She’d snuck into the changing tent an hour ahead of time, making a few trips to carry her armor and her sword.
It had taken her months to get each piece exactly right, requiring her to work between commissions, when her father was asleep. Countless hours in the heat of the smithy, sleepless nights spent designing and planning, a whole host of new calluses and burns covering her hands and arms. The hardest she’d ever worked in her life for anything, and Gwen had begun running her father’s smithy when she was thirteen.
But now that it came time to don the armor and emerge in public as a knight, she found herself rooted to the spot.
Something happening in the lists made the crowd erupt into a roar, quickly tapering off into a groan. Someone must have been badly injured to elicit such a universal visceral response.
Outside the tent, Achilles whickered a comment on the crowd. The sound unfroze Gwen enough for her to turn her head and call out to him where he waited, already wearing his armor, just behind her tent. “Hang in there,” she murmured to him—or to herself. “We can do this.”
Not for the first time, a snide voice in her head demanded to knowwhyshe was doing this. Sneaking into the qualifying round for one ride, only to vanish again afterward, win or lose, would gain her nothing. And it riskedeverything—disgrace, imprisonment, even terrible injury or death. Or, worse, herfatherfinding out.
And yet, the only thought that had lingered in her mind when the pink-garbed Lady Isobelle had tossed fifteen shillings her way was that it would buy her entry into the qualifiers.
She could ride, justonce,and prove to herself that she was madeof something as strong as any of them. That if only the world were different, she could’ve been a knight.
But all that would require her to actuallyput on her damned armor.
Gwen swallowed, shutting her eyes.
“Oh daaaang,” came a slightly muffled voice from the next tent over. “Did you see Darby? He’s got splinters sticking out of his leg as thick as a dick.”
Gwen froze, listening.
“Um, that’s a massive nope from me,” came a second voice, sounding slightly ill.
Laughter, and the reply: “Dude, what kind of knight feels faint at even the mention of blood? You’re a hundred percent in the wrong place.”
“He does have a point, you know,” came a third voice.
There were three of them, young knights gathered in one of the nearby changing tents, discussing the events taking place out in the lists. Despite her increasing sense of urgency, Gwen found herself tilting her head, leaning closer to the fabric wall of her own tent in order to listen.
“I’m only here because my dad would totally murder me if I backed out.” The ill-sounding knight gave a drawn-out sigh. “To be honest I’m hoping I can just, like, fall off my horse or something before the other guy’s lance hits. Sell it like I got knocked out honorably, you know?”
One of the other men laughed, though the sound of it was rueful. “I can’t believe you don’t want to try to win. It’s theTournament of Dragonslayers, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing.” His enthusiasm was puppy-dog-like. If puppies were also bloodthirsty and talked about dick splinters.
“Technically,” the third guy interjected, “it’s a once-every-four-years opportunity if you’re willing to travel. It’s just never been here in Darkhaven before.” He had a somewhat nasal tone that gave everything he said a rather pedantic air—like he knew everything, and wanted to make sure all those around himknewhe knew everything.
“Not if you get split open and murdered by splinters your first ride,” countered the one with the puppy-dog enthusiasm.
“Uhhh,” said Sir Sickly.
“Put your head between your legs,” suggested Sir Puppydog, his tone somewhat callous. “Seriously, though. You’ve got to at least try.”
“Easy for you to say, already through to the tournament proper.” Sir Know-It-All sounded tense. “Harder to admit you care when you might not even get to compete.”
“Yeah, but theDragonslayertournament. Set aside the prestige, the glory, the prize treasure at the end. Have you seen the girl they’ve got as the sacrifice this year?”
A pause, and then Sir Know-It-All said slowly, “That good?”
“Unbelieeevable,” Sir Puppydog replied fervently. “She may well be the hottest girl I’ve ever seen. What I wouldn’t give to have a crack at her.”
“So all that bullshit about honor and glory was just that, huh?” Sir Sickly had recovered enough to snap at his companion. “You’re just in it for dibs on the hot girl?”
“Why not both?” Sir Puppydog retorted cheerfully.
Gwen was torn between being put off by their conversation and being fascinated by this glimpse into the way they talked when they thought there weren’t any women in earshot.
She’d half forgotten that one of the many favors bestowed uponthe winner of the tournament was the opportunity to marry one of the land’s most sought-after bachelorettes, chosen by some arcane process behind the scenes. Symbolically, she was the dragon sacrifice being offered up to appease one of the ancient beasts. A few hundred years ago, she’d have been handed over to a dragon to be gobbled up in a ritual believed to keep the dragons from attacking the countryside.
