Yes, Constance. Make a grand entrance. Why does your heart quail at the thought? Why are you afraid, great and mighty woman that you are? You have seen battle before, surely; why, then, does your heart quail?

Can it be that you fear only Robena will heed you? That if you raise your voice, draw attention to yourself, that only she will turn her head and look in wonder, and then Pellinore will strike her down with a mortal blow? Yes, there it is: the thought that turns your blood to ice. And yet if you stand here, a mute statue, like the giants who became mountains standing guard over the sea and shore, then all it will take is an errant glance for someone to become transfixed on you, a furious thing of an earlier age.

No, there is only one path forward; you force the words from your lips. Please. Heed. “Pellinore!” For a moment, your voice resounds in that chaos, louder than the clash of steel and the roar of fire. “How [i]dare[/i] you stand against Britain’s champions? Lower your arms and stand no longer against your homeland!”

Turn your head, you pray, silently. Do not let Robena alone listen to your words. Do not let them be an inscription on a moss-grown stone, faded into uselessness. Do not reject you yourself, mock you as some bygone relic, the lesser daughter of great kings who ruled before the days of man.