She tilted her head. “We don’t have a war room.”
“Well, they’ve taken over the ballroom, so all the visiting knights and people can fit....”
She sighed, put upon. The part of her that was still dreadfully worried about Gwen was watching the rest of her, and couldn’t help admiring how calm she sounded. “Then you stay here on guard, Brian, and I’ll just head through on my own.”
“My lady, you can’t...”
Isobelle exited the conversation by means of walking straight toward Brian, who—faced with the terrifying prospect of making physical contact with her—jumped out of the way. She paused to wrestle one of the torches out of a sconce with only a minor loss of dignity, and then strode down the dank corridor to where she supposed Gwen would be. Brian made no attempt to stop her or to ask how she knew her way around so well, and contented himself with scuttling after her, making little chirps and gurgles of protest.
Isobelle reached the end of the corridor and raised the torch high, her heart trying to force its way up into her throat, preparing her for the sight of Gwen slumped on the floor, Gwen bleeding, Gwen white and cold.
What nothing had prepared her for was the total absence of Gwen in any form.
Isobelle and Brian stood side by side, staring at the empty cell with two very different kinds of horror, the silence broken by the sound of water dripping somewhere in the distance.
“Shit,” Brian whispered. “I’m so dead.”
“Where is she?” Isobelle demanded, calm evaporating as she whirled around to face him. “What have you done with her?”
“I thought she was right here!” Brian squealed, backing away from her until he hit the wall. “She’s supposed to be right here. Maybe they brought her up to sentence her and didn’t tell me? I’m not even meant to be on duty here, I can’t—you have to tell someone I didn’t—”
Isobelle didn’t hear anything else he said.
She was already gone.
The tapestries in the ballroom had been covered in war banners, the coats of arms of the great houses of the county of Darkhaven, and those of all the visiting knights and nobles, strung up on display. The center of the room was dominated by a table that must have been brought through the doorway in pieces, and which was now covered in maps of the region. The grand organ was hidden behind a crowd of bodies; every knight, squire, and nobleman who could find a place had crammed into the room, craning their necks to see what was under discussion.
Isobelle stormed past the man at the door, who belatedly shouted her name after her, though it was unclear whether he was trying to stop her or announce her.
“Lady Isobelle of Avington!”
Lord Whimsitt looked up from the head of the table. “Ah, Lady Isobelle,” he said genially, though there was a note of steel beneath his purr that she couldn’t miss. “There you are. Excellent timing, we can cross another thing off our list.”
Isobelle ignored that, wasting only a moment to catch her breath. “What has happened to Gwen?” she asked, once she knew her voice wouldn’t shake.
“Gwen?”
“Sir Gawain.”
A sound traveled around the room when she saidSir Gawain. A whisper of anger from those Gwen had unseated. From those whofeltshe’d unseated them, just by existing.
“The girl is in jail,” said Whimsitt, with a flick of his fingers.
“She’s not,” Isobelle shot back.
“She’s escaped? Then she will be in the jail again, as soon as we have recaptured her,” he snapped.
It was at that moment—as though her brain had been waiting for the chance to present what it had noticed when she had first scanned the room—that Isobelle’s gaze lifted from Lord Whimsitt’s red face to the wall behind him.
To the place where the dragonslayer’s spear had once been, and was no more.
Like snow slowly drifting down to settle on her, turning her skin cold and dousing that internal fire with a slow chill, the knowledge came to Isobelle.
Gwen had notrun away. Gwen hadrun toward.
“She’s gone after the dragon,” she breathed.
This time, the sound rippling through the room wasn’t anger, but laughter. Snickers, the low buzz of soft remarks the speakers thought were witty.
