone, she was left adrift; she had no idea what to do with her day, much less her life. 

When nobody moved to speak Milton cleared his throat, and continued in a tone of false positivity. 

“What are you children thinking of doing today? Perhaps it would be good to be seen at the tournament. Keep your heads held high, as it were. I know that Sir Theodore and Sir Ivon would find it most pleasing if you both made your way down to offer your support.”

The idea of watching the tournament, of being surrounded by people who had witnessed her humiliation, felt unbearable. For a final and unsettling time, she and the Merchant seemed to be in agreement.

“Preposterous. It would be nothing short of public humiliation.” Magnus gripped Gunther by the shoulder. “Good day to you, Chamberlain. Boy ,” he barked, and shoved Gunther from the room, the door swinging open and bouncing from the wall with a crash in their wake. 

Jane listened to their footsteps fade before turning to her father. She had hoped for some comfort - but he seemed at a loss for words as she was, both of them dreading whatever punishment it was that Gunther would be facing. The thought made her insides run cold.  

“I don’t understand,” Jane said in a small voice. “I know it was foolish, but… of everyone involved, why were we the only ones to be punished?”

Milton sighed deeply, pulling her into an embrace. His hesitation told her that there were many things he would like to say, but he weighed them carefully before speaking.

“The King did not wish it,” he began quietly. “But King Brennus was adamant you should face some repercussions. Ironhold has always been a place steeped in honour and tradition - as well you know from your studies.” 

“And now from experience,” Jane muttered beneath her breath.

Milton glanced over his shoulder, taking Jane by the shoulder and leading her further from the open door as though someone might be listening. He continued in an even lower voice than before. “I tell you this in strictest confidence, Jane, and I trust you will not repeat this to anyone.” He waited for her nod. “This was the best that King Caradoc could negotiate, my dear; initially he proposed your exile. I wouldn’t dare presume, but… it seems to me that this ruling was as much a performance as it was a punishment. I worry that there is more afoot here than simple posturing, and you are at the centre of it.”

Jane opened her mouth to ask more questions, but the blaring of trumpets from outside the castle walls swiftly drew their attention back to the tournament.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Milton sighed, cupping her cheek. “We can discuss this later, but - for now - I must attend to the King.”

She nodded meekly, and with a final squeeze of her hand, her father departed. Jane rubbed her face, collapsing onto the seat Gunther had previously occupied. The long night had finally caught up to her; her eyes and limbs felt heavy, and her thoughts slow, but still, something gnawed at the back of her mind. Her trial - and near exile - the stranger at the tavern - Sir John D’Ark - the stories of the sword, and armour, and whistle to tame the dragons, and ultimately the plague which had claimed them - all of it felt infuriatingly interconnected somehow, in a mess of unanswered questions. 

She stared blankly for a while at the depictions of mythological creatures on the tapestries about the room, of unicorns by still forest pools, merfolk clawing against ocean rocks, and forest dryads peeking from dense oak trees. What she wouldn’t give to be anywhere else now, somewhere far away, where the only worries were the fantastical tales of ancient creatures…

Dragon. 

Jane groaned, dropping her head in her hands. To tell him the truth of today’s events - that she had been singled out, stripped of her apprenticeship, and publically humiliated for the sake of making an example - risked that he would act rashly. The other kingdoms would not be so lenient to his antics - historically, threatening a member of a royal family tended to result in war. 

Once again, Jane found herself wishing she could speak to Jester - but, given his role as master of ceremonies at the tournament, she doubted he would even have the time to talk to her - or the inclination. In one spectacular tour de force she had not only lost her knight’s apprenticeship last night, but perhaps also the friend who had helped her secure it.

Jane took deep, steadying breaths, the way Sir Theodore had taught her for times of panic; slow, through her nose, and into her belly. She counted twenty before she drew herself upright, limbs shaking, ringing in her ears drowning out the sounds of music and laughter carrying across the festival.

Gradually she became aware of Jester, pacing agitatedly beside her in the confines of the small clearing, dispersing his own nervous energy. One hand was clasped over his mouth with the other wrapped about his body, his eyes hard on the ground. The weak light of the moon and glimpses of firelight came to them in snippets through the trees, alternately colouring him blue and red. 

The breathing exercise had calmed the thundering in her chest, but it did nothing for her temper. She rounded on him.

“What were you thinking?” she snapped. “Conspiring to have me taken out of the ring!”

Jester stopped, opening and closing his mouth incredulously. “What was I - what were you thinking?” 

She glared at him stubbornly, but did not answer. He groaned. 

“Not every battle is yours to fight, Jane! Taking on a man with the moniker of ‘the Beast’, wearing no armour and wielding no weapons? It was pure lunacy!”

Her temper flared, because she knew he was right. “It was better than standing by and doing nothing!”

Jane turned on her heel and crashed away through the undergrowth, branches snagging at her sleeves and scratching her skin as she made her way toward the faint strains of music drifting from the campsite. Jester’s voice came to her quietly from a short distance behind.

“Some of us are not such fools.” 

Jane whirled around to face him. “And some of us are not such cowards,” she spat. She pointed back to the arena. “Thegan could have killed that boy,” she blustered on, feeling in equal parts vindicated and upset by the wounded expression he wore. “I have a duty to protect.”

Jester reached for the hat that was no longer there, settling instead for running his hand agitatedly through his hair. He shook his head; the silence of the absent bells echoed loudly.

“That is not entirely honest, is it, Jane? You were thinking also of yourself.”

Jane scoffed, half-turning back to the campsite. “Spare me. What do you know of honesty?”

A shadow crossed his face, but she met his gaze with a steady glare. In borrowed clothes he was a stranger looking back at her, flame light catching in his hard eyes. 

“And what,” he said softly, “do you mean to say by that?”

“Can’t work it out?” she snapped. “Perhaps you are not so smart after all.”

Haroldus stepped into the King’s antechamber with the air of someone who hadn’t been invited, startling Jane from her thoughts. He looked very peculiar indeed, dressed in a richly embroidered tunic of shimmering silk, adorned with patterns of blooming plants; the exotic garb was strikingly at odds with the archaic castle and traditional tapestries before him. 

When his eyes found Jane they widened slightly, and he clasped his hands in awkward apology as she rose slowly to her feet. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t realise I’d find you here. I wasn't formally invited to the antechamber, you see,” he admitted, a sheepish look on his face. He moved closer, his fingers brushing the intricate threads of the tapestries. “I simply couldn’t resist seeing these. Magnificent, aren’t they? Such vivid craftsmanship.”

Jane offered him a faint smile. “They are rather beautiful,” she said, unable to think of anything else to say. She hadn’t been expecting company, and had instead been hoping for privacy, and the chance to lick her wounds.

“My apologies for what has transpired,” he said, his tone softer now. “It was most unjust - though perhaps I shouldn’t voice such opinions.”

Jane thought back to how her father had checked the door before speaking to her, to his warning that she was being made an example of, and stepped closer. “What do you mean? Why not?”

Haroldus’ thoughts had clearly wandered elsewhere, and he didn’t respond to her straight away. A silence stretched between them before he cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably as he glanced back at her. 

“The walls have ears. How are you feeling?” he asked abruptly.

“I hardly know,” she admitted, keen to ask what he meant - but he pressed on without giving her the chance to speak.

“This scene,” he murmured, almost to himself. “It reminds me of the Rust Mountains.”

Jane raised her eyebrows; the name was unfamiliar to her. “Oh? To the west of here?”

Haroldus nodded. The gesture seemed almost absent, his mind lost in thought - though she couldn’t tell whether he was deep in thought about the tapestries or the supposed ears in the walls. 

His eyes wandered to the tapestries again, this time focusing on the depiction of mountains in the background. 

“A stark place, on the border. Harsh, jagged rock, capped with snow - like teeth. And yet... there’s something about it. One of my crew is from there.” He seemed to lose himself in a memory for a moment, before pulling himself back to the present. “He once spoke of a valley, a spot where a rock fall has revealed a cavern with many carvings.” 

Jane’s eyes lit up. “Carvings? Like dragon runes?”

Haroldus nodded, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “The very same. I haven’t seen them myself, so it may be nothing - but I had the man draw a map. I was going to offer it to you tonight, but this morning will do just the same.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a small, crumpled square of parchment. “I hope that, despite everything, this may provide you with some solace.”

Chapter Text

Lavinia sighed. The ornate pavilion upon which she was seated was draped in a canopy of silk, shielding her from the worst of the sun. Lavinia’s maid fanned her with a large feathered fan, the feeble breeze offering little relief from the relentless midmorning heat. The sprawling tournament ground shimmered, banners drooping in the still, breathless air, and the sun glared off the white tents pressed against its perimeter, bustling between them farriers, stablehands, squires, and armourers. From here, they looked no larger than ants scuttling among the dry, dead grass. 

She shifted in her seat, her dress already clinging uncomfortably, until her mother reached out a gentle hand to remind her of her deportment. Lady Adeline seemed similarly distracted, wringing her handkerchief in her hands, and rather shrilly declining the offer of wine as the young cupbearer passed - a little girl, shrinking shyly as she moved among the ladies-in-waiting, clutching the ewer of wine as though she were about to faint. Perhaps it was the heat, Lavinia considered, but it felt as though it ran deeper than that; something about today was all wrong. Even the clamour of the common folk pressed together along the trellis was muted. They shielded their eyes, reddening brows shining with sweat, as vendors called among them advertising pasties, hand-pies, and spiced nuts - but it was only the ale, Lavinia noticed, that sold in the heat. 

A clarion call signalled the start of the tournament. Jester sprinted about the border of the tiltyard wielding a stave fashioned into a sceptre, a crown of woven straw on his head in place of his usual bells. Gifted new raiment, cloth of copper and gold accented his usual blue. He was the only person to appear unaffected by the heat as he darted along the edge of the tiltyard, long adorned sleeves trailing about in his wake, coaxing the crowd’s meagre cheers into something more respectable. Finally, he leapt atop the rope tilt. Nonchalantly pacing it like a tightrope with his arms held out he addressed his now-restless audience, spinning the sceptre about in one hand.

“Lords and ladies, knights and knaves, welcome one and all to the grandest spectacle this side of the channel!” He made a show as if the crowd’s roar had knocked him clean from the rope, arms windmilling wildly for balance as though from the force of it; he tipped backward, twisted mid-air into a magnificent flip, and landed squarely on his feet in the sand, sending up a small burst of dust. 

“First,” he announced, “let us toast to our honoured kings - King Brennus of Ironhold and the Harrow Isles; King Corentin of Fairhaven; King Witald of Maltthorpe; and our most generous and gracious host, King Caradoc of Kippernia!”

Each King stood in turn to acknowledge the now-jubilant crowd. Her father waved airily, King Corentin raised his goblet of mead, and King Witald rose only long enough to offer a perfunctory bow - but King Brennus was yet to join them. 

When the cheers at last subsided, Jester struck his sceptre skyward. “Here,” he cried, his voice ringing across the tiltyard, “we bear witness to the clash of titans - the might of kingdoms - the strength of steel! Let the tournament… begin!”

A deafening bang echoed through the arena. Acrobats on horseback circled the ring, in a thunder of hoofbeats and great clouds of sand. Smoke of all colours rose in thick plumes, blotting out the sun, as still more performers burst through the great gates at the head of the tournament ground at a sprint. They carried with them streamers and ribbons, sprinting to the centre of the tiltyard amidst a cacophony of shawms and pounding drums, tumbling and leaping, arching and spinning, lifting one another higher and higher in a flurry of flips and jumps until they had formed a living tower. They raised to its head the green standard of Kippernia. 

The riders wore Kippernia’s green and gold, and as they rode they circled the tower as if defending the castle… but still faster riders gave chase, dressed in grey and orange. As they caught up, each enemy rider tore away the green of Kippernia’s men, until all wore the molten colours of old Harrowmere. Some even leapt from their horses, scaling the tower itself in a tangle of limbs. Then, man by man the tower fell in a slow collapse, depicting Kippernia, suffering the Long Siege, and the acrobats spilled to the ground in a cascade of flailing limbs, pulling from their clothes great reams of blood-red silk. Atop the heap of bodies, a figure held aloft the old Harrowmere flag: a slate basilisk, coiled above a flaming sky.

The riders circled again. One lone rider, who Lavinia knew to illustrate Sir Theodore owing to the fearsome grey boar stitched on his chest and the boar’s tusks mounted on his head, led the charge. The riders in his wake stripped away their grey and orange, and one by one regained the green of Kippernia - along with Ironhold red, Fairhaven blue, and Maltthorpe umber. It was with these colours that the Great Returning was depicted, and the tower was rebuilt, each man climbing steadily until they reached the top. Then, the clarions and drums fell silent. The siege was over; the castle recovered. At the tower’s peak, Kippernia’s flag was raised once again, and for just a moment it seemed as though everything would be right again at the sight of the fearsome gilded dragon, wings spread across a sky of verdant green.

The crowd erupted in applause, most eager among them her father, who leapt to his feet in his enthusiasm - but Lavinia sighed again, resting her head in her hand. It was a breathtaking spectacle, one that would ordinarily have captivated her. She had never, in all her years, seen so many people, or witnessed such lavish display, such sheer expense poured into a single event. Still, it was all wrong ; more than a banner, this was supposed to have been when the real Dragon arrived, swooping in through the smoke with Jane astride his back. There was no greater symbol of their kingdom; Kippernia had been founded near where a dragon had been spotted, after all, over three hundred years before; Dragon had been born then, in these very mountains. If Jane was the latest chapter in Kippernia’s history, then Dragon was the opening of the book.

Lavinia’s gaze drifted from the parade grounds and up to the sky. By now it had begun to clear of the smoke, with neither speck nor scale to be seen on the horizon, in any direction. Neither Jane nor Dragon had been seen since the trial this morning. A half-formed plan was developing in her mind, a plan in which she’d slip away to retrieve Jane’s sword from her room, to summon her - or to summon Dragon, who would surely bring her - and direct them to interrupt the opening ceremony, and demand before the entire kingdom that she take her rightful place in the tournament. She doubted that such a plan would work - King Brennus had seen to that, and her father had supported him, as had Cuthbert - but she was growing desperate. 

Cuthbert had claimed his seat at the very farthest end of the dais. He’d chosen here, at Lavinia’s side, to best avoid making conversation with anyone important, his mood made shorter and even more irritable than usual by the heat. Still, she sighed again, more loudly, and even added in a frustrated flick of her hair for good measure, so that her brother might take notice - but Cuthbert continued to steadfastly ignore her. At last, she ran out of patience. Lavinia turned to him sharply.

“Why didn’t you stand up for Jane?” 

Cuthbert didn’t answer, instead squinting at the tiltyard below as his own page fanned him carefully. The circus act had ended to rapturous applause, and now Jester introduced the knights’ procession. 

“Jane risked her life for you,” Lavinia pressed, raising her voice amidst the growing clatter of armour which now added to the clamouring crowd. She grasped Cuthbert’s sleeve. “If you’d only asked the Kings to offer her a reprieve -”

“This isn’t one of your fairytales, Lavinia,” Cuthbert muttered, shaking her off with one hand and dismissing the page with the other. “Besides, you’re being stupid.” 

Lavinia scowled. She saw no reason to be called stupid by her even-more-stupid brother, so she folded her arms impatiently, and waited for him to elaborate. He ran a hand through greasy hair with a sigh, shot a glance at Lavinia’s maid that she ought to make herself scarce, too, and then nodded towards the procession. 

“Look,” he said. “Do you see that?”

Lavinia pulled a face; she saw many things. Droves of chevaliers carried Ironhold banners, each knight clad in the glimmering black armour which made Ironhold the envy of the allied kingdoms. It was chased with blackened steel and edged in gold leaf, their pauldrons stamped with the sigil of the bear. They were led by none other than King Brennus himself, beneath his standard of a black bear set against vivid red. Behind them marched the bannermen of Fairhaven, whose standard bore a stag with gilded antlers upon a field of blue. Like their king, the knights seemed to favour more flamboyant dress - she spotted cuirasses enamelled in sapphire and ivory, visors crested with antlers, and gauntlets inlaid with slivers of polished horn. They were followed by the knights of Maltthorpe, their destriers alternatingly draped in caparisons set with bronze bells or formidable, glimmering barding, followed by their umber banners, stamped with a rearing white draught horse.  

Still, she had no idea what Cuthbert could be referring to.

“Do I see what ?”

“Our army. Do you see it?”

Her frown deepened, and she risked a glance to the tiltyard in case one had magically appeared, just to be sure.

“We don’t have an army.”

“Precisely,” Cuthbert said, slumping back into his seat. “Half of Fairhaven’s soldiers are stationed in Wales, and Maltthorpe’s army is advancing steadily northward, with Ironhold’s men lending their support to both. This is only a fraction of what the neighbouring kings could call upon, if they cared to. We have Sir Theodore, and that oaf Ivon.”

Lavinia watched them riding. It was true, she thought with a pang; their army was hardly the envy of the realm. Even from this distance, she could see how Sir Theodore favoured one side, an old injury pulling awkwardly at his seat in the saddle. When she was younger, her mother had often had to remind her not to pester him with games of chase, for his joints sometimes struggled to bear it. Beside him, Sir Ivon rode with little more grace - his posture slouched, his movements heavy, lacking the effortless poise she had seen in the knights of Ironhold, Fairhaven, and Maltthorpe.

“And as for that lot,” Cuthbert said, gesturing to the Free Company retinue bringing up the rear of the parade, “they aren’t even sworn to us, they’re sworn to whomever pays them.”

Lavinia barely bit back another sigh. “What is your point , Cuthbert?”

“My point,” he said, jerking his chin toward the procession, “is that you are pestering the wrong prince.”

Lavinia followed the tilt of her brother’s chin, her gaze landing on King Brennus. His son rode at his right-hand side, astride a magnificent ebony warhorse. Dressed for battle in sleek black armour with a helm shaped like a snarling bear, Prince Aodran looked vicious indeed. But he had not appeared so when Lavinia had first spoken to him, only that very morning at breakfast. Word had reached her only then that some commotion had erupted at the festival. Whilst her mother and Lady Adeline had told her not to worry, and that the news was none of her concern, the Prince had quietly taken her aside to confide in her what had truly happened - that Jane and Gunther had been seen to assault an esteemed knight; that Jane had fled; that Jane and Gunther were being held pending a trial at the court of the kings, as her friends in the staff were being held under guard in the kitchens so as not to intervene.

She’d appreciated his honesty, but it had been more than that - sensing her distress, Aodran had gone to negotiate the immediate release of Jester and the others, whilst she proceeded toward the throne room. It was only a shame, she thought, that Aodran had not made it back in time for Jane’s trial; she would’ve given anything for another friendly face in that crowd. 

Lavinia sighed again, but this time it was not for show. She hated to admit to herself that Cuthbert was right - but if she was going to correct this injustice, she would need to enlist the help of someone who had King Brennus’ ear. 

Jester ducked into a small tent on the edge of the arena, tossing aside the straw crown and mock sceptre. With the parade in full swing, there was little for him to do until it came time to announce the knights. All morning the sand had burned hot beneath his feet, and his eyes ached from the glare, and his dazzling motley clung uncomfortably to his damp skin - but to show any hint of weariness amidst the finest pageantry Kippernia had ever seen would be of utmost disservice to the performance.

At the back of the tent was a small wooden table, topped by a washbasin. He grabbed the ewer and filled it to the brim, sinking grateful hands beneath cool water. Leaning forward he scooped up a handful and tipped it into his mouth, and splashed the next across his flushed face, washing the grit and sweat of the performance away. Rivulets dripped from his fingers and down his arms, trickled from his cheeks and followed the curve of his collarbone until they soaked into the fabric of his clothes. Tilting his head down, he scooped another handful and let it trickle down his neck, and his back, until with a satisfied exhale he wiped his face on a cloth hanging nearby, drew up a stool, and collapsed with another heavy sigh. He had intended only to close his eyes for a moment - but some time later he jolted awake, a shadow crossing his face.

Rake stepped inside to the whisper of the tent’s side being pulled. He had washed and changed into fresh clothes before the opening ceremony - for all the good it had done him, because the ride from the castle to the tournament ground had covered his clothes anew with dust, and he patted them down as he entered. Taller than the tentpole, the roof knocked his straw sunhat askew. 

“I’m glad I caught you here,” he said, sweeping the hat from his head and fidgeting with a loose strand at its brim. “I thought you’d be gone already. The parade is almost over.”

Jester leapt to his feet - but from the sound of clanking armour outside, there was still some time. He let out a sigh of relief, then turned to more important matters.

“Any news of Jane?” 

“No,” Rake sighed miserably, drawing from his bag a linen package. “Nobody has seen her.”

“And what of Dragon? You’d think someone might notice a dragon flying overhead.”

“Smithy is a few tents over, helping to tack the horses alongside the squires and stablehands - but none have mentioned seeing Dragon. And also - none have seen Jane,” he added hastily, correctly anticipating Jester’s next question. “Smithy says they’re talking about her, though. Not good things, apparently.”

Jester sighed; he had heard the whispers since last night, when he and Jane had been escorted from the festival. Still, it beggared belief that not one person had seen fit to notice a dragon flying around. Was it too much to ask that people might use their eyes, instead of their mouths?

“How is it that nobody has seen them?” Jester muttered, jumping to his feet to twitch the tent door aside and survey the crowd, in the vain hope of spying a mane of red hair among the audience - but there was no such luck.

“Perhaps nobody noticed,” Rake suggested. “Seeing Dragon come and go is no more remarkable than sighting a greenfinch.”

“A frightfully fearsome finch,” Jester muttered. 

“Here,” Rake said, pushing the parcel into Jester’s hands. He unwrapped it; inside was a heel of bread, some cheese, and an apple, and as Jester appraised it Rake also pushed a waterskin into his hands. “Pepper sent me to give you these. You forgot them this morning.”

Jester set them aside without touching them. “Thank you. Has Pepper -”

“She has heard nothing, so she has instructed Ava to serve in the king’s box, and return to the kitchens at the end of the day with anything she hears.”

Jester’s shoulders slumped; he wasn’t convinced that Ava had it in her to gather information. A new hire, the girl was shy to the point of muteness, and prone to bumping into people on account of walking with her eyes on the ground.

“Hopefully Jane will have returned before then,” he sighed. He looked past the tournament ground to the pavilion, and though it was hard to make out - a block of shadow amidst the sharp, hard glint of sun against sand and armour. But Jester could see, even from here, the line of Royals, surrounded by their courtiers and an extravagantly-dressed Haroldus, one figure remained noticeably absent. “Have any of you seen the Merchant?”

“The Merchant?” Rake repeated blankly. A small crease appeared between his eyebrows, as though struggling to recall whether asking after Magnus had been part of Jester’s original instructions. “I only asked after Jane.”

“Yes, but Gunther’s father remains absent,” Jester said impatiently, dragging Rake to his side and pointing past the tournament grounds to the king’s box. “Doesn’t that strike you as a little odd? When has the merchant ever missed an opportunity to have the king’s ear?” 

Rake came to stand with him, shielding his eyes. “Perhaps he is licking his wounds. Gunther so often speaks of his father’s eye for their reputation. I’d wager that there is nothing that the Merchant values more.”

“Coin, perhaps,” Jester said, though something wasn’t sitting quite right. He could understand if the Merchant were to wish to avoid King Brennus on account of today’s embarrassment, having heard through the grapevine that Brennus was behind the decision to revoke Jane’s apprenticeship - not that he would ever have imagined that such a decision could come from King Caradoc. But for the Merchant to be absent not only from the king’s box, but also from the upper galleries, was unthinkable; the region’s wealthiest landlords and most renowned knights were readily overfilling themselves with the finest wine, doubtless curating trade deals and mergers under its heady influence, and eager for the opportunity to be swindled. And yet the Merchant was not there to rub shoulders or exploit any one of them - not even in the hope of finding Gunther some other prestigious position to restore the family’s pride.  

“I should be getting back,” Rake said, stooping to plop his hat atop his head. “Pepper will be needing all the help she can get in the kitchens with all of these mouths to feed. I’ll return if I hear anything.” 

Jester didn’t like the if . If left too much room for the if not ; for the likelihood that Jane had fled, or was about to be caught up in some hotheaded scheme to restore her apprenticeship. With a sigh Jester bade his friend farewell, the tent flap swinging closed in his wake.

Cuthbert left Lavinia’s side the moment the parade ended, preferring instead to stand apart at the edge of the dais to admire the dressage. Lavinia remained in place, though she could hardly sit still. It would be an age before the parade would end, before Aodran and his father would dismount and finally come to join them on the pavilion. Her hopes to take charge, to bid one of the stablehands or knights to lend her a horse, so that she could return to the castle and summon Jane, continued to dwindle - under the watchful eye of both her mother and Lady Adeline, she was forced to endure the exchange of polite conversation with her ladies whilst trying to conceal her fervent search about the pavilion for Aodran, and the sky for Jane. 

Eventually her attention turned to her newest lady-in-waiting, Lady Rose, who had taken Cuthbert’s seat in his absence to keep Lavinia company. One of the Merchant’s recommendations from Ironhold, Rose had hair as bright as primrose petals, neatly coiled beneath her coif, and wore her lips and cheeks painted as rosy as her name. Lavinia supposed she must be about the same age as Jane, though she had never thought to ask, and although they had little in common - and Lavinia often found her to be rather overstrung - Lavinia found herself liking Rose anyway. She understood the order of command, unlike Lavinia’s other ladies, who so often deferred to Lady Adeline, apparently under the mistaken impression that Lady Adeline’s age gave her precedence. But Lavinia knew that was not the case: she was a princess, and one day she would be a queen, and she far outranked a lady - even one as fine and accomplished as Lady Adeline. It was mostly for that reason alone that Lavinia feigned greater interest in Rose’s commentary regarding the dressage than she truly felt. If nothing else, it distracted her from the wait for Prince Aodran - and her mounting unease over Jane’s absence.

And as it turned out, they had marginally more in common than Lavinia had first assumed. Unlike her usual composed bearing, Rose now leant just as far forward as decorum would allow, hands clasped tightly in her lap, as she watched Sir Peter Finley trot in place. His horse’s tail swung lightly in a manoeuvre that, as Lavinia had been informed mere moments before, was called a piaffe . Rose, it seemed, possessed an unrelenting enthusiasm for all things related to dressage - a subject which interested Lavinia only so far as her own brief turns about the courtyard on her own pony, Thistle. 

“The horse’s back is supple. The hocks are well-engaged. A fine spring, and an even cadence. He rides with such easy grace, wouldn’t you agree, Your Majesty?” Rose said, voice tight with restraint, as though she were eager both to be heard above the murmur of the commonfolk and yet could not bring herself to raise it improperly. 

“A fine display, indeed,” Lavinia agreed, as Finley urged his mount across the arena. “Though I struggle to understand why they must teach the horses to dance.”

“It is not merely for the sake of display, Your Highness,” Rose said, with a burst of uncharacteristically unbridled enthusiasm. She laced her fingers still more tightly in her lap as though to anchor herself. “These horses are trained for battle,” she whispered, though her delight was unmistakable.

That, at least, truly captured Lavinia’s attention. “For battle ?” she blurted, rather too loudly.

Rose flinched, casting a sidelong glance toward the Queen to ensure that she had not heard Lavinia’s outburst. Then she smoothed her skirts, and sat up a little straighter, though the flush in her cheeks betrayed her thrill. “This movement is called a terre-à-terre , Your Highness,” she said, as Finley instructed the horse to transition from the piaffe into this new manoeuvre, in which the horse raised its front legs simultaneously from the ground in a small, controlled sort of rearing motion, see-sawing between front and hind legs like a rocking-horse - but Lavinia imagined it instead as if to flatten its enemies beneath its feet. She’d seen Gunther attempting similar in the training yard, but to much less success.

“From what I understand, a horse trained in a technique such as this can manoeuvre from one side to another with great agility. Useful in tight formations, I gather - though I would dread to ever be in a position beneath those hooves.” 

All too easily her mind raced with yet more images of gleaming armour and thundering hooves, of warhorses pivoting with impossible grace amid the chaos of battle - and of herself astride a magnificent destrier with her hair down like the noble flame-haired Boudica, leading her army of fearless Iceni warriors to take Londinium, just like Jester had once told her about. 

Finley’s horse adjusted its footing. Then it reared, striking out with its hind legs while suspended in mid air. The force of the kick was startling, and a murmur followed by cheers rippled through the crowd. Lavinia could imagine such a kick driving straight through a man’s chest, sending him sprawling across the battlefield.

“And - what was that ?” Lavinia whispered. 

“That is a capriole , Your Highness,” Rose said, a little breathlessly, as though thrilled to be permitted such unladylike discussion. She glanced sideways again to ensure that the Queen was not listening, and then smiled as if indulging in something slightly wicked. “Some are even trained to bite, or to strike down footmen.”

Lavinia let out a wistful sigh. Once, Jester had once sung the ballad of the Warrior King, who had led his castle guard into every skirmish. For some years after that, she had decided that she would be a Warrior Princess, and in time, a Warrior Queen. She had once spent many of her lessons practicing her letters by writing long and bloody ballads about herself, stories of great feats yet to come. At the mere mention of battle, all at once she was filled again with those childlike fantasies of following in Jane’s footsteps and forging her reputation in blood and battles; Lavinia, the Warrior Queen. Lavinia’s mother had been attempting to soften her childish bloodlust for years, to mixed results - and now Queen Gwendoline glanced across with a familiar, gentle sort of concern, as if she knew just from how Lavinia leant too keenly forward that her imagination had been stirred back into fantasies of glory and bloodied valour.

“Warhorses are remarkable creatures,” Gwendoline said mildly. “Though I imagine most horses would prefer a quiet pasture to the clash of swords, given the choice.”

Lavinia’s back straightened in an instant. “We were only talking about how well they are trained,” she said hastily, winding and unwinding the length of her sleeve around her finger. “It is as though they have been taught to dance.”

The Queen’s gaze slid to Lady Rose with the faintest trace of amusement. “Is that so?”

Lady Rose’s gaze slid down apologetically. “Indeed, Your Majesty. Although war is not a subject a lady ought to dwell upon too freely, my father was a chevalier. He took great intellectual interest in a horse’s training - and he always said that the communication between horse and rider results in something rather like a dance.”

The Queen said nothing for a moment, and then she glanced down at Lavinia with a quiet, all-too-knowing fondness.

“It is a noble skill,” she said, gently reaching out to still Lavinia’s busy hands with a touch. “Though I imagine even the fiercest warhorse must learn when to stand still .”

Lavinia blushed, and sat back in her seat obediently. After a moment, she turned to Rose.

“Did your father really say that?”

“I’m sure he may have expressed something approaching the sentiment, once or twice,” Rose said mildly, and Lavinia giggled.

It only was then that Lavinia noticed what it was that she was supposed to have been looking for; Prince Aodran had appeared on the pavilion for just a moment, lingering for only long enough for Lavinia to catch a glimpse before he disappeared behind the curtain that separated the main royal pavilion from the walkway beyond.

“Would you pardon me for just a moment?” Lavinia said, already beginning to rise. Leaving Rose with her eyebrows raised, she followed Prince Aodran almost at a run, rushing past the startled cupbearer so fast that she almost knocked the tray from the poor girl’s hands. 

“Lavinia,” Cuthbert hissed, catching her by the wrist just as she’d almost made her escape. He stooped to meet her eye, lank hair swinging across his face. “You will try not to embarrass us, won’t you?”

Lavinia stuck out her tongue at him, and ducked out of sight before her mother or Lady Adeline could chide her for her manners. She caught up with Prince Aodran on the walkway behind the stands. He’d changed out of his armour and into a royal blue doublet intricately embroidered with threads of gold and silver, a thin silver-grey coronet perched atop his head. One polished boot was poised on the trellised edge as he leant across where he had paused to admire the view, across the fallow fields and towards the open sea. He cut quite the striking figure, she considered, beneath the sun and with the wind in his long, dark hair - like something out of one of Jester’s fairy tales - and if ever she needed a gallant prince to aid in her rescue, the kind from the stories who enacted heroic deeds, it was most certainly right now. 

“Prince Aodran,” she greeted with a curtsey. 

“Princess Lavinia,” he replied, face breaking into a handsome smile as he offered a bow in return. “A pleasure to see you again so soon.”

Lavinia fought the urge to ask where he’d been for Jane’s trial, offering instead a polite smile. “And you.” 

“You must forgive me for taking leave of the tournament, but there are no views like this in Ironhold,” he sighed, turning back out to sea. “Wasn’t the water here rumoured to have magical properties, once upon a time?”

“Once upon a time,” she echoed, certain he was trying to distract her from what he must surely know she was about to ask - but she had seen this dance played out before, more and more as the court grew with the Merchant’s recommended courtiers and dignitaries, each out for something. Just as the horses had been trained to perform in battle, so must she learn to do so in court. She drew now on what she’d observed: that it was the height of impoliteness not to engage in pleasantries before seeking out assistance; that a little flattery was often expected; and that it was best to wait until the conversation turned naturally - almost as if the other person had invited you to speak of what you truly wanted. “The whole town was once called Goodwater, on account of the freshwater springs beneath the castle. They say that living here healed my grandfather of his ills when he was a child; that is why it was made the primary residence.”

“Goodwater,” he repeated, nodding thoughtfully. “You know, we have some tall tales about Ironhold stone, and the source of our good iron,” he laughed. “It is only a shame that all of that good iron has made the countryside pockmarked by mines - dirty, and foul, and veiled in smoke. Even the sea and sky seem to bear the stain of soot and ash. The entire world, it seems, is grey and brown. You are most fortunate to live in Kippernia, as I’m sure you realise. It is quite charming.” 

She smiled. “I suspect you do noble Ironhold a great disservice with such a grim picture - but your description is so vivid, I should very much like to hear those tall tales one day.”

“Then perhaps I shall tell you all of them - over dinner, tonight.” He paused, eyes twinkling. “You’ll find that each kingdom has built up such quaint mythologies about their pasts - the stallion of Maltthorpe, who stamped his hooves into the earth and made it fertile, and the Fairhaven doe, of course, who led the first settlers to a stream glittering with gold and silver, leaving them with fortune enough to build the first city. Whether or not such tales are true, it only seems right to celebrate our legacies, the stories which have shaped us, and made us who we are - does it not?”

“It does,” Lavinia agreed brightly.  

“Though I must admit,” Aodran continued, removing his coronet and turning it thoughtfully in his hands, “I was saddened not to see the legendary dragon of Kippernia here at the tournament. It has been the subject of much talk - many tales have been spun about him, but I am sure stories can do him no justice.”

Lavinia spied her opening; she lifted her chin the way her father did when he was trying to look rather more authoritative than he usually did. “The problem is far greater than not seeing a dragon, Aodran,” she said importantly. “Dragon was born here, and though he was gone for so long that people thought him just a myth, now he has returned - here, to his home - and he has stayed solely on account of Jane,” she said keenly. “One of our squires has befriended the first dragon to be seen in hundreds of years, the only dragon to exist! They are as much a part of our story as the blessed waters,  the Wilderness Years, or even the Great Returning. Such a deed deserves to be in the history books - just as Jane deserves to be a knight.” 

He sighed, shielding his eyes from the dazzling sunlight as he turned to face her. “I was sorry to hear about the whole affair, Princess, truly I was - but my father is not easily swayed.”

Lavinia stepped closer. “Please, Aodran. You are his son. If he is anything like my father, there is almost nothing he would not do if you asked.”

Aodran nodded thoughtfully, running his fingers along his jaw. Finally, he sighed. “Well, then - it appears I must go and throw myself upon my father’s sword,” he said gallantly. “I can make no promises, of course.”

“Of course,” Lavinia said. “But I thank you all the same for trying.”

“Anything for your sake, Princess,” he said, offering her first a bow and then his arm as they returned to the pavilion.

Lavinia giggled, and swept by at his side. What neither of them had noticed, however, was the cupbearer; Ava stood beside the curtain, head bowed, with the tray of elderflower cordial clutched tightly in her hands.

Pepper gasped, grasping Ava by the sleeve and pulling her aside. “He said what ?”

The sun had sunk low in the sky, well-hidden by now behind the castle’s curtain wall. With all said and done - the parade complete, royal supper served, and finally cleared away - Pepper had excused most of the kitchen staff for the evening. Keen to rest after another relentless day - made worse by the heat of the bread ovens, the open hearth, and the steam still curling from the great bubbling pot set atop - most had gratefully taken their leave. Now the fire cast long shadows behind the few who remained: sweeping flour from the flagstones and scraps from the countertops, and one young boy busily scrubbing plates. The rest - Pepper, Rake, Smithy, Jester, and the young kitchen hand, Ava - stood in a loose circle. Ava huddled near the corner, shrinking further with each unanswered question. Her hands knotted tighter around the hem of her apron with every passing word. 

Rake glanced between her and Pepper. “But what did he mean?”

“Jane could have her apprenticeship restored,” Smithy said. “If Prince Aodran can persuade his father, that is.”

“Oh, that is wonderful news!” Pepper beamed, stepping away to stir the stewpot with renewed vigour as the scent of cabbage and leek filled the kitchen. “Absolutely top table!”

“And they certainly mentioned Gunther?” asked Smithy, having to bend almost in half just to match Ava’s height. “He is not going to be left behind in this plan?”

“Oh, Smithy, she has already said as much,” Pepper said, taking a careful sip of pottage.

“But did you hear anything more?” Smithy insisted. “When the prince might speak to his father, perhaps? Or what he might say to convince him? I only mean to say that King Brennus seemed to be the one most set on Jane’s punishment; I think the Prince is right, and it will be no small task to change his mind. He gave no indication how he might make such a plea?” 

“Fetch me the salt, please, Smithy, and let the girl speak. Go on, Ava.” 

Ava waited until Smithy had crossed the kitchen before replying, though she still looked determinedly at her feet. “That’s all that they said, miss.”

From across the room came a sharp clatter; one of the scullery boys had dropped a plate into the basin with a startled yelp. At the same moment, Pepper let out a small gasp. “Was anyone else listening in on the princess, Ava? If King Brennus gets wind of this before the prince can speak to him…”

“‘S far as I know it was only me, miss,” Ava mumbled, more to the ground than to the people surrounding her. “Nobody else was even near, miss.”

Smithy returned with the jar of salt and opened his mouth to ask another question, but Pepper pointed to the counter. “Some breadcrumbs are needed to thicken the pottage, if you please, Smithy.”

“Yes, miss.”

“The stale loaf, please, Smithy, and I’ll take none of your cheek!”

Jester finally let out an exasperated sigh. “Look, this is all very well, but did we find out anything useful ?” 

They all looked at him, a mixture of expressions across their face: concern, bewilderment, and in Rake’s case, something more akin to dread.

“Nobody has seen Jane all day,” Jester continued, beginning to pace. “Where is she? For all we know, she has fled and put five kingdoms between us by now, and has already taken up an apprenticeship elsewhere.”

“Jester, make yourself useful and butter me some bread. From the new loaf, if you please,” Pepper instructed briskly, turning to him with a warning look far sharper than the knife she handed him. Then she turned back to Ava, placing a reassuring hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Lady Adeline said nothing at supper?”

“No, miss,” Ava whispered. 

“How was she, in herself?” Smithy asked, casting the crumbs into the pottage by hearty handfuls. “I’m sure we would know it to look at her if Jane had returned.”

“She and the Chamberlain wore faces long enough to trip over at supper,” Jester muttered over the bread. “They have not seen her, and neither has anyone else.”

“Perhaps Jane has been hiding in Dragon’s cave,” Rake volunteered, casting a hopeful glance through the barred window as though Dragon might land that very moment, as he had so many times before, scrounging for cabbages.

“Someone would have seen them fly there,” Smithy said, shaking his head. “All day, not one stablehand nor squire has said anything about seeing Dragon - not even a glimpse as they headed toward the mountain, not out to sea, not anything.”

“Perhaps instead they have headed west,” Rake suggested. “To where they flew me in search of new ingredients, some years ago.”

Pepper lightly slapped Smithy’s hand aside and tossed another pinch of salt into the pottage. “To the forest, Rake? What would lead them there?” 

“Not what , exactly,” Rake said, taking the jar of salt from her and returning it to the shelf on Smithy’s behalf. “But the forest was a peaceful place, far from anyone. If I were in search of somewhere to be alone, that would be the place I’d go - if I had a dragon, that is.”

“Without Dragon I expect it would be a good day’s ride,” Smithy said thoughtfully, and then he took a half-step towards the door. “If we were to leave now, perhaps seek Sir Theodore’s council and permission to borrow some horses, we could be there by morning -”

“Not before supper,” Pepper said brightly.

“And would any of us even know how to get there?” Jester said, tossing down the knife and thrusting a plate of bread in Pepper’s general direction. “I imagine the route looks very different from the back of a horse than it does from the back of a dragon. More than that, they have flown beyond the town more times than we can count! The part of the forest Rake mentioned could be one of a hundred hidden places - quiet, private, the sort only they would know about - and that’s to say nothing of the risks of riding through the forest, at night, blind to where we’re going, and entirely unable to defend ourselves from anything we find there. And besides, heading west puts her closer to the Ironhold border. With King Brennus tied up in all this, is that really where you think she’d choose to go?”

They stood in bewildered silence for a moment, then Pepper tapped her spoon against the edge of the stewpot.

“Supper’s ready,” she announced, ladling them each a dish topped with a sturdy wedge of buttered bread. 

“How can you even think about eating at a time like this?” Jester groaned, taking his bowl only because Pepper would not allow him to decline.

“You are forgetting the most important thing of all: that we cannot imagine where Jane has gone precisely because she does not want to be found,” Pepper said firmly. “After such a public disgrace, it’s scarcely a surprise that we have not seen her. Imagine, the poor thing - she has spent all of these years training to be a knight, it was the eve of her first tournament, and in one morning it has been taken all away from her.” She pointed to each of them in turn with the ladle. “What if you could no longer tend to your garden, Rake? If you had to find a role other than blacksmith?” She turned to Jester, wielding the ladle all the more fiercely. “And you, if you were no longer permitted to sing for your supper? What would you do, hm? Where would you go?”

“But she could be anywhere -”

“She could be anywhere,” Pepper cut in, “but as long as she is with Dragon, then she will be safe.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than a tremendous crash echoed from the courtyard, an all-too-familiar racket of splintering wood and rolling barrels. Without another word they dashed from the kitchens and arrived in the courtyard just in time to see Jane and Gunther scrambling from Dragon’s back. Jane hit the ground at a run. 

Her face was caked with chalk and blood, cheeks streaked with tears, and there was a shadow across her eyes which made it look as though her nose had been broken.

“Where is Haroldus?” she called, her expression as wild as it was unreadable. 

“In the throne room,” Jester replied. “Jane -” 

But Jane was already moving, boots pounding the flagstones as she raced past.

“Wait - Jane!” Jester called, stumbling after her. “What has happened?”

But she didn’t slow. In a few short steps she’d crossed the courtyard and disappeared through the archway, leaving only the sound of her frantic footsteps behind.