reprieve.”
“Still, he should attend, Ivan,” Rudolph said. “After all the wealth heaped upon him at your hand.”
“Wealth he well earned, Rudolph,” King Ivan reminded.
Monet glanced to her father sitting next to the empty chair at her left—the chair meant for the Crimson Knight.
“Well earned,” King Dacian said. “As well earned as peaceful respite.”
Monet smiled as her father winked at her with understanding.
A sudden and distinct hush fell on the room, followed by a resounding meeting of hands in clapping.
Monet’s heart leapt where it lay in her bosom as she looked up to see the Crimson Knight striding toward the king’s banquet table.
“Ah! And yet he musters!” King Ivan exclaimed. “A true champion indeed!”
“Forgive my tardiness, your majesty,” the Crimson Knight said, taking his seat between Monet and her father. “It was needs be I had a bit of stitching rendered…to keep my arm from…” He paused, glancing to Monet. “How did you speak it, your highness?”
“To keep your arm from rotting off,” Monet giggled.
“Yes, that’s it,” Sir Broderick said, grinning at Monet.
He had come! He had come to the banquet, though Monet knew he was loath to do so. In her heart, she determined to pretend he had done it for her—that he had forced himself to attendance for her own sake.
“A noble cause for a belated arrival, Sir Broderick. Indeed!” King Ivan chuckled.
Monet felt moisture rise to her eyes, for he yet looked weary, the bruises and cuts causing a notable stiffness in his hands as he raised his goblet for King Ivan’s toast.
“To the Crimson Knight of Karvana, our champion of tournament!” King Ivan roared. “And to Monet…the Scarlet Princess…our Queen of Love and Beauty!”
The banquet guests cheered, and Monet forced a smile. The Crimson Knight’s arm brushed her own for a moment, and she quivered with delight at his nearness.
“It is bad of me, I know,” Sir Broderick began in a lowered voice, “but I neglected to return your veil…the favour you gifted me for the tournament.” He reached into his tunic, but Monet’s hand on his forearm stalled him.
“I would bid you keep it, Sir Broderick,” Monet whispered. “W-would you keep it? As a memento of your victory today?”
“With pleasure, your highness,” he said. He smiled at her, and Monet’s breath caught in her throat at the pure magnificence of it.
Attempting to slow the sudden mad pounding of her heart, Monet looked across the table to Lenore and Portia. Each princess was seated to the right of her father, their eyes twinkling with a resplendent, romantic admiration as they gazed at the Crimson Knight.
Monet smiled and ventured a glance back to Sir Broderick. He was in conversation with her father, and she sighed—content to be in the company of the two men she loved most in all the world.
A Call to Battle
War. It was unavoidable—so King Dacian had counseled with his knights the previous day—so he had informed the court and then the people of Karvana that morning. If Karvana were to remain a free and blissful kingdom, it could not fall to James of Rothbain—James of Rothbain, who at that moment was amassing troops at Karvana’s northern border.
Monet attempted to appear calm—strong in the face of battle, death, and the threat of Karvana’s fall. Yet as she stood before her father—his dark armor and golden-crowned helmet glinting in the morning sun—calm was not what bound her soul. Had it truly been only six months since King Ivan’s tournament? She glanced past her father to the Crimson Knight standing just behind him and to his right. Her gaze fell to his lips—not to his armor or chain mail, not to the weapons he bore, but to his face, his handsome countenance, and his lips. She knew his lips—knew his kiss—and never had she ceased in considering it. Not for one moment since King Ivan’s tournament, not once since she had kissed him in the arena, in
“Still, he should attend, Ivan,” Rudolph said. “After all the wealth heaped upon him at your hand.”
“Wealth he well earned, Rudolph,” King Ivan reminded.
Monet glanced to her father sitting next to the empty chair at her left—the chair meant for the Crimson Knight.
“Well earned,” King Dacian said. “As well earned as peaceful respite.”
Monet smiled as her father winked at her with understanding.
A sudden and distinct hush fell on the room, followed by a resounding meeting of hands in clapping.
Monet’s heart leapt where it lay in her bosom as she looked up to see the Crimson Knight striding toward the king’s banquet table.
“Ah! And yet he musters!” King Ivan exclaimed. “A true champion indeed!”
“Forgive my tardiness, your majesty,” the Crimson Knight said, taking his seat between Monet and her father. “It was needs be I had a bit of stitching rendered…to keep my arm from…” He paused, glancing to Monet. “How did you speak it, your highness?”
“To keep your arm from rotting off,” Monet giggled.
“Yes, that’s it,” Sir Broderick said, grinning at Monet.
He had come! He had come to the banquet, though Monet knew he was loath to do so. In her heart, she determined to pretend he had done it for her—that he had forced himself to attendance for her own sake.
“A noble cause for a belated arrival, Sir Broderick. Indeed!” King Ivan chuckled.
Monet felt moisture rise to her eyes, for he yet looked weary, the bruises and cuts causing a notable stiffness in his hands as he raised his goblet for King Ivan’s toast.
“To the Crimson Knight of Karvana, our champion of tournament!” King Ivan roared. “And to Monet…the Scarlet Princess…our Queen of Love and Beauty!”
The banquet guests cheered, and Monet forced a smile. The Crimson Knight’s arm brushed her own for a moment, and she quivered with delight at his nearness.
“It is bad of me, I know,” Sir Broderick began in a lowered voice, “but I neglected to return your veil…the favour you gifted me for the tournament.” He reached into his tunic, but Monet’s hand on his forearm stalled him.
“I would bid you keep it, Sir Broderick,” Monet whispered. “W-would you keep it? As a memento of your victory today?”
“With pleasure, your highness,” he said. He smiled at her, and Monet’s breath caught in her throat at the pure magnificence of it.
Attempting to slow the sudden mad pounding of her heart, Monet looked across the table to Lenore and Portia. Each princess was seated to the right of her father, their eyes twinkling with a resplendent, romantic admiration as they gazed at the Crimson Knight.
Monet smiled and ventured a glance back to Sir Broderick. He was in conversation with her father, and she sighed—content to be in the company of the two men she loved most in all the world.
A Call to Battle
War. It was unavoidable—so King Dacian had counseled with his knights the previous day—so he had informed the court and then the people of Karvana that morning. If Karvana were to remain a free and blissful kingdom, it could not fall to James of Rothbain—James of Rothbain, who at that moment was amassing troops at Karvana’s northern border.
Monet attempted to appear calm—strong in the face of battle, death, and the threat of Karvana’s fall. Yet as she stood before her father—his dark armor and golden-crowned helmet glinting in the morning sun—calm was not what bound her soul. Had it truly been only six months since King Ivan’s tournament? She glanced past her father to the Crimson Knight standing just behind him and to his right. Her gaze fell to his lips—not to his armor or chain mail, not to the weapons he bore, but to his face, his handsome countenance, and his lips. She knew his lips—knew his kiss—and never had she ceased in considering it. Not for one moment since King Ivan’s tournament, not once since she had kissed him in the arena, in
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