Melora stormed into her room and dropped Mador's sword on her mattress. She picked up her harp instead, jangling the strings to match her nerves. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes, applying her fingers with more precision.

She envisioned a great hall, phantom eyes glittering in the flickering light, eyes fixed on her. The music loosened Melora's nerves, absorbing her in its story.

She remembered how the old bard had cradled his harp in brittle arms, his stick fingers perching over the strings. The music captured a younger Melora and she became the bard's shadow, demanding to learn the songs that he played on winter evenings. 

Melora had attacked the instrument as she had every pursuit of the last ten years--hunting, swordplay, Latin, and so on. After Amhar's accident, no one thought to teach her to ride. She let them forget, and devoted herself to the harp and sword instead.

Countless times she fled defeated from the old bard's presence, shadowed by his stinging laugh. Melora was older now; she no longer cried when her fingers were stiff and notes soured. Now she sang sorrow through the harp's clear voice, forgetting herself and becoming herself.

A pity life was so different.

Melora drew out the final notes, willing them to stay even as her fingers lifted from the strings. The room was silent, and the hush brought her back to her body. The shadow hall disappeared in the smoke of her fire. She was alone in her chamber. A princess did not perform in the hall like a common minstrel. Not even in the Red Hall.

Melora set her harp down with a sigh and rummaged in the chest at the end of her bed. Her gowns did need work; what she'd said to Gawain wasn't a lie by half. She pulled out her favorite gown, a sea-glass green that matched her eyes. Melora yanked the gown over her head and smoothed the stiff skirt. It fell a full handspan above her ankles. Melora sighed and pulled a brown underskirt from several in her trunk. She adjusted the underskirt until it covered the unseemly gap between her hemline and her foot. If she came to supper baring her legs like a five-year old child, every subject would know before bedtime. While the underskirt wasn't a perfect fix, it would forestall the gossip, anyway.

Melora swiped a pair of worn, heeled slippers from the floor and laced them on. She stood and wiggled her toes. The forest green velvet strained and a seam on her right shoe popped. Melora closed her eyes and focused on breathing. A hole, she reflected, was considerably less noticeable than her legs.

A knock sounded at her door. "May I come in?" The queen's musical voice trickled through the oak door like a distant spring.

Melora opened one eye. "Come in," she managed belatedly as Queen Gwynevere swept into the room. Melora inclined her head, steeling herself for the inevitable scrutiny.

Her mother took her chin and tipped Melora's head up. "How many times must I tell you bowing is unnecessary?" The queen's tone was light, humorous, but her face was as pale and expressionless as an Easter lily.

Melora shrugged. "I, well..." She shrugged again, flexing her toe down to avoid the hole. If Melora were lucky, Gwynevere wouldn't notice the shoe.

"Goodness, you've grown again?" Gwynevere's bright green eyes flicked from the top of Melora's head to her exposed underskirt. "Your father's daughter indeed." She surveyed Melora once more, her lips pressing together in a thoughtful line. "We shall have new clothes started on the morrow. I will send my own seamstress to measure you after Vespers. In the meantime, your father has called court early, due to an impatient young prince."

Melora chewed her lip, absorbing the new information and the slight trace of displeasure in her mother's voice. "Yes, Mother."

Gwynevere motioned to the door. "Shall we?"

A short time later, Melora floundered along in the general hubbub streaming toward the central hall. The Red Hall was actually a network of small halls framing a giant middle chamber where the King held court and important feasts. The renowned Table of Equals graced a side room, where the king and his knights discussed kingdom matters.

Even at midday, the great hall was lit by torches. Window slits in the ceiling let some sunlight filter in, but stray sunbeams were flimsy ghosts by the time they drifted to the walnut-stained plank floor. Melora made her way to the back, climbing the low dais and taking her place in the chair to the king's left. That chair had been Amhar's before he died. She hated sitting there, but it was expected, and therefore, she would be noticed if she sat anywhere else.

Melora centered her thoughts, as she did on the training field. To her left, Myrddin entered from the side door, and last of all, her parents took their seats to the right of Melora.

Arthur raised a hand and Kay opened the great hall doors to receive the first supplicants. Arthur's eyes raked the room, his expression unreadable. Melora wondered if he ever felt strange when he looked down to see the eldest son's place filled by a gawky girl.

Melora scraped her nails against the burnished wood armrests. If the king harbored such thoughts, he wouldn't have told her. Maybe she was the only one aware of her brother's shadow draping her shoulders like an overlarge robe.

Melora watched peasants and petty lords cycle through the room for what felt like hours. One by one, they bowed to the throne and stated their grievances in an endless drone that almost put Melora to sleep. She had no head for politics today, so she hoped the Thessalians would be presented soon. While ambassadors had come from many distant lands to the court of Arthur, Melora never tired of hearing their tales. What would it be like to travel so far? She stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. How wonderful to see such things.

Melora was seeking exotic lands in the rafters when the Thessalians were finally announced. She straightened and peered across the room as the doors opened. Gasps and whispers erupted as a horseman clattered across the floor and into the hall itself. The horse gleamed like moonlight on water, far bigger than any stallion in Arthur's stables. Melora clutched her armrests in alarm and glanced up at her father.

The king rose, his eyes wide with surprise. "What's this?"

The rider slithered off the horse and into a smooth, low bow. "My liege, Arthur. I am Orlando, son of Gustavus, King of Thessaly, bringing gifts of favor across the sea, along with goodwill and friendship." He was tall and broad shouldered, and dressed in sea blues that complimented his burnished brown skin. Dark, wild curls covered his eyes, brushing the tilted tip of his nose before spiraling over his high collar.

Melora glanced from prince to horse, wondering if he really knew how to control such a large animal. He seemed careless, reins dangling from his slim beringed fingers. His gaze was fixed on the King, and the horse could easily escape.

How could any of them trust the creatures after what had happened?

Arthur smiled as he descended the dais, any sign of alarm dispersed or well-hidden. "Welcome, Prince Orlando. But who is this mighty fellow?" Arthur's eyes gleamed with boyish interest as he gestured to the horse.

"Pégasos, my lord." The prince dropped the reins into Arthur's hand with a flourish. "Descended from the legendary Bucephalus. I raised him myself." Pride filled his musical voice and straightened his shoulders.

Arthur patted the stallion's muscular neck and Melora held her breath. The horse pawed at the floor and nibbled the king's circlet. Arthur laughed, "A magnificent creature! Your father has my highest compliments." The king motioned to Gawain. "Escort Pégasos to the stables and give him some grain."

Melora's chest contracted as she watched her favorite cousin take the reins and lead the enormous stallion out of the hall. Still, now that the horse was gone, she could study the Thessalians without terror. They were a party of twenty or so, with warm complexions and dark hair like their prince. Their clothing was richly colored, if travel worn, and styled in a foreign manner. It was far too thin for the weather, in any case.

Prince Orlando stepped aside as his men brought in baskets of leather goods and casks of wine. Arthur exclaimed over each gift, often looking to Gwynevere. The queen, cool and calm as a January morning, would smile or nod to his exuberance. Whether she cared for any of it or not, maybe only the king could tell.

Arthur left his throne as the impressive list of gifts came to a close. He beckoned to Orlando, who joined him on the dais. "This is my queen, Gwynevere," said Arthur. Orlando knelt and kissed the queen's hand.

Rather excessive, thought Melora, and then, I hope he doesn't do that to me! She clenched and unclenched her hands, trying to look as serene and inaccessible as her mother.

Arthur led the prince to Melora's chair. "My daughter and heir, Melora," Arthur was saying.

Melora flushed as the prince's eyes searched her face. Liquid dark, a brown caught between black and red, they blazed at her from under crow-wing brows. He knelt, as she had dreaded, and took her hand. At least he can't stare when his head is bent; she amended as he kissed her hand. Melora hoped her flush wasn't visible to the four corners of the room. Apparently, Thessalian manners were warmer than those of Britain, like their climate.

"My lady," said Orlando, "'Tis an unparalleled honor." He rose and released her hand, his dark eyes flicking back to the king. "My liege."

Melora sank back in her chair, her fingers clenching the armrests again. She watched as Orlando take a place in the crowd of knights. He was bold and handsome, and quite probably a show off. But Melora was far more inclined to be charitable now that he was no longer anywhere near that monstrous horse. Would this Orlando prove to be more interesting than the rest of the preening swains that visited her father or not? Melora did not have such high hopes.