A few more turns brought them to the front gate of the keep. Two guards stood outside it with a squire focused on a large scroll.

“Greetings.” Eyan said.

In a dull, monotone voice, not looking up, the squire said, “All those not on the Lord’s list shall be denied entry. If you believe you are supposed to be on the list, please inquire with-”

One of the guards cleared his throat, “Um, James.”

“Huh?” the squire looked up and shouted in surprise. His face became beet red, “My apologies my lord, I am so sorry for my mistake please forgive me it was not my intention to offend-”

“Just let us through and all is forgiven. Quickly, if you please.”

“At once my lord, of course.” The squire gestured to someone behind the wall and the portcullis began to lift with a mechanical clank clank clank clank. “And you must be the venerable Princess-”

“The very same.” Thea replied with a half-curtsey before rushing off to follow Eyan further into the keep. As the portcullis closed, she looked backward at the crowd. A red feather danced atop the people’s heads until it reached the edge of the crowd and the witch hunter burst out from the sea of celebrators.

In a dull, monotone voice, not looking up, the squire said, “All those not on the Lord’s list shall be denied entry.”

Eyan walked swiftly and with a sense of purpose through the main courtyard of the keep. They passed the stable where the nobles’ horses were kept. He saw his horse Henry being tended to by the stablehand who replaced Frederick. Even from here he could see the horse’s agitation. This new kid lacked the gentle hand of Frederick, who worked calmly with Henry. Henry was a jittery horse, so he didn’t blame the new stablehand, but whenever Frederick tended to Henry, the horse’s nervous disposition would melt away. Eyan approached the stable, reached out to pet Henry. The stablehand recognized him with a little surprise, but let the knight reunite with his steed.

Henry’s coat was a rich chestnut color, he was strong and tall and a gentle soul. Henry nuzzled into the palm of Eyan’s hand, neighing a little in recognition. “I’m home, boy.” he said. Eyan patted the horse and took off once more to the great hall, where he knew the feasting would have already begun and his father waited unknowingly. Again the smell of fate in the air touched his senses.

Just beyond a thick wooden door, Eyan and Thea could hear the raucous laughter and songs of a good feast. A moment’s hesitation stalled Eyan as he put his hand up to the door.

“Whatever you’re going to do,” Thea said, putting a hand on his shoulder, “you’re ready for it.”

Eyan nodded and pushed open the door to the great hall. Inside, the feasting tables were set. Three long tables arranged in the center of the room, parallel to the rectangular shape of the hall. On the opposite side of the door, where the throne was placed, was another long table, perpendicular to the others and raised up by a few steps. The throne was simple yet elegant. Smooth willow wood with silver-inlayed etchings depicting the animals native to the region. On top of it was a pair of large antlers that rose high, diverging like river in the landscape, or an upside-down root system.

Lord Richard Formar of Benold interrupted his conversation as the doors to his keep flew open. The smile on his stubbled face folded into a frown, and as first his interlocutors, and then the various assembled lords, ladies, advisors, squires, bards, and servants fell silent he looked upon the two figures who appeared to him. Disheveled, covered in dirt and dried blood, missing pieces of armor and clothing, was his son next to a young woman with golden hair.

Sir Eyan strode slowly into the hall, princess in tow. All eyes were on the new arrivals, heads turning as they passed by the tables. Not a word was uttered until Sir Eyan reached the bottom of the steps, looking up at the Lord of Benold.

Feeling the attention of the room fall upon him now with expectation for him to say something, Richard adjusted the silver crown upon his head, stood up from his throne and spread his arms, shouting out to the whole room with as much a sense of joy as he could manage, “My son lives! Rejoice!” The room exploded with applause and cheers. Shouts of praise and declarations of Eyan’s heroism were sung out. Richard knew he had only a few seconds before the noise died down and he had to think of something to say. But those seconds would be long, he gestured to the crowd to keep applauding whenever he sensed it was about to abate. He clapped his own hands high to demonstrate, waved his arms upward, and motioned for more noise. Not once did Eyan turn around or take his eyes off his father. When he was out of tricks and finished making a fool of himself, the crowd began to quiet once more. The expectation to speak was now upon both lord and knight, each waiting for the other to make their attack, waiting for the chance to riposte and end this duel quickly.

The silence was broken momentarily by a young man who entered the hall. The squire manning the front gate stepped quickly up to the Lord and whispered something in his ear. “Tell them I’m busy. Their business will be attended to shortly.” The squire whispered something else. “I don’t care if they’re the king’s men, my son has returned.” he said in a hushed tone. The squire ran back outside, leaving the room once more in silence.

Lord Richard looked into the knight’s face. Indeed he looked years more mature than when he left Benold not but a few weeks ago. The stresses of adventure have certainly added the impression of years, but behind the dirt and blood, he saw the familiar face of his son: the soft and naive look he had always seen. His son may indeed suspect that he was never expected to return, but if he knew anything about him, he would not have it in him to call out his own father, especially not now. The pit in his stomach quickly re-filled. This was no foe to fear, this was his son who had by some fluke or stroke of luck survived the dragon’s tower. He likely never even killed it, or found some peasant girl to pass off as the Princess Theadasia. It would all fall apart under scrutiny, he was certain.

Confidently, the Lord took the first attack, “So, you have returned with the princess. Dear Theadasia, it is my humble pleasure to meet you.” he said, taking a formal bow. He took the bow with his right hand forward, palm upward. This was the bow of one noble meeting another of higher station. He held position, waiting for her to respond.

“My servant, I am pleased.” she replied in the royal accent of Minhold, ever so slightly rolling her r and softening the s in servant. She curtsied and reached her left hand forward, palm down and wrist limp. The sign of a greater female noble meeting a lesser one. The execution was flawless, Richard nearly fell over himself as he rose from the greeting. The curtsy, he admitted, Eyan could have taught, but the royal accent was another matter. He doubted Eyan even knew of the archaic method by which royals in Minhold used to distinguish their speech. His son had indeed brought a formidable weapon to this duel, but did he know how to wield its power?

“I must congratulate you, my son. And apologize for my hastiness in assuming your demise.” He waited for his son to say something. A few seconds passed with nothing but a glare. Not wanting to keep his guests waiting, he continued, addressing them all, “Let it be declared: This feast is no longer dedicated to the Hero’s demise, but to his return!” More applause filled the room, now he would force an attack from his son, “Sir Eyan, you return from your quest alive and successful. A few words from you in your hour of victory?” The attention of the room was now firmly affixed to the knight.

“How hasty you are to declare things.” Eyan said. It shook Richard a little, but it was hardly an accusation. “To declare me dead upon the return of my horse,” he continued, “and not three days later a festival is begun? Our esteemed guests indeed must have fine carriages to have made the journey from all across Benold on such short notice.” He turned now to the feasting room, “I commend you all, and your stablehands.” The attack was brazen, and Richard’s footing was thrown. This was not his son, this was an entirely different man. Richard scrambled to deflect.

“A simple misunderstanding. I have rededicated the feast, and we can discuss it further. Please, sit.” Richard waved to a servant who grabbed two more chairs and the Lord’s personal guests began adjusting their seats.

“No need.” Eyan put his hand up, stopping the servant. He spoke with command. It was a new tone for him, but he used it with the confidence of a seasoned general. The pit in Richard’s stomach began to slowly reappear. “We will discuss things when we are ready.” Eyan said, putting an arm around the princess.

“Very well, then. As you please.” the lord swallowed a hint of fear. He signaled to a man at the end of his table. “Please, Yannen, send word to Minhold. Let the king know his daughter has been returned.” Eyan looked toward the Master Scribe. The man avoided his gaze like the plague.

“At once, my lord.” he said with a deep bow, his loose hair falling and hiding his face.

“You can hold that order, old friend.” Eyan said.

“Shall I arrange transport then? You can leave immediately.” Richard interjected.

“You shall not.” the princess said with surprising force, verging on aggressiveness. Does my son allow this weapon to wield itself? Richard thought to himself in shock.

“We will continue this later.” Eyan said, “For now, send the princess to be attended to.” He climbed the steps so he was now eye-to-eye with his father across the table. He then spoke in an angry, barely contained whisper, “And you...you will tell me where he is, now!” Richard had been caught off guard by his son’s new disposition and he thought that that was what put him in a losing position in this duel. It occurred to him now that for Eyan, this was not a duel between equals: it was a conquest.

There was no mistaking it, this conquest of Eyan’s fueled as it was by fury and vengeance, had to be subverted. “Wait in your chambers, I will have him sent to you.” Richard said.

“I brought what you wanted. You will bring me what I wanted. I’ll wait right here.” Eyan said, planting his gauntleted hands on the table. He looked in his father’s eyes with stone cold severity. Richard hoped the sweat on his brow was not evident as he called Yannen over once more.

“Fetch him, if you please.” Richard hoped his Master Scribe understood his meaning. Yannen, keeping his body turned away from Eyan, simply shook his head.

“You heard my father, Yannen, fetch him.” Now directly addressed, Yannen looked at Eyan. The face of the Master Scribe had always been one Eyan trusted. He was a mentor to the young knight from an early age, educating him in history, statecraft, and social etiquette. Now that trustful face was twisted in guilt, the eyes were sad and wet.

“I’m sorry, master Eyan.”

Lord Richard balked at Yannen’s betrayal. He couldn't help but let the beginning of a sentence escape his mouth, “Y-you, you...I…”

“The correspondences…” Eyan managed to squeak out. Yannen closed his eyes tight and nodded.

“I’m sorry. I serve the throne.” he meekly whispered.

Eyan’s head became weightless as the blood drained entirely from his face. His stomach fell out and his heart jumped to his throat as it split clean in two. Thea saw him start to lose balance and rushed up the stairs to keep him from tumbling down. Eyan let the world around him disappear for a moment.

He saw above him the sagging branches of the big willow tree. He laid flat on his back, feet to the west as the sun set on the land. But his eyes were focused elsewhere. Next to him was the stable boy he met just that afternoon tending to Henry. The last golden light of the day kissed his face and made it glow. The wavy black hair fell around his elfin face out of its ponytail to Frederick’s shoulders. He gave a half smile and said he had to get back to work, that he had a wonderful time. As he stood up, Eyan grabbed his hand and squeezed. Frederick squeezed too before mounting his horse and riding back to Benold.

He saw another day. He met with Frederick in the marketplace. He dressed in the simplest clothes he owned and walked next to him. They talked about Frederick’s family: a mother and a sister, weavers both. Frederick let slip that his sister was growing slim, and Eyan pulled out a coin purse to buy some food from one of the vendors. Frederick stopped him, but later that night, Eyan spoke with Yannen. The next day, and as many times as Eyan could arrange afterward, Frederick’s family received a delivery of bread, fish, and wine.

They were under the willow tree again. The sun had long set and Eyan held Frederick in his arms, brushing his fingers through his hair. He pulled the stable boy’s face to look at him, “I love you, Frederick.”

“I love you too.”

“Let’s run away.”

“I can’t, you know it. My income from the stable is what’s keeping my mother and sister weaving and not...elsewhere.”

“We could take them with us.”

“They wouldn’t understand.”

Eyan sighed, admitting the foolishness of it to himself. Then he heard the clanking of armor and hooves. Several soldiers crested the hill, invaded the space under the willow tree. He was in his chambers with his father. The Lord of Benold was scolding him for missing another ceremony. He ordered him to follow down to the dungeons for punishment.

And then he held Frederick in his arms again, but he was limp and weak. His breathing was ragged, his face covered in bruises, cuts, and swells. Tears were flooding his eyes, he barely heard his father lay the blame for this squarely on him.