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.”

This was nothing new. This was not a failure.

Of course you were wrong, Constance. Of course any dream that she, Robena, was some sort of hero was wrong. Ideals like that were memories of a time before Burgundy, before Antioch, before Jerusalem. She was a vassal. She was a shield. She was the extension of Lady Sandsfern's will so utterly it was hardly worth mentioning. She had only failed once in all her days and it had been when she had not struck down the Crossroads Devil before it could grant that fated wish.

She had not hesitated this time. She had not known what wicked sorcery King Pellinore might have wrought against her Lady if she had been given the chance. What restitution might have meant.

This was not a failure. She gripped her bloody axe so tightly she felt the ring mail of her gloves bend.

This was a redemption.

She had been given a second chance to save her Lady and this time she had not faltered. She had not stood stunned. She had not begged uselessly. She had risen above a weakness and a failure she had carried in her heart for long years alone on the road and so what if she was to be cursed over it? So what if she was to die over it!? She had sworn to die for Lady Sandsfern if needed, and this was but that in slow motion!

She felt death settle upon her shoulders, as heavy as the terrible bearskin she wore.

So it was death, then.

The haft of her axe, carved from ancient wood from German forests, cracked beneath the strength of her crushing hands.

An oath fulfilled. She had died for Lady Sandsfern as she should have at the Crossroads. Was that why she had done it? Why was she questioning now? Of course she had done it for Sandsfern! She had done it for - for honour! She knew what that meant and had accepted this fate in advance. She knew better than anyone! She'd known death would come for her and so of course it had held no fear for her in that moment! She - she was a puppet, and this had not been her choice to make. Not truly. She had known what her Lady had wanted and what was a Knight to do but obey?

And after all, Pellinore had ravaged Britain on the orders of a wicked ruler, foregoing chivalry and injuring the maiden heart of Constance.

And... who... who could commit a sin like that and deserve forgiveness?

There is a weight to the air that lasts beyond the departure of the spirit that was once King Pellinore. It hangs like a shroud over the world, reflects in the dark clouds gathering overhead. They threaten a summer storm, which ought to be a blessing, but might well cause floods with the soil this dry and loose. And in the meantime, it is like the world still holds its breath.

Knights begin to fill the village commons, perhaps ten or so all told, recovering from the quake. But they keep a respectful distance, clustering towards the town gate where Pellinore's ghost had ridden from and faded. The knights speak in hushed whispers, and the townsfolk cover their windows further afield. The events of this day will be known.

Mort hides behind Constance, though he spares a glance for Tristan scrambling down from the rooftops as well. He is at the least, bold enough to stay near the group, rather than flee at the death of his liege. He looks like he's considering trying to approach the spot where the body had fallen and trying to gather some token or perhaps just some bloodied grass to use for a burial, but he dares not approach.

Only the Lady Sandsfern seems unaffected. She steps forward, full of life and color, her cheeks ruddy, and puts a hand on Robena's shoulder. "Well done, indeed, Robena! Well struck! Ah, how I've missed your strength since we parted ways in near Byzantium! Knights will sing of this day!" It is like the gloom cannot touch her, and perhaps that is the truth, that the Lady Sandsfern is beyond such things as mortal ghosts. As to your forthcoming death in her service, it seems she offers neither acknowledgment nor care.

To all of you, how do you part from this moment, and what are your plans to pass the summer season?

Had something... happened to Sandsfern? Was this truly her? The leader she remembered could have driven this guilt from her mind. Her charisma would have been enough to drown her doubts for long enough to reach the next drink. Her smile would have been able to chain her heart in a moment. What had happened? Where was she? Why wasn't she convincing? Way wasn't she able to get inside her head and make everything else go away?

She turns her head to the side, looks at her mistress. She looked the same as always. Sounded the same as always. But this time her heart did not pound and her stomach did not churn. Something was different and if it wasn't with Sandsfern...

"I am glad," lied Robena, for she had to shed all her oaths now. "That you are content, for such was my final service. I have died here tonight, Lady Sandsfern. My oath is fulfilled, and I can be at peace that you were pleased with my service."

She dropped her axe. Its mighty weight sinks inches into the soft earth and it stands tall like that.

Then Robena walks from the field.

Tristan absentmindedly goes to pick up the axe from where it's planted. It's soaked in blood. It needs to be cleaned, or it will rust. It needs to be whetted, after going through flesh.

Even the strongest weapons need to be maintained past their proving, and it's clear that Robena isn't in the presence of mind for it. That's fine.

He carries it over to Constance and Mort - not as a weapon, but as a burden. He is, for a moment, very disgruntled he's not going to get the help slaying that badger he was promised, but he brushes that aside for now.

"Pendragon is still a necessary quarry?" He asks Constance. She seems like she'd know. She always seems like she'd know. "Am I still called to hunt?"

There are times when things move so fast that the world feels as though it could turn full roundabout in the blink of an eye. But those are rare times. Most often, the world moves at the pace of seasons, and the land, even sickly though it may be, does not change in an instant, but over long slow time as work and toil cannot keep their pace. So the summer storms give way to the harvest, meager though it may be. There is no war to be had, and the hand upon shaft is the scythe swishing through the fields. There is not enough. Of course, there is never enough, and belts will be tight. A hard year for the old and the young. Then there is an early chill by late October, and then the snow. It comes first in flurries that do not stick but merely offer an unending sense of damp. Later, by late November, it comes properly, thick and heavy, blanketing the land and hiding its colors. Icicles dot the rafters, and the paths are perilous. There is darkness, and the brief light of the holidays as candles and wreaths fill the halls, and then into a new year met with hope, but also with dread.

*****

Constance and Tristan
But perhaps let us look back a moment. On that fateful summer day, there were harsh words, and a parting upon the field. Constance, you were in no doubt from what you'd seen that King Pellinore was dead, your champion lacking, and High King Pendragon beyond your reach. You pronounced King Pellinore departed, only her doom lingering in this world. You offered what ceremony you could for the burial, as was your right and duty. Robena had left the field and the Lady Sandsfern did not linger long after. Pellinore's knights paid you begrudging respect (they do not think well of your lady, but they do of your station) and when you were done and the eulogy complete, Mort followed you, no longer bound by his oaths to his liege.

Tristan, ever the lady Marianne's loyal servant, remained with Constance, observing the ceremony and paying what respect he could, though he knew in his heart that Pellinore was lost long before Robena's axe met her neck. It is a sadness to the world that one such as she, her humanity long-buried, nevertheless supported several loyal knights of good bearing and earnest belief. Theirs was not the fault of their master, though neither did any save Mort depart their service and most returned to Camelot after all was done.

So you both returned to Marianne's castle of Lostwithiel, where Tristan made himself useful and found a hunting party to drive off the badger. It went without much fight. It seems that the questing beast was no longer near, perhaps itself mourning Pellinore's loss, and so the Badger returned willingly enough to the murkier forests. Constance and Cath Palug brooded, for there was no champion to save Britain as she imagined it.

It was in this manner that the messenger found you both in the castle yard, Constance distracted and Tristan training nearby. The messenger wore greens, but not those of Lostwithiel, rather a long cloak of verdant green like the color of sunlight through thickset leaves. She did not speak, but placed a note in Constance's hands. A short letter that bade her come to the Forest Sauvage as quickly as she could, that her counsel was requested as to the Knight's Doom.

She took you, Tristan, as bodyguard because you understood the things that you and she might face, and she took the cat that she called Cath and who would not deign to be held by anyone but Constance. She took Mort as well, for her had become her page and waiting man, knowing no other cause to which to give himself. And she took three fine horses, if begrudgingly at her Lady's insistence, and you set out for the castle.

It is now the new year and you have just arrived at this foreboding place. But there was a young page at the entrance dressed in finery of that same verdant and he beckoned you to come rest your horses and enter the hall of this snowy castle.


Now, you stand in a grand hall (if not so grand as either Lostwithiel or Camelot for its remoteness). Thick woven tapestries of linen line the walls, vibrant scenes of great animals: stags, foxes, boars, wolves, and bears. A noble lady sits upon the throne, pale and stern, her green dress with it slow flowing sleeves speaking of skilled seamstresses. She sits upon the high seat alone, you might have expected a partner, but all her attendants and advisors stand behind and below her, only a small handful.

"Lady Constance Nim, I bid you welcome. And welcome to the guests you have brought as well. Please accept the meager hospitality of my home, though it is indeed too meager even to have a proper name beyond the forest in which it resides. Please, tell me of your journey and what I may do to make you comfortable before we talk of more serious matters."

Tell us then, what you gained from the passing season and what you hope to find here, and then we will turn to the business of Robena's doom.

*****

Robena

You stalked from the field, your death already upon you, your oaths completed. Whither then, for the next months? Surely not back to Lostwithiel? Did you seek solitude or company? The times may be dire, but that merely attracts the more mendicant travelers, and one more pilgrim, even one with a fine horse, is not so remarkable among them.

Wherever you were, the messenger in the verdant cloak found you after the turning of the New Year, at least two weeks after she met with Constance and Tristan. She did not speak, but handed you a note. Yours was written in a strong and flowing script and offered only this:
If you yet have your honor as a knight, you will come to face your appointed fate
There is a castle deep within the Forest Sauvage
Follow the King's road from the South, then stay by the river and turn West when the trees grow so thick that you can no longer continue North and you will come upon it.

You have not yet arrived, but as you follow your appointed path, tell us how you passed the season and how you appear within the forest.

Constance Nim has stopped listening to me. So I shall speak to you, instead.

Constance has turned with the seasons. Her skin is pale, her gown is the color of fresh snow, the fur of her stole is the pure white of miniver. This is new. This is worrying. She has become less human, after what happened; or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she has chosen to be less human. She has removed herself from the rhythms and cycles of man except when, by some unspoken sign, she returns to Lostwithiel; and even then there is separation between her and the world.

When she chose to travel, with Tristan and with Mort, she simply told them that they would all be traveling, together. Three to go; three to return. Those were her exact words.

She bears the Cath Palug in her arms, and when she stands before the lady of the green dress, her cheeks are bloodless. She could be Lot’s wife, standing on the road to Sodom, save for the inclination of her head.

“Your hospitality is more than enough for us,” she says, and her breath does not steam. “We rode, and the days are short, and there is little enough to be seen. We passed unseen by wolves as hungry as men. You honor us by opening your home and seating us at your table, in this season, in these days.” Her eyes are dull and have no reflection.

And then there is a silence so grievous (as is becoming usual with Constance) that any young squire would certainly feel his honor prick at him to break it, to say something, anything.

Once again she wears the chalice.

Confession of sin was insufficient for forgiveness; one must too complete penance. One commonly assigned to those who have committed great crimes is to walk the path of the pilgrim. To bear the chalice is more than just to travel, it is to travel as a servant. Any passing priest, mystic or holy man might assign the penitent tasks to perform - not mere labour and punishment, but opportunities to cleanse the soul through service and humility.

Robena has worn the chalice of Xristos for many years, but the last pilgrimage was not hers. It was Sandsfern's and she was a retainer. It had not crossed her mind how many sneers, dismissive waves, careful avoidance of priests and convenient forgetting to wear the chalice was required to avoid even the assignation of penance, or how eager village druids would be for another set of hands when it came time to work the harvest, to find the lost lambs in the moors, to clean the nave. She has crossed the world drinking and fighting and waging war, and then she has crossed it back in silence and solitude. Now she crosses it hauling ploughs, sweeping floors, with hands bloody not from war but from the birth of lambs.

For the first time she feels like she truly sees it.

She sees it foremost in her aching back and shoulders, in the callouses on her fingers. Alas, to be so obviously strong! Tasks which have been deferred for months or years because of the physical might required all come due when Robena passes through town! She has hauled a boulder from a well! She has pulled a mighty oak stump from the earth! She has wrenched boxes full of silverware from a bargewreck at the bottom of the River Mersey! The animating fluid that runs through the veins of the earth is not blood, not wine, it is sweat, and now when Robena looks upon the fields she understands at last the oceans of it required to keep this land green and growing.

She has not turned from her penance yet once. She has not tucked away her cross, failed to pay respect or glared at a priest come to challenge her. Many days the exhaustion tried to tell her to do so - such exhaustion, and not even a celebration from victorious comrades to mark the battle's end! She had lived life as a vassal knight in her lady's castle and it had been comfortable. She had lived life as a vassal pilgrim traveling from tavern to tavern and it had been easy. She had crossed all the lands of Europe and it had not had been as hard as this little stroll across little England.

But then, she has always had the strength required. She simply never gave it before.

[Robena has taken the Penitent's Oath, which has given her the following Rights:
- The Right to visit shrines and holy places and pray before the relics within
- The Right to have penance assigned to her by holy figures, priest or druid or otherwise
- The Right to forsake worldly responsibilities until her penance is complete]

Tristan has made an easy friendship with Mort. This did not come immediately. He did lie about his service, for starters, but after the initial wounded pride, it allowed Mort to see him more as an equal. What was important about Tristan was not a facade: He is loyal, he is determined, and he puts service to the common good above all. And, besides, Tristan just really likes him.

It helps that what he's taken from Robena is a renewed sense of wonder and playfulness. When push came to shove, it was not martial prowess that failed - not Tristan's or Sandsfern's or Robena's - it was spirit. A subtle wrongness to Sandsfern that he would not be able to pin down until he saw her again. And Robena...

He still believed Robena did what needed to be done. This is why he kept her axe with him, clean and sharpened, for the day they met again. What failed is that she could take an action she couldn't believe in, did what she felt was wrong.

To Tristan, this meant that it was not enough that he could act in the moment, but that he would always act as he should in the moment.

This new insight has alloyed him into being a playful showoff.

Is it, strictly speaking, a survival skill for him to be able to wear a tunic upside down, walk on his hands, and pretend that nothing's the matter? No, but it made Mort snort beer out his nose laughing when he managed to balance a hat on Tristan's bum, and Tristan doffed it with his feet.

Was it, strictly speaking, making him a better warrior to practice birdsong for birds that didn't exist? To invent stories for the children about what they looked like, the impossible fruits that they ate in the fantastic places they came from? (Of course it was all true; how else could he know how they sounded like?)

It didn't. It made him a warrior who was accountable to children and their sense of right and wrong, though, the harshest and most insightful of moral arbiters. And it made him happy.

The training is rigorous, as always. He can allow himself to soften, but not to blunt. When his muscles are too sore to test, when his mind is too foggy to fill, he takes longer and longer meetings with the spirits of the world, shows more and more concern. It is not insulting to rest like this. These are his most vulnerable moments that he shares with them.

So, when it was time to travel, he did not comment on Constance's exacting choice of wording. The implication that the three who go out will not necessarily be the same three that return. He pretends he does not notice this even as he takes Robena's axe with his pack, already suspecting.

He challenges his horse to a race, and mounts it a run just as it starts to overtake him at a hundred paces.

And he laughed.

He doesn't laugh now, but neither does he bow to Constance's grim decorum. He bows to the lady in the green dress upon the throne. "Thank you, again. I humbly ask if you would you have any musicians in your court? Or instruments, if no one to play them? The journey has been too quiet. It would warm us as much as any fire."

As Constance's silences become more grievous, so too has Tristan's ways of breaking their tension.

Robena

You hear the hunting party long before you see them. A horn sounded in the distance halts you amidst the snowy forest trail, evoking long-past memories of the thrill of the chase. Then there is the low thundering of hoofbeats, the clapping of swords on shields to chase the beast, and the merry jingling of saddle and harness in the crisp winter air.

The party is not large. The lead knight, obviously the lady of the castle, rides a white courser, wearing a tabard bearing a green tree upon a snowy white background with gold thread woven in around the border, the symbol of the forest in which you now find yourself. She is accompanied by a three other knights wearing similar tabards without the gold: one tall and dour lady with long raven hair, one short and stocky man with a jovial smile and blond hair pulled into a ponytail, and one earnest young woman with tousled brown hair and blue eyes that mirror the sky. They in turn each have a page and a footman accompanying them, the footmen carrying drums and bells, and the pages banging on their wooden shields. a handful of hounds are panting alongside the horses, held on leashes, steam coming off them.

The party rounds a bend in the trail and comes upon you all at once, drawing up short, reigning in their horses, and ceasing, for the moment, their noise-making, save for the panting dogs.

"Ho, mendicant knight" calls the leader, recognizing your attire. "Have you seen a fox pass you by in these woods?"

Constance and Tristan

The Lady nods at Constance, and then barks out a surprised laugh at Tristan's addition, a sound she's clearly unaccustomed to making. It reminds you vaguely of King Pellinore, though you never heard her laugh during your hunt. "Yes, we have musicians, though little call for them. Still, we will not be said here at Castle Sauvage to deny our guests hospitality." She looks to one of the retainers below her dais, a stocky man with a blond ponytail and gives a single clap. He nods and steps from the room, returning a moment later with a young woman with unkempt brown hair and sky blue eyes. She's carrying a lute, though she looks rather hesitant.

The Lady Sauvage speaks: "Sir Liana, a song for our guests, if you please."

Then the young knight strikes a chord on her lyre. Though you might have hoped for joyous entertainment, Tristan, what you hear is a minor key, and she launches into a poem of times long past.

In olden times, there once stood Rome, who held our land in sway.
And over all an emperor, who ruled from far away.
In golden times, the city shone, a bright and shining gem,
her hills and rivers sparkling, her holy temples solemn.
But mortal was her emperor, who passed beyond the veil,
and mortal still the next in line, until the line did fail.

Her soldiers once were once pious men, loyal, strong and true.
They came to great Britannia, up from the seas of blue.
They came among the forests, and cleared the land to stay.
They built among the giants and bargained with the fae.
But bargains from a distant lord could never hope to last,
Gone as the line imperial, her knights could not hold fast.

Her promises were filled with hope, a golden age's vision.
They offered us a greater place, a land without division.
The ladies loved her offer, the knights they loved her dream
the druids heard her singing, and the priests her song did sing.
But soon there was disharmony, and quickly then decay,
As empty forts and barren keeps each turned to fade away.

Her power was of many gods, some greater and some small,
this too was her failure, and cause of her great fall.
For never pleased are many gods, demanding each their due,
Until at last their offers end, protections turn untrue.
Here we act more kindly, sharing with our neighbors,
Not gods are they, but fairer folk, who do their share of labors.

Her lands were rich and wealthy, her farmers hale and strong.
But as her days were waning, their strength too was not long.
Her throne beset by warfare, her generals lost to greed,
Her people fought amongst themselves, and no one stood to lead.
Thus do we remember, a kingdom that once was,
imperial its vision, but mortal still its cause.

"A fox?" Robena asks, and reflexively she takes in each rider and each coat of arms a second time. All these, not for a boar or stag, but a fox? She is searching for the sign of the chalice, for the sign that these are penitent knights like her - for who else would chase such ignoble prey?

But no, these are strong and noble figures wearing fresh cloth, with strong horses and handsome squires. Their faces are unbesotted by drink and while they are mirthful they are not flippant or flamboyant. Knights as true as any she has seen upon her travels. And they hunt a fox of all things! A creature with no meat, no antlers, no danger and no prestige. Practically an orange rat.

Once she might not have understood. Once her fingers did not ache from so many long hours reinforcing the fences around chicken coops. While she has not met a fox in the hunt she nevertheless feels like she understands on some level what μαλάκες they must be in order to merit such fortification.

"No, I have not seen any foxes," she said. "If I should see it, should I slay it, or do you reserve the right of hunting here for yourselves?"

”In Avalon the golden leaves will never fade;
in Avalon we’ll eat apples under the shade.
In Avalon there is no death and no decay;
in Avalon alone we will not lose our way.
In Avalon the giants still stand proud and tall;
in Avalon there is no Adam and no Fall.”

Constance’s voice is high and clear, like silver bells. And yet, for all that she sings of that impossible forever summer, her mien is frozen: she sings as someone standing without, in the snow and the dark, eyes straining as she looks out to sea and sees the glimmer on the horizon, impossibly far and yet close enough to hurt. As her voice fades away, Sir Liana stills her fingers on the strings of the lyre.

“Troy. Rome. London. What are the cities of man, my lady? They wither and fade, consumed even as they think themselves in their first flower. And still the way is shut; still there is no route to Avalon. So tell me, if you can,” she announces, suddenly, to the assembled room: “what hope is left to us?”

At least she’s talking. Isn’t that right, Tristan? And making pronouncements of doom— why, keep that up, and she’ll be back to her old self in no time, probably. She just needs to get all of the ominous declarations out of her humors.

This Tristan can answer with conviction. "That was very beautiful. If your question's not rhetorical, I do have an answer. We will whither and fade. I mean, I apologize for my bluntness, but we will. Would you convict parents for having children, that they would grow old and die as we will? I love mine, who gave me life, even knowing it must end. And I hope our children love us as much, and theirs even more. And if we can't make the world safe for them, let them forgive us that we tried."

Tristan smiles easily. There's no heat in his voice, no scolding or coldness. He speaks as if to a baby bird fallen from its nest and held in his hands - aware the bird is so much greater than him. He also says it simply because he believes it, truly. "There is hope such as we make of it, such as we are here to have it and to inspire it. And since we are here, Lady Sauvage, thank you for this kindness. Sir Liana is wonderful, and I am humbled to have been audience."

Robena

The rider, for her part, gives you an appraising look as you answer. There is the slightest flicker of her gray eyes when your gaze passes over the group wondering whether they themselves are in penitence, but her mouth twitches in the slightest sign of a smile when you politely ask for their will.

"I think you ought to join us" she says, gesturing to one of the squires, who walks his horse forward and offers you a spare wooden shield for bashing to help drive out the fox. "We cannot return home to the castle Sauvage today until the noxious beast is caught and killed. I require of you but two conditions. First, that any catch you make in the hunt shall belong to me, Lady Sauvage, who is lord of these lands, and you shall present it to me at my castle. Second, that you shall not depart your rooms once we have retired for the evening until sunrise, whatever may befall you."

The lady and her knights look to you, the only sound in the air the panting of dogs catching their breath as they await your decision.

Constance, Tristan

"I thank you" Lady Liana speaks quietly and, if you are not mistaken, there is the tiniest blush upon her cheeks at Tristan's praise.

The Lady Sauvage, however, offers the answer, beginning with a slight scoff. "I do not deal in hope. That is not my matter. Surely, Lady Constance, you at least can see the doom that hangs over this place and over me, and so it is time we got to our business properly." She folds her hands in her lap and speaks with a low, almost lyrical formality to the hall and to Constance.
"We are gathered for the cause of a knight, who you know well. She will arrive within a fortnight and stay in our castle. She will not be a prisoner per se, but her oaths and her honor are most liable to keep her here, where the doom that hangs over her will ultimately be delivered at the end of her stay, and so she will not depart. I and my retainers will see to her by day while she is our guest. You are to see to her by night. She will await you, whether or not she wills it."

She pauses, for a moment, and, with a little less formality and something that almost resembles a smile, she looks at Constance and then at Tristan in turn. "Sir Tristan speaks truly, at the least. If there is hope to be had, it is you who has the duty to provide it. Test her well, and perhaps we will, all of us, be surprised."

She looks to each of you then, for agreement.

Constance might as well be a statue, hewn out of the white rock by one of Brutus's camp. Then a tremor runs through her, and she lets out an exhalation that is all too human: a sound, as if made by a squire putting down a heavy burden that had, several miles back, ceased to be regarded as burden or something that could be felt. The sudden rush of blood through limbs; the ache suddenly returning with a retinue and breaking down doors.

"I accept, Lady Sauvage," Constance says, and her voice is quiet and still, like the groaning of ice on the water. "But I fear her doom will claim her, and I will hold it against you if you compel me to witness what will befall her. But it is not for her sake, is it? I allowed the blow to fall; I let her loose and then failed to save a King of Britain from her heavy hand. What a kingdom this is! That even those who hope to save it see their hopes crumble dry beneath their fingers! As the farmer, so the knight; as the king, so the river-daughter."

When she reaches out and takes Tristan's hand in hers, her fingers are steady and strong, and her grip is desperate all the same. Desperate to be convinced that she is not being punished, here and now, for her own failures.

Has this come up before? It must have, for all the brooding and stalking and melancholy - and yet it must not have, for her to ask him this now, for her to have only be releasing herself of this burden now. He takes Constance's hand and squeezes it reassuringly.

"Constance, I was with her much of the night, and you did not fail, you were failed. It was Sandsfern who boiled her blood, and Sandsfern who pushed her to the last, and Sandsfern who would not tolerate a moment's hesitation or thought. When they compelled me to fight with them, her words felt reasoned and true, and felt right until she spoke in triumph over the deed. You were only there to see the axe as it fell - yours was not the hand that lifted it, and you were not the one to place the axe in hand to begin with."

Louder, he asks of Sauvage: "Will the Lady Sandsfern be here as well, to shoulder her share of the responsibility? For how she goaded a friend to act against themselves?"

The execution of Pellinore is something that Tristan is more ambivalent about. What stirs him now is the realization that this has been a crime against loyalty, the sin of being a bad friend. That causes him to tremble with indignation.

It's also now that Tristan realizes just how deep it would have cut him had he allowed the pair to goad him into attacking the hunting party as they had intended. He had stood his ground to the last to only shoot out horses and shout warnings. He had felt overwhelming pressure to act otherwise, and in the moment, he had wondered if he was simply an ignorant child for his resistance to the two world-weary and war-wizened veterans. How close he was to actions he would have come to be ashamed of, too, a shame he would have carried for the rest of his life.

Robena delays her answer, but only so that she can take the time to pat one of the hunting dogs. Who's a good boy? They could have asked her to hunt every fox in the forest and they would likely have gotten the same "Yes, sure," for who could focus on the declarations of knights when the remaining dogs had realized pats were on offer and were petitioning for their own turns with the pat-giving stranger? She had been reprimanded by masters of hunts before for distracting the hounds from their duties, but if Robena saw a tummy she had to rub it. Behind her, Apricot snorted in either impatience or jealousy.

"Yes, sure," she repeated eventually, looking up at Lady Sauvage. "I then am Robena Coilleghille, and am honoured to be your guest this night."

Tristan and Constance

The lady Sauvage grimaces noticeably in response to Tristan, a cold square expression of dismay. "That one is beyond the power we hold here. Ask your lady of her nature if you wish to know more. Certainly, we would welcome it if she received her just punishment, but it may be that such is not reserved for our time."

She turns then, to Constance, and for the first time there is compassion in her eyes. "As to you, lady Constance, we are honored by your presence and hold you blameless in the events of the summer that called us all hence. Your judgment was true, and if at the end your efforts are inadequate, we grant you the freedom to be at whatever place you deem most appropriate at the time."

She looks to the both of you. "I will take any questions that you may have for me at this audience, but know now that you have my gratitude for your aid, and that of my retainers as well. When you are ready, Sir Harold will show you to your rooms." She gestures to the stocky blond man, who offers you the most jovial smile of anyone you've seen in the castle thus far by a wide mile.

Robena

The young woman smiles when you greet the dogs fondly, though the taller woman scowls at the familiarity you've shown. Perhaps she keeps the dogs? At the least, the hounds themselves have determined that you, with a free hand for tummy rubs, are deserving of the highest honors, which they shower with through repeated licks and happy barks, quite nearly tumbling you over in their fervor. Lady Sauvage, for her part, awaits your finish with an air of calm patience, sitting upon her horse for all the world like a statue of a lordly knight.

When you do offer your answer and your introduction, she gives the faintest hint of a nod. "Very well then, Robena Coilleghille. Please take the lead. The villain has surely gone to ground, so we must drive it out and set the dogs upon the scent."

Robena is a practiced hunter - she earned her cloak on the hunt and spent many years on the road where her only meals might be what she caught herself. She's hunted boar, phoenix, stag, wyrdgoat and plenty of others besides. Adapting to new prey was something of a necessity for her as she could never really take the time to master a certain animal's habits or instincts before moving on, the end result of which was that she grew to become a very quick and accurate shot with the bow.

She's tracked a bit of everything over time - when you're crossing Anatolia in the barren mountain land between Roman forts one does not turn one's nose up at rabbit or field mouse - but overwhelmingly she has gone after large, prestigious and preferably dangerous prey. A fox is a different matter. While she leads the party in the hunt, and her hand is on her bow to take a snap shot should she spot it, her mind is elsewhere and her pace is slow. She thinks not of glorious confrontation with the terrors of nature; instead she thinks of the villagers who build fences and coops and lay traps. These people might not have dogs and horses but they are terrorized by foxes more than any knight and so have likely accumulated more wisdom in their undoing than she has.

[Take Stock: 10. How might I best hunt this fox?]

“It is the duty of a knight not to be swayed by dragons,” Constance says, as bitter as yarrow. “No, Tristan, that one will not see judgment here; she has already been judged, and one day— may it be soon!— it will catch up with her. But Robena should have been better. She should have known better. I...”

She trails off, circling self-recrimination again. Then, with the briskness of a winter gust: “Tristan, let us go with Sir Harold and see to the rooms.”