Chapter 23

The next few days passed in a flurry of activity. Mostly, they rode, but as soon as Tristan was no longer concerned about facing the ramifications of the incident in Cordoba, he prescribed daily three hour training sessions. If training at the Center had been hard, training two-on-one with Tristan was brutal. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they were allowed to use weapons, but Tristan made them perform callisthenic exercises that Sam swore he invented just to torture them. She knew that Braeden was half demon, but she was beginning to think that Tristan wasn’t entirely human either. The man was tireless, and – good gods, was he whistling now? “You’re off tune,” she accused. Tristan twisted in his saddle to glare at her. “You don’t even know what song I'm whistling, so how do you know I’m off tune?’ “I don’t need to know what song it is to know that your rendition is gods-awful.” “What’s got you in such a foul mood?” “What’s got you in such a good mood that you feel the need to whistle?” Sam retorted. “I wasn’t aware I needed a reason to be in a good mood,” Tristan said. “But, if you must know, I suppose it’s because we’ll arrive at Haywood in half a day’s ride. I’m looking forward to a bath and a proper bed.” “That does sound lovely,” Sam said, because it was expected of her. She was saddle sore and her muscles ached and gods, she was tired, but the prospect of a good night’s sleep couldn’t erase her fear of discovery. She couldn’t afford any mistakes, not in Haywood. And even then, she wasn’t sure it would be good enough. As they closed the distance between Cordoba and Haywood, the landscape gradually began to change.  Rolling dunes flattened and the occasional pockets of thicket spread until the world was green as far as the eye could see. The air thickened and clouds gathered in the sky like herded sheep, blocking the sun’s rays but not its warmth. Once the all-too-familiar turrets of Castle Haywood came into view – her castle, the only home she’d ever known – Sam retrieved a cloak from her pack and hid her face beneath its overlarge hood. “Are you mad?” Tristan said incredulously. “It’s boiling hot out.” “I’m cold,” Sam said stubbornly, hoping he couldn’t see the droplets of perspiration on her upper lip. When he wasn’t looking, she dabbed at her damp face with her sleeve. Braeden shot her a quizzical look. “Later,” she mouthed, though she wasn’t sure yet what tale she’d spin. It was nearing dusk when they reached the murky waters of the castle moat. The moat was a relatively new addition to Haywood; the duke had grown increasingly paranoid over the years, particularly after his sole legitimate heir was attacked by a demon, and spared no expense when it came to the city’s security. Though there were no outside threats, sentries in the hundreds were stationed around the parapet of the city wall.  But, as Sam knew well, the duke’s security was not infallible: for three years, she had bribed the guards outside her chambers to keep her morning excursions a secret from her father. What they suspected she had been up to, she had no idea, but for enough gold in their pockets, she could have been murdering children in their sleep for all they cared. Sam braced herself for an interrogation, but to her surprise, the guards lowered the drawbridge without question. The guards must have recognized Tristan, which was odd, considering he hadn’t been inside the castle walls since she was but a girl. She would have remembered if he had. They rode their horses across the wooden deck and down the main boulevard into the heart of Haywood. The hubbub of the city was at its peak this time of the year, as all of Haywood, from the lowest of apprentices to her own father, prepared for the annual Grand Fair, which was to be held in a week’s time. It was at the Grand Fair five years past that Sir Daniel had famously lost his title as Champion to a young golden-haired swordsman on the cusp of adulthood, a Paladin who’d been fully ordained for less than a month. Tristan. Sam was a stranger in her own skin as they passed the sights and sounds and smells of the home that was no longer. True, she was Sam of Haywood still, but she could hardly expect Master Dwyer to slip her a tartlet when she passed his bakeshop, nor would Master Balen let her try on the elegant hats on display at his storefront. She sold the hats better than he, the milliner had said. No, this Sam of Haywood concentrated on the road, hunched in her saddle, avoiding the friendly gazes of anyone but her travel companions. Tristan led them straight to the Courtier, the finest inn in Haywood. Its owner, Master Ibarra, doubled as one of the city’s most prominent moneylenders, and he used his extra profits to lavish the inn with every conceivable amenity. Only the very wealthy could afford the exorbitant rates, and if the Grand Fair were not so close, the Courtier’s rooms would be more empty than full. After a footman stabled their horses, Master Ibarra came to greet them and escorted them inside. Sam pretended fascination with a spot on the floor and studied her feet—she’d never met the innkeeper before, but he could still recognize her. “Paladin Lyons,” he said, smoothing his oiled mustache. “It’s good to see you in these parts.” “And you, Master Ibarra,” Tristan said. “I trust business has been good.” Master Ibarra sighed. “Never good enough, I’m afraid. But you know that the Courtier is more of a pet project than anything else. Regardless, tonight I am at your disposal. Anything you need, and I shall procure it for you.” “I confess I’m surprised to see you. I was certain one of the girls would be on duty instead,” said Tristan. “Lord Haywood told me you were coming, so I wanted to see to you myself." Sam’s ears perked at the name ‘Lord Haywood.’ He had known Tristan was coming? “Ah, yes, I wrote to him before we left the Center to let him know I’d be passing through.” Master Ibarra smoothed his mustache again before speaking. “About Lord Haywood, Paladin—“ he paused. “Well, ‘tis probably best if he tells you himself.” “Oh?” Master Ibarra reached into his belt pouch, and removed a letter folded in quarters. “From the duke,” he said, handing the letter to Tristan. Tristan unfolded the letter and quickly scanned its contents, his face growing grim. Master Ibarra looked at him curiously, but he was too well-mannered to pry. “We’ll be needing three rooms for the next few nights,” Tristan said finally. “Very well. If you’ll follow me.” Master Ibarra guided them through the mead hall and up four flights of stairs to the best rooms in the inn. This was the first time in nearly a month that Sam wouldn’t have to share her room, and despite the stress of being found out, gods help her if she wasn’t a little bit excited. Maybe she’d even sleep unbound – ah, but no, the rooms were adjoined and the proprietor handed Tristan extra keys. Once they were settled, Master Ibarra bowed and excused himself, informing them he’d be in the mead hall should they need him. “Okay, lads,” said Tristan. “Let’s have us a quick meeting and then you’re free to spend the rest of the evening however you please.” Sam would likely spend the evening hidden in her room, but it was a surprisingly nice gesture. Whatever that letter had said must have rattled him. “Are you alright, Tristan?” she asked, before she could think better of it. “Yes, I’m fine,” he replied distractedly. “Just a bit of an odd note, is all.” “What did Lord Haywood want?” Sam asked, trying to force nonchalance into her voice. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to the both of you about,” said Tristan. “I’ve received a summons. The duke wants us to dine with him tomorrow evening.” “Us?” Sam and Braeden asked in horrified unison. “Aye, Lord Haywood’s rather fond of me and wants to meet my trainees.” Sam gaped at him. Lord Haywood was “fond” of him? The duke wasn’t fond of his own daughter! “Are you certain you want me to come?” asked Braeden. “I wouldn’t want to cause any trouble.” “Nonsense,” said Tristan. “Lord Haywood trusts my judgment.” He scratched at his two day whisker growth. “Though perhaps you ought to buy a new hat. Sam, what’s the best place to get a hat around here?” “Master Balen’s, by the statue of Hermod,” Sam responded without thinking. “Hermod?” said Braeden. “Haywood’s patron god. The god of bravery,” Tristan answered. “Centuries ago, nearly half the Paladins were from Haywood, so I suppose they needed bravery in spades. Now we’ve just got Sam, here.” “I didn’t know that,” said Sam. “What happened? Why are there so few of us now?”