She should be in Sir Gawain’s tent right now, apologizing, arguing all over again, trying to make Gwen see she was right, that it was horribly unfair, but that nobody who mattered would see it, and nobody would save her just because she deserved it.

Isobelle would rather fade away into nothing than lose Gwen—she ought to be down there now, convincing Gwen to see it.

“Isobelle.” It was Jane, leaning in with a worried expression. “Does Gw—Gawain truly plan to try to win today?”

“Yes,” Isobelle managed, shaping the words with her lips.

“But then what will—”

“I don’t know,” Isobelle snapped, her hands squeezing together so tightly her fingers ached.

You’re no better than they are.

She would have given anything for one more minute to speak to Gwen, but the last of Gwen’s minutes were trickling away through her fingers, vanishing no matter how Isobelle grasped at them.

The audience was starting to stir, rippling with that special knowledge crowds have when the moment they’ve waited for is imminent. In the grandstand on the other side of the open jousting field, a huge banner read GAWAYN in uneven letters, and most of the crowd had sprigs of lavender pinned to their coats—there couldn’t have been a flower left on a plant for leagues in any direction.

In the center of it all, in the middle of the lists—it would have to be carried to one side for the match to begin—was the prize pot. Isobelle’s own dowry, converted to glimmering gold and glittering gems, piled into chests until they spilled out and tumbled to the ground. The effect was extremely dramatic. And the sight of the wealth that had put her in this situation in the first place made her feel sick.

The herald took his place, raising the metal cone that allowed him to speak so loudly to his lips, puffing out his chest, and bellowing to be heard over the hubbub.

“Lords and laymen, this is the moment you’ve all been waiting for . . . the culmination of a month-long tournament of champions, the must-see finale of the year. Never before has there been a Tournament of Dragonslayers with so many upsets, so many surprises, such mystery . . .”

The crowd knew exactly which knight the herald was referring to, the background noise rising to a roar that drowned out the herald’s amplified voice for some time. The herald stopped trying to be heard and finally waved his arms in silent agreement with the energy of the crowd.

When they finally started to calm down again, he lifted the cone back to his lips. “Now, it is my great honor to present the gent from Kent, the Englishman with a winning plan, it’s Darkhaven’s very own . . . Sir Orson the Awesome!”