Chapter 24
You have tonight
Isobelle fought a strange, wild urge to laugh.
Darkhaven’s master-at-arms was posturing so blatantly – his glaring eyes and growling voice, boots thudding on the ground like a stag trying to intimidate a rival.
He had been just as bad when he had loomed in the door of Gwen’s father’s house, ready to drag them back to Darkhaven on that night, too.
Then the amusement left her, and she wanted to simply keep walking past him, up the stairs and into the privacy of her rooms, and let him rage and fume in their wake.
Beside her, Gwen had gone still. She was often so tired after a battle she could barely put two thoughts together, and this surprise – this would no doubt half knock her down for a minute or two.
So Isobelle kept her head with an effort. ‘Master Grimshaw,’ she said in tones that concealed her feelings. ‘I’m surprised to see you here in person. Your letter said you’d send the guards.’
‘Lord Whimsitt felt that the guards may not have had sufficient force or authority to carry out his orders.’ Grimshaw’s eyes were still on Gwen, though he answered Isobelle.
Isobelle held on to her temper in a desperate grip. ‘You mean he didn’t trust your guards to go against Gwen.’
A month ago – it felt like a lifetime ago – Isobelle had come out to the training yard in Darkhaven in search of Gwen, to find her offering up a lesson to a contingent of young guards.
She’d just knocked one into the dust with scarcely a flick of the dulled practice blade in her hand, and she was bending down to help him back up to his feet. They were both laughing.
Isobelle had lingered to watch, half hiding herself in the doorway to the yard.
Gwen, holding court like a queen – if that queen were a warrior, surrounded by half a dozen fighters all gazing at her like she was some goddess of war come to bless them with preternatural ability.
She was showing them what she had taught herself, and what she’d learned from Madame Dupont, blended and honed into a style that was uniquely hers.
A style that even Isobelle – who had zero interest in fighting beyond watching what Gwen could do – could recognise as light, agile, relying on speed and daring and breathtaking risks to use an opponent’s strength against them.
She’d watched until Grimshaw appeared, roaring epithets at his men and demanding they return to their duties. He’d railed at them for wanting to learn ‘how to fight like little girls’.
One of his men had muttered, ‘No, I want to learn to fight like her.’
Gwen had still been untouchable then. But the man had spent the night in the Darkhaven jail for his offence.
Now, Isobelle could see the same anger in Grimshaw’s face. It had annoyed her then – now, it sent a chill through her body.
Gwen’s words were still rattling around in her thoughts, the idea that anger was simply a kind of fear. What might a few days and nights in a cursed town do to the fears Grimshaw was unwilling to face in himself?
Before he could speak, Isobelle dropped her voice into a more soothing cadence. ‘Forgive me, Master Grimshaw, we’ve been out fighting the sea monster, and we are a little weary. Why don’t you take one of the rooms here off the taproom, and tomorrow morning we can discuss—’
‘There’s nothing to discuss,’ Grimshaw interrupted, rising to his feet to loom over them. He was a tall man, and years of physical training had made him broad-shouldered and heavyset. ‘Tomorrow, we go.’
Isobelle heard the softest of sounds at her side, no more than the soft click of one hard surface shifting on another. But she’d come to recognise the sound, and by the sudden sharpening of Grimshaw’s gaze, he did, too.
Gwen had placed her hand on the hilt of her sword.
‘We will stay until the threat here has been eliminated,’ Gwen said quietly. ‘That is what we were sent here for, and that is what I intend to do.’
Grimshaw’s eyes had lit with a sick satisfaction, as if, deep down, he’d been hoping all along to come to blows with the Lady Dragonslayer. He’d removed his sword belt while he waited for them, and it lay on the table beside him.
‘Say you can defeat me, with your dancing steps and your little tricks. Lord Whimsitt tolerates your presence because the people admire you.’ Grimshaw placed his palm on the table beside the hilt of his own sword. ‘How long do you think that will last when you have been branded a murderer?’
Gwen had no ready reply, but Isobelle could feel her helpless fury as if some invisible cord connected them, sending echoes and ripples through her.
Gwen’s support was already crumbling at Darkhaven – people had short memories when the events weren’t close to their hearts.
But Whimsitt’s memory was long, and he would never forgive Gwen, or Isobelle, for daring to make their own choices and govern their own lives.
If Gwen fought Grimshaw, it would be the final nail in the coffin Whimsitt was constructing around her. It’d be the only excuse he’d need to banish her, imprison her – or kill her.
‘Enough,’ said Isobelle, drawing on every ounce of vocal training she had at her disposal.
‘Master Grimshaw, you must allow us time to recover from the battle. Even you cannot expect us to set out this very moment. We’ll send Sir Orson – he has been staying here, did you know?
– down to fill you in on what’s been happening.
You’ll see that we really have no choice but to stay. ’
Grimshaw’s flint gaze swung from Gwen’s face to Isobelle’s. It wasn’t much, but it eased the tension strung between the two of them, like an archer lowering their bow with the arrow still nocked.
‘Very well,’ he muttered. ‘You have tonight.’