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Chapter Forty-Four A foolish, reckless idiot with her head in the clouds

Gwen wedged herself into the corner of the cell and tried not to shiver.

We should’ve gotten those villagers out of here the moment they were taken , she thought guiltily.

She’d never been in a jail cell before, but between the unrelenting chill, the constant steady dripping

sounds from the ceiling, and the sporadic, not-so-distant rustlings of rodents, Gwen realized she’d never fully imagined quite

how awful it was.

At least she could lean her shoulder against the stone wall and let the chill soothe the pain for her.

It was even better

than Olivia’s basin of cool water.

She’d tried, when she’d first been tossed in here, to haul the heavy door up off its hinges

again—but the other night, it had taken her efforts combined with Isobelle’s and Olivia’s, plus the help of a few of the villagers.

On her own, she could barely shift the door at all.

The distant screams and foundation-shaking roars from the dragon had long since faded.

If any of the lore about them was right, though, it would be back.

The gold mines had been closed long ago because the precious metal attracted the monsters.

Now, a fortune in gold and gems would be under guard at the heart of Darkhaven castle, and the beast had gotten quite a good look at it while it flew about the tournament.

Gwen closed her eyes and her mind filled instantly with a memory of the dragon as it had flown over the tournament grounds.

Its wingspan was wide enough to block out the sun across the entire stands, and with one casual breath it had razed half the

festival.

And yet her blood sang when she saw it.

Some terrifying instinct, buried deep within her, had burst out in one piercing rush, and she had actually

fought the guards dragging her toward safety in order to stay where the dragon was.

In order to stand, to fight.

Gwen shuddered and buried her face in her hands.

When had she turned from a sensible, practical village girl into a foolish,

reckless idiot with her head in the clouds?

Isobelle , she thought, heart aching.

That’s when.

The faint illumination in her cell came from a torch some distance down the corridor and around the bend.

Her first indication

that someone was coming was a sudden, massive shadow on the wall, and then a mad flickering of the light as whoever it was

tugged the torch out of its sconce.

She recognized the heavy, clinking steps of the mail-enhanced boots worn by the castle guard and braced herself.

She thought

she’d have more time before they decided what to do with her.

But perhaps it was better this way, without an eternity in these

cells, replaying the choices she could have made differently.

The torchlight bobbed and weaved, illuminating a large, burly form, and came to a halt before the bars of her cell.

“Gwen?”

Gwen’s head snapped up.

She knew that voice.

Knew it better than any other in the whole world.

“D-dad?”

Her father tossed the torch down onto the stone, pulled off his helmet, and pressed in against the bars.

“Gwen!”

Gwen scrambled to her feet, biting back a sob as she rushed for the bars, reaching through them so Amos could wrap her hands

up in his own big, scarred ones.

“Dad, how... I don’t...”

Her father gave a soft, strained laugh, and squeezed her hands hard enough to make her bones ache.

She didn’t protest. “I

came as soon as I heard. It took me a while to get everything together, but as soon as that lady showed up to tell me what

had happened—”

“Lady?” Gwen interrupted, her heart staggering.

“Well, I don’t know what she was. She was dressed like a servant, so I suppose...”

“Olivia?” Gwen gasped, hands going somewhat limp now under her father’s.

“Was she the same woman who brought a bunch of refugees

to the village?”

Her father nodded.

“The very same. She brought me your armor, all messed up, straps cut and everything. Gwen, who the hell

is she? She’s not any kind of servant, that much I know.”

Gwen fought the somewhat hysterical urge to laugh.

“I have no idea. She’s supposed to be Isobelle’s maid, but... well,

we don’t ask how or why she knows and does the things she does. The villagers from Aberfarthing—they did get to you?”

Her father nodded.

“They’re all well, by the way—we’ve sent a few of them on to other villages, and we’re all making sure

they’re well cared for.” He let out a sigh, a faint smile on his face.

“I forgot how much easier it is to take care of someone

else than it is yourself.”

Gwen swallowed, scanning her father’s torchlit features.

“Dad... how did you get in here? The whole place is guarded. How...” Now that her shock had worn off, she could scan his attire, trying to wrestle with the confusion of seeing her father, who in her entire life Gwen had only seen wear a total of three shirts, all in the same style, dressed as a castle guard.

Amos laughed and released his grip on her hands enough to pat one of them gently.

“Gwen, my darling—we make the armor for the castle guard.” He rapped his knuckles against the breastplate with a lopsided smile.

Gwen felt herself losing her grip on her own emotions, an uneven sob of laughter escaping her.

Then she looked up, meeting

her father’s eyes, and swallowed hard.

“Dad... there was no blacksmithing internship.”

Amos’s expression softened, and he patted her hand again.

“I know, Gwen. I’ve known since the first day you came back, glowing

like a miniature sun, and tried to tell me you didn’t know if you’d gotten your internship.”

Gwen’s legs, already unsteady, gave way and she sat down rather heavily on the floor of her cell.

“What? You knew? Why...

why didn’t you tell me you knew? How did you know?”

Her father grinned at her, then groaned as he braced a palm on the stone and sat down on the other side of the bars.

“I’d

love to blow your mind and just say ‘A father knows, dearest.’ But the truth is, everyone was talking about this mysterious

new Sir Gawain, who’d rolled up out of nowhere and earned a spot in the tournament by unseating Sir Evonwald.”

Gwen stared at him, still trying to process that her father had known what she was doing all this time and had said nothing.

Her father raised his eyebrows, eyeing her.

“Gwen, how thick do you think I am? You’re not the only one with ears who was around to hear your mum’s stories. Sir Gawain this, Sir Gawain that... and, mon chou, you even said your alter ego was from Toussaint, where your mum was born.” He reached through the bars, fitting his larger hands with some difficulty, and patted Gwen’s knee.

“I didn’t say anything because you didn’t want me to.”

Gwen’s eyes were burning as she scanned her father’s features, her muscles tensing under a weight she hadn’t realized she

was carrying.

“But... you weren’t worried? Why didn’t you stop me?”

“I’m gratified you think I could’ve stopped you. Of course I was worried. But my daughter is strong and clever, and a damn

sight better at fighting than most of those puffed-up nobles in shiny armor. She can take care of herself. She’s been taking

care of me for years.” His smile vanished as his eyes met hers.

“Oh, Gwen... what kind of dad would I be if I tried to

stop you from being who you were born to be?”

Gwen felt that weight on her shoulders collapse, slipping away, and she leaned forward with a sob to press her forehead against

her father’s hands.

She could not remember the last time she had wept that way—possibly not since the day her mother had died.

But she couldn’t have stopped herself now if the dragon itself had knocked the prison down around them.

The storm was intense, but brief.

After, she lifted her head, tears making her father’s visage waver and dance in the torchlight.

“Dad, it’s all gone so wrong. I’ve messed everything up so badly.”

Amos’s eyes were damp, and he sniffed loudly before saying briskly, “I don’t see how. You’re talking about that girl, I presume—the

one you brought home the night of the dragon bonfire?”

Gwen choked, having thought her father had run out of terrifying surprises to spring on her.

“Wh— You know about Isobelle,

too?”

“Is that her name?” Amos’s eyes twinkled.

“Listen, as far as she’s concerned, I don’t think you have to worry. If you don’t get yourself out of here soon, I imagine she’ll be storming the place to get you out.”

Gwen swallowed hard.

“But everything else—the tournament, the nobles... they all know. I never got to show them who I really am, never got to finish what I started. And now... now I can’t be a knight anymore.”

Her father’s eyebrows drew together.

“Gwen, that has to be one of the silliest things I’ve ever heard you say. Why do you

care what those people think of you?”

Gwen blinked at him.

“I don’t, I just...”

“You want to be a knight?” her father pressed.

“Then be a damned knight. It’ll take a little while to fix your armor, but...”

Gwen gaped at him in confusion.

Amos gave a noise of frustration and dug in his pocket.

When he lifted his hand again, he held a tiny, perfect figurine of

a knight, the twin of the one still left in Gwen’s room in Isobelle’s suite, with Gawain’s pennant flying in an imaginary

breeze.

Then she looked closer and recognized the articulation in the joints that she’d invented, replicated there to the last detail.

This figurine wasn’t Sir Gawain.

.. it was her .

“You may be surprised to learn that we are quite a bit richer now than we used to be,” her father said, offering the figurine

for her to take.

“They’ve been selling faster than cheesecake on a stick.”

“But... but now they all know that I’m not Sir Gawain.”

Amos gave a wave of his hand.

“You think that’s stopped them? I left Theo dealing with a crowd outside the smithy a dozen strong, waiting for a new batch of figurines to drop. Yes, Lord Whimsitt is an idiot, and yes, I’m sure he managed to tell a bunch of other idiots what they should think about the idea of a woman in armor. But not everyone is listening to him, Gwen.”

Gwen inspected the little figurine resting in the palm of her hand.

He’d even captured Achilles, down to the cowlick in his

mane that insisted on standing up, no matter how she tried to comb it down.

Her horse. Her armor.

Her.

Her father reached through the bars, took her hand, and gently curled her fingers closed over the figurine in her palm.

“Look

at me, Gwen.”

Gwen swallowed around the lump in her throat and lifted her face toward her father.

“All those stories your mum used to tell you, about chivalry and slaying monsters and defending the helpless... none of

those stories were about being a knight.” He squeezed her hand, his voice rough with emotion.

“They were about being a hero .”

Gwen bit her lip, reaching for breath and finding she could inhale longer and deeper than she’d been able to do in a long

time.

She blinked back her tears and tightened her fingers around the figurine in her hand.

“Right,” she said, in a voice that was miraculously steady.

“Dad—have you gotten a look at the cell door yet?”

Amos let out a derisive snort.

“Peg hinges. I mean, what kind of shortsighted idiot would take such a stupid shortcut when

designing a jail? Whoever they hired as their ironworker for this dungeon ought to be—”

“Yes, Dad,” Gwen interrupted, fighting back a grin.

“When all this is over perhaps you can go tell them how wrong they are

and offer to do it right. Do you think we can...?”

Amos chuckled.

“Girl, please. Your dad’s a blacksmith.” He stretched his broad shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and then turned to set his back against the grill.

Waiting for Gwen to take her place on the other side, he curled his hands around the crossbar and took a deep breath.

“On my count? One... two...”