Thanks once again to all my fantastic reviewers—I'm so glad to hear you're excited about their continued adventures. Real-estate and recognizable characters belong to Tamora Pierce. This epic—you might want to grab a snack before you start—chapter contains material—classic Neal-Penelope exchanges—from chapters 12 and 13 of Training Master Mindelan and references events in chapter 15—basically covering the entire spring. Enjoy!
Alanna and Dalton arrived in the village Hareston early one afternoon and were immediately greeted by the hoofprints of four fleeing bandits—wanted for murdering a wagon full of merchants—and the news—delivered by the child's distraught mother—that one of them had kidnapped his own two-year-old daughter as a hostage.
Alanna cursed and galloped after them. Dalton followed silently. They trailed the bandits into a range of wooded hills. The bandits split into two groups as soon as they realized Alanna and Dalton were closing in on them.
"You go after the right-hand set," Alanna ordered. "I'll take the left."
Dalton nodded and veered onto the right trail. It wasn't until minutes later, when the girl began to cry that Dalton realized he chasing the actual kidnapper. When the two outlaws split again, he followed the man with the child.
The kidnapper came to a fallen log blocking the path and drew up his horse, whirling around to face Dalton. His eyes were furious and desperate as he shielded his body with his daughter's.
"Stay back," he croaked, glaring at Dalton and tightening his arm about the girl's neck and shoulders so that her cries quieted.
Dalton swallowed, worried the hostage would be hurt if she stayed much longer in his grip. "Let's be reasonable," he began. "Why don't you tell me her name?"
The man's only response was to growl and jerk his horse sideways in a rush off the path.
Dalton later thought it must have been the girl's piteous wail that decided him, but in that moment he knew only the hardness of his knife hilt in his hand and the ease with which his arm threw it.
It took a very long time to travel. So long that Dalton remembered the day George had taught him knife-throwing. And the moment he'd ordered Dalton to hit an apple sitting in his palm.
"But what if I miss?" Dalton had asked.
George had fixed him with a steady gaze and said only, "Don't doubt."
He hadn't.
And then, suddenly, the knife buried itself in the murderer's jugular. He lurched sideways and his horse spooked, dumping the man and—a few paces later—his daughter before disappearing into the woods.
Dalton dismounted, ran to the man, and found him already dead. His daughter was quite alive, however, and shrieking in terror and pain—from what looked to be a broken arm—where she had fallen.
Dalton was just turning to approach the girl when Alanna appeared, drawn by the sound of the girl's cries once she'd dealt with her own bandits. She took in the situation with a single glance and dismounted.
"I didn't hit her," Dalton murmured numbly, bending to retrieve his knife. "I probably should have…but I couldn't just let him ride off with—"
"You didn't stop to think, did you?" Alanna snapped. She knelt and took the toddler in her arms, sedating her with healing magic.
"But there wasn't any time to think about—"
"Precisely." Alanna lifted the drowsy child onto her hip and gestured for Dalton to grab both of their horses for the walk back to the village. "What you did was absolutely reckless and exactly the right thing to do."
"Oh." Dalton took a moment to digest this as he followed her. "Is it always so instantaneously ambiguous?" he asked finally, unintentionally offering an exact echo of the question Neal had put to the Lioness nine years before.
"Often more so." This was the same answer she'd given Neal.
Dalton nodded faintly, trusting her to observe this through the maternal eyes in the back of head.
"It doesn't get any easier," she added calmly. "Just more familiar."
"I suspected as much," Dalton muttered to his horse.
PDPD
"Just care for my horse and run these packs up to our room," Neal told Penelope, as he passed her his reins.
They were joining a small group of knights and squires to tackle a Spidren infestation in a nearby village. They'd ridden all day and still arrived behind all of the other knights who had taken over most of the rooms—there were just enough conservatives present that Neal suspected it was deliberate. As far as he was concerned, the only positive aspect was that Lord Raoul would be arriving to lead the attack the next morning.
"I'll bring up supper and a spare mattress as soon as I've settled a few things with the innkeeper. We both ought to turn in early tonight." Neal reached over and tugged quickly at her braid as she led Magewhisper away.
"Eager to get her into your bed, are you Queenscove?" Ferrol chuckled darkly as Penelope passed him. He was Sir Kendal's squire, and a few years older than Penelope.
She pulled Magewhisper into the nearest empty stall, knowing her cheeks were flushed with anger and not wanting Ferrol to read this as a sign of embarrassment. He'd always been something of a bully when they were pages and she suspected that he hadn't improved with age.
"Funny you should make that assumption young Ferrol. I can't help wondering if it's a reflection of your relations with your own knight master." The words slid out of Neal's mouth before he could stop them; he was too tired to control his temper.
Penelope emerged from Magewhisper's stall and marched towards the grain bin with clenched fists, determined not to let their malicious imaginations keep her from her task. She filled a bucket and started back just as Sir Kendal himself emerged from a shadowy stall.
"The lad's just jealous is all," he hissed. "It must be nice having a pretty, young traveling companion to see to all your needs. I wouldn't even bother with the pretense of ordering a spare mattress if she were my charge," Kendal continued, reaching out suddenly to wrap suggestive fingers about Penelope's neck.
Penelope flinched and reacted instinctively. She jerked and twisted violently, knocking Sir Kendal to the ground and overturning her grain bucket.
"I make my own sleeping arrangements," she said, dimly aware that she'd reached the deceptive calm of intense anger. "And you will never be included in them."
Neal bent down and retrieved the bucket, handing it to her as Sir Kendal shouted orders to his squire and marched out of the stables.
"Impressive," Neal muttered.
"Mindelan taught me a few tricks last summer." She shrugged. "I'll see you in bit."
Neal nodded and turned to follow Sir Kendal so that he could finish paying the innkeeper.
PDPD
For once, Ferrol didn't bother with growling insults as he lunged at Penelope, ramming her against the stable wall.
She dropped the packs and ground her teeth to keep from moaning as pain shot through her shoulder. Her right arm was useless, but she bit the fingers he had clamped over her mouth. When this had no effect, she twisted, slammed one knee into his groin, and kicked sharply at his kneecap, drawing her belt knife with her left hand as soon as he released her.
She glanced around and realized that the stables were empty. They were alone; she was injured and he was angry—it was a situation pulled straight from her nightmares.
He pulled out his own belt-knife and lunged at her again.
She ducked and shook her head, trying to clear it of the ringing that filled her ears.
He grabbed her right arm and tried to pull her to the ground but she slashed at his hand with her knife. He released her only to slice into her thigh with his own knife.
She swore and nearly dropped her own knife, deciding that she needed to end this now, regardless of how much she had to hurt him.
PDPD
Neal fought back panic as he hurried out to the stables, telling himself there were plenty of reasons why Penelope might not have made it to their room yet.
He felt a rush of unreasonable pride and fear when he saw them, with their knives against each other's throats, locked in stalemate. Then Penelope saw him and gave a quick kick, twisting to get of Ferrol's reach. They were both already bleeding from several cuts, but Ferrol looked capable of walking.
"Leave now," Neal said, grabbing Ferrols collar and shoving him towards the door. "I'm not interested in any of your excuses. I'll discuss this with Sir Kendal later. And find another healer to see to your injuries because I won't."
Ferrol let out a string of curses before staggering away, clutching the cut on his side.
Penelope backed into a bale of hay and sat on it, breathing raggedly.
"Steady," Neal told her, tapping her nose gently with on finger.
She nodded at him and began breathing through her nose. "Packs are back there," she muttered, gesturing with her knife.
Neal nodded and realized that she was holding it in the wrong hand. He took a closer look and saw that her shoulder had been dislocated.
"Bastard," he hissed.
"That's what I called him," Penelope muttered. "Although now that I consider the matter I regret not putting a few choice modifiers in front of it." She set clenched her fingers and made an unsuccessful attempt to stand.
"I'm sorry," Neal said.
"You haven't done anything wrong," Penelope snapped.
"I shouldn't have left you alone with him," Neal muttered.
"We both thought that philosophical debate had ended," she said, slowly pushing herself to her feet. "And you're supposed to be my knight master, not my body guard."
Neal sighed, watching her wobbly steps towards the door. "I should have just let the first insult slide though and not retaliated."
"But that was the high point of my day," she protested and attempted to shrug, nearly falling as the motion jarred her body.
"That's only because it was followed by such a low point," he grumbled, stepping forward and scooping her into his arms so that he could carry her up to their room.
"I can walk," she protested. "This is just going to encourage the gossipers."
"Then you had better start coming up with some jaw-dropping retaliatory remarks, oh fair and terrible squire. You are currently only capable of managing a pathetic hobble."
"What are you going to tell Sir Kendal?" she asked quietly.
"You let me worry about that."
"Are you this evasive with all the girls you sweep off their feet and carry away?"
"No," Neal answered, "just the clever ones who are heavier than they look and impress me with their ability to overturn grain buckets on military veterans."
PDPD
"The problem is that they haven't been properly introduced to Yuki," Penelope remarked, once Neal had fixed her shoulder.
"I don't know," Neal called over his shoulder, as rummaged in his pack for bruise-balm and bandages. "Most of them know I'm married and seem to enjoy speculating about my infidelity. There's still a charming rumor going around that Kefira is mine and I paid Dom to claim responsibility for my indiscretions with Kel."
"She's far too well behaved to be yours," she remarked. "What I meant by properly introduced to Yuki was really introduced to her marvelous fan."
"I'd suggest you carry one," Neal said, frowning as he gathered a handful of magic to tackle one of her cuts, "but you seem to have found your own effective silencing techniques."
They both remained quiet while he finished her healing, and she was so exhausted when he finished that Neal didn't feel particularly guilty about setting a hand on her forehead and sending her to sleep without any warning. But he made sure to pull of her boots and tunic and tuck her in properly.
PDPD
Lord Raoul's voice yelling orders in the inn's courtyard woke them the next morning. Penelope sat up and rubbed her eyes, disoriented. Glancing around she realized that she was still in the bed, while Neal was stretched out on her cot with his feet hanging off the end. She flung the covers off and stalked to the washstand to splash water against her face.
"Well, Queenscove," she said as she laced up her boots, "I seem to have spent the night in your bed after all."
He shot her a good-natured scowl. "And it has left you entirely too cheerful, whilst my night on your humble pallet has done nothing to improve my morning temper."
"That," Penelope intoned, "would require a miracle."
PDPD
Only minutes later they were standing next to their saddled horses, eating breakfast on foot as they listened to Lord Raoul's instructions for eliminating the nearby immortal gang.
" My Sergeant and I will tackle the giant if there is one, I want the rest of you to focus on the centaurs while my men attempt to round up the Spidren."
Dom just had time to wander over and punch Neal's shoulder, telling Penelope she'd done a fine job making sure his shoes were tied that morning, before they were ordered to mount up.
PDPD
It was the longest day of fighting in Penelope's life thus far. Though she never suffered any life-threatening injuries, she lost count of the bruises and scrapes she received and of the number of kills she and her companions made.
She spent the morning hunting down centaurs, ducking hooves and swords as she fought to prevent their escape.
In the afternoon she helped set a Spidren nest on fire to exterminate a batch of Spidren young. The screams were awful and the scorched smell was even worse.
By sunset, when the yells went up announcing that the battle had been won, Penelope had been separated from Neal. She looked about for Dom or Raoul or any of the men she knew and swallowed hard when she realized that the only one she recognized was Sir Kendal. She tried to walk casually towards the shouting voices, but did not bother to sheath her sword.
Kendal turned and leered at her as she stepped onto the bridge with him, and Penelope saw that he had a nasty gash across one cheek. She hesitated a minute, debating whether or not she should offer to fetch a healer.
"How many men died for you today?" he snarled.
Penelope blinked at him and sidestepped away so that she stood at the furthest possible edge of the bridge from him
"How many good soldiers did you distract today?" he continued. "And how many will you beckon tonight, only to attack them when you worry that Queenscove will be jealous." He drew his sword and stepped towards her.
Penelope tightened her grip on her sword.
"How much of Tortall will you poison with your lies? My squire was right to try and put you in your place, but I'm not sure that's possible—" he lunged suddenly at her—"I'll do my kingdom a favor and finish you now."
It was her first swordfight against another human who was actually trying to kill her and she threw herself into it. Still, her fight was mostly defensive; Sir Kendal was an expert swordsman, even injured, and he was determined.
Their swords flew as she blocked and parried frantically. Occasionally she got a chance to attack, but she never managed to do more than scratch his arm. Meanwhile, he left several shallow cuts across her arms and she began to feel her injuries from the previous day.
Suddenly their swords were locked together, hilt to hilt. Penelope instinctively leapt backwards, plunging off the bridge and into icy water.
She surfaced, sputtering and managed to plant her feet, nearly dropping her sword. The river was waist deep and the current was strong. All of her muscles began to stiffen and buckle and her heavy leather gear weighed her down. She began trudging towards the bank, shivering and gasping.
Kendal roared and lunged for her again, swinging furiously. She got her sword up just in time and the point speared his belly as he jumped down upon her. Penelope's sword was wrenched from her grasp as Kendal's body hit the water. A cloud of blood filled the water around them and she watched helplessly as he gasped and sputtered and then went still.
PDPD
"Someone fetch the Commander; she's killed Sir Kendal," a voice cried. Penelope numbly recognized it as Ferrol's.
Fortunately it was soon joined by other voices, one of which sounded vaguely familiar. "Take my hand."
Penelope grasped the hand before her and recognized Dom. He was standing next to her on the bridge and she allowed him to guide her over to the riverbank and help her out of the water.
Some of his men fished Sir Kendal's body from the river and another restrained Ferrol, while Dom helped her out of her leather vest and draped a horse blanket over her shoulders. She shivered uncontrollably as she was led to a tent. Lord Raoul ordered Ferrol to stop shouting and listened to Dom's defense of Penelope.
"I'm sure it won't be necessary to try her for treason," he said gruffly, glancing out the tent flap at the darkening sky. "As soon as her knight master finishes with his healing work, I'll have one of the mages perform a truth spell and she can give us her own testimony."
PDPD
Dalton got back from digging their latrine pit and found Alanna hissing a steady stream of curses as she stuffed their gear back into their saddle bags.
"What's—"
Alanna had plenty of experience delivering bad news and cut him off with an essential fact intended to prevent panic.
"Penelope's alive."
Dalton, however, had enough experience with the lady knight to recognize this statement for the ominous pronouncement that it was.
"How badly was she hurt?"
Alanna blinked at him. "She killed a knight—Sir Kendal."
"She'd never—"
"He attacked. She wound up gutting him—"
"Gutting?"
"Impaling," Alanna amended. "He deserved to be gutted. Self-defense, but she's been accused of treason and murder. Raoul's there—he should be able to prevent any unreasonable consequences—but I want to ride with Neal and Penelope for a time to discourage another outburst."
Dalton nodded, torn between pleasure at the thought of seeing Penelope and worry that he'd find her walled in by her own proud defensive anger.
"We're riding further tonight so we can meet them tomorrow."
Dalton nodded again and glanced back ruefully at the now useless latrine pit.
"Saddle the horses," she ordered, marching away with a mage mirror. "I am fond of Queenscove, but I'd just as soon spare Penelope his deliberate male obliviousness."
PDPD
Penelope was perched on a folding stool, still damp and cold when Neal came in. She looked up and blinked at him but couldn't muster the energy to speak.
"Here," he said, "Lord Raoul said you could change first and Dom's going to bring you some tea."
She raised an eyebrow upon discovering that the pile of dry clothing he gave her contained a breast band and a hairbrush. On the rare occasions when he had anything to do with her gear, he tended to forget that she was female.
"Lady Alanna's on her way here," he said by way of explanation, "but she sent me very detailed instructions for your care in the meantime."
"Thanks," Penelope croaked, surprised and encouraged.
Neal glared pointedly at the man who had been assigned to 'guard' his squire until he left and then followed him out, drawing the tent flap closed behind him.
She hurriedly dressed and tore the brush through her hair, emerging from the tent as soon as she'd finished.
Neal reached out and took one of her hands, squeezing it gently. Dom passed her a cup of tea and the two of them accompanied her to Lord Raoul's tent were Ferrol and the mage waited.
Penelope spoke quietly but clearly as she answered Raoul's questions, very much aware of the men trying to hear her testimony outside the tent. He made her describe the events of the previous day as well as Kendal's attack and Penelope stared into the corner as she spoke, refusing to glance at either Ferrol or Neal.
"The fault here lies in a knight's angry pride and blindness and his squire's ignorance and jealousy," Raoul pronounced when she had fallen silent. "Lady Penelope acted to preserve her own life against an unprovoked attack and she has endured quite enough. Ferrol's fate I shall leave to the king and perhaps the Chamber." He gestured to dismiss Ferrol and the mage, before turning to Neal. "I suggest that you travel with Lady Alanna for a time—I think you might find the company more agreeable."
"What he means," Dom explained, "is that Lady Alanna has announced her intention of escorting you for a time, whether you like the idea or not."
"More proof that great minds think alike," Neal said calmly. And Penelope smiled at the thought of seeing Dalton and being tutored by Lady Alanna.
"I expect you'll have us all snapping to attention one day, just like she does." Lord Raoul murmured.
Penelope shrugged and shook Raoul's hand.
"I'm afraid you'll have to live through a few more years of gossip and scandal first though," he told her. "Rumors about Mindelan and me were never quite so disturbing—she was my squire you know—"
"I should think they would have been even more disturbing," Penelope said, without thinking, "Neal's not quite old enough to be my father." She gave an apologetic shrug when she realized what she'd said.
Raoul merely chuckled and said, "at any rate, the scandal surrounding little Kefira's birth seems to have created a few men who would rather attack your reputation than acknowledge your strength and skill. I wish you the best of luck in facing them."
"I'm afraid it will be more about ability than luck, sir," she muttered as Neal pulled her from the tent.
PDPD
As soon as they were on the main road again, Dalton nudged his horse forwards to walk beside the Lioness and glanced pointedly at her in a silent request for the full story.
"Very well," she muttered. "I suppose you're aware of the rumors surrounding Neal and Penelope."
Dalton nodded. "They're just as ridiculous as the ones about us."
"Not quite. We're laughable. I'd old and tough—a grandmother—even if you do have a lean, young figure and positively enchanting green eyes."
Dalton used these green eyes to glare at the Lioness, who shrugged amiably back him.
"They're possible. Penelope is young and undeniably pretty—not to mention inexcusably handy with a sword from certain conservatives' perspective—and Neal is a long ways from his wife."
"Also undeniably pretty," Dalton put in, "and unlikely to tolerate infidelity. Not to mention his daughter. And son. And the fact that—"
"Penelope's interests lie elsewhere—" she paused—"or rather ride here." She gestured at Dalton. "The point is that these rumors have led to a few unpleasant accusations and propositions for Penelope."
Dalton's horse stopped suddenly. He looked down and realized that his fingers were clenched tightly about the reins. Sighing, he loosened his grip and politely asked Alanna to continue.
Dalton listened in silence as Alanna described both of Penelope's recent fights.
"Is this ever going to end?"
"I hope it will slow down at least—when she gets her shield. But then people still speculate about me." She sighed. "It's complicated."
"Isn't everything?" Dalton muttered.
"Good question." The Lioness smiled grimly. "Next question."
"So, those rumors about you during—"
"True."
"All of them?"
"There was never any threesome with Delia of Eldorne."
Dalton looked as though he'd been forced to swallow something large and sour. "I hadn't heard that one."
"Good. Perhaps it's died a natural death. Rather like my love affairs with the Jon and Liam."
"Liam?"
"The Shang Dragon."
"Shang Dragon?"
Alanna sighed cheerfull. "Sir Myles—bless him—has been jumping from the ancient wars to the Immortals War and skipping the in-between recent history hasn't he?"
"So it would appear," Dalton muttered.
"Well, we've a long ride ahead of us—I'll have to rectify the matter."
It was indeed a very long and very educational ride.
PDPD
Lady Alanna's evening conversion—for lack of a better term—with Lord Wyldon by mage-mirror (with Numair's assistance from the palace) was also long. And painfully loud.
"Good evening," Lord Wyldon began stiffly.
"Hardly a possibility given the circumstances," Alanna muttered.
"Which are absolutely—"
Alanna interrupted. "A disgraceful—"
"—intolerable and—"
"—farce of chivalry and—"
"—unprecedented and—"
"—justice—"
"Injustice, you mean—"
"How dare you presume to put words in my mouth…"
Dalton glanced in the mage mirror and saw Numair attempting to cover both his ears with his hands while turning the pages of his book with his elbows. He decided an evening stroll was in order and left immediately.
He returned to find the two knights smiling warily at each other.
"Yes, quite."
"Indeed."
"I do believe Daine's calling," Numair said quickly, ending the communication while it was still quiescent.
PDPD
"I know you don't want to talk about yesterday," Neal said, "but could you at least recite a ballad so that I can attempt to correct you and we can have a nice squabble? The silence is unnerving me."
She shrugged listlessly and shook her head, so they rode in silence until Neal called a halt and dismounted to begin unpacking.
"Don't all the voices in your head keep you sufficiently entertained?" she asked once she'd dismounted.
"They aren't all scintillating conversationalists like you," he informed her as he pulled a pot from his pack to begin preparing stew, "in fact, when they all agree with each other and start up a chorus they can be quite dull."
"Forgive me if I do not express proper sympathy," she said, removing her saddle s and draping it over a log. She took the pot from him, planning to fill in with water while he started a fire. "I have rather the opposite difficulty at the moment," she called over her shoulder as she marched towards the creek.
"Daydreaming about Dalton are you?" he asked as Penelope returned with the pot.
She twitched quickly, nearly dropping the pot and sloshing water over both of them.
"Sorry," she said once they had rescued the cook fire. "I'm not sure I want to see him actually." She wasn't sure how she felt about anything—knighthood included—anymore and she found she couldn't meet Neal's eyes.
"I don't want anyone to look at me the way he does again. I'm afraid—it would be too much like Ferrol. I don't want anyone to see me that way. I'd rather be just another boy, just—" she broke off and stamped her foot softly.
"You'll never be just another boy," Neal said mildly, "especially not to him."
"It's not fair," she said, aware that she was whining but unwilling to stop. "How am I supposed to become my own self when the rest of the world sees something disgusting and untrustworthy. I'm not even pretty—my riding around in trousers and slicing up monsters does nothing to change that. I'm the only one who's not allowed to just be myself even if I work harder that all the others."
She walked towards their packs, looking something to busy her hands. But Neal grabbed her wrist before she'd made it three steps.
She twisted her arm away instinctively—she'd been grabbed too often lately by enemies—and then hated herself for being so skittish. She forced herself to stand and face whatever lecture Neal was determined to launch at her.
"You're wrong on a number of counts. Everyone struggles to be a self that the rest of the world doesn't see—even crotchety young noblemen like me. Secondly"—he paused and used a finger to lift her chin.
Penelope felt her nostrils flare and forced herself to blink calmly.
"You are very, very pretty. Any man who leads you to believe otherwise is lying."
Penelope blushed almost anxiously. This was not the sort of thing knight masters ordinarily told their squires. But it was rather flattering and she and Neal were anything but ordinary. And Neal never looked at her that way.
Neal nodded at her and continued. "I know a number of men who agree that Dalton has excellent taste—admittedly many of them are married to some of the most formidable women in Tortall, but it's still a point in your favor. And finally, I know a few women who would disagree with your claim that your situation is unique; difficult as your path may be, you aren't the only one to walk it."
"Oh," she said, shuffling her feet. "Sorry, I know I shouldn't, but sometimes I can't help thinking that they had it easier sometimes. I just--"
"You do realize, don't you, that the men around you—the intelligent ones, among which I count my humble self—can see you from more than one angle and understand that you are a human being with many dimensions? Some of us don't think that warrior and woman are incompatible identities."
Penelope shook her head thoughtfully. "How do you see me then?"
"You are my stubborn, cynical, undisciplined, insubordinate squire."
Penelope had to return his smile with a cheeky grin.
"And you will soon become a powerful, talented, chivalrous knight."
They rolled their eyes at each other.
"And," he added quietly, "you are an intelligent and courageous young woman who I would have been proud to call my daughter."
Penelope blinked as he opened his arms to her and looked him up and down hesitantly before stepping into them.
"Even if you are a little silly sometimes," he muttered, hugging her.
Neal's arms, she decided, were like a cross between Dalton's and Mindelan's: warm, strong, calming. Fatherly. She lingered there for a moment before stepping back.
"I should warn Lady Alanna," she whispered, wiping her eyes, "you're going to be a merciless cynic while you're getting this out of your system."
"No need," he told her with mock gravity, "I manage one sentimental-but-no-strings-attached speech every three years of so for all of the important women in my life. Just ask your training master when you get the chance."
PDPD
Penelope sat perfectly still on a log a short distance from the creek, watching the rushing water and listening to its babbling. The place reminded her of the creek for which her home fief, Proudcreek, was named, and of the creek Dalton had dumped her in the previous summer, but every time she let her mind drift into pleasant memories, she found herself thinking suddenly of her soaking the previous afternoon and imagining that she saw Kendal's body and blood in the water before her. There had been so much blood, all of it—her's and Kendal's—seeping and swirling in the cold, rapid-running water.
A warm hand slid underneath her braid and touched the back of her neck, startling her. Penelope jumped to her feet, instinctively turning and drawing her sword in one fluid motion.
"Sorry," she said quickly, recognizing Dalton. "It's been a rough few days; I'm a little jumpy this afternoon. I suppose…" she trailed off, glancing down as she suddenly realized she had drawn her sword for the first time—touched it for the first time—since killing Kendal with it. She lowered the blade quickly, nearly dropping it.
"I shouldn't have surprised you," Dalton said quietly. And then, in a louder but more hesitant voice, he asked, "Did Ferrol really try to—"
"I don't want to talk about it," Penelope said, gritting her teeth and speaking so quickly that she was surprised Dalton heard her. "It's over and it's not really any of your concern." It was his concern—she could see it in his eyes—but she didn't want to associate Dalton with Ferrol in her mind.
"Let's not talk then," Dalton said, automatically.
He stared at her for a moment, trying to find his cheerful, practical sparing partner—the girl he'd befriended during their early days as pages because she fought fair and could still find something to laugh about when she lost—in the tired young woman before him. Her sword dangled from one hand and her breathing was slow. Finally, she lifted her head, and he glimpsed the friend he'd trained beside in the archery courts and the girl he'd kissed behind the stables.
Suddenly, he drew his own sword and said, lightly, "guard."
She raised her eyebrows and stepped backwards, surprised. Then she lifted her own sword point and stepped forwards again, her eyes intent and her face familiar.
It was good to fight someone who wasn't actually trying to kill her. They weren't using practice blades, so they moved carefully and precisely. Their movements were more mimicry than combat—the goal was to disarm, not to dismember. It was more like dancing than fighting, she thought as she blocked Dalton's sweep and turned her weapon towards his sword arm. He had to jump away to avoid being scratched.
"Who taught you that?" he asked, springing back to attack again.
"Wyldon." She blocked quickly and nearly managed to disarm him in his surprise.
"Lord Wyldon? But—"
"He's conservative, well-respected, and, according to Neal, going soft in his old age." Penelope smirked delicately; she might have looked like a court lady if she hadn't been sweaty, muddy, and lunging at Dalton with a sword.
Dalton parried and smirked back. "I was going to ask when actually. He and Alanna had, erm, words last night. It took about ten minutes of her yelling and him giving automatic icy replies before they realized that they were actually agreeing with each other."
"Maybe she's going soft in her old age too," Penelope said, trying to distract him as she prepared another attack. "It's probably all Neal's fault."
"You're not giving me nearly enough credit," he told her, sweeping his sword around so that she had to scoot out of the way.
"Perhaps not," she said, ducking quickly under his sword and kissing his chin. He stood very still and held his sword carefully away, stunned that she she'd passed so easily through his guard.
She sighed deeply—though it wasn't an entirely unhappy sigh—and lowered her head. Tentatively, expecting her to dart way the moment he touched her, he wrapped his free arm around her shoulders. Her shoulders shook for an instant and he almost stepped away, but then she dropped her forehead onto his shoulder like a child falling asleep.
"You're alright," he said—it was part question, part statement, part prediction. He dropped his sword so that he could wrap his other arm around her and pull her close. She murmured something against his chest. "What was that?" he asked quietly.
She tilted her head back and looked up at him, dropping her own sword so that it landed against his with a clatter. "You lost your weapon first," she told him lightly, "so I win."
"Deceitful wretch," he murmured affectionately, tugging gently at her braid.
She frowned suddenly. "Best be careful," she told him seriously, "Sir Kendal said something similar just before he impaled himself on my sword."
"Yes, but he was an old madman and he was lying. I'm a young madman telling the truth. Well, sort of, clever, beautiful warrior might be a slightly more accurate description."
" I suppose I ought not kill you for telling the truth," she said slowly, almost teasingly. And then she kissed him.
PDPD
That kiss was only a beginning, however.
They traveled together for weeks, battling Immortals and bandits and fighting a vicious and magically enlarged sparrow. He watched Penelope spar with Wyldon—who visited uneasily to help tackle the giant animals—and train with Alanna. When they were attacked, Dalton fought at her back and when they made camp for the night, he sat close beside her to eat supper.
Dalton kept noticing the haunted look on her face even when she was napping in the saddle and laughing beside their campfire. And he knew that it matched the shadows behind his own eyes. They were hardening, toughening. And he worried sometimes that they would loose themselves in the process.
He spoke little about the knife he'd thrown and the little girl that he'd left bloodstained and fatherless, telling Penelope only the bare facts. And she said little more about Kendal. But after they returned to the scene of that fight, they didn't need to talk about either.
PDPD
They stayed again at the inn where Penelope had fought Ferrol, though this time they each had their own room. Penelope could not sleep; somehow the soft indoor noises of the inn were oppressive after nights of camping and she kept reliving the moment when she'd gone off the bridge and wondering if she'd ever be able to swim in a river again.
Eventually, she threw back the covers and dressed. Grabbing her cloak, she tiptoed through the sleeping in and stepped out into the spring night. She slowly walked the quarter mile to the bridge where Kendal had died.
She gazed at the stars glinting on the rippling water for a moment and came to a sudden resolution. She unlaced her boots—pointedly ignoring her trembling fingers—pulled them off, stuffed her socks into them, and set them on the ground beside the bridge. She set her folded cloak on her boots and stepped barefoot on the bridge.
She walked—as steadily as she could given that her hammering heart seemed to be pushing her guts down through her legs—to the very center of the bridge. She hesitated there a moment longer and then stripped off her shirt, trousers, and tunic. These she simply dropped on the wooded boards, afraid that she'd loose her courage if she folded them.
Then she jumped in.
It wasn't nearly as cold as it had been the first time, but the water was still cold enough to make her shriek quietly. It was deeper now—about neck deep. And it felt very, very clean even as she buried her toes in the mud silt at the bottom. She submerged herself until her braid was saturated and she wasn't thinking of anything but the current against her skin. Then she surfaced and began making her way to the bank.
"What in Mithros' name do you think you're doing?" a voice called.
It was Dalton, he'd been sleepless and wandering aimlessly along the road when he heard her splash and shriek—which didn't worry him as much as one of her blood-curdling battle cries would have but was still troubling—and had hurried in her direction.
"What happened?" he demanded. "Are you hurt? Did someone—"
"Just getting back on the metaphorical horse," Penelope answered, somehow not entirely surprised to find him there.
"Are you crazy?" he asked. She certainly seemed to be grinning madly in the moonlight.
"Yes. And very cold. But also quite calm and—"
"Probably shock—" Dalton put in, stepping onto the bridge.
"You ought to try it," Penelope continued.
"What?" Dalton spotted Penelope's clothes and tried not to think about whether he was relieved or disappointed that there weren't any undergarments with them.
"Washing away the memories." Penelope climbed onto the bank as she spoke and it was partly to keep himself from watching her that Dalton followed her advice, tearing off his own clothes and jumping into the creek.
The water was cold and lively and it didn't care that Dalton had saved a girl's life or that he'd kill her father. It was exactly what he needed.
Penelope handed him her cloak—which she'd already used to dry herself—when he emerged and ran to fetch their clothes from the bridge, pulling on her own shirt before she returned.
They dressed quickly, though Dalton found Penelope shivering and staring thoughtfully at the creek and reached over to pull on her tunic. Penelope smiled and shivered again when she noticed his hands lingering over her hips. Then her eyes grew serious and she took his hands in her own.
"It's over," she whispered, and then, admitting to herself that it would never truly be over, simply squeezed his fingers for reassurance.
"We survived anyway," he muttered, gathering her close to breathe in her scent and hold her. To prove to them both that they really had survived. Her tears were warm against his still clammy skin, but she shed them silently and they seemed to slow the thundering of Dalton's heart to a peaceful murmur.
They sat together on the edge of the bridge, with their legs dangling over the edge—Dalton's left foot hooked around Penelope's right—and their arms wrapped around each other and did not kiss or speak or move for a long time.
Eventually, Penelope yawned and Dalton realized that his eyelids were halfway shut and that they were probably both in danger of falling into the water. This didn't seem to be a particularly pressing matter as it was easy enough to draw their feet onto the bridge and lay back on its sturdy planks. Her shoulder beneath his cheek wasn't much softer than the wood beneath them but it was still quite comfortable.
And Dalton did not wake until he felt Neal's footsteps on the bridge. Then he propped himself up on one elbow to face Penelope's knight master, who did not seem at all surprised to have found them there.
"She trusts you," Neal said finally. He'd obviously taken in their wet hair and clothing and her tearstained face but didn't mention them. "She doesn't trust easily."
Dalton nodded. "She trusts you too." And I trust her, he realized but did not tell Neal, more than anyone else.
Neal nodded again and walked away, leaving Dalton to wake Penelope and walk with her back to the inn. Dalton never knew what had made Neal wake and walk out to the bridge. In any case, Lady Alanna was the only alert rider in their party the next afternoon.
PDPD
And it wasn't until weeks later, when she came up and kissed him in front of an entire camp—her somewhat successful strategy for ending the gossip about her relationship with Neal—that Dalton realized they hadn't just survived—they'd grown somehow.
He also realized that, in the process of deliberately tarnishing her reputation, she'd somehow made his, at least among the Own. And the applause and wolf-whistles took some getting used to. Or they might have, if word of that kiss hadn't been overshadowed by highly disturbing rumors about Alanna and Wyldon.
So, hope you enjoyed. And now for a word about upcoming productions: Pride and Determination should be about 10 chapters (of varying length) and will end with their squire years. Then I will begin Eventfully Ever After, which will start during the final chapter of Love and Money. Life—or rather a job, two puppies, and two novels in progress—may make updates somewhat sporadic, but. Chapter 8 is in progress and will be up soon.
