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She had grown to love the woods and the freedom they offered. She was still happy to be back.
She didn’t want her father to know that, though.
They made their way towards the palace, passing by the marketplace brimming with food: fat suckling pigs glazed with cider, pheasants soaking in red wine or smothered with blackberry sauce, thick, dense breads packed with dates and raisins.
Her belly grumbled.
“There’ll be food at the palace,” her father told her. “Competitors eat free.”
Juliana quickened her gait, moving through fire-breathers and jugglers, self-flying kites in the shape of dragons and butterflies. Magic twitched on the fingers of acrobats twirling on golden ropes, spitting out illusions as they turned and tumbled.
A dozen sights utterly unchanged.
Nothing in Faerie changed. Juliana could never be sure if she liked that or not.
People were trickling in at the palace gates for the welcoming feast, open to all partaking in the tournament tomorrow. Faces she knew rose to greet her, although none she knew well enough to run to. There were a few smiles and nods of heads thrown in her direction, a few more that passed over her. She’d grown some in three years. She couldn’t blame them.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Ser Markham,” boomed a voice overhead.
Juliana glanced up. At the guards’ post above the gates stood Miriam of Bath, a fellow mortal knight and old friend of her parents, although the smile she gave wasn’t as warm as Juliana remembered. Miriam was as strong as an ox, muscles bulging beneath her golden armour, engraved with the thorned crest of the royal family. Her muddy brown hair was cut close to her head, her skin freckled and bronzed by the sun. Though she looked ordinary and mortal, a wisdom of ages shone in her steely eyes. She was as immortal as the faeries she served.
Markham bowed, arms open. “Ser Miriam. You look well.”
“As do you,” she replied. “Although… Vines, Juliana, is that you?”
Juliana smiled, glad to be recognised by someone. “Good to see you, Miriam.”
“You look well, child.” The knight smiled. “Like your mother.”
Markham put his arm around Juliana’s shoulders and pushed her under the gate, jaw tense. “We shall speak later, Miriam,” he said tersely.
“Perhaps during the tournament.”
“Will you be competing?” His jaw looked stiffer than before; Miriam was the only knight that stood a chance of beating him, although there was no telling who might have risen up the ranks in their absence.
“I have not yet made up my mind,” Miriam declared. “We shall see.”
Markham nodded, and followed the road up the barracks. The smell of the stables raced up to greet her like an old friend, all damp hay, mud, horse. Not waiting for her father’s approval, she rushed off to inspect the mounts. Several were unfamiliar to her, brought by contenders from other parts of Faerie, but there, in their old stalls…
Applejack, Bobtail, Fairweather, Merfoot, Raven—all her old friends.
She rushed to greet each one, to stroke their velvety muzzles, to play with their manes. Some steeds were traditional horses like the ones from the mortal realm, but others were sea-green with manes of seaweed, or dazzling white with golden hooves, or not horses at all but giant stags or enormous toads.
All beautiful. All missed.
“Juliana?”
Juliana turned and found herself face to face with Albert Woodfern, the stable master. He was a shire horse in human form; broad, tough, proud. The greys in brown hair were more pronounced than they once were, his face a little more beaten than she remembered, but he wore the same kind smile as always.
“Itisyou!“ he cried. “My, look at you, child. You’ve grown.”
“In height and wit,” she responded. “Although I only have my father’s word for the latter, so others might not agree.”
He patted her shoulder, still grinning, and gestured to a large hulk of a lad sweeping in the corner.
“You remember my son, Dillon?”
Juliana blinked. She remembered Dillon being a scrawny, sparrow of a boy, capable of flitting from the rafters like a bird. This boy—man, really—looked like he could break floorboards if he breathed on them.
