Mac woke, stone-cold sober, an hour before the morning call to worship. He’d suffered through a season of the same painful sobriety, but he’d finally made it back to Vitreah. Besides, Adelicia would never talk to him if he was drunk. He ran a hand through his mass of gray curls and bound it back at the nape of his neck.
The need to talk to her, and the fear that she wouldn’t, bled into his thoughts. But he had to know how she felt. He supposed he did know her feelings. She hadn’t married him. But a Queen married for many reasons and very few of them included love. And he’d spent too long trying to forget how he felt. Enough was enough.
If he was going to face her, now was the time. He snorted at himself. It was ridiculous that the Hero of The Great Clan War was terrified of a little conversation.
He left the ramshackle inn where he’d spent his restless night and focused his thoughts on his surroundings, determined to stay in the present. He’d worried enough about the past and the future.
The narrow streets were crowded with mismatched stone, stucco, and wood buildings. A warren of humanity clustered around public squares and markets, all watched over by the castle on the hill. When he’d first arrived all those years ago, the people, the noise, and the smell had been too much for his north-country sensibilities, but it had become home. Great things had happened in Vitreah. Great friendships and great loves.
Of course, that had been a lifetime ago. And in the end, he’d received the consolation prize, an estate east of the city, and Adelicia had picked Gregor to marry and end her widowhood. So he’d left. That had been fifteen years ago and he had sworn he’d never return.
Mac kicked a loose cobblestone up the gently sloping road. This time he wouldn’t run away with things unsaid. He would face his Queen and confess his affection for her.
The way opened up to the Castle Plateau with the list field ready for the Queen’s joust. Colorful pavilions flocked like peacocks around the perimeter while multihued standards flapped in the gentle sea breeze. Pages and squires swarmed between the tents. The castle sat sentry over it all, its peaks jutting into the sky.
Instinct drew Mac to the location of his old pavilion. In its place sat a large purple, green, and gold construction. A green oak leaf on a gold background adorned an enormous standard.
How fancy.
A squire, laden with helm, greaves, and padded jerkin, stumbled out of the pavilion into the early morning sunlight.
“We don’t want beggars here, old man,” said the boy, no more than nine years of age.
“Whose standard?” asked Mac, too stunned by the monstrous fabric hanging on the pole to heed the boy’s words.
“The Queen’s knight.”
“The Queen’s knight doesn’t have a standard.” Strutting about like a bird plumped up for the dinner table had held no appeal for Mac, and he’d prided himself on his lack of any of the usual pomp and circumstance of the other knights. Besides, not having a standard made Mac Theselon stand out among the others.
“My Lord Oakes has always been the Queen’s knight and has always had this standard.”
Always been. Always had. The words dug in his gut. Of course, he couldn’t have expected Adelicia to go without a knight for so long. And really, what had he thought? That he’d saunter in and resume his duties?
A second squire, a few years older than the first, emerged from the tent.
“Beggars already? I haven’t even won the tournament yet.”
“I was just getting rid of him, my Lord,” said the younger squire.
“I have no time for beggars, old man. I’m the Queen’s Knight. Go bother someone else.”
Mac looked from child to child. “What?”
“Are you thick?” asked the knight.
“Now, my Lord,” said a soft, oh-so-familiar voice. “You can’t expect everyone to know of you.”
Mac’s heart skipped a beat. It was her. He’d never forget her voice: soft, kind, filled with the hint of a smile that often pulled at her full lips.
“They know of Theselon,” said the knight.
Mac swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He yearned to raise his head and look into her bottomless blue eyes and see . . . forgiveness? Love?
“And I will be the next Theselon.” The knight’s voice was ugly with jealousy.
If only the peacock knew the truth. No one who knew would want to be Theselon. He was an old drunk. And thankfully everyone thought he was dead.
“My Lord Oakes,” said Adelicia, stepping so close to Mac he could see the hem of her cloak at the edge of his vision.
He had to look up to meet her gaze. That’s what he was here for. But he couldn’t do it. Her new champion was beautiful. He had a strong, clean jaw. Clear eyes. Muscular, yet still lithe.
The squire reemerged from the pavilion, encumbered with a breastplate. Mac hadn’t even noticed the boy’s departure.
“Where are you off to?” The knight shouldered past Mac and the squire turned to face his lord.
Mac’s heart went cold. In the shield, reflected back at him, was a tired, fat soldier. His once brown hair now a mass of gray-yellow tangles. Dull gray eyes in a face of gray hide stared back. A crisscross of scars disappeared into his unkempt beard and his shirt, a patchwork of mends and re-mends, hung open revealing more scars under a mat of gray chest hair.
Beside his reflection, over his right shoulder, stood the Queen’s new knight: tall and handsome. And beside the knight, his angel. Exactly as he remembered her. She wore blue, as usual, to match her eyes, and the sun sat behind her, shining through her golden hair in a breathtaking halo.
Now was his chance.
The knight said something to her and she laughed.
Rushing filled Mac’s ears, roaring fierce as an ocean storm.
Do it now!
The storm increased. Thunder rolled.
And then she was gone, turning away with her knight into the glow of the new day. The squire ran off on his errand and Mac–the tired old man–acknowledged by neither knight or queen, remained.
The rushing calmed, leaving a familiar, aching void within him.
In truth it was why he’d left in the first place.
She’d chosen Gregor.
Mac’s feet took him from the list field. Everything he’d done had been useless. He begged for his feelings for her to go away. Just go away! He’d tried so hard, for so many years, to escape from himself. Drowning himself in drink. Yet no matter what he did or where he went, he could never leave the part of himself that loved her behind. But sobriety made it so much more painful.
He found himself in a wine bar, the thin proprietor behind the counter restocking the shelves. The man reached under the bar and pulled out two glasses. Mac sat, speechless. He could tell from the expression on the wine merchant’s face that nothing needed to be said.
