“Lancelot,” Vera said, “if I happen to accidentally be injured by Percival, I order you not to execute him. And,” she added, having only recently gotten a good grasp of hierarchical statuses, “in the matter of ordering executions, I’m fairly certain I outrank you.”
“She does,” Arthur called from behind them.
Lancelot wheeled on him and yelled a wordless roar before marching over to stand next to Gawain, his arms crossed as he mumbled and shook his head. With a sigh and an apologetic smile at Vera, Gawain patted Lancelot’s back. The role reversal might have been comical had Lancelot’s fervor not rankled her deeper than it ought to.
Vera and Percival were nearly ready. They met in the middle, approximately where they would soon collide in the joust.
“Don’t you dare pull your lance,” she told him sternly, worrying that Lancelot’s threat may have shaken him too much.
But Percival flipped his visor up, and his eyes glinted. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Your Majesty.” She couldn’t see his mouth but knew from his cheeks bunched up against his eyes that his smile matched her own.
Arthur met Vera at her starting point to help her get her lance situated.
“Are you frightened?” he asked.
“A little bit,” she admitted.
“That’s good. Keep some fear, but don’t let it be in charge. You are well-trained, capable, and ready. Tuck your lance tight.” He mimed the motion, pulling his elbow into his side. “Head down a fraction to keep your helmet steady and do your best to stay horsed.” As he instructed her, Arthur patted her horse’s neck. If he was nervous for her, he wasn’t showing it. “Ready?”
Vera nodded and flipped her visor down, making much of her vision go dark and leaving a slim slit through which to see.
“I’ll wave the flag, and that’s your signal.” He brushed his fingers along the one unarmored place on the back of Vera’s leg. She held her breath at the touch—and the way he smiled at her. “You’re ready.”
Every so often, Vera had experienced moments of existence when time went extraordinarily fast and simultaneously moved at a snail’s pace. She felt Arthur would never reach the center point where he was to wave the flag. He seemed to be walking in slow motion. And then, her heart thundering in her chest and her legs shaking enough that she could hear the faint rattle of her armor quivering at its joints, the flag was high in the air and rushing toward the ground. Time overcorrected in the other direction, and everything began happening too quickly to take note of it all.
Vera set her horse to a full run, her weight in her feet in the stirrups to steady her body. She was intent on keeping her lance aimed right at the breastplate of Percival’s armor as her horse thundered across the clearing. She would never be able to say if anyone cheered or yelled encouragement, or if there was any noise other than the pounding of hooves and her breath echoing strangely in the narrow cavern of her helmet.
She had a split second of appreciation for Percival, who, as he neared, she could see was a man of his word. His lance was tipped toward her, and he leaned forward in his saddle. This was not someone about to lose his nerve or decide his opponent couldn’t handle the blow.
There was no more time to think. When she felt the distinct impact of her lance on Percival’s chest (she thought it was his chest but couldn’t be sure), a millisecond’s worth of euphoria rushed her extremities.
And, dear God, as his lance slammed into the center of her chest, a burst of splinters exploded in all directions. Some distant part of her marveled at the satisfying crunch and shatter of the massive weapons.
The rush transformed into being bodily jarred as Vera felt more things at once than she might have recognized as possible. Adrenaline thrummed through her and drove her determination to, above all, stay on her horse. The blow sent her whole upper body reeling backward. Vera clinched her legs on her horse’s flanks as her torso flattened back against the rump. It took everything in her to keep her legs from flying over her head and sending her tumbling off her horse, but somehow, when the world went back to its normal speed and control and calm were restored, she was still on her horse.
Vera sat up and whipped her helmet off. She realized she clung to what remained of her lance (scarcely more than a jagged handle now) and dropped it. She turned to see how she’d done.
Percival practically jumped from his horse and tore his helmet from his head as he sprinted to her, whooping excitedly, his fist in the air.
She dismounted, and a stabbing pain surged through her wrist, making her wince, but she ignored it.
“That was good!” Percival said, staring at her in awe. Arthur tore past him, his face all pride and excitement. He hugged Vera so enthusiastically that he lifted her from the ground, armor and all.
“You were incredible,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “I barely stayed on my horse.”
“Well, me too, Guinna!” Percival exclaimed. “That was bloody good!”
Not knowing what to do, Vera looked at her hands, her cheeks hot from the attention. There was a wooden shard sticking out of her metal glove. Right where it disappeared into the gauntlet was where her hand now throbbed. To make matters more complicated, the tingling sensation all across her skin was creeping toward a burn.
Lancelot and Gawain approached from the middle of the field. Surely Lancelot wouldn’t panic over such a minor injury. Still, Vera hastily yanked the sizable shard out and dropped it before crushing it into the dirt with her foot. No one seemed to notice. Gawain was his ordinary sullen-faced self, which was something of a comfort. Lancelot, however, was pale as he exhaled a long breath and only managed a thin smile at her.
“You’re bleeding,” Arthur said.
Vera opened her mouth to respond, but he was speaking to Percival, not her, who had a trickle of what was unmistakably blood dripping down the silver armor on his chest. She’d injured him.
Percival glanced down with an appreciative frown. He hadn’t even noticed. Vera held her breath as his chest plate was removed, revealing only a minor cut at his shoulder where the edge of his armor must have dug in and broken the skin under the force of the lance’s impact. Percival shrugged, and Vera exhaled a low laugh.
Then, very suddenly, it was like she’d been plunged into boiling water. It was the hottest her skin had ever burned. She doubled over and braced her hands on her knees.
“Are you hurt?” Arthur asked. She couldn’t see him. The pain had her clenching her eyes shut.
As quickly as the sensation started, it was gone.
“No,” Vera said, standing upright. Gawain still had a hand on Percival’s wound, but he watched her with narrowed eyes. Lancelot raised a white-knuckled fist to his mouth.
“I’m fine.” She didn’t understand why her skin sometimes burned like that. It started after her first memory session and had happened with increasing frequency since, even after the memory work stopped. It passed quickly today, as it always had, and Vera tried to brush it off as nothing. “Just—” She chuckled uneasily, searching for the lie. “Overwhelmed. Percival, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be!” He waved her off. His broad smile had yet to fall from his face. “You’re not quite ready this year, but keep training, and you could compete in the joust next spring!”
Lancelot groaned, bringing a full, heaving laugh from Percival. Vera and Arthur shared a glance. Neither’s smile faltered, though she saw the recognition in his eyes, too. She wouldn’t be here next spring.