“Eh?” Mortigen lowered the glasses and looked at me, surprised. “And test our virtue so soon? That isn’t like you, Galaren.”
I’d started to move away; now I curbed my horse—his name was “Scar,” due to an old jousting injury—and cantered back.
“By which you mean you know me to be as prudent as I am faithful, of course,” I said—and drew slowly along beside him. “Ah, but you flatter me too much.”
He looked at me tentatively, calculatingly, his face bathed in sweat. It was the same look he gave me when I bested him on the field: one part submission, one part guile.
I extended a gauntlet to him. “We are blood brothers, Sir Mortigen, never forget—forged in battle; tested on the field. But be assured: when it comes to Lady Emeline—I am as eager for the contest as you.”
Upon which—hesitantly
