To do your bidding, I must be cleverly tied,

And never will I work alone.

More muttering followed from the audience. Aurora supposed that they were whispering guesses to one another and hoped they would not be so loud that the contestants would overhear.

The words of this riddle stuck in her head. Perceforest had been on the brink of war with the Moors throughout most of her childhood—and though she had been well out of it, plenty of these folks had not. And before that, things had been worse.

“The answer is a bow, you clever dears!” Thistlewit continued.

The initial group had been cut down quite a bit. Remaining were Count Alain and one of the other nobles, a Baron Nicholas; three men from the town, who gave their names as John, Jack, and Mark; and Robin, from the Moors.

Aurora felt a strange hollowness.

“What a good idea this is,” Lady Sybil said, clapping her hands together. “I know an excellent riddle. May I ask one?”

“Of course.” Thistlewit smiled at the girl, then addressed the crowd. “Now that we’ve narrowed down our contestants, we will ask each one a riddle. They must answer it correctly in front of everyone or be eliminated. Fail and the same riddle will pass to the contestant at your left.”

Robin was up first.

“Go ahead, Lady Sybil,” Thistlewit said encouragingly.

With a giggle, she began:

She is sharply defended

Yet dies because of her beauty

And her mysterious perfume.

She will live on in poetry,

Decorating my mantel with her grave.

“That’s quite grim,” Lord Ortolan said, startled.

But the crowd seemed to enjoy it, cheering for her as she said the words.

Robin bowed with a flourish as he stepped forward to answer. “We faeries love a good riddle. And we particularly love one as pretty as this. The answer is a rose.” He waved his hand in the air, calling forth three roses. They were light blue and larger than any Aurora had seen away from the Moors, including the ones Maleficent had caused to grow at the borders.

The crowd cheered as he gave one to Thistlewit, one to Aurora, and the last to the blushing Lady Sybil.

Count Alain was the next contestant to be tested as Robin walked to one side of the stage.

Lady Fiora touched Thistlewit’s shoulder. “May I ask one next?”

“Indeed, dearie,” said the pixie.

Aurora felt curiously listless. And she kept scanning the crowd without being quite sure what she was looking for. It was only when Lady Fiora began speaking that Aurora realized that it was probably unfair that her riddle was for her own brother.

A weaver with a deadly cloth

She will never wear.

Her larder is a living feast

Of the mute victims of her art.

She is blessed with eyes and hands

But cursed to live always inside armor.