“The qualifiers have cut the number of challengers down to sixteen,” she was saying, “but though the path to victory is shorter now, the greatest difficulties still lie ahead.” None of them were willing to name those difficulties—the old hands who’d done this for years, the veterans Gwen would have to make her way through before she ran up against the favorites, like Sir Ralph.

“You will need to win four more times,” Madame continued. “And a loss in any match will mean the end of your tournament.”

“And the rules are the same?” Gwen asked.

“Oui. Zero points if you do not connect with your opponent. One point if you hit his shield. Three points if you unhorse him. An instant win if your opponent is . . . ah . . . unable to continue. If you are both still upright and equal in points at the end of three rounds—possible, if you each score once, or you each unhorse the other, or you miss every time—then we move on to the sword. Now, let me explain a few of the jousting styles you will encounter . . .”

Isobelle’s attention drifted. The only time she remembered watching a tournament was more than a decade earlier—a patchwork quilt of memories, a piece snipped from each and all sewn together. The bright, fluttering flags. Her fingers sticky from the iced currant bun her father had bought her. The thunder of the horses’ hooves. The warmth of her parents sitting on either side of her to protect her from the breeze blowing through the grandstands. She could barely remember the knights themselves at all.

She returned to the present as Dupont guided them off the main road and up toward a farmhouse on a hill. It was a small, humble home, flanked by a pair of larger outbuildings, but it had a commanding lookout over the approach. Fruit trees lined the path as they grew closer, and a flock of geese came waddling up, honking a loud commentary on the newcomers. Isobelle suspected it was not complimentary. She saw Gwen turn her head as if to exchange a glance with her, and then check the movement.

Curses.

As they drew closer, more details emerged. There were wide beds planted with neat rows of vegetables, and pens holding pigs and chickens. A pair of soft-eyed cows chewed moodily at them from behind a fence.

“One could live entirely off this farm,” Isobelle marveled as they reached the yard in front of the stone building to find lines strung with bunches of drying herbs.

“That’s the point,” growled a voice from behind them, and the trio wheeled their horses around to find a short, wiry old man stomping out to meet them. He had a grizzled gray beard that reached halfway down his chest and wore an eyepatch to great effect. His skin was the same light brown as the thatched roof behind him, and almost as covered in ridges and wrinkles.