Chapter Thirty
This goes a lot more smoothly in the ballads
Gwen’s head was ringing so badly she could barely see, her dizzy gaze swinging from the doubled vision of her opponent being dragged away in a stretcher, to the box where Isobelle was watching. She could only see a blurry haze of color there, all the girls blending together.
There was a roaring in her ears—sick and confused, she had the electrifying realization that she might be about to pass out. If she did, the physicians would examine her. And the second they removed her helmet...
Gwen clenched her fist around her sword, firming her feet against the ground and sucking in a deep, bracing breath, willing herself to stand firm.
Then she realized... the roaring in her ears was not the rush of imminent unconsciousness. It was the crowd. They were cheering, screaming, undulating all around her like a single living thing.
Cheering... forher.
Gwen staggered one step back, turning in a slow half circle—then thrust her sword skyward, her blood singing.
The crowd wentinsane.
Dimly, she could hear her own name—or a version of it, the masculine version of it—being chanted, rising over the more indistinct roar of applause and cheers.
Ralph was gone, eliminated from the tournament. He had no claim over Isobelle, not anymore. Elated, her heart pounding, Gwen swung her gaze over toward Isobelle’s box.
She was gone.
Instantly, her elation drained. She let her sword fall, searching again for Isobelle’s green-clad form among her friends. But she could see the others clearly now: Sylvie watching with an air of stony confusion, Jane cheering wildly, Hilde with her hands clasped, leaning out over the rim of the box to get a better look at the knight who had taken the crowd by storm.
Isobelle wasn’t there.
Slowly, mechanically, Gwen raised her arm to slide her sword back into her sheath—and nearly dropped to her knees as a sickening jolt ran up her arm.
Now that her initial explosion of shock and elation was fading, the pain was starting to creep in.
No, not creep in... surge at her, sweep over her, as unstoppable and overwhelming as a force of nature.
Oh, holy hells...Gwen thought, turning to look at the far end of the lists and her tent beyond. The exit seemed to draw farther and farther away from her even as she watched. How was she ever going to walk that far?
She felt Achilles nuzzle gently at her elbow, and she grabbed for his reins with one hand and at his saddle with the other. She hoped, as she began to make her way back to the tents, that it looked like she was only maintaining control over an excitable and restive horse... and not like she was clinging to him for dear life.
By the time she reached her tent, leaving behind her the still-roaring crowd, she’d managed to get on top of her pain, catalogingthe worst of her injuries. She’d certainly hit her head when she landed, and probably had a minor concussion. Her back was bruised in a few places, and the shoulder of the arm that had held her lance was burning something fierce, making her wonder if she had broken a rib or two when she struck Sir Ralph. Her knee stung with each step, something she must’ve done while trying to stagger back to her feet under the weight of her armor. Her ears were ringing, and her whole body was still shaking in the aftermath of the adrenaline.
She felt bloody amazing.
She left Achilles tethered outside with a whisper of gratitude and limped into her tent. It contained a rough-hewn table, the stand on which her armor had rested, and a bag in which she’d hidden her dress. She staggered to the table and planted both hands upon it, panting for breath, too overwhelmed to even contemplate the long and arduous process of removing her armor.
She’dwon.
Had Isobelle seen? Had Madame Dupont? The older woman’s words were echoing in her ears:You will remember who you are.
Despite the pain, despite the dizziness sweeping through her in waves... she could feel it. That change. Like stepping into a familiar house or pulling on a favorite cloak or blanket. Certainty tingled through her body, telling her over and over that she was exactly where she was meant to be, exactlywhoshe was meant to be.
A rustle of fabric and a faint, exhaled epithet toward the back of the tent made Gwen twist abruptly, then let out a hiss as the movement sent pain shooting down from her shoulder and ribs. Someone had pulled up a couple of tent pegs and was pushing at the fabric of the wall itself. Then the back of the tent lifted enough to admit a slight emerald-clad form that popped into the space.Isobelle looked up, her cheeks flushed, her breathing harsh—she’d been running. Her eyes were shining.
Her eyes...
Gwen’s breath caught, all her newfound certainty crystalizing into one single, ringing truth as she gazed at the other girl. Hands shaking, she reached up, fumbling with her helmet.
“Help me, will you?” Gwen managed hoarsely, a breathless sound of laughter and frustration escaping her.
Isobelle sprang forward, her hands nearly as clumsy as Gwen’s—finally, they managed to get the thing off, and Isobelle tossed it aside to land on the grass with a thump without taking her eyes from Gwen’s face.
