For us knights, too, it was a relief. The dense forests and sheer cliffs had cast long shadows on the road, and keeping the caravan safe had been a grind. The dregs of the horde harried us with sudden raids, slipping from the trees under cover of the heavy canopy, even Gawain and Lancelot missed them once or twice.
There had been close calls. We could handle the beasts, but the caravaners? Fragile as spun glass. If even one monster slipped through, it would have been a massacre. It was good training though, a reminder that fighting to protect others is a different battle entirely. I had caught Kay muttering about fresh drills, and the way the others sweated told me they feared he meant it.
But that was behind us.
Oakwall rested on a lake in a valley hemmed by three low mountains. Rough roads branched out through farmland heavy with its first harvest. Nearer the town, a swathe of emerald grass met the lake’s bright blue waters. Misty white peaks rose behind grey cliffs, giving the whole valley a strange, whimsical calm, like a paradise barely clinging to the mortal world.
The town itself broke that illusion. Oakwall’s namesake ramparts towered over the fields, a ring of massive tree trunks, each as wide as Bors at the shoulder, sharpened into jagged stakes and planted upright into a sloping stone base taller than I was. A moat, fed from the lake, circled the foundation. Scratches marred the wood, signs that beasts had tested the defences.
The fortifications were crude but practical. Stones braced the wooden stakes, keeping them secure against both monsters and time. And Oakwall’s position on the border of three kingdoms meant the town thrived in spite of it all.
The townsfolk nearly fell over themselves to welcome us. A terrified sergeant greeted us at the gate, bowing low as he begged us for good conduct. He almost leapt out of his boots when Koko introduced me as a representative of the Round Table, the second Order the town would be hosting.
The Golden Keep should have parted ways here, but Korina had decided otherwise. She wanted time, to introduce us properly, but also to scout for other threats. The horde of unseelie vermin and Iron-ranked beasts had shaken her, she had not expected such dangers so close to their borders.
The group was battle-hungry, itching to fight. But protocol demanded patience. Apparently, it was “rude” to hunt monsters without filing the proper paperwork. While the others claimed an inn, Korina and I were ushered into a quiet, well-appointed room in the townhall, supplied with drinks and apologies while the mayor scrambled to gather his council.
I leaned back, using my smoke to spy—observe our hosts. Their panic was almost comical, scrambling to prepare for not one but two knightly Orders. Amused, I hummed a tune to myself.
That was a mistake.
“I expect you’ll be playing in one of the taverns tonight.” Korina’s voice was icy. She sat opposite me, radiating dignity, upright in her gambeson and formal tabard, the sigil of the Golden Keep picked out in gold thread upon earthen linen that matched the stones of Alka. There was tension in her posture, the same brittle refinement I had seen at the balls and soirées my captors once dragged me to.
She carried it well, a cultivator who loathed the duty before her, yet had decided that if she must endure it, she would do so flawlessly.
“Yes, Korina,” I replied coolly, holding back a sigh. I already knew what debate we were about to rehash.
“You know if I try to play in the average tavern, they all dress up as though summoned by the local lord to perform some arduous service.” She lifted the cup before her with dainty precision, a movement ill-suited to the same woman I had once seen kick an Unseelie Hound’s head clean from its shoulders.
“Have you considered simply turning up?” I asked politely.
“That would not be proper.”
“Wouldn’t be proper as a knight, or as a princess?”
“Either. Besides, do you not see? You put them on guard. You have seen how most treat us.” Korina’s eyes flicked to the door, where the servants had retreated the moment I had dismissed them. I pinched the bridge of my nose.
If she were vain or cruel, these conversations would have been easier. I could at least have ignored them, or fobbed her off with some nonsense. But I did not, because Korina cared. Noblesse oblige clung to her like perfume. Her family had ruled for centuries, a rarity in the mountains, and she embodied their belief that privilege was duty, that wealth and power must serve the common good. And since becoming a cultivator, that conviction had only sharpened.
“We have spoken of this. My music is more common than yours. It helps them relax,” I reminded her.
“But why does it move them so differently? Why does my music not stir them as yours does?” she pressed.
“I do not know. If it troubles you so much, play in disguise.”
“With a harp? We are not exactly tripping over harpists.”
“Then play something else. You mentioned you know the lute.”
“But I am not as skilled with it. No better than you.”
“Ouch. You wound me.” I collapsed theatrically back into my chair. “At a certain point, mastery matters less. Competence, the right song, the right emotion, that is enough. You simply need to match what the audience desires.”
“And what do I play?” She waved a hand before I could answer. “No, I know what you will say.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“The audience will tell you. Sometimes quite literally. Though just because they beg for Ulfast the Ugly for the third time does not mean you should indulge them.”
“They do not know what I am capable of. How can they know what is best? Am I not the artist?”
“You have the mind of a cultivator. I know you remember what I said.”
“Yes, yes. An entertainer, not strictly an artist. That helps me little. At a recital no one shouts ‘Play Verdant Sleeves!’ across the hall. And I cannot bear to offer less than my best.”
“If you are not enjoying it, I do not know what to say.” A sudden thought struck me, an idea I would not have suggested if we were not soon to part ways. “Perhaps work with someone else, entrust them to guide your audience towards a state where they will most appreciate your work.”
“And how would that help?”
“You could guide them to the right frame of mind, to appreciate your music. If you like, we could attempt it here before we part ways.” I offered. I was not certain it would work, but at least if it did not I could part ways with my fellow artist knowing I had done my best, and certain her continued griping would not follow me about if it did not.
“Perhaps. But first, let us see how dire the town’s needs are. I cannot permit self-indulgence if duty calls.” She nodded, every inch the dutiful knight, though I saw the crackle of eagerness dancing at the edge of her composure.