The elderly guests were only too happy to oblige. Together, they followed the Duchess outside.

They descended the hill on the opposite side Gorren had come from, walking down a hunting trail that sneaked its way down the decline. Expectant guards, squinting in the distance, peppered it, quick to salute as the group passed by.

Attendants helped the disabled to walk. Gorren smiled as Torn brusquely rebuffed a young page’s attempts to help. The page, only a boy, drew back, mortified, but still kept a concerned glance on the elderly lord, that walked with a focused expression, pinned where he put his feet. Another page offered him help, that he refused politely. Thankfully, he wasn’t so old that he needed help to walk.

Eventually, they reached a small clearing from which one could see the plain beneath, and the path that led to it.

The younger ladies were already there, eyes glittering with expectation. They looked like a meadow of colorful flowers, waiting for the sun to rise. The elder lords grumbled or smiled, the old ladies sighed or grumbled in turn. They all joined in the waiting.

Gorren stood a little behind, taking in the sight. The hill descended with a soft decline into a plain covered with grass. Copses and woods dotted the landscape.

Figures moving at the foot of the hill attracted his gaze.

A pack of dogs, at least a dozen, roamed through the grass, sniffing or raising snouts to enjoy the breeze. They were magnificent animals, each showing proudly shining coats of brown, gold or black that, and bodies corded with muscles. They were all big but there was a couple that was truly gigantic. As big as tigers, they stood tall, large clear eyes looking in the shadows of the wood without fear.

Gorren recognized them. Dire Dogs, princes of the canine realm. And judging from their glorious appearances, they shared their smaller brethren’s pedigree.

Gorren loved animals. Seeing them instantly lifted his humor.

He was still admiring the beasts when a group of horsemen bursts out of the woods. Not the horses nor the men riding them lost to the dogs when it came to appearances, cutting a glorious picture as they rode through the plain, armors and bodies made shining by the morning dew.

Cheers rose from the crowd. Hats and hands were waved. Some of the younger ladies actually put hands on their chests and sighed wistfully.

Gorren harrumphed. “Younglings.”

Beside him, Wellworth laughed.

The cheers only doubled, turning to admiration, when a couple of the horsemen appeared. Each held an extremity of a long rod, from which a majestic male deer dangled. It looked like the hunt had been quite successful!

Cheering, the crowd descended to meet the hunters.

Gorren lagged behind for a moment, looking in the distance. He launched a thought, then waited. A moment after, he heard a reply. He nodded and hurried to rejoin the company.

The horsemen had stopped at the foot of the hill to meet the group. A couple didn’t even wait for their horses to stop before jumping down, their ladies launching cries of alarm or delight for the bravado.

Duke Crofford stopped his horse in front of his wife. He was the only one to wear a metal breastplate, the Rampant Horse, emblem of his house, etched at the height of the heart. For a moment, the duo exchanged a look, the Duke’s half-hidden by his helmet, the Duchess’ quiet and calm.

Then, with practiced ease, the man dismounted and took his wife’s hands into his.

Gorren averted his eyes. Instinct told him that was a practiced ritual of the couple, maybe silent rejoicing that the Duke had once again returned alive from danger. That affection loosened the tight grip he kept over his memories, and an old one returned, unbidden: a red-faced woman, eyes practically flaring with anger.

He pushed the image away, but not fast enough that it didn’t leave bloody furrows on his heart.

He clenched his teeth.

Thankfully, the Duke was busy greeting his friends. It gave him time to regain his composure and, when he stepped forward to be recognized, he wore once again his tranquil mask.

“Ah, sir Cartus!” Edward Crofford wore a hunting outfit that should have been too heavy for the climate and the type of sport. His leather armor was reinforced by a sturdy steel breastplate, a helmet, gauntlets, and boots of the same material. His visor raised to show his flushed face, the Duke looked ten years younger than his actual age.

With a calm smile that said nothing of the excitement he had just gone through, the Duke came forward to offer Cartus his hand, that the old man took.

“I am glad you accepted our invite,” he said.

“The honor is mine,” Cartus replied. “It has been far too long since i had the chance to hunt.”

The Duke’s expression turned curious. “Is it not the first time then?”

“I had my share,” Cartus replied vaguely.

Edward’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Enough to be a strong blade?”

Cartus narrowed his eyes. “Can i offer you a demonstration?”

The Duke watched him for a moment. Then, nodded, his expression serious. “Let’s postpone if you don’t mind. I’d rather see these gentlemen rest before anything else.”

Cartus bowed slightly. “As you wish.”

Edward smiled.

“Come!” He said, clapping Cartus on the shoulder. “Let’s take a moment to refresh ourselves!”

The hunters cheered at the proposition and happily followed the Duke and his wife, many with their own lady hanging by the arm.

The attendants had refreshments already prepared: mostly drinks since the hunt, Gorren was informed, was still to be concluded.

A small herd of younger ladies and even children, all richly dressed in colorful clothes, doted on the knights, the younglings allowed to be present even without being of age since that was an informal event. Their true debut into society would happen in a more formal meeting, like a ball or a party.

The Duchess was a scrupulous host, making rounds around to make sure that all guests were well-served and at ease. Her husband held close to Cartus, personally presenting to him each of the hunters: a great honor that told just how much the noble considered the old man, and hoped to enlist his help into his faction. For Gorren, it meant another parade of faces, names, lineages and accomplishments. No signs of old age here though. Even the oldest of the hunters, showing hints of gray in beards and hair, was strong and robust, the flame of the Aethyr burning inside. Males and females, each bearing himself like warriors, flushed for the exertions of a hunt that had to be going from hours already. Most kept their politeness toward the personal guest of the Duke, but some, usually the youngest, couldn’t avoid to let out some more of that silent disdain for a newcomer trying to worm his way through their august ranks. With some of them, it mixed with a condescending kind of pity for the old, unable to ride and fight like them.

Cartus accepted everything with a kind smile and polite manners.

The Duke even presented him to his daughters: two beautiful girls just about to reach blooming. Even as he greeted each of the two with benevolence, Gorren didn’t miss the deep affection in Crofford’s eyes as he watched his family.

Something to remember.

Despite disliking formalities, Gorren noted everything: names, lineages, families; his memory gulped it all down, highlighting those he already knew from his deals in the city, their economic position and social standing in and out of their own class.

Mmh…

A member of the group stood out. Instead of joining the small party, this one stood between the dogs, checking coats and paws. The animals crowded him joyously, begging for attention, but the man, even while looking amused, kept at his work with attention. Instead of the armors of the nobles, the man wore clothes cut out of a cured hide. That, plus the wild mane of hair, gave him a savage appearance.

As he turned, Gorren almost jumped.

It was John, the bandit lieutenant he had spared alongside the wolf-boy. What in the blue blazes was he doing there?

Gorren threw a quick glance toward the nobles, the hunters busy chatting and resting while the ones that didn’t participate at the hunt marveled at the size of the prey they had caught.

That unexpected presence could… no, impossible. He wore a mask and different clothes during their meeting. John couldn’t recognize him.

Hopefully.

Why the hell was he there?

The Duke’s voice dragged him out of his thoughts. “Ah, i see you’re admiring my dogs.” The man stood beside him, watching upon the animals with undisguised pride. “They are a marvel, aren’t they? Twelve generations worth of Crofford attention and selection.” He gestured toward the Dires. “Still, they pale before them. You won’t find more obedient and loyal hounds in all of Blackstone, i guarantee it.” And judging from the Count’s serious demeanor, he truly considered that to be the truth.

Gorren carefully hid his doubts. “I thought they were unruly creatures,” he said, feigning slight surprise.

“Indeed they are. But thankfully i am blessed with a man so skilled in their care that seems almost able to talk with them.” The Duke gestured toward the man taking care of the animals. “His name is John. I took him in my employ barely a month ago and he already managed to have every single dog love him. Truly, i never met a man with a way with dogs like him.”

Gorren nodded and turned to admire the dogs. No fake name? Strange. Still, John is a common enough name…

He promised himself to shy away from the man as much as possible. He shouldn’t be able to recognize him, but it was always better not to take the risk. A small part of him ached to know what had happened of the young wolf-boy but he repressed it. He had meddled with the duo enough already.

He changed the topic. “I heard that some of the clergies was supposed to attend,” he noted. “There have been some problems?”

The only cleric he had seen was a tall, coldly quiet woman wrapped in Atlanta’s ordained armor, all brown leather streaked with red lines and red spots. Even now, the woman was busy laying hands over each of the hunters, checking the status of their Aethyr.

Another failing of the process: maintenance was needed, much more than the Templars of old ever needed, and the same for the recharging process that kept the energies of the Aethyr at an optimal level.

Gorren mentally grumbled.

“No problems, no. Just ordinary administration. The Sun Temple doesn’t send representatives to informal gatherings and the Congregation of Steel considers its attendance fulfilled with a single priest, no matter if belonging to the Brother or the Sister of War. An invitation has been obviously extended to the Bonespeakers but, as you maybe know, they don’t offer a reply and their attendance is at their own whim.” There wasn’t a shred of irritation in the Duke’s words. If anything, he was completely respectful of whatever reason had brought the priests to refuse his invitation.

Gorren deduced that the man shared his class’s absolute respect for religion. The Old Knights were nothing but pious in everything they did. It wasn’t just a matter of deeply-ingrained belief: their Aethyr were forged and kept up at speed by those same priests.

The priests were an integral part of Blackstone, as much as important as the nobles and the merchants. They had fought at the sides of their compatriots during and after the Cataclysm, bringing the touch of their divinities to relieve pain or smite foes. More importantly, they brought solid certainties in a world in turmoil, anchors one could count on even while the land turned upside down.

As such, they were incredibly well-respected, the Old Knight starring first on the list. If you just as much disrespected a priest in public, be it even one of the arrogant Solar Priests, the best you could hope was being thrown into a gutter.

Gorren glanced subtly toward the Atlantean priestess. To fully integrate himself into the city, he needed the priests’ confidence. They were the only quasi-mages remaining, the most likely to hold hints to the knowledge that he seeks: who and what stood behind the Cataclysm and the Kingdom of Light.

Still, the same reason made him wary of them. He was confident of his disguise but a perceptive enough priest could perceive something wrong with him. His form was always a projection. It couldn’t but emanate some slight disturbances that the right senses could pick up. And, he didn’t forget that the barrier over the palace was divine in nature, or that the Hunters worked in semi-dependence of the churches…

“What about the Flaming Light?” He asked, feigning some concern.

The Duke noticed it, and smiled slightly. “His Eminence the bishop has been held up by his duties. Still, he will likely be here before the hunt’s end.”

Gorren let awe glint in his eyes at the new. The Bishop himself? The head of the church of the Radiant Light in the city?

He had heard much about the man. Depending on who you asked, he was depicted as a whirlwind of activity to advance his branch’s influence in Blackstone, a deeply compassionate man which beneficial works helped half of the city’s poor or a terrible foe of mages and enemies of the faith alike, leaders of Hunters and jailers of “reformed“ mages.

Gorren felt his fingers twitch. Such high standing in a church meant that the man had to be a truly powerful cleric; especially in the perception department if half of the stories about his hunts for mages were right.

Someone to be careful around and, still, he was eager to meet him. If priests were his best bet, that man was his best bet amongst the whole bunch. But he had to walk softly on this one.

At the Duke’s invitation, they joined the guests at the refreshment tables.

“I’ve been told that the game of the day isn’t your everyday occasion,” Cartus began, nursing an iced drink.

“Indeed.” The Duke sipped his own drink with disciplined economy. “Are you familiar with Hags?”

“Indeed. They are evil Fey that live in the Wildlands or at the fringes of civilizations and delight in spreading pain. They wield magical powers that make them very dangerous and are as strong as trolls. Usually, they are organized in triads known as covens.”

The duke nodded in approval at the knowledge of his guest. He expected nothing less.

“We have reason to believe that such a group operates close by.”

Cartsu instantly became intent. “There have been victims?”

The Duke was just as serious. “A dozen of peasants in the surrounding villages. Initially, it was trappers and hunters and people thought about incidents. But then it touched people in their own houses…” The man left the rest of the sentence unspoken. He had personally inspected the aftermaths and even if a veteran like him didn’t balk easily, there were ladies and children to listen.

“So they’re getting bolder…“ Catching the sentiment and sharing it, Cartus leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Baby snatchings?”

“A couple of attempts,” the Duke confirmed. “That’s what made us think of a Hag.”

“Oh.” The intake of breath of Cartus was tense. “And there has been…”

The Duke’s smile was half grimace. “No killing, luckily. But the parents didn’t come out well out of it…”

There was a moment of silence as both processed the implications.

Cartus sighed. Tragic, but no point on dwelling over it. Now it was the time to strike back to the offenders.

“Anyway, now i see why you started your hunt before dawn. There was a full moon last night, enough light for an Aethyr to catch a Hag returning to her cove.” Cartus’ eyes shimmered with approval.

The Duke nodded. “We hoped to catch one when she was tired, take her out quickly, and then go for her sisters. A coven lacking one member is greatly diminished. Still, we couldn‘t find any traces.” Whatever pride stirred by the old man’s approval disappeared under the irritation for having missed the mark.

“They’re careful…” Cartus said, thoughtful. “And now?”

“Thanks to the information provided to us by the peasants, we’ve been able to narrow the area in which to search. We’ve been beating this land since dawn and now we have a good idea where they could be. Even as we speak, our men are following their traces.” The Duke’s eyes shimmered with a dangerous light.

Cartus nodded slowly. They didn’t need to speak to agree that there was no chance the kidnapped people were still alive. Hags consumed their prey immediately.

“I commend you,” Cartus said suddenly. “A more inexperienced commander could have chosen to rush in headlong, risking a confrontation with his warriors tired by the chase. Instead, you are taking your time and maintaining your cool admirably.”

The Duke bowed, a small smile on his lips. His instinct, the same that made him seem the mark of the true warrior upon Cartus, now told him that that was very high praise.

“I wonder if i could be impolite enough to ask if i could participate.”

The Duke hesitated. Cartus was straight and solid-looking as an oak, but he was always an old man. And old warriors always resented of their life, no matter how strong they were. His honor demanded that he doesn’t put people such as him in danger. On the other side, he didn’t wish to offend the old man with a direct refusal.

Cartus had to guess his thoughts. His expression hardened, turning as cold as it had been benevolent until then.

“I suppose that it‘s time for that demonstration.”

Before Edward could as much as put a word in, the old man walked away, disappearing amongst the crowd. The Duke caught his wife’s quizzical frown and shrugged. He had no idea either. He just hoped to not have offended his guest.

A few moments later, Cartus reappeared. He held a sheathed sword in his hand, without a doubt having it recuperated from his coach.

The old man walked into the open plain. There he stopped, the long grass caressing his thighs and swaying under the breeze. Holding the sword before him, he grasped the handle and, with a single, swift motion, extracted, the weapon flashing under the morning sun.

The people had noticed him by now, and, one after the other, turned to look at him with curiosity.

If he noticed their stares, Cartus didn’t show it. He took a stance and passed through a series of routines, the weapon moving quickly in his hands.

Edward recognized a good technique, but his doubts remained.

Just then, Cartus stopped and looked straight at him.

Edward hesitated. He wasn’t sure…

Cartus kept looking, a deep frown steadily appearing on his face.

The Duke realized that if he refused there, his guest would have been deeply offended. Hell, in his place, he would have been deeply offended.

He caught his wife’s gaze comprehending gaze. As always, Aurora needed only a glance to understand his inner turmoils.

“Sir Cartus would like to perform a duel for our pleasure,” she announced. “Anyone would like to meet his sword against him?” She turned to one of the hunters. “Maybe you, sir Ruthwald?”

Edward felt a surge of gratitude toward his wife. Ruthwald was one of his knights, used to his orders. A quick glance and a gesture would make sure the warrior took it easy on the old man, but not to the point to offend him.

Still, the Duke was to be disappointed.

“I am sorry, milady,” Ruthwald said, shrinking a bit under the Duchess’ kindly gaze. “I seem to have overtaxed myself during the hunt. I’ll need a moment before my Aethyr stabilizes.” The big man showed his trembling sword arm as proof.

Aurora’s smile turned cold for a moment, and the warrior flinched a bit.

“It’s alright, just rest,” the duchess said. “Then maybe…”

“I’ll do it!”

Everybody turned to look at the young man that had spoken. He was a tall lad, with a handsome face and a combative expression.

“I’ll face sir Cartus!” He repeated, raising a gloved fist.

Edward made his best not to grimace. That was Leon Exford, eldest scion of Duke Exford and one of the finest blades of the city. Despite being barely a man, the boy had already made himself known for his easily offended pride. Three won duels over matters of honor attested to that. Even worse, the boy had inherited the aristocratic pride of his father: he looked down on Cartus as just another climber to be put in his place, the sooner and more violently the better; and he had made that thought known around their group many times already. What better chance to put it in practice that on a public bout?

Edward couldn’t think of a worse opponent for the old man, and made the thought known to his wife with an alarmed glance. If the boy decided that lessons written in blood were more long-lasting than without, that could easily turn dangerous as well as disastrous.

“My lord Exford.” Aurora shared his husband’s worries, but nothing of it marred her calm expression. “You rode hard since before dawn. I would never be so discourteous by depriving you of your rest.”

“Nonsense, my lady!” The young man boasted. “A true Aethyr knows no fatigue and no rest!”

And that, said in the middle of a bunch of sweaty, tired Aethyr trying to take a moment of rest, was a jab at everyone present. Courteous smiles turned strained and glances were exchanged, full with annoyance and with not an inch of surprise. The young Exford wasn’t exactly known for his good manners. For the same reason, he wasn’t much liked.

Before Aurora could think of another excuse, the young man was already advancing between the grass, hand over the handle of his sword.

“Shall we settle it with a couple of exchanges?” Edward interjected primly, hoping to stop what was to happen.

“Why, my lord?” The young Exford said conversationally, gaze steady, and a slight smirk as he watched Cartus. “I have in good faith that sir Cartus is an Aethyr himself.”

The Duke looked up sharply at that.

“Is it true, sir Cartus?” He asked.

Cartus shrugged. “It was much time ago.”

The Duke dared to hope. “That means that your Aethyr is exhausted?”

“No.” The old man shook his head. “I fear that the Aethyr coursing through my veins is somewhat different from what you are familiar with.”

Edward frowned at that. He was about to ask further information but Exford cut him off.

“And there you have it,” he said. “Aethyr against Aethyr. It shouldn’t really be a problem to go to the first blow, wouldn’t it?”

The Duke exchanged a glance with Aurora, seeing in her eyes his same concern. There wasn’t… except that everybody knew that the young man could easily turn a glancing blow into a true strike. Duels were the norm between the Knights, with blunted swords as the weapon of choice, but even a blunted sword could bring broken bones if wielded the right way.

Everybody knew. Concerned murmurs passed through the crowd.

The Duke looked toward Barley. The sergeant was pale, alternating his gaze between what was happening and his disciple, that, white as a sheet, held both hands over her mouth.

He rapidly understood what had happened: Cartus had spoken of being an Aethyr at the two, and the girl had blabbed it to the boy. Edward gritted his teeth. What could he do? If he interjected, Exford was very capable of feeling his honor being slighted, and who knew what could happen then. But he couldn’t put the old man in such danger. He needed…

“It’s fine by me,” Cartus suddenly said, holding his opponent’s gaze. “I’ll gladly accept the terms proposed by lord Exford.”

Gasps raised from the crowd. Surprise flashed through Exford’s face, before his expression settling back into smirking confidence.

Cartus turned to Edward, finding the Duke wide-eyed. Expression perfectly calm, the old man smiled and nodded.

At that, Edward felt whatever protest dying over his tongue. There was something in the gesture of Cartus and especially in his eyes that managed somehow to quell his concerns.

At unease, he gave his approval.

Blunted swords were quickly brought by attendants, one for each opponent. Exford took his own with relish and instantly started to swing it deftly around, the tip of the weapon painting complex designs in the air. Cartus refused the one offered to him. The sword he had brought was blunted already. Still, he accepted the leather armor brought for him, wearing it quickly.

Edward took the position as the referee. Whatever calm brought to him was gone, and he could hold his composure only with effort. What was Cartus thinking? He thought he could hold his own against Exford? If he thought that, he was a fool. The boy was invested by the greatest Aethyr rites that the Sun Priests could provide, as well as being one of the most gifted swordsmen of his generation. For all the instinctive respect he felt for Cartus, he couldn’t see the old man having the slightest chance.

Still, now it was too late. The duel couldn’t be stopped. Traditions dictated it.

“Are you ready?” He asked.

The two nodded, with a smirk Exford, seriously Cartus, and took position one in front of the other.

“Good.” Edward wetted his lips. He glanced toward his wife. Aurora was paler than usual, hands clasped before her lap.

All around her, the crowd tensely waited.

The Duke scolded himself for allowing that to happen. Now, he could only pray.

“Begin!”

A nimbus of golden light erupted around Exford, and the young man dashed forward. His sword was a steel blur as it came in for Cartus’ face.

The old man stepped back and, to everyone’s surprise, his sword moved quickly enough to intercept. The clang of steel against steel resounded in the air.

Surprise flashed on the young man’s face but quickly disappeared in favor of a focused frown.

Stepping forward, he unleashed a barrage of cuts and thrusts, his sword flashing repeatedly. The technique of Exford was prodigious for one so young. His weapon flew smoothly from motion to motion, barely slowing down its momentum as it rained down on his opponent, twisting and turning like a living thing.

Cartus was on the defensive right away. The old man’s style wasn’t half as graceful as his opponent’s, nor his speed could compare. He parried each blow with meticulous motions, precise but lacking finesse, and the way the sword of Exford rebounded each time it met showed that his grip was prodigiously strong for his age. Still, it was obvious that it was much time he didn’t wield a proper weapon.

But, surprisingly, he held his own.

Cartus kept a tight defense, holding his weapon close to his body. Everybody knew that it meant that his sword needed to travel less to intercept, something necessary considering the gap in speed and technique, but that a single mistake could easily result in a wound as well.

As the crowd watched with bated breath, the old man retreated step by step, parrying as he did. It kept going for several minutes, the two tracing a path through the grass as they fought.

Eventually, the old man seemed to lose the rhythm. His movements turned more and more frantic as he struggled to keep up with the young man’s violent assault.

Then, it happened.

Exford’s sword clanged against Cartus’ weapon but the angle of the latter wasn’t enough to completely deviate the blow. The tip of the young man’s sword dug a shallow furrow in the old’s man left armguard.

“Point!” Edward instantly shouted.

The two challengers stopped and lowered their weapons.

“The winner is lord Exford!” The Duke announced, barely believing it. “Well fought!”

The audience clapped and cheered. Many, even those disliking Cartus, had put his hopes on him, even if just to stand against Exford, and were more than pleased by the result.

Cartus didn’t seem to share the enthusiasm, frowning down at the furrow on his arm. The only thing of him giving away the long duration of the duel was the slightly puffing breath.

“Yes,” he grumbled. “Adequate.”

Edward smiled at the pride of the old man. He was almost surprised by how relieved he felt at seeing him unharmed.

“A wonderful display, my friend,” he said honestly. He wouldn’t have ever guessed that the old man could hold his own for so long against the young man. And this was him at that age. He couldn’t imagine how strong he must have been at the peak of physical performance.

He had done him an injustice at thinking him unable to follow in the hunt.

“Forgive me, sir,” he said seriously, holding out a hand to him.

Cartus watched it, and his expression softened. “Think nothing of it,” he said and grasped it with his own.

Edward smiled and turned to the crowd, that cheered and clapped.

On the first row, Aurora nodded back with a placid smile. Thankfully, everything had turned out well.

“No!”

The sound of a sword slamming against the ground had everyone turn in surprise.

Exford had thrown his weapon down, looking absolutely livid.

“Another bout!” He shouted. “Another!”

Silence fell as that word found home. When it did, the reaction was unanimous.

“Dear Gods,” Bleakvale breathed, fanning at her large, flushed face.

“Unbelievable…” Hushlan hissed, averting her eyes even as she covered her face with her fan.

“Now now, young man,” Wellworth chided, broad smile barely hiding the severity in his eyes.

Torn said nothing, just scoffing and turning away with disdain.

Those reactions were imitated by practically everybody in the crowd, the few that didn’t pick them up quick to remain silent. Exford had brought an old man to battle, there had been a duel, fair and square, and poor Cartus had barely managed to hold his own, who knows at what expense for himself. The brat had even won, for all that win could mean, and now he even had the gall to throw a tantrum?

It was absolutely unacceptable, and all the elderly gentlemen and ladies made that known to their younger parents, let they took some foolish idea to back the brat, with steady gazes that had the poor girl and boys squirm and raise their voices higher to demonstrate their level-headedness.

Soon, Exford realized to have everyone against. The young man blinked owlishly, completely at loss about what to do. He was still trying to get a grip when Edward addressed him.

“My lord Exford.” The Duke was a column of cold politeness. “I’d be extremely grateful if you didn’t stray from your true character, that surely remembers one of the tenet rules a proper knight is obliged to follow: be gracious in victory. I am sure you understand.”

The young man, already shaken from having become the center of general reproach, managed only to nod dumbly.

“I thank you.” The Duke gave him a stiff bow and then his back, a manifestation of rebuke as much as good manners allowed to.

“I am deeply sorry for this, sir,” he offered to Cartus but the old man held up a hand to stop him.

“Let’s just forget it.” The old man said with a smile.

Edward nodded gratefully.

Eager to put that disgraceful matter behind, he turned to the still grumbling crowd.

“Well, i think that we have taken our rest,” he declared. “Shall we return to the hunt?”

He never saw the sly smile that, for a moment, appeared on Lucius Cartus’ face, just to disappear as quickly as it had appeared.