34. Masks On
Masks On
Dawn gray and cold over the courtyard.
I stood beside the carriage in clothes that cost more than most mercenaries saw in a year, watching servants load the last of the supplies.
The weight of silk and fine wool felt foreign after months of training leathers, wrong somehow, like armor that didn’t fit.
Perrin’s coin pressed against my thigh through the pocket, a reminder of what I was leaving behind even as it traveled with me.
Lord Henrik emerged from the main house with a stride that was purposeful but unhurried. He offered no ceremony, no speeches. The wolf pelt across his shoulders sat heavy in the morning gray, fur over stone. He stopped in front of me, studying my face with those calculating eyes.
“Remember what we discussed,” he said. “Win with honor when possible. Without it when necessary.”
There was no option for losing. He didn’t need to say it, and we both knew.
“Understood.”
He handed me a sealed letter, the wax still warm. “For Duke Hemmrich. Present it during the formal greetings. Don’t let anyone else touch it.”
I tucked it inside my doublet, feeling the seal press against my ribs like a second heartbeat.
Henrik’s attention shifted past me to where Maise, Perrin, and Grit stood with the guard train, their gear packed efficiently among the spare weapons and camp supplies.
They were three figures in house colors, standing straight despite the cold, looking like soldiers and strangers all at once.
“Your team looks ready.”
“They are.”
“Good.” Henrik turned to go, then paused. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped low enough that only I could hear. “Remember that everything you do reflects on this house. And in turn, on you. On them.”
The threat was gentle, almost kind. That made it worse.
The carriage door stood open. Inside, plush seats waited beneath the de Blaise coat of arms embroidered in silver thread against dark upholstery.
I climbed in, settling across from Cromwell, who already had a book open on his lap.
The title read “Protocols of Greeting Among the Northern Houses,” which I supposed counted as light reading for the journey.
Through the window, I watched Danzing mount his horse. His only instruction had been simple: “Don’t be decorative.” The way he said it suggested he’d seen too many promising fighters turn soft on the road, too many men who forgot that danger didn’t wait for convenient moments.
The gates of the estate opened with a groan of iron hinges. Wheels began to turn.
I spotted Maise’s red hair among the guards. She didn’t look toward the carriage, didn’t wave or acknowledge me at all. The distance between us had already begun, measured in more than the length of road.
“Posture,” Cromwell said without looking up from his book. “Even sitting, you represent the house. ”
I straightened my shoulders and tried not to think about how Perrin would have cracked a joke about fancy cushions, or how Grit would have said nothing but somehow made his silence feel like agreement. Maise would have rolled her eyes and told me I looked like a dressed-up corpse.
The road stretched ahead, winding through hills I’d never seen toward Duke Hemmrich’s estate and whatever waited in the tournament brackets. The masks were on. The performance had begun.
◇ ◆ ◇
Morning came with Danzing’s fist on the carriage door.
“Out. March formation.”
He offered no titles, no courtesy. I climbed down into mud that immediately tried to claim my boots, sucking at the expensive leather like it wanted to drag me under.
The column stretched along the road in both directions, guards and supply wagons and horses breathing steam in the cold air.
My breath fogged in front of my face, and the silk shirt under my doublet was already damp with condensation.
“Spear,” Danzing ordered.
I fetched my weapon from the carriage rack. The familiar weight felt honest after a night of silk sheets and formal distance, real and immediate in a way I understood.
“You fight beside the column today. No special treatment because you rode in the pretty box.”
For two hours, I moved through spear forms while the caravan rolled forward: thrust, recover, sweep, advance. Danzing corrected my footwork with sharp words and the occasional boot to my ankle when I planted wrong in the mud.
“Soft ground changes everything,” he said, watching me struggle to maintain balance after a particularly aggressive correction. “Tournament sand will be different again. Packed hard near the edges, loose in the center where they rake it between matches. You adapt or you lose.”
Sweat cut tracks through the road dust on my face.
My legs burned from maintaining proper stance while marching, muscles screaming at the combination of movement types they weren’t designed to handle together.
But the Knight Brand burned warm between my shoulders, feeding on the honest work.
The Brand liked struggle, liked the taste of effort, and I was starting to understand why.
When the column halted for the midday meal, Cromwell claimed me again.
“Wash your face. Change your shirt. You smell like a common soldier.”
Back in the carriage, he drilled me on noble houses and their allegiances while I ate cold meat and hard bread. He covered who owed what to whom, which families carried blood feuds older than kingdoms, and which young lords had gambling debts that made them vulnerable to influence.
“Duke Hemmrich married a daughter of House Vaelmont twenty years ago,” Cromwell said, turning a page in his endless book of protocols. “Their eldest son died in the orc campaigns. Mention condolences if the subject arises, but don’t dwell. The Duke prefers action to sentiment.”
“What kind of action? ”
“The kind that ends conversations about dead sons.” Cromwell’s eyes were flat, professional. “He’ll respect you more for changing the subject than for offering empty sympathy.”
I repeated the information back until my throat went dry: names, relationships, trade agreements, historical grievances. The web of noble politics was as complex as any battlefield, and twice as dangerous because the weapons stayed sheathed until they didn’t.
“You’re bargaining even when you’re eating,” Cromwell said. “Every word, every gesture, every silence communicates. Control what you communicate, or others will interpret it for you.”
At the afternoon halt, Armand’s squad rode past like a parade, perfectly aligned with banners snapping and steel polished despite the road dust. Armand himself sat his horse like he was posing for a portrait, chin lifted, shoulders back, the image of noble confidence.
He reined in beside our carriage, offering a smile that gave nothing away.
“Keeping your boys on a tight rope, I hope?” he said, gesturing toward where my team waited with the guard train. His voice carried just far enough to reach them, and the aim of it was deliberate.
Through the window, I saw Maise’s knuckles go white on her reins. But she swallowed whatever words wanted to come, just like I’d told her to, just like she hated doing.
“They know their place,” I said.
“Good. Wouldn’t want any embarrassments at Duke Hemmrich’s estate. You know how he feels about undisciplined retainers.”
He spurred his horse forward before I could respond, leaving words between us that both of us would remember. Cromwell closed his book with a soft snap .
“That was adequate,” he said. “You neither gave ground nor took the bait.” He straightened the already-straight edge of his sleeve, the kind of habitual gesture that looked idle but never was.
“But watch his timing. He chose that moment because your team could see and hear. He’s already working to isolate you from them. ”
“Why? We’re on the same side.”
“Are you?” Cromwell’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You’re a bastard who might become acknowledged. He’s a legitimate son who chose the sword over succession. You threaten his sense of his own choices simply by existing.”
I touched Clarissa’s pendant through my shirt, feeling the cool metal against my chest. Tomorrow would bring new lessons and new tests.
But tonight, I fell asleep to the sound of Danzing’s voice calling the watch rotations, wondering if this distance was what growing up felt like or just what losing people felt like, one careful step at a time.
◇ ◆ ◇
The camp put me on edge from the moment we pitched it, though nothing about it was obvious.
The guards set the perimeter properly, torches marked the boundaries at regulation intervals.
Fires burned where they should with smoke rising straight in the still air, horse lines secure and supply wagons arranged for quick defense.
Everything looked correct, but everything felt wrong.
The air itself made my skin prickle, and when I caught Grit’s eye across the camp, his slight nod confirmed it.
He felt it too, the wrongness of a camp that was too quiet even for the road.
The night sounds were off, bird calls that came at wrong intervals, the absence of insect noise that should have filled the darkness .
I made my rounds according to protocol, checking on my team without making it obvious.
Maise had drawn second watch, her red hair braided tight for sleep.
Perrin was supposed to rest until third, but I could see from the set of his shoulders that he wasn’t planning to close his eyes.
Grit had volunteered for first watch, which meant he’d smelled the same wrongness I had.
“Rough road tomorrow,” I said, stopping beside where he crouched near the horse lines. My voice was casual, but my hand rested on my spear.
“Could be.” His voice stayed carefully neutral. “Heard an owl earlier. Wrong hour for it.”
He tapped my boot twice with his finger, subtle and hidden by his body from any watchers. A danger signal we’d worked out in the Palisade, and I hadn’t expected to need it again so soon.