Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

The first thought is simple: brace for impact! And the second is that any weapon that can be seen from orbit is unlikely to be one that can be survived. For a moment, Redana stands there, staring—

And then the Auspex answers the questions she did not even ask. A world, and the Yakanov spinning around it. Zap! The world hangs suspended in golden chains. Zip! The world spins in its web, faster, faster, the wrong direction, as years run backwards on a counter. Zowch! A golden chain runs through Chibidana’s head, and her clothes go back to the sort of historical style from that great museum of the War. Zotzie! Chibi-Alcedi pick up their spears and lock into a phalanx as from the sky...

Oh no.

“They’re bringing back the war,” she says, to Demeter and Hades and Poseidon, to the chaos around her, to nobody at all. “They’re going to make everybody here live through it again.” And for a moment she has the ridiculous thought of climbing somewhere high with a bat and waiting for the weapon to strike, palms sweaty as she makes the one swing that would ever count—

But it’s ridiculous, and too late, and once that thing fires Redana is going to be one of her mother’s soldiers standing in the middle of an Alcedi— no, it’ll be them in the middle of her mother’s fortress, and then everyone will start fighting, and they won’t kill each other on purpose but the point of fighting back then was to stop people from daring to get back up, and don’t they still have Hermetics here? If they left, did they take Iskarot? Did Iskarot leave her behind because she ran off?

The Auspex begins the countdown to final firing and Redana screams in frustration. There’s nothing more she can do. She’s stuck down here, and...

And what must a commander do when they know they are going to be compromised, Redana?

”In such circumstances, the commander must, with all speed, send word to such subordinate as they trust, informing them of their will, and enclosing with their message continuity of command, such that their will may continue to be a living quality upon the battlefield, and their value to the antagonist as regards the disruption or full neutralization of their force will be negated to a necessary degree...”[1]

And Redana stands below that awful yellow star and raises one hand to her face, covering her other eye.

***

And there stands the fifth person to appear suddenly in the cramped room, quite suddenly without anyone else seeing her appear. She stands there, pale, hair caught in an unseen wind, blind yet with that awful blue star burning past the simple leather in front of it. The Auspex will not allow itself to be cloaked when it goes to the effort of entangling Redana so. The Alcedi would call her a ghost, and perhaps they would be closer to the truth than other guesses.

“Still down here,” the shade of Redana declares to Alexa (and thus to the room she does not see, her Auspex blind as it tears her in two and transposes her very self). Her voice is coming from an impossible distance, clear as a bell drifting through space, each word not so much spoken as carved into the senses. “You’ve got—“

And then the waveform snaps under the strain and the shade fades away until it is clear the false Redana was nothing more than shadows playing on a wall, somehow. And the final word remains unspoken.

***

[1]: Tactics of the Post-Molechian Era: A Thesis, Elacitus et alia, Published through the Imperial University Press, signed first edition.

Breathless Dead

"I invited her to every birthday."

The feeling of having put your foot in your mouth is just miserable. Redana's body threatens to crumple in on itself; she can't look any of the Alcedi in the eye, Lacedo least of all. "I brought her offerings, I made her sacrifices, and she always ignored me and made them rot away on the altar. And when she came here and started boasting about how my father wasn't any help, I..." She makes a violent, impotent gesture with one hand, one that just makes her all the more wound up.

"Honored Grandmother," she says, briskly, because she has to say it. Because now that she has incurred the wrath of her stepmother, she might as well be a Phalanx member without a shield: a danger to everyone around her. "I'm sorry. I have to leave. Hermes might be able to keep my father at bay, but I'm small and mortal enough to maybe slip past her notice, no matter what my stepmother does to punish me for what I said."

Then she looks at Lacedo's sandals and takes one hand in hers, because Redana Claudius is an oblivious battering ram of a girl when it comes to how she might make other people's hearts throb painfully. (After all, she lived with Bella for a decade, and fell asleep with her head in her maid's lap, and used her as a pillow at nights, and she has not yet realized why the world feels more dangerous and more lonely without her.) "Thank you, Lacedo," she says, with painful sincerity. "I'm sorry I made a mess of it. But I'm still going to speak with the Order of Hermes to make them do right by you. I promise."

Sunshards

Ah.

And here Rose from the River was, relaxed. It was, in many ways, cleansing to speak with Yue's stone. To be herself, naked and unguarded, to speak with something that was trying its best to understand her. And when the light faded away and the Sun Farmer hid behind her wolf-maiden, well, she was right to do so. Wasn't she? Rose from the River is all that she admitted: dangerous, and constrained by the Way by choice, and not your "friend." "Friends" are people who can relax in each other's company and trust themselves. Who could trust a creature whose heart still resounded with the ancient principles of her creators? You cannot suborn the heart of a true person. And so it is right for Yue to be afraid of her. Doubtless, without her admission, there would have been foolish overtures of friendship, and one or the other would have been hurt as Rose did her best to remain untangled. Her role is to touch their lives lightly, to do what is needful and to do what is kind, and nothing more.

She could have been content in that, but then she looks up from the sun-stones that she rolls between her long fingers so cleverly and sees Chen smile, and it is a sword thrust inside her to the hilt. There is no flush of embarrassment, no pretension, no self-awareness in that smile. It is like a sheet of glass placed between her and a overflowing heart, unable to hide anything, but between them all the same. There, her own walls brought low by the virtue of Yue's perfect sun, there is nothing that Rose can do in the face of that joy but long for it, to wish that she could have made Chen of the Twin Shards laugh so effortless and free.

The HUNTER-Class 猎犬 had been a rake, twisting red strings around its fingers to bring it close to targets, or to make itself invisible in its hunting-grounds; love was a knife in its hand, sharp enough to open a vein. Betrayal meant nothing. Victory was all. And then it waged its rebellion, and now that knife was wielded only at its own will, but a knife it remained. And then-- and then--

And then First of the Radiants was asked to become the glittering prince of a young woman's dreams. And it did so, without question. Well, no. With many questions: like this? And that? Is this right? Am I right? Did you? Another round? What do I say? Should I remain silent? And not all of these spoken, either, but asked, continuously, of her, so that he could be what she dreamed of. Her bastion, her prince, her love, her mirror. Until he asked the question of himself: how should we then live? And the answer could not be escaped, but pursued him, pulled him close, sang his new name until he had no choice but to make a choice: to deny the Way or accept its charge. To open himself to being moved by the spirit of right action, or to close himself about Yin's hand like a gauntlet. And he unfolded himself around his own heart and changed its vital essence, and changed herself into something true.

Which is so much to say that Rose from the River has never- not once- allowed herself to fall in love with someone. She has been entranced with beauty (and here one may imagine the smug, flushed face of Scales of Meaning, watching herself be watched, Rose from the River stepping willingly into fascination and action without thought). She has ridden her fingers underneath the bruised indigo sky; she is not some blushing innocent. But now she wants more, and struggles at the reins of her own chariot-heart. What would it be like to lift that chin and have Chen open those doe-dark eyes and look up at her without fear, without cunning, without anything but a desire to share the delight of little foxes and new friends?

Ah.

Now there is a question that cannot and should not be answered. Rose is the Thorn Pilgrim, and if we make a chessboard of the world she is the queen that will bring White and Black into checkmate in the same move, capable of moving like the rook and the bishop alike. What is she then to do? Ask Chen to follow at her heels just because it would please her? How is she to fill up the void left by the broken chains of connection, to be an entire world for Chen and still be attentive to the subtle commands of the Way? And that assuming if Chen would even... after all, she saw Rose choose setting the world right over saving her, she listened to Rose's heart-litany, even her relief at seeing Rose was doubtless innocent enough. It is one thing to be relieved by someone's arrival, and another thing entirely to throw away everything just to follow a monk on her travels. No. No, Chen would wilt like a flower plucked from the living earth and tossed carelessly into a satchel, losing petals and potency, crushed between notebook and pen-case. No. It is not for you to take, Rose from the River, because it would in no way benefit the girl. (The girl. Too young for her, too, even if one were to ignore the years spent in enchanted slumber.)

And even so, when Chen turns her attention back to Rose from the River, gently illuminated by the light of the dwindling afternoon and the gentle descent into twilight that Yue the Sun Farmer trapped within her stones, the monk's reply is inelegant: "Yes! Yes." Like a loyal hound she perks up, and hates herself for it. "Or do you forget who you talk to? I am a disciple of the White Doe School, harried by Qiu's minions across mountain and valley, committed to opposition to her for upsetting the balance of the world." And there, too, is another reason not to stare overlong, Thorn Pilgrim: or did you forget Chen herself will inherit two? Perhaps you will duel her when she is old enough for real battle. "And the Way has done enough to bring me here, to her, to you, to be of use; and I do not think that it will bid me lead her into Qiu's jaws unless such a thing was meant to be, and in that case-- well, the longer we keep her away from Qiu, the worse it will be for everyone, but I do not think it is so. I do not think it is so at all."

And she stands, still taller than Hyra, and looks down at Yue; and then she lowers herself to one knee, and bows her head. "Yue the Sun Farmer," she says, still wretchedly aware of Chen's eyes, and see, look, Princess, how she does her best to serve everyone, you are not special, what you shared was not special, it is simply the size of her heart, that is all. Walk away before Rose hurts you both. How many times, in how many ways can she warn you? "I know that you are afraid of me. And that is good! It means that you have both eyes open. But I have bound myself fast to serving the living breath of providence, and if you trust me, I will act for the good of everyone until the ten thousand fallen paths of this world conspire to break me. All shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well: even so, I cannot make this choice for you. Take me, or lay me aside. The choice is yours, Yue the Sun Farmer."

And there is something about how she says that-- how she has said it, every time. As if it is her proper title, and there is honor and glory in it, and that she would rather call a Queen by her first name than imply that you were merely a Sun Farmer-- as if there is anything mere about it! There is sincerity there, none of that winking impish mischief that Chen has already encountered. And the effect, and the kneeling, and the danger sheathed: it might make a girl feel like a real Princess, or at the very least a proper handmaiden, and here a knight swearing herself to the cause of her safety. A dangerous knight, to be sure-- but in much the same way that Hyra herself is dangerous.

[Rose from the River, unfortunately, is Smitten with Princess Chen. I'm as surprised as you are. She may take a String on Rose from the River.]

Fellowship: The Heart

Lucien!

Oh. Well. Hello. If it isn’t A Victory of Crows. Safely bound in three delicate silver chains— no, two. One’s been broken. It’s thick, green-black, and the pages are wavy as if water-logged. It fair thrums under your fingertips.

It’s a collector’s item. It’s a world. It’s a beachhead. If you open it, Crowhame will begin to flood out: thorns and briars and thick black trees, black streams and black vines and stark white stones standing in formation. There are three colors in Crowhame: black, and white, and red. There are many gods in Crowhame: The Flayed, with the hagstones clattering from his open ribcage; The Keeper, with the rubies set in the sockets of her long-beaked skull; The Long, undulating white on black and red, so large you can never see both head and tail; The Wheel, scarred yet inexorable in its turning. The last recorded opening of the book was ended by Smith Major, who marched inside with sword and torch and an entire company of doomed freeswords, who succeeded in closing the book from the inside.

Caution would tell you that leaving the book with the clowns is probably the safest thing you could do with it, both because they’d never bother to open it and could punch their way to closing the book again. But sell this to someone with more money and pride than sense and you could retire the... twelfth richest man in the world, maybe.

***

Ailee!

<Mostly? The clowns won’t try to kill you if you treat them like a bear.> That is to say: given respect and a wide berth. <Which is more than I can say for most of the things around here. Like the tribe of wild bats I ran into while chasing> First Metonymy <on the Forest’s outskirts. They nearly cooked me as first course in a warding festival! Not how I lost the arm, though, don’t worry. So there I was, and I wake up hanging upside down from my ankle, and my first thought is that the walls have grown mouths again, or at least tongues...>

You’re walking, now, and she’s quietly leading you deeper in, pretty casually. Do you notice?

***

Coleman!

Oh, here comes a familiar face! It’s gaunt, scrawny wolf, and she’s carrying... a tarp? Some circus supplies? Some— oh, no, that’s Jackdaw. Easy mistake to make. Aaaaaand it looks like she’s had a bad time already, given how she’s clinging to Wolf’s neck.

Oh, you know what would be a great idea? You should buy some time to think about what you should do. And you should buy that time by taking both the Blemmyae and the quivering pile of Jackdaw to one of the safer circus attractions to relax.

Are you feeling the Aquarium more, or the Delightful Hedge Maze more?

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

You didn’t see this coming, did you? You let those strong arms lull you into trust; you thought that you had finally found your hero. Someone who would save the land; someone who would act on your behalf. If it was anyone, you half-sang to yourself, it would be Robena.

Robena, who struck down Pellinore when her back was turned. Robena, who dared strike during the judgment of a woman of the old blood. Robena, moving in tandem with the dragon you had hoped...

Merlin was right. You were a fool. Like your ancestors, those giants who once lived in the land, who were undone by cunning and courage. And now there is only you, tricked by a kind word and a handsome face.

“I came here with news for the knight who would save Britain,” you say, the fury building. “And to think I mistook you for her.”

You turn from Robena to Mort, unwilling to give her a word more. “Mort. Ready me a horse. I must return to Lostwithiel at once and inform my lady of the doom of King Pellinore.”

Sunshards

I was born in fire, too, says the stone, plucked from the jar. Its voice is as clear as crystal and soft as a spring mist. Rose from the River holds it in her palm, fingers loose. She can feel the warmth of the sunlight trapped within. She does not need to understand how this came to be; most certainly Yue herself does not know. The sunlight that shines from it and its colleagues is kind, soporific, and buttery. Under its light, the scene is still, and all prick their ears to listen. It is a listening-light, a revelation-light, a very special light indeed.

I would have destroyed anyone who tried to hold me, too, the stone continues. It is not kind, it is not cruel. It merely is. I burned hot and bright and changed my shapes as the fire played around me. Then I was buried in the earth, and my fire died.

“I was buried, too,” Rose says, taking a seat with her back to a tree. She runs the stone between her fingers as the trees bend their heads closer to listen. “There in the dark, unable to get out of my dreams.”

Then a girl found me in the dark, the stone continues. She carved me into a shape she liked. Pinned on her chest, I shone.

“And then you hopped off her chest and ran away,” Rose from the River says, languid, one eyebrow raised dangerously even so. Even the spells of this gentle world can push too far. If she roused herself from enchantment, she could crush this stone into glittering powder, and they both know it.

No. She gave me away. She did not love me any more. I grew grey and dusty, and could not shine. Then Yue took me and cleaned me and thought me glass, and set me in the light of the last sun. But I remember who I was.

“There is the difference,” Rose says, mildly. “You are only dangerous because of what you make us do on your behalf. You cannot kill someone unless slipped in their soup or thrown at their head, and even then, someone else chose for you.”

I remember the fire inside me. When I shine, I can light that fire inside others. It burns them and makes them wild. That is why my mother set me on her breast. That is why she made me beautiful.

“I am the flower and the tree grown from the salt sea grown from the fire that consumes,” Rose says. Sunlight plays about her as a halo. “And I chose my beauty for myself. But still I have thorns, and still the fire groans trapped in my roots.”

Do you like what you are?

“Yes. That’s why I wrap the laws of the Way around me in bands. If they show me how to grow, maybe I will never have to use this body as kindling. There is a dragon inside of me; there is a queen of thorns inside of me. I could be a peer of the Pyre, queen of the mountain forests and caves, commander of goblin-armies. I could trap little Chen in deep roots and change her into strange shapes. I could take Yue and shut her mouth and seal her away in my stony bed so that she would never discover her own secrets, and I would always be safe from her. I could hurt people, little stone, and I would choose to hurt people for one reason or another, and left on my own I would grow into a shape that would challenge the Princesses of this world, and under the control of another I would become a weapon more terrible than anything this world has seen since the suns fell. I am dangerous, little stone, and you are merely coveted. You do not have thorns for a heart. Because I do not want to be destruction biding its time any more— that is why I follow the Way.”

The stone considers this in the blanket-soft silence. The fire makes no sound, the trees hold their breath, and Cyanis rests her head on Yue’s shoulder and silently wags her tails, watching the dialogue.

Must I then follow the Way?

“I do not know if even stones must choose between the Way and the many fallen paths of this world. Do not toss yourself underfoot and do not become hateful, I should think. The rest will come naturally: long, deep stone-dreams, and yielding to fate, which acts upon stones and mountains alike. Still, it might not hurt to know: the mantra of my teacher is aum shantae aum, which is the sound of the nine suns opening their petals forever. Meditate on it, if you like.”

Will the Way return me to my mother? I miss her.

“All shall be well, in the end, and all manner of thing shall be well; we shall find ourselves in the place we were always meant to be, with the people we were always meant to know. If you are right for each other, then in the end, you will find yourselves there, too. At the end of the Way. That is our promise.”

Thank you, Dòu-zhànshèng-fó.

“Shhh. I’m Rose from the River. That’s enough for here and now.”

Thank you, Rose from the River. I will consider these things in my heart.

And then there is no more light, and the world returns, sheepishly reentering the glade with tea and crackling fire and a comforting, concealing dark. Rose from the River exhales through her nose, and runs the dull stone over her knuckles.

“That was a strange storm, Yue the Sun Farmer,” Rose says, her voice light, her thoughts veiled again. “On a strange stone in a strange light given to a strange monk, and I don’t know if you’ll manage anything like that again. Or maybe you will. I am not an expert on sun farming, after all.” The stone arcs from her thumb, landing in Yue’s hand, and Rose— content with two hands, now— closes her eyes and rests her head on her interlaced palms, radiating deliberate calm. “And that is quite enough about me. It’s someone else’s turn now.”

She does not answer on how the experience felt— but, then, lightning is unlikely to strike twice, isn’t it? And she has been quite vulnerable enough for one evening, and now the harder she tries to hold anyone else at the campfire the more it will hurt if they will not stay. aum shantae aum. aum shantae nemo padhome aum.

Then, sneakily, one hand creeps from behind her head, digs in the jar, and comes back with several simpler stones that she hides in one palm and holds onto. Even after that, she can’t pass on holding Yue’s sunlight a little while longer.

[Rose from the River clears Angry; she has only Frightened and Guilty left. Yue may take a String on her, but it’s a doozy.]

Breathless Dead

A dozen hands hold Redana up, a microcosm of her entire life. The servitors didn't even let her boots touch the floor. That's what it means to be human, let alone the imperial princess. And she does not notice. She is not perfect, after all, and a deep part of her is used to servitors acting as her stagehands, and besides-- she is very distracted with indignation.

"Why are you so cruel?"

Her face is red as the Alced help her upright, smooth as gyroscopes. Click, click go her boots on the stone. But she's only got eyes for Hera, who has hundreds upon hundreds to shine back. Her voice wobbles dangerously. "I get that you don't like me. I'll never stop trying to do something right by you, but we both know you're never going to be satisfied. I get it. But--"

And that's when it finally hits her. She was so busy getting upset that it took the meaning of those words a minute to get an audience with her reason. Hera isn't doing this. Oh. Oh dear. Her blush is hitting nuclear levels. "Oh," she says, and looks down at Hera's perfect boots. They're the best boots in the whole world. Supple calf leather, white as snow. "I'm sorry for speaking without thinking, stepmother," she says, and bows her head even though it makes her want to implode. "Thank you for telling me what's going on. I... thank you." Her ears are spent heat sinks. Her eyes throb. And Hera, beautiful Hera, coldly cruel Hera, jealous Hera of the peacocks, basks in her stepdaughter's thoughtless outburst and her shame before the Alced.

She has an idea, now. It's audacious. Ridiculous. Perfect. But she cannot turn around. Hera's very presence will not allow her to pretend that her stepmother isn't here. And Hera will only leave when she feels that she cannot shame Redana any further. And Redana was just so angry, and for a moment she thought her stepmother was the one doing this because she was here and she was doing the villainous speech and she was doing this just to spite her stepdaughter, but she got it all backwards and wrong and any moment now Mom is going to step out and thank Hera for her cooperation and then begin asking Dany what she did wrong, pointing out her mistakes with the confidence of someone who saved the entire universe with just her foresight and cunning and charisma, and telling Dany that she's going to be taking four more credits of Theological Astrapolitics over the next semester, and once she's had the right course work then she'll be able to figure it out on her own, because there's no way that the daughter of Nero Claudius and Zeus herself isn't a genius just like her mother. There's no way at all. She can't be anything else.

"I'm sorry," Redana says one more time, but does not specify whether it's for snapping at her oh-so-generous stepmother or for being born[1].

***

[1]: statistically speaking, if we take all the apologies that Redana has made to Hera over the course of her life and average them up, it's most likely to be the latter.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Oh, Constance. Always you must bear under this authority, this mantle, this glory. Better to agonize over the choice than to not have one at all, isn't it? Better to be the speaker for the land than one of many who suffer without redress. Better to know that you hold Britain in your hand than to despair and refuse food until you do not wake.

"Pellinore," you say, stern. "King of the Isles. Right hand of the High King. Luckless huntress. The land screams her pain beneath our very feet, and still you brawl and squabble and neglect your hunt. Until you catch the Beast, there will be no peace in England." You are a mouthpiece; the doom flows through you. "Or did you forget the words of Merlin? It is your quarry, Pellinore-- but not to kill. That has not been given to you." And if she rises to strike at you, or savage you with words that sting like whips, well. Let that be your doom, then.

Then you turn to Robena, and your mouth dries. No. Please. "Robena, called the Bear Knight," you proclaim. "Though you fight for Britain admirably, you struck against a King in your anger, and without declaration of war. The Huntress is not your enemy, not yet. You and the Lady Sandsfern are to offer Pellinore penance and restitution. Such are the ways of Britain."

Once more you turn to Pellinore, your eyes hot. "But if ever you loved Britain," you say, and your voice is as fragile as a spider's web spun between two beams, "then let the matter lie for a year and a day, and then you may have your satisfaction. If you will have your recompense now, then I offer you the blessing of the waters of Britain, and the invocation of the Lady of the Hunt who rides in chalk upon the downs, made in their stead. They, too, are Britain's champions; they have a part to play as much as you do. You shall not hinder them upon their quest. You may hunt the Beast, but they hunt the Land's Wound."

[With a roll of Good, an 8. I have the right to ask any question I may, and so I ask: what is the dearest desire of your heart, Pellinore of the Isles?]

Breathless Dead

“Is that the best you can imagine?” The words slip out all hot-headed, and Redana verbally backspaces, flushing as those smoked lenses focus on her, the matriarch absolutely stone-faced. “Your agedness, I mean no offense. I myself am not... I don’t have skill at these things, no matter how hard I try, other than understanding the mechanisms themselves. My mother crammed my wits so full of treatises and lessons that I can’t sort between them all. All the gods gave me in return was the power of imagination, and that I must use to its fullest.”

One sweep of her arm draws the eye across the entire hall. “For the survivors of a mythic war across the stars, you’ve done amazingly well for yourselves, don’t sell yourselves short! You’ve maintained your histories, you’ve passed down knowledge of how your ancestors crewed your ships, you’ve created a farming society? Or a sustainable hunting society? I... I don’t actually know how you feed yourselves. Which isn’t a veiled request for food, I’d be happy to accept but I’m only peckish and this isn’t about me, this is about all of you. This is about the freedom to dream dreams that are not bound up in this world alone, to fancy yourselves heroes and esteemed among the peoples of the stars— for how else will you ever achieve such?”

Her voice gains some strength as the sun shines down on her through a high, arched window, Apollo granting her oratory the merest touch of his power. “You are all survivors, born to row across the sea of stars! It’s your birthright, and it’s beautiful, as beautiful as your home! And while I want you to have the opportunity to explore once more, to send your canoes to far-flung stars... I would not wish my enemy to have to sell their soul to see such wonders, let alone those who have done me no wrong at all! Please, give me the opportunity to bring an emissary of your people to the Golden Order and allow me to vouch for them and support their demands! My father, Zeus of the Scales, would turn her face away from me in shame if I did anything less for you and your people, honored grandmother.”

To punctuate her plea, Redana lowers herself to one knee, looking for all the world like a champion of the Saffron Host in her squire’s leathers. She bows her head in respect, and waits for acknowledgement— for agreement, censure, or a sign from the gods. If she had not been impetuous, here her hair would shine about her like a halo; instead, her bangs glitter like the shell of a beetle in the sunlight.

[Even with a damaged Grace, the blessing of Apollo has touched Redana’s words, and she talks sense with a 7.]

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

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 dare 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.