The party was in full swing, the tension hanging over the town released, and their stored energy was thrown into great revelry. The celebration of our initial arrival was nothing compared to the spontaneous festival that'd erupted.

  In the centre of town, stalls had been put up, bunting lined the streets, and people shared food and drink, the tables groaning under the weight of some generous ‘donations’ from Spendlove's supplies. What surprised me was the way the Knights were treated. They were the centre of the celebrations, and none shied away from them.

  Fires were lit, kegs were tapped, food roasted and people clapped and cheered. It was beautiful in a way no manor, no splendid hall, nor gaudy church could ever equal.

  Lucan had extracted the huge round table from the dining room and brought it out to serve as a centrepiece, and chairs surrounded it, though they faced outwards so the mortals could come up and speak with the Knights. The usual laws of propriety were on hold, as the mortals filled their mugs, laughed with them, and shared their thanks.

  The ‘Welcoming Home’ was an ancient tradition. Stretching back to time immemorial, it was something I’d heard mentioned but never seen for myself. A celebration of Knights returning victorious, a time where normal social rules were relaxed, and the people gave thanks to those that saved them, while in equal turn the Knights reminded themselves of the lives they protected.

  For our larger plans, the war for hearts and minds that the Order of the Round Table was just stepping into, these events were just as essential as the hunts themselves. We wanted people to believe in us, for word to spread.

  I knew the Divine Cultivators had co-opted the ritual into something more ‘sacred’, involving prayer and a lot less alcohol. But it did wonders to spread word about their ‘faith’ and make their Paladins and Acolytes appear all the more virtuous. Though I was sure the locals didn’t appreciate the lack of booze.

  I was certain their events lacked the true charm of this more honest tradition. I watched as children braided the Knights crowns of flowers. Small squads, some nervous, others ecstatic, approached each Knight. Each member of the Order accepted their crown in their own way, showcasing their unique powers. Bors, for instance, used the earth to build steps that the kids could climb to place it upon his brow.

  Kay though was the most impressive. She seemed on the verge of tears as she accepted hers by bowing low, and letting the children place it directly upon her. Then she stood, and the flower crown grew, her nature glamour sending green tendrils dotted with flowers cascading down her body till she stood before the children in a dress of posies.

  I briefly wondered what Tristan might’ve done, my eyes flicking over to the two empty seats.

  Tristan had volunteered to handle ‘interrogating’ the one bandit who'd immediately surrendered—the only survivor of his gang—and Arthur had insisted on accompanying him. In part because he didn't want the man tortured, especially when his glamour’s ability to stir emotions would prove a far more effective tool to extract information.

  That had spared me from two trials, having to worry if I should've volunteered my truth detection in some clandestine manner, and saving me from Arthur's company.

  The man was no longer actively out to hunt me, but even in the brief exchange we’d had, I could sense the simmering anger from within him.

  “What’s that expression for?” A set of unexpectedly dulcet tones asked, and I frowned. Maeve was several drinks deep and clearly in no mood to clear the alcohol from her system. I turned to regard the lone wounded member of the expedition, noting that her leg was propped up on a stool. The wound had been deep, the skin around it frozen, further impacting her recovery. It was already healing but it likely gave her some discomfort, which explained the slight slur in her voice. Alcohol was perhaps the oldest painkiller.

  “Reasons aplenty, your wound not least among them.”

  “It is kind of you to worry for me. I shall be fighting fit and causing you all manner of irritations soon enough. I assume this is worthy of a sing—a song, I mean.” She flushed at the mistake. The alcohol added to her rosy complexion.

  “Indeed, it shall be. Such a story—deception, ambush, and druids.” I replied smoothly.

  “Don’t forget a Damsel in Distress.” Lance butted in, laughing as Maeve shot her a sour look. In the battle for hearts and minds, Lance was practically a siege weapon. Even the fading scars from the recent battle added to her image as a true victorious Knight. She was also approachable, as shown by the crown of red and purple flowers that nestled perfectly in her golden hair. She ruined the image by quaffing her beer and dribbling it over her tunic. Or maybe that added to the ease in which she revelled with the townsfolk.

  “From her description she was more a dame indisposed,” I added diplomatically, trying to smooth things over.

  “Don’t take this from me. Tell him Maeve!” Lance grabbed the wounded Knight round the shoulders, pointing her drink at me like it was a weapon.

  “I concede I fit the description of a Damsel, and my situation qualified as Distress—if only minor.” Maeve responded primly, though she was smiling as she said it. Seems the pair of them were getting on better after surviving an ambush together.

  “Another drink then!” Lancelot cried out. Maeve nodded in agreement. I left them to it, letting a few mortal revellers approach the pair to offer their thanks and mugs fresh with foam.

  I continued my circuit of the table, talking with the others and basking in the warm atmosphere. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been somewhere so warm, so welcoming. I didn’t need to watch the shadows, or check drinks for poisons, and there was no need for a false smile and fake words.

  What impressed me most was how the townsfolk seemed to have sussed out each Knight. Gawain, for instance, was talking details with the kind of man whose rough hair and sharp eyes screamed hunter, while Bors was being mobbed by eligible young women. That could just be Bors’ natural charisma, I just hoped he would be spared any unexpected visits from Arthur. Not only for his own sake, but that could only add to my issues with the Prince.

  With that thought I noticed the empty chair at the table—Sephy was absent.

  I looked around for her. I longed to have some time with her before I was called upon to perform again. My muse would be somewhere close, watching everyone. In my past life, hunting her down at a ball was simply a matter of finding the most secluded spot with the best views.

  Rather than cheating with my smoke, I let my eyes dart around until I settled upon a shaded spot between two stalls. A man carrying a lantern passed by, granting me flashes of red—the light catching her hair and her smiling lips.

  I slid through the crowd and slipped into the shadows beside her. Sephy’s hand wrapped around my waist and she pulled me close. Her face was flushed, her eyes lidded and wanton. Our kiss was passionate, spurred on by the shadow and the chatter of the town. Her fingers sneaking up my shirt to caress my back.

  “So am I forgiven?” I asked, resting my forehead against hers.

  “Maybe, it depends upon the quality of your performance tonight.” She licked her lips.

  “Are we talking about how my fingers dance over the strings, or should I be hoping the clouds part to give us a better view of the sky?”

  “Well I do expect to see stars tonight.” She gave a husky laugh and pulled me close for another kiss.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you drunk before. Is the town’s ale really so potent? You are all a little more drunk than I was expecting.” I personally was staying sober. As far as I was concerned, my role as guardian of the town was still in effect. Someone had to be able to respond if more bandits appeared.

  Though it would be a foolish bandit indeed who approached this night. Lance and Gawain’s wrath had hardly been subtle. It was lucky we had Bors to repair the road—otherwise that could’ve been embarrassing.

  “It seems that Spendlove was holding out on us. Have a sip.” Sephy appeared, offering up a small glass—one of the few from the Manor. The liquid was clear, and the smell coming from it was something I associated more with medicine than liquor, but trusting Sephy and sensing the glamour flowing from it, I gave it a taste.

  A moment later I was desperately spitting on the ground, as the flavour assaulted my senses, burning my throat so intensely that it was a wonder my nose didn’t billow with smoke. Sephy was laughing—deep belly laughs.

  “What is this! I've tasted worse rotgut!” I stared at the hateful liquor. I had drank poisons more flavourful than this insult to distillation.

  “It’s technically liquor infused with glamour. It seems some cultivator was peddling this as glamour-infused whiskey.” Sephy dabbed at her eyes, a broad smile on her face.

  “Whiskey!” I glared at it. “It's strangely amusing to know that the general human condition doesn't change with power—always someone willing to scrape together some secondhand alchemy gear and distil some abomination.”

  “And some idiot willing to buy it, and others fool enough to drink it.” Sephy grinned at me. It was then I noticed the flush had faded from her cheeks. I felt a hint of blood glamour and caught the smug tilt to her lips. I settled in beside her, watching the goings-on through the gap between the two stands.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “You're not drinking it, are you? You're just acting drunk.”

  “Of course. You'd never catch me drinking this horsepiss. It’s just part of my disguise.” She laughed as I ran my poor abused tongue over my lips. “It is your fault for not seeing through it.”

  “I concede my defeat to my mistress of intrigue. Speaking of intrigue and on the theme of mistresses, I assume you have a plan for dealing with Arthur? I only ask because no matter how I wrack my mind I cannot work out a solution where he does not spend the rest of his days chasing me away from you like a dog protecting its master.” I had given the problem some thought over the last couple of days and was yet to find a solution. In keeping with our discussion, I decided it was best if I actually spoke to her about such things rather than hiding them away.

  “I’ll handle him. He’ll stay quiet since I've explained how Mother Chox hasn’t given up on pairing you and Maeve. He won’t be best pleased, but he’ll tolerate it now he understands the alternative.” She answered, resting her head against my shoulder.

  “Are you telling me you’ve convinced him that our relationship is what is stopping me and Maeve from getting forcibly married?”

  “It’s rather fun, isn’t it?” She smiled wickedly.

  “You know I adore your devious side. I don’t know if I’ve said it enough but I’m so happy to be adventuring with you, even with our unexpected chaperone.” I leant in and pecked her on the cheek. She blushed honestly at my sudden truth. Keen to hide her embarrassment, she took a sip of her drink.

  The spluttering and my laughter lasted for some time.

  “Oh by all the Unseelie, this tastes like licking the inside of a cauldron. How are they drinking this swill?” Sephy glared at the drink. I wanted to respond, but then I heard people calling for me. Lance was atop Gring, whose mane was woven with ribbons. The pegasus had been extremely smug about how well he’d fared in their adventure, and I knew what he wanted.

  “Gring is expecting his song.” Sephy said, following my gaze.

  “He’ll get it, he’s earned it after all.”

  “Come on then.” Sephy grabbed me by the arm, allowing me to escort her towards the pegasus and its rider. Though given how deeply Lance was in her cups, she was more passenger than anything else. Sephy kept her distracted while I spoke with Gring.

  “Gring, I hear you did well in the fight, and stood up for Bors?” I called out. The pegasus whinnied in agreement, looking immensely proud as he danced in place.

  “Well I’ve tried to work elements of that into my song, which has rounded it out nicely. But it’s still a draft? I don’t suppose—” I didn’t even have time to complete my sentence before the pegasus grabbed me by the cuff and began dragging me away from Sephy and towards the stage.

  I shouted apologies as the pegasus chased the band away. They didn’t complain. They were merely locals who knew how to tease a tune out of their instruments, though I couldn’t deny their expertise in maintaining the semblance of a song despite being several pints deep.

  Looking out across everyone, I felt that bubbling energy from the first night. The sense of communal intent from every mortal. The cultivators were still closed off, their intent locked behind tight control, though there was one exception. Energy rolled off of Gring as the pegasus muscled his way to the front of the crowd. Not that anyone was fool or drunk enough to get in the way of a cultivating horse with wings.

  I took a deep breath, feeling my hearth swirl.

  “I stand here at this welcoming home, to honour the Knights of the Round Table. They who have vanquished not only the monsters who haunted your days, but the bandits who dared to come to your gates.” Cheers rang out, and the assembled crowd turned to the stage, hungry for entertainment.

  “Now one and all, you’ve all heard the Ballad of Bors the Titan!” A cry of approval rang out, the crowd saluting the Knight with their mugs.

  “The next song is written for the pegasus Gringolet, who most recently stood his ground before a druid to protect his comrades, and aided in the fight against the dire monsters of ice and tundra. He is a truly noble steed.” I smiled at Gring. Despite his flaws, I didn’t feel my tongue fight a single word—the pegasus deserved the respect.

  “So let me play you The Ode to Gringolet, Noble Steed of the Skies.” I let the song start. It was a gentler tune than Bors’ ballad. I plucked the strings on my lute, letting the soft tones echo out over the crowd, feeling them go silent as I set a calmer tone.

  O Gringolet, with wings like woven snow,

  You strike the sky with thunder’s quiet grace.

  The setting sun, bows to see you glow—

  You shine as though the heavens struck a pose,

  A statue made of moonbeams worthy of pride, and prose.

  O Gringolet, a steed of star and steel—

  You pose, then charge, with equally firm zeal.

  I saw a few smirks from the Knights. The first verse was perhaps the one that joked about his ego most. Gring though, was totally enthralled. Just as I’d expected, the vain pegasus didn’t see anything wrong with the words. I considered adding to the performance with my glamour but discarded that idea. Better to keep smoke out of this rendition—I didn’t want my illusions to distract from the lyrics.

  Your canter is fierce, a comet’s burning tail,

  Yet kind to those who walk the trail with you.

  Where other steeds may flinch, you charge ahead,

  A banner bold, in feathered, gleaming form.

  Your hoof beats greater than any warhorn.

  O Gringolet, whose mane the stars obey—

  You gallop justice through the break of day.

  True your flair matches the strength you show.

  But you’d not fault a knight for shining just a bit,

  When both the form and function clearly fit?

  You fight not just for glory, though it’s sweet—

  You fight so none you guard shall know defeat.

  O Gringolet, who answers every cry—

  A guardian above even their sky-high pride.

  Yes, you preen, tilt, and nod—keeping your mane just so.

  Yes, you admire the mirror in every stream,

  But ego, like your wings, makes you all the more keen,

  So let none doubt the mettle in your chest—

  No preening knight, you stand among the best.

  O Gringolet, whose wings outpace the breeze—

  Your oath runs deeper than the tallest trees.

  Coming up to the climax of the song, I let my voice deepen, lending weight to the words. I’d struggled with how to finish the song. It wasn’t that Gring hadn’t done things worthy of praise, but they were all mixed in with others’ actions. The most recent adventure had changed that, giving me something worthy of working into a song.

  You stand for kin, for causes just and dire,

  For bonds no bard could measure in a song.

  Though praise may stoke your hearth with fire,

  It’s love for those you guard that keeps you strong.

  And even should a Druid’s wrath descend,

  You’d plant your hooves and shield your friend.

  O Gringolet, with mane equal to dawn’s light—

  No beast nor bard denies your dazzling might.

  No tangled root, no whispered vile charm

  Could bend your will or make your courage fade.

  You’d face the storm, unflinching, wings outstretched—

  A sentinel with starlight in his braid.

  O Gringolet, you’re glory, grace, and grin—

  A noble soul, with just a touch of sin.

  The rush of intent as I finished the song was the first surprise. The power coursing into my hearth from having so captured the attention of Gring was powerful and thrilling in equal measure. The second thing that surprised me was being tackled by that same excited pegasus, who was neighing at me aggressively.

  I was only saved from—I assume, not speaking pegasus myself—having to immediately repeat the song by the explosion of applause. Gring, of course, assumed it was entirely for him, giving me ample chance to slip away as he pranced and bowed.

  “He’s going to be insufferable after this, you know.” Bors said, pulling me out of the crowd and offering me a small beer, which I swigged, pleased to be free for a minute. Gring was lapping up the attention, so I had some time—especially given the army of small, wide-eyed children approaching him with flowers.

  “Should I have done it differently?” I asked.

  “No, he’s earned this. I’m damn pleased for him.” Bors smiled, and we both looked on as the pegasus basked in their applause. “You do realise we’re all going to be sick of this song by the end of the month though.”

  “It’s not like he’s going to force me to play it, is he?” I asked, but the big knight just chuckled, allowing himself to be whisked away by an impatient maiden. “Bors, what do you mean?”

  A shadow fell over me, and I looked up to find Gring bearing down on me from above. For the first time I could recall, I felt a true twinge of regret for choosing the path of a Bard.