I tightened my grip on your ankle. “We will. I swear it.” I had already sworn it several times on the journey here.
You fished the cup from your bags and nodded to the reins hanging loosely from Hen’s withers. “Then lead on, madman.”
“You don’t—you’re not going to dismount?”
“She had him killed, the last time I left him out here.” You added, softly but with conviction, “Bitch.”
So I took the reins and led you, still astride, through the great doors and into the rush-lit dark of Cavallon Keep.
The scene was set as it always was—the rustling, scurrying crowd, the stink of sweat and fine perfumes, the veiled woman on the throne and the heroes assembled at her back—save for one alteration: the book, now lying open across the queen’s lap.
It was a threat as simple and effective as a knife to the throat. Should we falter or go astray—should we deviate from the script or displease her in any way—she would vanish back through time and change whatever she chose. I had anticipated it, of course, but the sight of the book still sent a sick bolt of fear through my belly.
As we entered the hall, I drew Hen to a halt (he struck, snakily, at my fingers, but somehow missed), and met your eyes.We play it as written, then.
As written,you agreed, silently, but you ran your tongue over your teeth.More or less.
“Sir Una.” Vivian’s voice fell weak and lovely over the hall, as it always did, but with a new, very slight tartness; she did so hate your horse.
I loosed his reins and fell back. The crowd was already parted for you, pressing uneasily against the walls. They had looked up as soon as they heard the ring of shod hooves, and they had seen you: a huge woman with a white halo of hair and the devil’s own red hands, cup held in one and naked blade in the other, sitting upon a horse like death itself. You did not look like a hero, now, so much as a harbinger.
You rode slowly toward the throne, steering with your knees. Hen’s shoes rang like great hammers on the stones.
At the dais, you made one of your wordless commands, and Hen halted. You did not dismount.
As I wormed and shoved my way through the crowd, I heard the queen’s faint, irritated sigh. Her line, when it came, emerged through gritted teeth: “And so, you have returned to me at last.”
“Yes, my queen.” Delivered mechanically, by rote, while you stared down at her. Good: Let Vivian imagine this was an act of defiance. Let her imagine it would be your only one.
“And you have slain the last dragon of Dominion.”
“Yes, my queen.”
“And you have brought me the lost grail, which they say restores all that time takes—”
“Yes, my queen,” you interrupted, and tossed the cup carelessly down to her.
She caught it—perhaps a little too quickly, for a dying woman—and I was so close now I could hear the annoyed click of her teeth.
Still, she rallied. She called, in her spring-snow voice, for wine, and lifted the cup in two tremulous hands as it was poured. She slipped the grail beneath her veil and drank.
She did not stand, this time, for the grand reveal, but made her speech while still seated, the book balanced safely on her knees. “So long have I prayed for one thing and one thing only, and now, by the grace of God and Sir Una, I am given it:time.”
With this, Vivian drew up her veil to reveal her handsome, healthful face. While the crowd gasped and swayed, she said, through a fixed smile, “Will you notkneel,Sir Una, and accept my blessing?”
For a strained moment, I thought you would refuse. I thought you would kill her—kill yourself, kill our chance at a future—rather than kneel at her feet ever again.
But I had not yet given the signal, and you had given me your oath. Stiffly, as if you had grown suddenly old, you slid from Hen’s back and down onto one knee.
“Will someonepleaseget that animal out of here,” Vivian said, tiredly, and a pair of attendants scurried, bent-backed, to take Hen’s reins. I wished them luck.
An awkward beat passed, while the queen waited for your head to bow properly—but you refused to bend your neck so much as an inch, keeping your gaze insolently on hers. Pure pride, I thought, but no—you were watching the reflection in her pupils for movement at your back.
Even still, he almost had you. Ancel slipped out from the wall of the crowd, quick and graceful as a cat. Hen screamed his wild battle-scream, tossing his head while the queen’s attendants clung desperately to the reins—I opened my mouth to yell a warning I knew you wouldn’t hear, through the ruin of my throat—Ancel brought his sword arcing downward—
And you spun and caught it neatly on your cross guard. In the crowd, a woman screamed.
Ancel swore, disengaging, his feet falling into a perfect defensive position. He spoke, and this time I was close enough to hear the words: “Damn,but you’re fast.”
