Jael sprinted the distance and leapt into her father’s arms. He squeezed and she winced at the knives in her ribcage till he placed her on the ground in front of him.
Still grinning, he asked, “How goes it, squire?”
“She’s been knighted, actually,” answered Trey, stepping forward. He bowed, “Please excuse the insolence. It’s an honour to meet you, Sir Leonhardt. My name is Trey Gildmane, knight-paladin and captain of the Saint’s Cross.”
Ricard slung an arm around his daughter and pointed a finger at the captain. “Listen to this one. ‘Knight-paladin,’ he says. He’s trying to get one over on you Leonhardt.” He let out a giant’s guffaw—then no sooner did Trey join in did Ricard turn dead serious. “You’d better not be playing with me, boy, or I swear I’ll break your neck.”
Gildmane stuttered a syllable before Jael’s father hoisted him a foot off the ground, one hand clutching his collar, the other a cocked fist rolled thick as a boulder.
“Stop! Stop! It’s true, I swear!” shouted Jael to Trey’s rescue.
A moment’s pause—Ricard dropped the captain and steadied himself on his daughter’s arms. “Truly?” he uttered, his tone and breath like sweet willow ale.
She glanced aside to make sure Trey was alright, then to her father, she confessed, “It was only a few days ago, but—”
At once, the old Guard captain swept Leonhardt up in his powerful arms, and again she winced at the stabbing in her ribs. Only this time, her father noticed. “You’re hurt.” He set her down gently, waited expectantly while she caught her breath.
“It’s nothing,” she finally said.
“Forgive me, Sir,” started Trey, back on his feet and brushing hay from his cloak, “it was my fault…” He hesitated, his body rigid for a second expecting to be throttled again. But it seemed Ricard was done playing around. Gildmane continued, “It was my fault. We were on a raid with the Watcher’s when it happened. It was supposed to be a soft target, the remnants of a pagan village, something for Jael sharpen her teeth on.”
“It was her first real action, then?”
“Yes…” Trey hesitated. “And all was going well until the pagans used some sort of spell craft: they summoned a thick mist, and inside that, a demon—if you’ll believe it. Whatever it was injured her just before she slew it. Six broken ribs and those scars on her face.”
The old Guard captain squinted in the dim of the stable. “Scars?”
“My apologies,” repeated Gildmane, bowing, his voice tense.
“They’re not so bad,” Jael interjected.
Ricard frowned. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”
“As do you,” she challenged her father, pointing out the pink slash fresh on his face. But just then, Dahilla called for her husband from within the kitchen. Supper was ready, she said, her voice was worried, so Ricard hurried Jael and Trey inside, promising stories and surprises and mustard meat pies.
The man did not lie. Within, the kitchen was a transformed thing from when Leonhardt had last set foot inside. She’d gone back in time, a girl once more—only she never remembered her home feeling so warm. Light from half a dozen candle lamps and the blazing hearth made bright the glazed vases placed artfully about the table and counter top. The floor had been swept and mopped, sanded and oiled. And over the table, a simple linen cloth, quilted cushions on the newly hewn stools. But it was more than the room. Who was this plump and simple woman serving pies onto the table—her smile, stable; her gestures, calm—where all before were faerie hysterics? Where was her precious dress of lilac silk now changed for a cotton frock dyed the color of jonquil? Jael lived the confusion and terror of the Watcher’s raid all over again—then she saw him and realized the worst was yet ahead.
Spotting her simultaneously, Zach’s squinty eyes spread wide as he started to rise from his seat; and Leonhardt, faster than the rhythm of her frantic heart, flew with autonomic movement across the crowded kitchen to a stool opposite him. She felt the quivering in her breast before she ever heard it as she said, “Zach! What are you doing here?”
“Good to see you, too,” he replied, happily sarcastic, his voice still soft, though winter work had hollowed his features, hardened them but for the peach fuzz on his chin.
Jael twisted to survey the room. Ricard was introducing Trey to her mother, and for once she was glad for the captain’s show of gallantry. Dahilla would eat that up and, in return, serve her own banter—in this, Leonhardt prayed that her mother hadn’t changed too much. She needed the time, knew it would fall to her to acquaint Zach and Trey yet was at a loss for what to say without giving away everything. She imagined choking on her guilt pangs, vomiting every memory: the promise she made beneath the weeping tree, oath breaking in the most shameful of ways—in the most disgusting of places. Her stomach turned at the realization—Gildmane’s father’s moth-eaten mattress in that dingy, abandoned chamber.
“Jael?” Dahilla’s voice.
Leonhardt bolted upright and whirled to face her mother but couldn’t quite muster the courage to meet her eyes, the image prior lingering in her mind as she turned from one demon to another. “Gluttonous slut!” her gut expected. Instead, Dahilla melted over her. Jael flinched, her body recalling the thousand small abuses, but it was only a hug, a kiss, and tears on her neck.
“It’s wonderful you’re home. There’s so much I wanted to say.” She stepped back, looked her daughter full in the face and gasped. “My God, these marks! What happened?”
“It’s nothing,” Jael answered, yet that only made her mother’s fussing worse till Ricard assured her they’d discuss it after supper—an innocent lie by the old Guard captain. He didn’t possess the patience. No later than space was made and plates placed for the unexpected guests, he began badgering Leonhardt for an explanation. She weighed recalling the
