Page 57

The sun rose over Darkhaven town, setting the awnings and tents of Market Day ablaze with color against the brilliant blue

morning sky.

In the fortnight since the dragon attack on the tournament, rebuilding efforts in the town were well underway.

More than one resident had chosen to keep their soot-blackened stonework, anticipating being able to point to a spot for generations

to come and claim, “See? This is where the dragonsfire struck.” The thatch roofs all needed replacing, however, and teams

from half a dozen nearby villages had come to assist in the effort before the onset of winter.

The forests around Darkhaven were all dressed in their best autumnal finery, and the crisp breeze brought the smells of fallen

leaves to the market to mingle with the smells of frying batter, roasting meats, and spiced apples.

Gwen breathed deeply, struck by a memory.

“I wondered, once, back before the tournament final, if I’d even be here to smell

the changing of the seasons this year.”

Isobelle’s arm, linked through hers, tightened.

Gwen could feel the force of her eyes boring into her.

“That’s awfully melodramatic, you know.”

Gwen let out a snort, glancing down to find that she was, indeed, being stared at by a pair of narrowed blue eyes.

“Well, to be fair, you had just begged me to run away with you because you thought I was going to die, so if I was being melodramatic, I wasn’t the only one.”

The stare softened.

“Hush. I am sensible and practical at all times. Oh, there’s your father! Shall we go say hi?”

They were walking down the same well-worn slope where Gwen had first laid eyes on Isobelle, clad in her pinkest, most outrageous

gown and flanked on both sides by other girls dressed to the teeth.

Just ahead was her father’s booth, though if Isobelle

had not pointed it out, Gwen might have missed it entirely.

Not a single flash of the booth, or of Amos, was visible through

the throng of customers clustered about the place.

Gwen snuck a glance at the other side of the path.

Her father’s main rival, the blacksmith who favored flashy—and noisy—sword

demonstrations to attract customers, was leaning against the wall with a thoughtful frown on his face as he glowered at the

mob of people clamoring for Amos’s figurines.

“He’s busy,” Gwen said finally, with a smile.

“Fortunately, he has help. A couple of the women from Aberfarthing are still

staying in Ellsdale, and the one who’s been staying in my room has been helping him with sales so he can focus on doing what

he loves.”

Isobelle gave a dreamy little sigh.

“If I were him, I’d rather make Sir Gwen figurines than horseshoes, too.”

Gwen drew Isobelle on down the path, flustered by the tangle of emotions that always flickered to life in her when she heard

that name and title.

She wasn’t a knight.

Lord Whimsitt had made that much clear, after Olivia, Sylvie, and the others had gotten Gwen and Isobelle back to Darkhaven just as dawn was breaking, the night of the battle against the dragon.

It had taken some time for the assembled lords and knights to grapple with the truth of what had taken place—that a girl,

armed only with an ancient spear and the power of friendship—had done what none of them had dared even attempt.

But after

Whimsitt had dispatched several men to go investigate the battleground, and they’d come back visibly shaken to report that

there was, indeed, the corpse of an extremely large dragon exactly where the ladies had said there would be.

.. well.

When Whimsitt rather tentatively suggested that Gwen be returned to the jail “where she belonged,” the instantaneous uproar

from Isobelle, her friends, the Aberfarthing survivors, and more than a few of the knights threatened rather quickly to spill

over into violence.

Whimsitt had been forced to pardon Gwen for her “trespasses.”

But when Isobelle had pointed out that Gwen ought to be hailed as the victor of the Tournament of Dragonslayers—after all,

she had slain a literal dragon—Whimsitt had dug in his heels.

“She is not nobility,” he retorted, face purpling.

“And she is a she ! And leaving all that aside, she entered the tournament under a false name, with false patents of nobility and lineage. She

was never truly, properly entered into the tournament, so she cannot be the victor.”

He would have gone on to hand Isobelle over to Orson, if Orson hadn’t objected.

His face set, not daring to look at Gwen at

all, he’d simply demanded the tournament be declared a draw, null and void, with no victor at all.

The prize money would go

back into Isobelle’s dowry, and he would lay no claim to her hand in marriage.

Of course, that meant neither Isobelle nor Gwen had any money of their own to spend anymore.

Though they hadn’t spoken about it, Gwen knew it weighed on Isobelle heavily, the knowledge that her wealth was still locked behind an ironclad gate that only marriage, to a man, would unlock for her.

But, for now, she and Isobelle were untouchable.

And the name Sir Gwen seemed to be sticking.

The first few times Gwen had heard it, she’d bristled, annoyed that the world had decided to give her a man’s title.

But Isobelle

had pointed out to her that there weren’t any alternatives.

There was no title for a knight who also happened to be a woman,

and that by using the title of “Sir,” the people of Darkhaven were, each of them, insisting on calling Gwen a knight even

if the law didn’t recognize her as such.

Isobelle gave a little cry of enthusiasm, tugging Gwen’s thoughts back to the present.

She slid her hand from Gwen’s arm,

took her hand, and dragged her along to a spot where Jane and Hilde were waving their arms to beckon them over.

Isobelle was careful to tug only on Gwen’s left arm.

Her right was still in a sling, at Olivia’s insistence.

The shoulder

was certainly injured again—had probably never healed to begin with, Olivia had pointed out severely—but the burn was far

worse than they’d realized that night on the field.

Even with the aid of that lurid green ointment Olivia insisted on using,

it was healing slowly.

Gwen knew she would have a nasty scar there for the rest of her life.

But she was alive. She was alive, and so were the others who’d come to aid her.

And so was Isobelle.

Hilde greeted them with a shout of pleasure, offering Isobelle the remains of the spiraled fried potato on a stick she was eating.

“You must fill your stomach, ja? Jinna is reopening the tavern tonight, and it is important to eat before one drinks!”

The girls regaled them with the bits and pieces of news and gossip they’d gleaned from the market thus far, and Jane showed

off a new tournament shirt she’d bought that featured stylized images of a knight and a dragon facing off with one another,

and a line of text beneath it that read “Never Sende a Manne to Do a Woman’s Jobbe.”

Gwen’s eyes wandered, searching the crowds.

Isobelle, sensing her distraction, gave her hand a squeeze, and Gwen glanced down

and asked, “Where is Sylvie?”

Isobelle eyed her sideways, and then flashed a smile at Jane and Hilde.

“I’m peckish for a cheesecake on a stick—we’ll catch

up with you later!”

They hadn’t gone far when Isobelle pulled Gwen into a makeshift alley between two stalls.

“I’d meant to tell you. I saw her

the other day with Olivia, who was taking measurements and cutting some fabric to make her some new dresses. I think that’s

probably where she is today—with Olivia.”

Gwen’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“New dresses? But... why couldn’t you say that in front of Hilde and Jane?”

Isobelle raised one eyebrow, eyes grave but lips quirked with the faintest of knowing smiles.

“They were black dresses, Gwen.

Mourning dresses.”

Gwen bit her lip as the implications of that struck her.

She’d just seen Sir Ralph the day before, alive and well.

“Um...” she said slowly, feeling herself slip back

into her old habit of stalling for time when trying to keep up with Isobelle’s mercurial conversational talents.

“Olivia...

she doesn’t really assassinate people, does she?”

Isobelle opened her eyes until they were very wide, and very innocent.

“A lady would never ask such a direct, distasteful question, Gwen. I certainly never have.” The eyes began to sparkle, just a little.

“But, I mean, you’re welcome to go ask her if you want.”

Gwen gave a theatrical shudder.

“I’d rather fight another dragon, thanks.”

Isobelle laughed, but soon her amusement died away, and she gazed up at Gwen’s face, her own thoughtful as she raised a hand

to trace the shape of Gwen’s cheek.

The brush of her fingertips made Gwen shiver, and she could feel a flush rising to the

spot where Isobelle’s skin had touched hers.

“Are you all right?” Isobelle asked softly.

“You’ve been quiet. You’re not having nightmares still, are you?”

Gwen shook her head quickly, squeezing Isobelle’s hand.

She’d woken more than once to find Isobelle’s anxious face bending

over her in the dark, having come running from her room in response to Gwen’s cries as she fought dragons in her dreams. “No,

I just... I can feel it. The people love us right now because we saved them from the dragon, and Whimsitt has to go with

it and pretend he’s behind us to avoid them turning on him. He’s a politician, and he’s not stupid. But it’s not going to

last forever. I can see the way he looks at me when no one else can see him.”

A part of Gwen quailed, weary and bitter, wondering if she would have to see that look on men’s faces for the rest of her

life, every time she stood up when they wanted her to fall fainting to the ground.

Isobelle’s face sobered even more.

“I’ve seen it, too,” she admitted.

“I guess some men can’t forgive a woman who reveals

them to be a fool in noble clothing.”

“It’s only a matter of time,” Gwen said.

Part of her wished she could just bury her worries, or at least keep them from Isobelle, because she hated seeing that worry reflected in those luminous eyes.

But the rest of her knew that was foolish, even if it wasn’t also unfair.

Of the two of them, Isobelle stood a much better chance of strategizing their way through Lord Whimsitt’s machinations.

“A matter of time before we’re not welcome here anymore. Somehow, I don’t think we can rely on having a dragon pop out of the ground every time I need a public relations boost.”

Isobelle’s lips quirked, and she said, “When I was searching the castle archives for some loophole about my dowry, I did find

something interesting.” Her expression betrayed the tiniest flicker of sadness about her failure to find the loophole she

was looking for.

“Did you know that this county was originally called Drakhaven?”

Gwen felt her eyebrows rise.

“As in, a haven for dragons?”

Isobelle laughed, lifted one of her shoulders in a shrug, and gazed whimsically up at her.

“At some point, someone must have

thought it’d be a good idea to do some rebranding. But, well, when it comes to dragons popping up, you never know.”

Gwen found herself smiling, though she couldn’t quite banish the chill that ran down her spine at the memory of Whimsitt’s

anger whenever he saw her.

“I hate leaving our fate up to chance.”

But far from looking afraid, Isobelle just looked thoughtful, her lips pursing slightly.

Finally, she said airily, “By the

way, I’ve had a letter from Astreta.”

Gwen blinked at her.

“The dancer, from the dragon bonfire? The one who danced the part of the knight?”

Isobelle nodded.

“She and her troupe are performing in Direcrest, a few hours’ ride north of here. People have been vanishing from the woods near the town, and others are telling tales of a large, shadowy creature lurking at the edges of the forest. No one in power there believes them.”

Gwen’s heart began to beat a little faster.

“Another dragon?” she breathed.

Isobelle’s eyes searched hers.

“Or something else entirely. We thought dragons had been extinct for a hundred years. Who’s

to say there aren’t more impossible things out there... people only you can help, battles only you can fight?”

Gwen’s mouth had gone dry with a potent mix of anticipation and fear, and she didn’t realize that her grip on Isobelle’s hand

had tightened until the other girl gave a squeak of protest. Gwen let her go with a startled oath and an apology, but Isobelle

just laughed.

“I’ve always wanted to hit the road and travel, like a hero of old,” she murmured.

Instead of taking Gwen’s hand again, Isobelle

leaned up against her and slid her arms around Gwen’s neck.

“Setting up camp, managing provisions, going town to town questing

for glory...”

Gwen could not resist Isobelle when she leaned in like that, and Isobelle knew it—she was watching Gwen with a smug smile,

eyes sparking with amusement and no small amount of eager desire.

So Gwen kissed her, and for a moment—quite a long moment,

actually—she completely forgot what they had been talking about.

When Isobelle pulled away, fingertips toying with a lock of Gwen’s hair, she asked, “What do you think?”

Gwen fought valiantly to recover her breath, and managed to say quite evenly indeed, “I don’t know. Do you think they have

cheesecake on a stick in Direcrest?”

Isobelle laughed, glanced out of the mouth of the makeshift market alley, and took Gwen’s hand again.

“We ought to eat our fill now, just in case. Better safe than sorry.”

Gwen could not help but give a sharp huff of laughter.

“And better free than safe,” she added.

Isobelle squeezed her hand,

raised it to her lips, and then pulled her back out into the colorful chaos of the Darkhaven market.