“Now, this,” she said, even as Gwen raised her hands in protest. “Look at the—is it engraving, on the end bit here? If you could do this kind of thing on a horseshoe, you’d—whoops, maybe I won’t try and lift it, these are surprisingly heavy.”
Gwen had lurched forward in case Isobelle planned on dropping the sword, but (though it strained the biceps more than she’d like to admit) she managed to hold on to it until she could hand it over to the other girl.
“Whoops,” Gwen echoed, and Isobelle thought she saw her lips twitch. Without any sign of effort at all, the blacksmith’s daughter wrapped her own hand around the grip, swinging the sword up to horizontal and taking the scabbard with her other hand, so she could pull the weapon a few inches clear of it. She looked... dashing, really.
“Oh, now look at that,” Isobelle murmured, stepping closer to inspect the engraving that wound its way down the blade of the sword itself. She only realized how close she’d stepped when Gwen swallowed and spoke.
“You have good taste.” And then, after a pause: “I’ll tell my father you admired it.”
Isobelle looked up to meet her green eyes—they were part wariness, part curiosity, and a touch of pride. They were the color of the forest: a mossy green with hints of oak.
“I—” For once, when Isobelle launched herself, the rest of her words didn’t show up. To cover, she took a smart step back and spun away toward the goods on the counter. “It’s such a pity you don’t have anything else with that sort of engraving,” she said, listening to herself babble with a kind of fascination as she reached for a roll of linen she assumed was for wrapping purchases.
Feeling a lump, she twitched a fold of fabric aside, revealing a tiny figurine worked in iron, as far removed from the great horseshoes and buckles as Isobelle herself was from the lout across the way, still waving his noisy sword around.
The figure was that of a tiny iron knight, his lance raised, pennant frozen mid-billow. The horse he rode was elegantly and quite realistically depicted, one leg raised to take a spritely step. The armor itself was a thing of beauty, so detailed there were even tiny etched rivets at the joints.
“Oh, I love him!” Isobelle squealed, folding her hands behind her back in the universal sign for I-won’t-touch-this-fragile-thing and bending over to take a closer look. “Look at this handsome fellow! What is that on his pennant, a lavender blossom?”
“No!” Gwen gasped, darting around her to grab for the fabric, trying to whisk the figurine out of sight. “That isn’t meant to be—” She caught at one edge of the fabric, and as she snatched it up, the little knight tumbled to the ground, landing on the muddied grass at their feet.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Isobelle began, trying to sweep her dress out of the way as Gwen dropped to her knees to retrieve the little knight. “He’s beautiful. How much is he? I quite fancy the idea of a knight who’d do what he was told, for once.”
“Sir Gawain isn’t for sale,” Gwen said firmly, closing her hand over the figurine. She looked about to say more when Sir Orson’s voice rang out, startlingly close.
“Lady Isobelle, please tell me you’re not buying more horseshoes. I’ve already run out of hooves.” There he was on the other side of the counter, with a lopsided smile at finding her where she shouldn’t be. “I assume they’re for me,” he continued. “Given I’m playing the packhorse today.” And indeed he was—the girls had added another couple of bags to his load since she’d slipped away.
“I’ll be good,” Isobelle replied, producing her dimples on cue. “Sir Orson, this is...?” Though she’d heard the blacksmith address his daughter by name, it only seemed polite to offer a proper introduction.
“Gwen,” said Gwen, glancing between the lady and the knight with a neutral expression. “Of Ellsdale.”
If Orson was confused as to why Isobelle was introducing him to a random vendor at the market, he hid it beautifully. That was the nice thing about him—he could be friendly toward anyone. “Pleased to meet you, Gwen.”
Gwen blinked at him—no doubt as stunned by his square jaw and princely good looks as every other girl on the planet. “Uh... you too, Sir... Awesome?”
Isobelle managed not to giggle. It wasn’t the first time someone had misheard Orson’s name, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. “Orson,” she enunciated carefully. “With an ‘R.’ But don’t worry, he responds to both.”
Sir Orson laughed good-naturedly, throwing his head back and looking just like a legendary hero who had stepped straight out of an illuminated manuscript of chivalric romantic poetry. Even his hair seemed to glow—outrageous, since Isobelle knew he didn’t use any product in it.
He offered Isobelle his arm. “It’s getting late, my lady—shall we?”
Isobelle glanced back at the blacksmith’s daughter, searching for some reason to linger at the stall, without having any idea why she wanted to stay.
Their eyes met again—and again, there was that strange sensation. But there was nothing more to say, especially with her friends catching up.
She let Orson lead her away. But when she looked back over her shoulder, Gwen was watching her go.
Chapter Three
Bring it on
All Darkhaven was buzzing about the tournament. Lord Whimsitt had hosted jousts before, but never on such a scale as this—where in the past there’d be maybe six knights in competition, now there were dozens upon dozens, drawn by the prestige and pageantry of the Tournament of Dragonslayers.
There were so many knights angling to compete, in fact, that the first week of matches didn’t even count toward the final tournament brackets, instead serving only to separate the wheat from the chaff. If an up-and-coming young knight wanted to compete against the established favorites, he had to first qualify for the opening round by jousting his way into it.
Which meant week one was an absolute bloodbath. Sometimes literally. Young, untested knights getting knocked flat in one charge, while the favorites of the tournament barely broke a sweat—with only the occasional surprise upset. Still, the crowds flocked to the lists, because what better way to pass a beautiful late summer’s day than by watching unspeakable violence unfolding before you for your entertainment? Plus, there were snacks.
Gwen stood in the changing tent, willing herself to move. The hum of the spectators was like nothing she’d ever heard before, vibrating in every fiber of her being. The crowd was like a livingcreature—like one of the ancient dragons, demanding blood sacrifices to be kept at bay.
