The knights who, by Claribel’s words, would be serving looks were like night and day: one with tousled blond hair plaited at the back, and the other dark and brooding, sporting an undercut with a swirl of patterns shaved underneath. Both were, however, bright red and grunting as they struggled up a pair of ladders, dangling from the undersides using only their hands. Ari used to do the monkey bars every day too, but not moving up like that, in chainmail.

~The one with the handsomer face is Sir Beren.~

That introduction didn’t help. The blond one was, perhaps, redder though, as the darker skin of the other knight, much like her own, disguised some of the exertion.

What also didn’t help was another man standing nearby who was in a league of his own. His long silver hair framed a face that looked like a fairy of moonlight, yet there was a masculine sharpness in his jaws. The puffed sleeves on his blue and silver jacket were distracting enough, and the sapphires and pearls on his belt certainly drew attention, but it was impossible to ignore that where the jacket ended around the hips, the man was wearing tight indigo leggings that accentuated his thighs and adjacent areas in a way that would have screamed, in the real world: trending video; leggings sold out now!

There, hanging from the middle of his jewelled belt, was an equally jewelled dagger that pointed straight down at his–

~Ewwww! Stop! That’s my father! Stop looking at him. I mean… He tends to have that effect on women. But still. Stop thinking thoughts. All thoughts. You’re in my body!~

‘Are they really arms I see,’ Claribel’s father was yelling at the dangling knights, ‘or are they strips of unspun wool? Pull yourselves up, good sirs. Faster. Faster! Come on. Surely you can move faster than a snail with a broken foot.’

Two servants from House Aquilon in matching blue tunics cheered along with the knights’ squires, who wore undyed brown smocks.

Lucy, Wini and Patricia bowed awkwardly at Claribel’s father as they lumbered past with their giant sacks.

Seeing her approach, the younger of the two servants announced, ‘The Lady Claribel Aquilon, Lower Warden of the Guild of Mages.’

Claribel’s father’s attention snapped at once from the knights to Ari.

‘Clary, there you are!’ he said, catching her in an embrace. ‘Are you… feeling unwell this morning?’

‘Not at all, father.’ A dull pain gnawed at the pit of her stomach: something more than the knot in her throat that didn’t want to utter the word ‘father’. She could still smell the rancid mix of rotting food and urine, feel the lead in her fingers as she swatted the flies away to unwrap someone else’s half-eaten burger.

‘You seem… not quite yourself,’ he said. His instincts were as sharp as his cheekbones. ‘Come, come, sit and eat. This is all for you!’

He dragged Ari to a large table in the shade next to a tall tent where the chambermaids had placed their sacks. The table was laden with a whole roast chicken, a side of some sort of steak, a cauldron of porridge, a tray of dried dates, a pot of bacon and peas stew and enough bread to feed a family. A small golden bowl surrounded by two golden fish balancing two pearl-lined clams held the salt. There was, indeed, only one seat at the table. Another chair lay some distance away, turned away from the food.

Even with the training regime that Ari had put her real body under, making her way through a meal this size would have been a struggle.

‘Master Claribel!’ cried the blond one, approaching her with a deep bow, dabbing at his brows with the sleeve of his tunic. ‘Many congratulations. I can hardly believe that a Warden of a guild could look as radiant as you!’

‘Usually the tops of their heads are the only things radiant under the sun,’ added the dark-haired knight.

‘Let my daughter eat first,’ commanded Claribel’s father.

~Yes, you need to feed my body. Say our prayer first though. Do you know it? Khurammians pray to the Creator and the nature goddesses instead, don’t they?~

Ari couldn’t remember a single mention of Khurammians in the novel. That aside, she could seriously do with a prompt on the prayer.

‘O Fated One, I thank thee for this nourishment, just as my memories will one day nourish thee.’

Everyone touched three fingers to their lips upon hearing the prayer.

Lucy shuffled forth to dip her hands into a scented bowl of water while Wini carved up a leg of the chicken and dissected the meat from the bones, placing it into a tray made of hollowed bread. Patricia ladled porridge into an oak-wood bowl carved with a ribbon of crows, joined at the wingtips.

~I usually start with the frumenty.~

Whatever that was, it probably wasn’t the chicken, so Ari took in a mouthful of porridge. The creamy almond milk mixed with a delicate, sweet taste that must have been saffron.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

She ate, and ate, and ate.

Once upon a time, there was a girl whose hair was as dark as death. A man took her and gifted her a whole rotisserie chicken. She ate, and ate, and ate. Never mind the dirt under her nails. Never mind the cold of the floor against the cut on her foot. She ate, and ate, and ate. And the man watched, and watched, and watched. Then he said, ‘It’s not just her eyes that look like an animal’s.’ And then he said, ‘You little piece of filth, how many people are you willing to kill to eat like this every day?’ The girl opened her mouth to answer, but she heaved the chicken back out. And then they lived ever after.

‘Feeling better?’ A hand gently patted her head.

A pull and a flip would throw the man across the table, scattered among the meat and porridge. She breathed her instincts away and said, ‘Yes, father.’

‘My lady,’ said the knights, bowing to her again.

This time, she rode to her feet and bowed back. ‘My lords, I apologise for not returning your greetings earlier. Sir Beren…’

The blond one raised his head. That solved one mystery.

‘Sir Beren,’ she carried on, ‘please, let me pour you a cup of…’ Whatever was inside of the pitcher on her table smelled of honey and summer berries, next to the pitcher of pressed apple juice that she was drinking from. Some sort of mead?

~Melomel.~

Right, that.

‘My lady, you are too kind!’

She poured a cup for Sir Dagon as well, who received it with another bow and said, ‘I have brought you a gift from my pilgrimage.’

Is it a princess’s hand in marriage? she was almost tempted to reply.

~That actually sounds like something I’d say.~

~Yes, honestly, say it. You’d sound much more like me for it.~

Well, what was the worst that could happen? Having to parry a knight’s sword with a chicken drumstick? They’d hardly attack Claribel’s body, even if they did think her possessed by an evil spirit.

She allowed her thoughts to crystalise through Claribel’s lips and waited for the outrage. Which never came.

Instead, the frown between Claribel’s father’s brows lightened, and Sir Beren laughed.

‘They say the wind carries news to your ears,’ said the knight. ‘I can see that they speak the truth.’

‘Who needs magic when you have chambermaids,’ said Ari. She let her words flow through another’s body. Did she and Claribel have more than their faces in common?

‘For that, my lady, you speak the truth,’ said Sir Dagon. ‘I’m afraid that I am as taken with the princess as she is with me, so all I have to offer you is saffron.’

~In Sir Dagon we trust. Preparing a display and bringing out the Eye of Una was not a waste after all.~

The silk pouch that he proffered her swirled with vibrant purple, blue and gold paisley.

‘Rernin saffron, I see,’ said Sir Beren, nudging the darker knight. ‘With the royal stamp of approval, no doubt.’

‘Only the best for my lady,’ said Sir Dagon. ‘May you stay in good health.’

Ari thanked him, and Claribel’s father offered the knight a small bow of the head. ‘I hope to see Her Royal Highness at our Great Tournament this year, as much as the news is sure to disappoint Lady Oriana,’ he added.

‘That is why we have always been a partnership,’ said Sir Beren. ‘Now she has all of this to save her from tears.’

He offered a roguish grin and waved his hand with a flourish down from head to toe.

Ari offered him a handkerchief to mop up the sweat that he had also flung from his hair.

‘Oh Clary, you are too kind-hearted. You really do take after your mother,’ said Claribel’s father, with a faint smile that effused a warmth that made Ari squirm. Then he turned to Sir Beren with a more familiar look of cold distain and said, ‘My daughter has always shown charity to weaker men. You had better clean that handkerchief thoroughly before returning it for use as a chambermaid’s rags after sullying it with your forehead.’

‘Is that why my lady entangles herself with Sir Aurelius?’ said Sir Beren, mopping his brows.

The ice in her father, no, Claribel’s father, Duke Aquilon’s face cracked, and something akin to both a smile and a wince broke through.

~Uh… It’s… complicated. But I guess you should defend him.~

‘He dresses well, because the Royal Guard uniforms are to many ladies’ tastes,’ said Sir Dagon, coming to the rescue before Ari could be persuaded to decorate Sir Beren’s hair with frumenty. ‘Master Claribel has also mastered the taste in knights’ attires, which is why we are here today, taking up your precious time.’

‘Yes, quite,’ said Duke Aquilon. ‘Furthermore, through the Fated One’s will, yet another lady arrived just last night. Her carriage arrived at the same time as us, and we met at the gates, even though we’d ridden to Eirene from opposite corners of the kingdom.’

A jangling sound startled Ari from behind a sycamore tree. She took a long sip of her pressed apple juice. It was one thing to be startled by an Agent, but quite another to be startled by a person dressed in blue and yellow motley, with a three-horned jangling hat on his or her head, hopping towards them on one leg.

‘Farting Fabia!’ cried Sir Beren. ‘I have always enjoyed her fart-whistle songs.’

Sir Dagon dipped his head at her.

The woman stopped in front of them and bowed. A tuft of cropped brown hair peeked through her jester’s hat.

~Now!~

As Farting Fabia started a clownish dance, Lucy swept Ari into the tent.

Together, Wini and Patricia unpinned the front of her dress and swapped the ribbons for the honeysuckle ones while Lucy shook out a new panel, red and gold, and started pinning the dress back together. Wini and Patricia ripped off the belt and jewellery and swapped them for a red and gold set as well in a costume reveal that would have been a Eurovision talking point.

~That’s ivy with the blue: loyalty to House Aquilon comes first. Now my father needs one of them to marry Lady Oriana: find ‘happiness’ in House Auster. One of them will. Don’t you doubt that. Ventinon always stays strong and pulls together. Khuramma has no business here. Please go and possess people in the Empire.~

She would if she could, if Miri was in the Empire, whichever empire that might be. The only mention of empires that Ari could remember was that once upon a time, Ventinon had been an empire, but now, all that remained were the Duchies of Aquilon, Auster, Taur and… something else, or possibly two something-elses.

From the fact that Claribel was now a senior figure in a guild instead of a student at the Academy, she’d suspected that the answer was…

~Yes.~

Yes indeed. She’d come in after the events described in the book. There was nothing in the plot that would help her find Miri, and no way to watch out for plot changes and ascribe them to an outside influence.

And then she heard the joke.

‘Why did Sir Beren cross the jousting lists?’ came what must have been Fabia’s voice.

‘Why?’ said Duke Aquilon.

‘To get to the other side.’