Not at Port Bruce—Royal Guard Number One had been very insistent. It was the nearest port to Daventry, sure, but also a favorite landing ground for thieves and pirates. That had been part of the sibling bribery; Anisette had to steer them a little ways out of her way, to the North, to see them off safely. They were headed for the capital city, and the castle within.

Llewdor was throwing a ball for the Queen’s birthday. It was Graham’s first official foreign tour, and he’d been looking forward to it. Mostly. Looking forward to the snacks, anyway. Not so much the whole royalty thing, where he’d have to show off himself in front of a large group of other, more established nobles on unfamiliar ground.

The goblin king hadn’t been as impressed by Graham’s crown as he had been by Graham’s storytelling, but Graham suspected the other nobles might not be so accepting of him as the goblin was. They’d probably expect to see the crown, at least during the ball. He’d fallen totally out of habit of wearing it lately, preferring his soft, light, feathered cap. So, to make sure he didn’t get a splitting headache while bowing to the Queen, he was practicing wearing it for extended periods of time again.

Anisette was laughing at it.

She was leaning against the ship railing on her elbows, watching clouds roll by. They were zipping along merrily, alone for now on the waves. Graham was telling stories about what it was like as king. All the things he’d been doing. He hadn’t seen her in person for ages and, “I don’t get your letters, mail at sea is dodgy at best.” But even now, she didn’t seem to be listening all that intently. She kept getting distracted by one thing or another, interrupted by crew and duties. Graham was keenly aware he was just a passenger, and she was working.

“Oh, I don’t know, little brother,” she said. “All of that. It sounds so. Stodgy.” She flicked her finger against his freckled nose. “It seems like that hat is more weight than it’s worth, even if the party’s going to have good food. I mean, to be tied down to one thing? I think you’re going to forget what it means to be free.” She gestured at her ship, her crew. At Graham’s guards, who were scattered across the deck. “Sure, you’ve got a couple of good stories, but they’re not nearly as good as they were when you were a knight, you know? Those guys are going to end up doing everything fun for you.

“Oh, and, if you’ll excuse me, Majesty, I’ve got to see to checking our cargo paperwork’s in order. What with trading with the, uh, unsavories, sometimes, we can get out of habit. Oops, can I tell you about that when you’ve got that hat on?” She jokingly jammed her shoulder into his, a jockeying, laughing gesture, and then she hurried off.

He smiled while she was looking at him, but once she’d disappeared, the smile did, too.

“Little brother,” he muttered, pulling off the crown and glaring at his reflection in it. “I’m not the same scrawny kid I was a decade ago.” His reflection proved that, at least. His arms were hidden by his bracers, but he was proud of his bow-crafted muscles, and the scraggly stubble he hadn’t been able to grow as a teen.

He’d thought some of those kingly stories were pretty good, really, but Anisette’s voyages always seemed to have bigger punchlines. The crown glittered at him, sharp and bright, winking across the waves as it caught the sunlight.

Well, it was heavy, that was true. Stodgy? Mmm. He shoved it back in his cloak pockets. It would be fine there. It always was. Especially since there wasn’t any derring-do on the schedule today. He pulled his feathered cap on, relaxing into himself.

The physical bruises from the goblin kidnapping had faded by now. Not much else yet.

The Daventry flag with the royal crest, temporarily affixed to the flagpole while they sailed with the crown on board, snapped and flapped in the wind. Some crossbreeze Graham couldn’t perceive on deck picked up. Sails creaked as the wind shifted slightly. Maybe some storm, rolling in. Could explain the heat.

Number One was passing by, helmet off, mustache drooping.

“Doing alright, Number One?” Graham asked, stepping into pace beside him.

“Not even the slightest,” the guard groaned. “This drill is going terribly.”

“I didn’t see anyone doing anything.”

“Yes, that’s rather the problem.”

“That’s because it’s got a stupid drill name,” Number Two interjected, leaning around the deck chair he’d commandeered. He was holding a very tall drink with an umbrella in it. Fruit slices dangled off the side, looking wilty in the sun.

“You’re the one who named it,” Number One snipped.

“Yeah, and I named it after the worst thing I could think of. ‘Eggplant.’ It’s a terrible drill with a terrible name.”

“What’s it meant to do?” Graham asked.

“In the event of a group attack in close quarters,” Number One said grumpily, “I call out ‘Eggplant,’ and the guards are meant to act in a sort of spiraling unit, as one. The placement is supposed to help the group know where each individual is at all times, so we have fewer of those ‘oh, I didn’t see you there, sorry, I’ll help you buff the dent out of your helmet’ incidents. Small spaces or tight crowds will help it shine best. I rather thought a cramped ship deck, with all these barrels and ropes and rigging, would be an excellent place to practice, but I can’t seem to get anyone on board.”

“Oh, they’re all on board,” Number Two said. “That’s the point of a ship.”

“Indeed.”

“Anyway, like I said. Eggplant’s horrible. I picked it so’s no one would accidentally start doing the drill unless we wanted ‘em to, but, uh. No one wants to do the drill at all.”

Number One sighed.

“Well, who can blame ‘em. It’s too hot. And, this is a vacation!” Number Two threw his arm wide in a sweeping gesture that encompassed the entire little deck. Half the sticky drink in his cup sloshed over his hand. It was quite pink, whatever it was.

“That’s not alcoholic, is it?” Graham asked.

“Alas, no. Number One said no margaritas.”

“We’re on duty.”

“We’re on vacation!”

“It isn’t a vacation,” Number One said drearily, in the tones of one who had explained this several times over the course of the last week. Day. Hour. “This is a diplomatic mission to address the Queen of Llewdor in her home on her birthday, to grow relations with the surrounding countries and regain our place in fine society after King Edward allowed our position of world power to lapse.”

“That’s cos he didn’t like dancing.”

“You know that’s not why.”

“Doesn’t matter now. Anyway. Everyone’s treating it like a vacation, which is nine tenths of the word.” He pointed with his drink to each person as he named them. “Number Three is very excited about those naval maps, she’s been staring at them for hours trying to work out how they know about the exact placement of the little sea dragons and if they ever move and have to be redrawn or if they stay still for the accuracy.”

He continued, “Kyle and Larry are sunbathing over by the steering thingy”—Graham noticed they still wore their helmets, even if they’d discarded the rest of their uniform for swimming trunks—“and. Well, actually. I don’t know where Number Four went. He was looking a bit green after lunch, I haven’t seen hair nor thread of him since. If he’s being seasick in the shared cabin, I’m going to have a word with him.

“And I’m here, quite happy with my drink and book!” Number Two patted a book on the table beside him, and rifled pages. It was a touristy guidebook, and it looked quite ancient. It had probably come from the same publishing house where he’d gotten those dating handbooks, the ones with the horrible pick up lines (he always swore by those lines, although even romantic Wente would flinch at some of them).

“Says here boats are supposed to have, like, games and things on them. Something called. Shuffleboard.” He glared suspiciously at it. “I’m not sure I feel much like dancing in this heat, but I guess we could find a board to shuffle on, if the book says we ought. Speaking of, Graham, did you practice your waltz like I suggested?”

“Mmm. Thought about it.”

“And did it?”

“Thought about it,” Graham repeated.

“Right. Like I said, a vacation. No work to be had at the moment. We’re on Graham’s sister’s lovely ship, middle of the ocean, not a worry to—oh. Hmm. Y’know, that one ship that’s been on the horizon for the past little while’s been getting awfully close. You don’t suppose they want something, do you?”

“This has to be good enough. It has to be. Tonight is the night. I’m not putting everyone through any more suffering.”

Graham had quietly tested the key when he was sure no one was watching. It didn’t do anything for individual prisoner cells, but it did seem to lead to the main entrance of the prison. He hoped the little goblin who had dropped this key wasn’t getting in trouble for losing it. Still. This was what he needed. Well, almost all of what he needed: it still had two levers, still needed multiple people pressing on it to open it.

And Graham would take them all.

Yes, he and Acorn and Whisper could probably escape now, with Acorn’s solo strength on one lever and Whisper and Graham on the other. But he had no guarantee that the rest of the villagers would be safe while they were gone. That the goblins wouldn’t act in retribution. That something else wouldn’t go wrong while his back was turned. He was going to take every villager with him as he escaped. He had to.

(“That’s a lot of people to take with you, Grandpa. Your last story seemed more thought-out.”

“Yes, it was, in both regards. But this version’s different, you know. I suppose the goblins couldn’t be as cruel as I was imagining, but everyone still had so much more to say. I had to bring them all!”)

The goblin alarms were part of the problem. Graham remembered how, when he’d given Amaya various weapons over the last few days to clear her room and get some items, some alarm had been triggered and the mushrooms had pulsed bizarrely. The same sort of thing had happened at the top of the spiral stairs, when he’d trapped the goblin guard with the sticky spider web (the goblin was still there, actually, stuck and annoyed and the other goblins kept him stocked with gross goblin snacks that Graham couldn’t imagine eating himself).

(“Now, Muriel and I had been looking at those alarms,” Grandpa said. “We had determined that each mushroom alarm had a discolored square on the base, like a door, but no amount of clawing with my fingernails could do anything to open it. All I did was get mushroomy hands, which did not make me more of a fun-gi to be around.”

“Ew.”

“It did suggest they were somehow mechanical in nature. Now, if you traced the mushrooms by their lights, they seemed to all connect to a single point at the top of Acorn’s Jack and the Beanstalk tower, a command mushroom alarm, which, if deactivated, should turn off all the rest. I found this point without too much trouble—it made sense that the place where they’d put all my contraband was also the control point for the prison. There was a groove beside it which seemed like the perfect place for a lever. Of course, the lever had been removed by the guards to ensure the alarms stayed active. I didn’t have a way to make my own lever—until I’d gone into that dark basement and gathered the right items!”

“Nice. I knew we could handle that sticky problem.”

The little mirror king pulled out the mop with the sticky spiderwebby strings clinging to the mop fibers. He carefully slotted it into the groove beside the alarm mushroom. The lever did the job, and the little hatch popped open on the mushroom itself, revealing:

“This reminds me of a puzzle,” Grandpa said. “Look, a sliding block puzzle, to deactivate the alarm, how droll.” The two storytellers watched the mirror king work, moving little glowing fungi blocks here and there to connect the correct mushroomy circuit.

“You know,” Grandpa said, “I think this also seems like it could be a wonderful metaphor for something. Sliding block puzzles. Perhaps a metaphor for how tricky it is to rule a kingdom. Like, a metaphor for, oh, how challenging it is to listen to everyone and make decisions, and—”

“Grandpa, please, don’t,” Gwendolyn groaned. “That sounds like the worst idea ever.”

“I don’t know about that,” Grandpa mused. “I’ll think on it. Maybe I’ll use it later.” The mirror king, unaware as always about his chatty narrators, successfully deactivated the alarm.)

He tried pulling on the lever to remove it from the groove, but the sticky spiderwebs held it in place. The mop was no longer functional as a mop, although he didn’t have any plans to do any more chores anyway. No, he had bigger things in mind. Escape, for example.

Amaya was lying on her bed, ignoring him. “If I wasn’t in peak physical condition, I would not survive this,” she informed the ceiling.

(Grandpa hesitated. “Oh. I forgot something. Hang on.”

“Forgot something?”

“I was supposed to have bolt cutters by now. Let me just...um. They were lying on the floor and I tripped over them and found them and that’s that.”

“I think that’s cheating, Grandpa.”

“You heard this story a couple nights ago, you already know where and how I found them. We don’t need to retread that squishy moldy porridge ground. It’s fine. We’re moving on.”)

“Oh. I forgot I had these,” Graham said, pulling bolt cutters out of his pocket.

“Amazing,” Amaya agreed flatly. “Hurry up and get me outta here.”

The door swung open, and, happily, the alarms did not go off. Graham exhaled half the tension he’d hardly known he’d been holding. Amaya stepped out, brushing grime off her skirt (which remained as dirty as before she’d brushed her hands against it).

“Hey, you did good,” she admitted, jostling his shoulder. “I’m proud of you, king.”

Whisper applauded at Graham’s side.

“You really need to try to keep it quiet,” Amaya said, glancing at him.

“But how will our enemy know their doom is coming?” Whisper asked, and he struck a pose as though he held a sword, ready to strike some invisible goblin foe.

“Your moxie is already overwhelmingly apparent without the noise.”

“Whisper is just so happy to be free! We must celebrate our victory!”

“We’re not done yet, you know that,” Amaya said, starting to leave the room. “To start, we’ve got to get the others.”

“Yes, but we should celebrate the little victories anyway,” Whisper insisted, following close on her heels, his mane of excellence drooping a bit at her lack of excitement.

“Well...sure...and how do you propose we do that?” she asked.

Whisper paused, then flung his hand into the air dramatically with: “A jumping-up-and-down hug?”

Graham held his breath again, sure Amaya was going to thump the knight and walk away, and yet, she frowned, and said, in the most world-weary voice he’d ever heard from he: “Ugh, fine.”

“Huzzah!” Whisper cheered. “Smash and flash, making it happen!” He grabbed her, pinning her arms to her side, and bounced up and down. His cloak fluttered around them.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” she said after a second, and pushed him away, though there was just the hint of a laugh in her voice. “You’re ridiculous.”

“...ly good looking,” Whisper corrected.

The king, knights, and blacksmith hurried down the tunnel, aiming for the Feys next. Behind him, Graham heard Whisper still trying to connect with his blacksmith beau: “So, come here often?”

Amaya seemed taken aback. “What, to this dark cave where we were imprisoned?”

“Um, yes?”

“Nope, this is a first.”

“Oh. Well, me too. Sooooo....”

“Can we not do this right now?”

“Oooh, so we can do this later?”

“Whisper.”

“I should have started with the Hobblepots,” Graham groaned.

“No, we can leave the Hobblepots,” Acorn growled. “Chester can just stay there.”

“Acorn, be nice.”

“I don’t want to.”

The Feys were just as easy to free as Amaya had been, and Wente carefully held his wife’s hand as he guided her through the cell door to freedom. Again, no alarms went off, and all seemed well.

“Oh, Graham, it’s wonderful to see you without bars in the way,” Bramble said, grabbing him in a tight hug. “And you’ve got some friends with you this time!” She smiled at the two knights.

Whisper was too distracted fawning over Amaya to notice, but Acorn bowed to Bramble. “Why, Mrs. Bramble Fey. Always a pleasure.”

“The pleasure’s mine,” she said. She had one hand over her belly protectively, and Acorn noticed.

“That’s right. How’s the little one doing down here?”

“Good now, thanks to our king.” She put her other hand on Graham’s arm, reassuringly, beaming up at him.

“Have you found out if it’s a boy or girl yet?”

“Oh, we want to be surprised. But either way, we like the name Taylor,” she said, and Wente nodded.

“Hmm, now I don’t know which color to pick for the baby booties. Obviously, I’d never go pink or blue, traditional is blah, but. Taylor. I don’t know what fits that name best. Maybe a warm linen color, but what embroidery...” He stared off into the distance, muttering options.

“No need to knit us anything!” Bramble laughed.

“But ya know I wanna,” Acorn said. “You Feys always manage to soothe the bull with those nice sweet treats, I gotta return the favor somehow.”

“Oh, you’re much too sweet, even for us bakers!”

“Guys, this isn’t exactly the time for a cell-abration,” Graham interrupted, glancing at the hall as though a crowd of spear-carrying goblins were already marching along it. “We really do have to get moving. I don’t want us caught out here.”

As he hurried down the next tunnel toward the Hobblepots, the pack of villagers behind him, he heard Acorn and Bramble still quietly chatting together:

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Acorn said, “I’ve always wondered. What’s it like to carry a baby in your belly?”

Bramble said, “Oh, it’s probably about the same as carrying a squirrel in your belly.”

“Oh, ahah, yeah, Princess Madeline loves how squishy it is.” He thumped a hand hard against it, and it rang dully as his gauntlet hit armor.

“Speaking of that, where is Princess Madeline? Did she escape the clutches of these hoarders?”

“Who knows. She had trumpet practice tonight.”

Bramble lowered her voice, and Graham barely heard her next words: “King Graham’s doing the best he can, of course, the dear, but I wonder if Princess Madeline could come and help us too. She’s so good at getting out of little scrapes like this.” Then, with passion: “Even though a compassionate lady like herself should not involve herself with racketeering!”

“That was just one time!” Acorn changed the subject: “Hey, maybe we should meet up for belly day. How’s your Thursday looking?”

“Much better than it was an hour ago, if we get out of this.”

“I know we will,” Acorn reassured her. “Graham’s got this. And so do we. ...oh, except.” His voice dropped two octaves and thirty degrees, and he said, “Chester.”

“Sir Cumference,” Chester said, just as chilly.

“Did I miss something?” Amaya asked, looking between the knight and the alchemist.

“Don’t ask,” Graham muttered, lining up the bolt cutters with the padlock on the cell door.

Acorn leaned against the tree trunk bars, arms crossed, glaring at Chester. “Soooo, I hear your lease is almost up,” he muttered, almost but not quite casually.

“What did you say?” Chester said.

“Oh, nothing.” He paused, then: “How old are you, again?”

“I still have many more snacks left to hit my belly. You needn’t worry.”

“Oh good, I’m a worrier,” Acorn grumbled, as the Hobblepots tripped out of the cell to freedom. Of a sort. Freedom from their cell, at the very least.

Chester shook Graham’s hand. “I saw my life flash before my eyes. Now I’m hungry again. I’ve eaten a lot of delicious things. Thanks, Graham.”

“Well! We’re all here!” Muriel looked at the crowd of people.

“Yeah, all of us,” Amaya said. “And there’s a lot of us. This isn’t going to be easy.”

“Which way, Your Highness?” Bramble asked, bobbling forward in a nervous little half bow.

“You don’t have to call me that,” Graham said distractedly, shoving the bolt cutters back in his cloak.

"Of course, Gumdrop.” She eyed the crown, her face distorted in its shiny curves. “But, again, where to now? I don’t think we should just be standing here like this.”

“Ummm.”

Graham stared at the group. The group blinked back. And only now did he realize just how many of them there were, jostling each other and muttering and wondering and worrying and standing in the open and watching and waiting and....

There were two knights, two bakers, two alchemists, one blacksmith, and one very ragged king, all out of their various cells but by no means safe. This...this was a terrible plan.

No, more than that, he had no plan. Not really. Not faced with all of them. How was he going to get them out? How could he possibly manage this quietly? Carefully? This had been a terrible idea. There were too many people, they were going to be caught, and who knew what the goblins would do to them this time, and...

(“I froze up,” Grandpa admitted, as every single mirror villager stared at the mirror king. “Paralyzed by the decision. Perhaps I had pulled the final rabbit out of my hat. No, it was worse than that—I didn’t even have a cap anymore! Just a crown, and all that a shiny hat entailed.”)

Amaya lightly punched his shoulder. “Hey. You’re thinking way too much, Graham. Your gut has led us this far; let’s not second guess it now. Come on! Let’s go!”

He rubbed his arm. “R-right. Um. This way. But, quietly. Let me lead.” He wished he could shove them all in his cloak pockets, but it topped out at two people and was near tearing anyway, and then he wouldn’t be able to carry anything at all. This was just going to have to work as it was. They were going to all have to be brave and clever and kind and…and…oh, boy.

“You are the king, Sire,” Muriel chirped at his side. “We’ll do what you tell us to.”

The alarms hadn’t gone off. Graham’s tampering with the mushroom alarm system had made sure of that. But the tattered villagers and battered knights and rumpled king were not in the clear, not yet. No one had noticed their escape, but with eight prisoners clustered nervously together, the chances of getting out without being spotted at all were maybe a bit too slim.

“Wait,” he said, gesturing for the group to pause. “I’ll go ahead.” At the very least, he was permitted to be out, sort of. If he wasn’t doing anything too obvious. He’d double check their route.

They were not going to be recaptured and put into much worse danger because of his actions here. He couldn’t let that happen.

But. But there were so many goblins in the hall. Aside from the one at the top of the staircase glued to the lever, there were a bunch of others. Just hanging out, talking in their gravelly tones.

Graham leaned back against the corridor wall, studying the meandering goblins. This wasn’t going to be easy, not with all of his friends at his heels. He wondered vaguely if he could get the Daventrians down into the tunnels he’d found earlier, with the marionette horrors and the frogs…but it was such a tight squeeze in so many places down there, and so dark, even with Newton and the mushrooms...

“Whisper doesn’t do scary,” Whisper said, lambasting that idea soundly.

Graham looked through his pockets. He looked forlornly at his bow with its lone arrow, and he muttered to himself, “This weapon isn’t sufficient enough to take on the whole horde. There are just too many of them.”

The rest of his pockets was just more junk, though. He still had the shovel (hit someone?), the harp (distract someone?), Whisper’s portraits (flirt with someone?). Well. Hmm.

“So,” Acorn said. “What’s the plan?”

“Um. Something kinda dumb.”

They glanced uncomfortably at each other, not liking how this was starting out. “Well, it’s your call, string bean. Tell us.”

Graham took the portraits of Whisper he’d been carrying around for days, and then he jammed them onto the end of the little broom he’d also been carrying around for days (“Pfft, when’s the last time you did any of your chores,” Gwendolyn snorted. “I can’t believe you still have that”). In the dark, if you looked at it right, with the inkwork and gentle salamander light bouncing off it, from a distance, maybe it would look like the real deal. Maybe.

“Oooh, Whisper forgot to sign that one. Does anyone have a pen?”

“I need this posted up at the bottom of the staircase, and then I’m gonna yell for the goblins to go see what that is, and it should get them going down to look. And then I think I can get you guys to move up, quietly, while they’re distracted. I mean, it might be kinda quickly timed, as far as events go. Do you think we can do that?”

The group contemplated this. It looked like no one was particularly happy about the idea. And then it got a little worse.

“Ooooh, Acorn?” Chester leaned forward.

“Yes?”

“Can I have a piggyback ride for this?”

“Absolutely not! Do I look like a Kyle to you?”

“But I might not be fast enough otherwise,” he wheedled and whined.

“Oh, yes you will, if you wanna see that shop of yours again.”

“Is that a threat?”

“All I’m sayin’ is, if the current owner doesn’t pay the rent…”

“Ohhh, I think I see what’s going on here. This is a scheme of the lowest, most devious nature!” Chester squared up to the knight, which was fairly pointless as he couldn’t see over Acorn’s belly when standing that close. He jabbed a finger sharply in Acorn’s gut. It bounced off his armor. “You…schemer!”

“Acorn, be nice,” Graham said wearily, adjusting his Whisper decoy.

“It doesn’t have to be goblins that do it,” Acorn said breezily. “I hear there are fantastic retirement communities in Tanalore. I have a brochure at home.”

“Retirement? Oh-hoh, you seem very keen on me leaving my shop. Between the goblins and this retirement thing, I think you want my shop deed, don’t you!”

“I just wanna be crafty. Like you,” Acorn admitted, and for just a split second, Graham could hear the honesty in his voice. For a split second. And then Chester had to ruin it.  

“I’ve seen your crafts, and there’s no witch or wizard in them!” Chester said heatedly. “The lowest tier of crafting…folk!”

“Oh, you take that back! I’m an artist!”

“You, sir, are a hobbyist! You don’t even have a store.”

“Well, I would if you’d just retire already.”

“It comes back to that!” Chester hissed. He was reaching into a pocket, possibly to pull out some forgotten bird bomb or other trick in his sleeve.

“Stop!” Graham said, shoving the two of them apart—shoving Chester back, anyway. Acorn moved not an inch. “We can deal with this later, okay? Please!” The two stood glaring at each other, arms crossed, and Graham just knew the argument was going to flare up again shortly.

(“I see what you meant earlier about people not listening to you much even as a king,” Gwendolyn said, watching the mirror.

“Alas, tempers were a little too high, even as far underground as we all were,” Grandpa agreed. “Maybe some good clean escapades would help soothe the stress.”)

“Bramble Fey, reporting for duty,” Bramble said, stepping up to Graham with a little salute, knocking the tension out of the air as firmly as kneading dough. She glanced at Acorn with a soft smile, then: “Wente and I talked, and I think we can do it. Even with our little bun in the oven. We can do it. Whatever you think is right.”

Amaya shook her head, still looking reluctant, but with the Feys making the first step forward... “Well. My gut is still empty, so we’ll go with yours. If this is the best way to get going, then we’ll do it.”

“Fine. Chester can do it, too,” Chester agreed, but he was still grumbling a bit.

“No, you have to say it dramatically!” Whisper said, clapping Chester on the back. “Like this!” He flung his hand in the air and posed, with a loud, “Whisper can do it!”

“Whisper! Whispering voice!” Graham said desperately. No goblins came to check on them, at least. Lucky break. But then, everything he was doing seemed to be relying on luck today. “Don’t be careless, Whisper.”

“Whisper is…whispering.”

“Can you just help me set this up?” Graham asked. “We’ll have to be quick.”

“Oooh! Congrats on finally joining the sacred practice of leg day!” Whisper said. “Let’s go! Speed is the name of our game!”

(“Actually, we should name our game after some sort of quest, instead,” Gwendolyn said. “Sounds more epic that way.”

“Agreed.”)

With the two of them checking and testing angles, it took hardly a minute to get the decoy set up. It worked okay, in the dim light, though it wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny. He balanced it delicately beside the crack that led into the wall, and Whisper helped him make a bunch of different steps in the dirt he’d disturbed with his shovel earlier, making it look like lots of people had gone into the crack instead of just Graham earlier. Maybe it would get the goblins to go in there, giving him a little more time.

“Well. That’s as good as we can do it,” Graham said. “I think. Stars, I hope.”

“Whisper has nothing to add to the conversation.”

“…right, thanks. Come on, then.”

The group huddled together. Graham surveyed his team of friends. This was going to work. It had to. He just had to get them to the door. He felt the outline of the key in his pocket, one last time, just to be sure. Okay. Okay. Okay. Ohhhkaaaaayyyy.

(Gwendolyn and Grandpa watched the mirror king. The little reflection was frozen with uncertainty. Still standing there. Doing nothing. Not at all sure if this idea was actually a good one. Finally, Grandpa said, with a pushing motion as though to get his younger self moving: “I had stalled long enough. I had an idea, and I went and did it.” That got the little mirror king to act.)

“One…two…three!” Graham whirled, hands cupped around his mouth to yell, “Goblins! Goblins, look! Look down there! I think there’s someone down there! Hey! Is that the escaped knight? Hey!”

This wasn’t supposed to work. It was such a dumb idea, so risky and ridiculous—and yet, it absolutely did work. Goblins raced past Graham and the villagers hidden in the shadows behind him, intent on the strange Whisper decoy and the space beyond, and Graham wasted no time. In a hoarse, frantic whisper, he waved them forward. “All right. Go!” He heard paper scrunching as a goblin pounced on the decoy. “Amaya, over here! Forward! Go, go, go! Whisper! You know what to do!”

“What should Whisper do? …it? Oh! It! Running! Whisper can do it!”

But as Graham moved, his pockets—his dear, strained pockets, that had been carrying people around for days—split, as he’d feared they’d might, after all the weight they’d been working under. The jostling of his running was just the last straw. Happily, he had little enough in the pocket that split and lost its contents. Unhappily, it was the one important item he’d moved to its own special spot so he could grab it quickly and easily.

The key to the prison dropped, clattering on the ground, bouncing, teetering over the edge of the spiral staircase, seconds away from falling and landing on a goblin’s head as the crowd below them inspected the Whisper decoy with curious little grunts of uncertainty.

“Grab that key!” Graham yelped, starting to spin back, to get it. But that one yelp was just a little too loud. It echoed. Goblins turned to look, to see, and while he wasn’t exactly eye to eye, it was definitely an eye to helmet sort of moment.

“Pirouette!” Whisper yelled, delighted that he didn’t have to try and be quiet anymore. He whirled back, grabbed the key with a triumphant, “Got it!” and kept charging up the staircase.

Everyone else had nearly gotten to the doors, but Bramble was lagging a bit. Acorn scooped her up and kept going.

Graham slid after his group, boots barely gripping the dusty floor as he went skidding around the corner, grabbing a stalactite to spin himself around faster as the goblins came racing up behind them (the one still glued to the lever was yelling excitedly and pointing out which direction the Daventrians had gone). “Whisper! Over here!” he cried, thumping hard against the door, and the knight threw the key to his king, and Graham slammed it home in the lock. “On the count of three, pull the switches!” he yelped. “Ready? OnetwothreeNOW!”

The prison doors yawned open with a groan. “Run for it!” Graham waved his arms desperately at his friends, shoving them, as the first goblin rounded the corner, spear raised. “Acorn!” It was basically a squeak, but the big knight understood.

“On it!” He grabbed the doors and started yanking them shut. Wood creaked as he fought the levers, splintering under his grip, but he kept pulling, yelling “Get out—!” as he did so. Graham snatched the key out of the lock, shoved it in a (functioning) pocket, and scampered beneath Acorn’s arms just as the doors slammed shut behind him.

Goblins hit the closed doors in a little cascading wave, and the doors shook on their hinges, but they did not open again. “Oooh! Whooo! The bull is back, baby!” Acorn crowed, pumping the air. “Boom! That was awesome! Ahahaha!” He clapped his hands together, wood chips dancing off his arms.

The villagers and king lay in a sprawled little heap beyond the doors, except for Bramble, who sat primly on top of her husband, where Acorn had gently put her down. Her ankles were delicately crossed and her hands rested in her lap. “Oooh, that was fun,” she said. “But let’s not do it again.”

“Agreed,” Graham groaned from somewhere under Muriel’s shawl.

The villagers extricated themselves, shook the dust off, looked at each other, looked at the cave walls still surrounding them. “Well,” Muriel said, straightening her necklaces. “It’s not the freedom I was hoping for exactly, but it’s a step in the right direction.”

Chester looked slyly up at Acorn, and pointed at his foot. "Oh my. It seems I've worn a hole in my sock with all that running. If only someone had carried me. But, you know who I'm not gonna take it to for repairs?"

Acorn turned slowly, the joy in his shoulders drooping. "Huh?"

"That big guy who doesn't have a shop!"

"Wait a minute!"

Chester mused, tapping his toe, "I guess I'll just have to devise a crafty potion to fix it myself. Like a proper wizard ought. Hopefully one with lizard tongue. Mmm...."

"I've had enough of you! A shop doesn't make the artist! The art makes the artist!" 

Graham checked the others. Wente was limping, but trying not to show it, and Amaya had caught her arm on a rock and was bleeding, a bit, but it looked like everyone else was okay. Rattled, definitely. But mostly in one piece. Graham exhaled. That had been…stupidly lucky. Stars. If there was a god keeping track of his luck on an abacus somewhere above them, Graham thought he could hear each bead clacking over into the spent luck category.

Or, rather, that was the sound of goblins.

The goblins behind the prison door were scrambling and clawing at the wood. It kept thumping, rocking on its hinges. Graham figured they probably had more than one key, and the Daventrians had a limited amount of time to get out of here before they got that door open. “We should probably go,” he said. That, at least, was a statement that didn’t require any choices on his part.

“Which way…?”

Graham heard the uncertainty, and the ugly little empty pit in his stomach started gnawing at him again, and he just knew he had to make another choice that would hopefully work, wouldn’t hurt…. He turned away from the trembling door, and he looked, and he saw…

(“Two roads split off from the path. They both looked the same, and I had no idea which to pick.”)

And here he’d been sort of hoping he wouldn’t have to make any more decisions today. This one shouldn’t be hard. Right? But. But it was. Too hard. He stared down each one, trying desperately to remember which one he’d been led down when he’d first come this way. But he’d been tied and tired and confused and upset and there had been so many goblins and it had been dark and…

Minutes were moving faster than they were, and there wasn’t time.

Amaya sidled up to him, her words accompanied by the percussive beat as the goblins charged at the door behind them. “Hey, let’s speed this up, shall we?” She spoke low and soft, but with great urgency, and the rest of the villagers stepped closer anyway so it wasn’t quite as secret as she’d meant it to be. “Last idea went. Uh. Fine. We’re all here, anyway. Go on.”

“Uh.”

“Come on. Make a choice.”

“Um.”

“Despair behind us and two solutions in front of us. Pick one.”

“I…”

“Remember how I said I’d make a great advisor? Like, right now, I advise you to pick one.”

“Ah.”

“I’m all for using your noggin, but indecision is worse than a dumb decision. Come on, Graham,” Acorn said, picking up his startled king and pushing him to the left. “This one’s fine.”

“Whisper agrees! Left is right and right is wrong.”

“That’s ridiculous. Shouldn’t right be right?”

“That’s what they want you to think!”

“But I…wait…no….” Graham tried to turn back—he was supposed to make this choice, he was the king—but Acorn had him in his grip, marching him hastily down the road. Graham’s metal tipped boots clattered against stones as he tried to get his feet back under himself. His arms were pinned to his sides as he was pushed along, and that didn’t feel right, that feeling made his stomach twist unpleasantly, but he couldn’t…

They hurried down the tunnel, too nervous and out of breath from the escape to talk much, but after a few minutes, another fork in the road. Another split.

“Oh, no, we’re not doing this again,” Amaya groaned, as everyone looked to Graham. “Someone else should—”

“No, no. I. Hang on a sec. Let me think this one over,” Graham said, stepping away from Acorn so he couldn’t be grabbed again. He pushed the heavy crown back on his head. If he chose wrong…and these tunnels looked identical too. Like some scribe had simply copied them twice, next to each other. He could have sworn they hadn’t come down such twisting paths the first time he’d been pushed this way.

“Whisper could have taken both paths by now!”

“You’re thinking too hard. Let love guide you,” Bramble said, squeezing Graham’s hand.

“Oh, sweetycakes, you’re just so right,” Wente said, nuzzling her shoulder. “That’s the way, of course.”

“Love isn’t a cardinal direction,” Amaya said flatly.

“It should be,” Wente said, almost offended.

“The scenic route looks nice,” Acorn said.

“They look identical.”

“They both look like they head away from the goblins. That’s the way to go, let me tell ya.”

“Go with your heart.”

“Hurry up, Graham. Patience is not a virtue that blessed Whisper.”

“The answer is right in front of you!”

“Think it through, but quickly, my boy, please! My knees sure will appreciate it!”

“Charge again!”

“Left or right? Right or left?”

“If you can’t think quickly, guess assuredly!”

“This ain’t art, just pick one!”

“Ah, zards!” Graham wailed.

The room stopped chattering. “That’s not very kingly language,” Muriel said.

“But I do like a king of the people,” Chester grinned.

He could feel his eyes growing prickly with frustration, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, near enough to bleed. This was too much. This was like being back in his throne room, that stupid night of chaos, of accidental opposite day, of trumpets and acorns flying everywhere and his choices were mocked and he didn't have a minute to think, not a minute to breathe. And that horrible last idea with the decoy had barely worked--yeah, they were out, they had escaped, but that was by some grace of Daventrian gods, not because his plan had been any good, because stars, it had not been good, it had relied on luck, on slim chance, and even then it had barely worked. They'd nearly been captured again. He'd been captured after that throne room, the first time. The first nightmare. 

He had to make a choice here. Others were offering to make a choice for him, were forcing him into paths that he wasn't sure he wanted—and they meant well, stars hang it, they did, they did, but he couldn't let them. Couldn't accept their help. Because who would he be then? What kind of stupid, weak king? But what kind of stupid, weak king was he already? Anyway? He wasn't good at this. The last plan had been a mess. The throne room had been a mess. They were making choices without him, they didn't need him, shouldn't keep him around, this was dancing on an edge of a knife of his own making, his own fault, his own failures.

Not again, not again, not again. "I can't—I can't..." He stumbled backward, away, away, away. His hands were reaching for that crown. I need some air. I can't. I can't. He was going to drop it in the dirt. He was going to give up, give in, leave. Flee. Again, again. It would be best for everyone, really, surely. Acorn had picked the last one, he could pick this one, he could lead. Or Whisper could do it. But Graham. Graham was so tired. 

So tired.

And they were staring at him.

His split pocket kept splitting. There’d been more in there than just the key, after all. Two coins bounced out. The two he hadn’t spent at the merchant’s (whom he was now realizing he’d forgotten in the prison, oops). One coin with his face, that Wente had given him. One coin with the old queen’s, that he had found in the spider web, lost in the shadows of a forgotten underground maze.

In the stunned silence of the room, the clatter of gold on stone was too loud, and it snapped Graham out of his confusion. From his need to run. Muriel bent down and picked up the old coin. She rubbed it between her fingers. “Ohh,” she said, quietly. “Ohh, where did you find this old thing?”

“Somewhere,” Graham said, distantly, still taut with energy and drive and with nowhere to spend it.

“I haven’t seen her in an age. Edward’s grandmother. Oh, it’s been an age, an age. And there’s you, on this one.” She bent and picked up the new coin, too shiny with lack of use, too clean. Untested. “But the same crest on both, you know, see?”

There was a pause, as everyone stared at her now. Then, she continued: “King bo—Graham. Listen. Your ideas have worked so far, haven’t they? We’re out here now, aren’t we? All in one piece, too. And, more to that, right now, it doesn’t matter which road we take. They all go away from those cells. And that’s right and good. And we’ll talk about queens, and kings, when we’re off the path, away from this. There’s no wrong choice. Not now, and not later. Not for you. Not for her. Not for us. Choose a path, we’ll see it through, and we’ll make it work. All right?”

He nodded, wary and stiff, but…he nodded. The crown bobbled on his forehead.

“Then choose a road, sire.”

“Left is right, and right is wrong,” Graham said, after a deep breath. “We’ll go left.”

“But Whisper’s right, so, right?”

“Chester, I love you more than the sunset itself, but, shut up.”

The sobs echoed off the stalactites, grew in volume, surrounded him as he crept forward, his mouth dry and his heart pounding. 

What could possibly be down here? And crying? This place had been abandoned for years and years, dusty and hollow with silence. There shouldn’t have been anything here. And yet. And yet. The whimpers were unmistakable, yearning and lost and all the more terrifying. They shouldn’t be here. No one should be here.

There were stories of crying creatures in the dark, tempting travelers to come to them, then striking. Stories of monsters setting traps, calling and killing. Faceless ghosts wailing in the dark seeking vengeance for past crimes. Demons with long fingers and longer memories reaching out with hate in their eyes and a false sob in their throats.  

Graham inched forward. Fear crawled up his spine with each fresh wail, but he had to keep going. 

(Gwendolyn watched the little mirror king, clinging to her stuffed rabbit. “Weren’t you afraid?” 

“Terrified! But I’d rather face my fear than deal with my wild imagination. I’m afraid my mind could conjure a hundred deaths, a million monsters, but until I knew what I truly faced, they were simply nightmares, as fragile as spun sugar, as empty as the wind.”) 

The cave seemed to resent the voice, seemed irritated that something was disturbing its decades of sleep. The stones seemed sharper, the passage narrower, the shadows blacker. He couldn’t help but think of the puppets again, like the constant sound would rouse them, send them tottering down the tunnels looking for the source of the noise.  

He shuffled forward, scarcely breathing, until he finally reached a bend in the tunnel, finally could find what it was that was haunting these rooms.  

He was surprised to find that this cavern was fairly well lit, with the typical glowing mushrooms of all types and colors reaching up, revealing how high the ceiling was. Water that eventually fed the frog pond, and possibly his own damp cell further down the line, sparkled in the glow, bubbling over the rocks. And, huddled on the floor, wailing... 

Not a demon. Not a monster. Not a human. 

A goblin.  

It was curled in a ball, sobbing. Even from a distance, Graham could tell it was horribly bruised and banged and cut—he suspected it had fallen from more normal prison paths above them (maybe they were beneath the cavern he’d noticed near Acorn’s Jack in the Beanstalk tower?), fallen down the sloping walls, bounced off the mushrooms (several were freshly broken, proving his suspicion), and rolled to a stop down here. In this lost, dark place. 

It howled pitifully, clinging to its dented helmet. Graham wondered if it could stand, or if it had hurt itself too much. No one above seemed to have noticed its cries, or if its cries did carry up to the prisons above them, no one cared enough to bother trying to rescue their fallen friend. Goblin society was maybe a little too individualistic. Or maybe this had happened before and they knew it was too dangerous to try. Didn’t matter, though: all that mattered was that Graham and this goblin were alone down here, far, far away from any help.  

What to do. 

He could hardly leave it there, in pain and frightened, but he was hardly supposed to be down here himself. Would it be mad? It did have its spear—the shaft was splintered near the top, and the sharp bit was on the ground, but the goblin could still probably do something with the weapon if it didn’t care for Graham’s existence. And what was that old thing about wounded animals, they could be more dangerous than healthy ones? 

Still. 

He couldn’t leave it there in the dark, alone. He couldn’t.  

He inched forward again. The goblin took no notice of him at all, whimpering. It curled up tighter, its sobs muffled against its own armor for a moment.  

Other than the spear, the goblin had dropped other things as it fell. A coin, scraps of paper with fairy tales sketched on them, a key. 

A key.  

Graham’s heart stuttered. What kind of key? What was it for? This was a goblin guard from the prisons, he was certain. What kind of key was it carrying? Was it for the prisoners’ doors? Or, and he hardly dared breathe as he hoped this, was it the key to the door leading out into the goblin city, out into Daventry, the key to the door that would lead him home? 

He had to get it. He needed it. Stars above, what if, what if, what if?  

But the goblin would hate him getting his hands on that. It hadn’t noticed him yet, but the key was right next to it. The goblin could hardly fail to notice him if he got close enough to grab it, and the spear, even broken, was still a threat.  

Graham approached, and his boots rang against the floor. The goblin didn’t seem to react much. His foot nudged the key, but again, not much reaction.

“Hey,” he said.

The goblin lashed out, wailing—Graham stumbled back, out of the reach of its wildly swinging claws, but he tripped over an upraised rock behind him, sat down hard, and crawled back. In his pocket, the harp clanged as it dragged over the rock, and the goblin froze for half an instant before going back to scratching the air.

Graham realized the helmet was dented in such a way that the goblin probably couldn’t see him well. It would probably be easy to grab that key, to scramble away, with the goblin mostly unaware. It would be easy. Just keep walking.

But.

That wouldn’t be right.  

Wente didn’t believe I was going to help them. Did he think I lost my compassion when I became king?

He stayed sitting, out of the goblin’s reach. His friends needed him, but what kind of a king—no, what kind of a person—would he be if he just left this goblin here in the dark?

He needed to soothe it before it would listen, though; it kept swinging wildly in directions it thought he might be in. Talking probably wasn’t going to help, not if the goblin was tense and frightened. Hearing a human wouldn’t help. But.

Music might help. It always helped Graham, when he was feeling scared and alone. Humming or singing, or seeking out lute players or minstrels.

Graham pulled out the dented, out of tune, missing a string, harp. He ran his fingers across the strings, and even though the resulting noise was anything but sweet, the goblin paused again. It tilted its head, apparently trying to see him through the crushed eyeholes on the helmet. Graham strummed the instrument, unconsciously tuning a couple of the strings to try and help it sound nicer. The goblin inched toward him, dragging itself painfully along the stone floor. Graham tried not to flinch, tried to sit straight and confident, and he ran through a short, extremely simple lullaby, the sort of thing an aspiring student first learned, an easy melody Wente probably liked to hum while making his hot buns in the morning. It didn’t sound too awful on the harp, really, and the goblin seemed to appreciate it. It was still sniffling, with those gasping breaths of a person who’d just stopped a huge crying streak.

He strummed a few tuneless notes for a while, thinking. Thinking, thinking. Stories. The goblins loved stories. Maybe he should tell one.

He toyed with the strings, then, “Once upon a time,” he said, watching for a reaction. He instantly got one: the goblin sat up straight and eager, like a puppy. All right, then. He wondered if it was the cadence of the phrase, or if it could understand the plot. Only one way to find out.

“Once upon a time, there was a brave little goblin,” Graham said. “It lived in a huge goblin castle with all its friends. The goblins in this castle each had a role to play, and they did them all very well. They could act out any story, and they had been acting them out perfectly for years. Except, the brave little goblin was new to the castle, and he loved to tell stories of his own. But as he told his stories, he realized no one wanted to hear them. The brave little goblin was supposed to be following the stories already told, was supposed to be acting them out properly with the rest of the goblins. They talked over the brave little goblin, they ignored his new ideas, and they buried in him old stories he should memorize instead. The brave little goblin felt lonely. No one listened to him at all.”

In front of him, the goblin started sniffling again. Not in pain or fear, but apparently deeply touched by the story. I mean, it’s not that good, Graham thought, watching it. But I do appreciate an attentive audience, I guess.

(Gwendolyn glanced at her grandfather. “But you’re the king, shouldn’t everyone listen to you?”

“Ah, you’ve figured out my tale.”

“I mean. It’s not like it’s hard.”

“Gwendolyn, a fancy hat does not mean you are always right. And to be a good king, you have to be a good person. You have to earn the trust of those around you. Like I was trying to earn this goblin’s trust now, with a story.”)

“The brave little goblin decided he needed to go on a quest. He was going to find people willing to listen to his stories, even if they were very far away,” Graham continued. “But as he walked through the tunnels beyond the goblin castle, he lost his footing, and he fell.”

The goblin in front of him gasped, putting its hands over where its mouth probably was.

“He fell down a dark pit,” Graham said, eying the room in front of them. “He bounced off the mushrooms that grew in the dark, and he rolled beside an underground river, and he scraped along the hard stones, and he came to a crumpled stop in the darkness. He was more alone than he’d ever been before, and no one could hear his stories here. No one would ever see the little brave goblin again. He had fallen out of the story. He was lost.”

The goblin had decided that putting its hands over its helmet wasn’t enough. It grabbed the dented, damaged helmet, yanked it off—revealing huge floppy ears, giant eyes gleaming with tears, and a drippy button nose. It pressed its hands hard over its fanged mouth, leaning into Graham’s story with pale golden eyes better suited to seeing in the dark than Graham’s human eyes ever could.

“But the goblin was very brave,” Graham said. “He looked around the darkness, and he knew he could find a way out. Even if he was lost, the goblin knew he could fix this. The goblin told himself stories old and new about...about strong blacksmiths, about happy bakers, about wise alchemists, about confident knights, and the goblin felt stronger thinking about them. He even felt stronger thinking about the goblins he’d left in the castle. Everyone had a part to play, he knew, even him, even if he still had to figure out what his part was, exactly. Maybe…maybe he just had to show everyone he was more than what they thought. But. But he knew he was a part of the overall story, and he couldn’t just fall out of it. And he stood up, as brave and strong as ever with the stories behind him, supporting him, and he walked into the darkness, seeking a way back to his friends.”

The goblin clapped eagerly. It chittered something Graham couldn’t even begin to understand, and it pointed at the caves around them.

“Yeah, like the story,” Graham said, hoping he was agreeing with it instead of condemning himself to something he wouldn’t like. The goblin sat back, grinning toothily at Graham, then admired the room again, pleased that its actions had created a story.

Daventry’s sheer beauty still caught him off guard, even after a handful of weeks living here and calling it home. The autumn morning practically glittered, hardly a cloud in the endless sky. It promised to get awfully hot later, summer giving one final hurrah before giving way to icy winds, but for right now it was perfect. Birds and squirrels chirped and chattered in the trees around him, and he inhaled deeply, the sweet air full of promises.

Promises of baked goods, specifically. He knew Wente had been prepping for this day for a week, his ovens hardly ever allowed to cool. He could taste sugar on the air as he neared town.

The market was supposed to be held in the town square, but the walled town had its limits, and the market had grown over the years. Booths spilled out of the open gate, lining the front entrance. Tablecloths and tents flapped in the breeze, held in place by a dizzying array of goods of all types. Crafts and foods and art and all kinds of wonderful trinkets magical and mundane.

Daventry townsfolk were freely wandering between the stalls, chatting and laughing, but Graham saw plenty of people he didn’t recognize, too—travelers from all over. People from further afield in Daventry, like Mannerly Stove, sure, but more than that. He saw some Serenian style cloaks, and he was certain that the little sunburned group over there was made of Llewdorians. According to Amaya, the market was a popular destination, and the last one of the season always drew a crowd. She especially liked it since it was one of the few times she was sure to get a customer base that could afford her wares properly.

Speaking of Amaya. Her booth was right in front of her forge. It gave off a metallic tang of oil, almost spicy, and sharp things glinted in the sunlight. At least for half of it. With geometrical precision, her table was divided in half, not one thing allowed to cross into the other half. One side was full of weaponry, and the other side…petunias.

“And they are most lovely,” Amaya said sternly when she saw him looking. Each multicolored bouquet was beautifully arranged, and not a single petal so much as shivered over the invisible line dividing her table between weapons and flowers. Not just petunias. Roses and sunflowers and all kinds of other flowers he didn’t recognize.

“From your garden?” he asked.

“I always grow a section for this. Besides, the first frost’ll be here before we know it. Better to send them off to a good home before that.”

“They grow up so fast,” Graham joked.

She chucked an acorn at him.

“How much?” he asked, ducking and laughing.

“One shiny gold coin, of course.”

Flowers would definitely make his little knight-assigned tower room look great and smell nice, and he could press and dry them after to make the winter feel brighter. He hadn’t done much to decorate yet—the pumpkin lantern was on the bedside table, and he’d pinned up his favorite rumpled map of Daventry. The map was worn soft as Triumph’s belly from repeated wear and tear, folding and unfolding, tracing his fingers along the paths he’d meant to walk, someday. He still couldn’t quite believe he’d made it, that the landscape outside his window was the same as what was printed on his paper. He’d also pinned up a little picture, an entrance form. Not his entrance form. Someone else’s. Something small, and special, and important.

He flipped a coin at Amaya, which she deftly caught, and she let him choose his favorite pot. He went for something with a ton of purple, his smile a little sadder than before as he made his selection. His fingers traced the delicate petals, and he inhaled deeply. But it wasn’t just flowers he could smell—Wente’s booth was just over there, and Graham knew where he was headed next. He held the pot in the crook of his elbow and happily wandered over, boots ringing against cobblestones.

It was a good thing his cloak had lots of pockets, he thought, as he studied trays upon trays of every baked treat he could think of, and plenty more he couldn’t. Pies, of course, and tarts, and cupcakes, and loaves of bread still steaming in the sunlight. Studded with nuts, cheese, chocolate chips, berries, and more wild things like starberries and sugarshrooms and—

“Graham!” Wente eased himself around the edge of the stall, going for a hug. “I’m so glad you could make it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it! Is that strudel? I didn’t get to try it at the tournament.”

“Heard Princess Madeline had a sweet tooth.”

“And a good sense of vengeance for Acorn’s sake.”

“Did you know he’s here? He got a booth after all! He’s just over there!”

“Oh! That’s really good! I wasn’t sure if he would, he’d been so nervous about going for it.” Graham waved, but Acorn didn’t notice him over the crowd. He’d have to go over to say hi properly.

“Wish he hadn’t,” Chester interrupted. He’d been standing at the corner of Wente’s table, with a perfectly innocent look on his face that didn’t match the crumbs all over his tunic. “He’s doing folk art, the lowest craft you can imagine.”

“Now, Chester, you know a good piece of art can feel like a warm hug for your eyes!” Wente said. “And that’ll be a gold coin for all those muffins, thanks.”

“I can craft you a better potion that’ll actually hug your eyes,” Chester grumbled, passing over a grubby coin and shaking crumbs into the cobblestones. “None of this knitwear, how embarrassing. Come to our booth, boy, and we’ll show you some properly interesting art. Of the magical kind.”

First, Graham loaded his pockets with all kinds of treats and snacks. Wente handed over a couple soft loaves of bread that smelled of rosemary and lavender, chocolate chip cupcakes, and other berry-filled treats, asking for just a single gold coin in return. Then, with a wink, he tossed in a free walnut strudel. “Enjoy the rest of the market,” he said brightly.

“Graham!” Muriel chirped, waving him over to her stand next door. “Or, is it Sir Graham, now?”

“Yep!” Graham beamed.

“I can hardly believe it,” she said. “Seems like that tournament was only yesterday. How’s castle life treating you?”

“Really great, I’ve got my own room, and Royal Guard Number One’s been teaching me the marches, and I’ve been practicing my archery. King Edward said something about my first quest soon, I think he wants to send me up to the Cliffs of Insanity—I guess we need iocane powder for something, from the flowers there?”

“Oh, that’s for us!” Muriel said. “Some rare and miraculous ingredients are too hard for even that Merchant to get his hands on. You’ve got to send knights off on those quests sometimes.”

“What’s it for?”

“I can’t recall. Some order. I’ll have to double check what it’s supposed to make. You be careful handling those flowers, though, they can make you sick if you touch them with your bare skin.”

“I shall be cautious in all my flower picking,” he said, with a sharp salute.

“But before all that, anything you’re looking for in the market?” she asked. She spread her hands wide, showing off the table in front of her. It was littered with tiny little bottles full of interesting things, glittery potions and funny trinkets. Some glass marbles moved under their own power, spinning gently, with what looked like galaxies held in their centers. She had spell books arranged in a teetering pile, and feathers pinned under glass, and rings and necklaces that glowed even in the sunlight.

“Just looking,” Graham said. And then something caught his eye. “Oooh, what’s that?”

A little brooch sat on the table, half buried behind all the other bits and baubles and things. It was the little red gems that had caught his attention, rubies flashing in the sunlight.

“It’s a cloak pin,” she said. “You like it? It’s the same type I use for my shawl.”

“I kinda do, yeah.” He couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from it. It didn’t feel magical, exactly, but he was drawn to it, nevertheless.

“Lean over here, boy, let me pin it on.” She gestured him forward, and he leaned close. She smelled like magic and mint, and she gently gathered up some of his cloak fabric and slipped the little brooch in place. “Now, stand back, let’s get a good look at you.” He posed for her, and she laughed. “Like it was meant to be yours!”

“How much?” He fingered it, the soft rubies almost warm against his touch.

“Oh, it looks so grand on you. It doesn’t have any magic, it’s only a little thing I made a while ago. Ages ago, now I think of it. Waiting for the right person. I think I’d be honored if you wore it, Sir Graham.”

“Plus, it’s free shop advertising for us,” Chester said.

Graham insisted on a shiny gold coin, and the Hobblepots agreed, though Muriel pushed a couple tiny vials of starlight into his hands too, for the coin. “To light your path, if it gets too dark on your quest,” she said, smiling fondly at him. “It really does look like it was made for you, you know.”

“Thank you, truly.” He’d been thinking about what he wanted his knight’s uniform to look like—knights could pick what they wanted in Daventry, and he had that minor in Creative Costuming from Knight School. He thought he could work this brooch into something great. He almost couldn’t wait to get back to the castle so he could sketch out a couple ideas, but there was still more to see here.

Acorn’s booth was next. Graham remembered how nervous Acorn had been, fussing back and forth about submitting his application to be added to the roster, and apparently he’d built up enough courage—and knitted enough stuff—to make it in. At least, partly. His nerves and time must have gotten the better of him, because he hadn’t managed to fill a whole table by himself. His booth was neatly divided in half, like Amaya’s. One half was covered in soft blankets, scarves, socks, in a huge array of colors and yarns.

The other half was Whisper.

Huge copies of Whisper’s application form, sketched to silly sizes, while the true Whisper posed in front of them and offered autographs to everyone passing by, if they looked at his posters or not. He also had a little array of pots on the table in front of him, with drawings of Whisper on them. “Whisper’s deLUX hair ointment,” they read, in beautiful looping signatures.

Royal Guard Number One was standing nearby, leaning in to whisper to Whisper. He had one of the hair ointment bottles in his gauntleted hands, rotating it almost nervously. Graham couldn’t help but lean in to listen:

“And you’re certain this works on mustaches without a problem?”

“It’ll make your face hair as silky smooth as Whisper’s top hair!”

“Yes, but, you see, the last mustache shampoo I bought from the Hobblepots turned it pink. It never washed out. I had to start over. You understand why I cannot repeat that tragedy. You swear that won’t happen with this?”

“It’s animal tested!” Whisper said brightly, pointing to a little animal drawing on the side of the label.

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“Whisper snuck into the royal stables and washed Graham’s gerbil with it, and Graham’s gerbil did not turn pink. It did get lovely and extra fluffy, though. Mane for days. Almost as good as Whisper’s!”

Graham nodded thoughtfully. So that’s why Triumph had been so soft last week. He’d thought it was just good castle feed. He’d have to pick up a jar of that stuff for his best buddy; Triumph deserved everything after all the hard work he’d done getting them from Llewdor to here. And…yes, the tiny animal drawing was of Triumph, not of a bunny as he’d first thought. Another shiny gold coin gone: his pockets were starting to get a bit light.

“Hey, Acorn!” he said, waving.

“Graham!” Acorn looked up from the pile of scarves he was meticulously rearranging. “Hey buddy, how’s the festival?”

“Really good so far, I’ve found some really great things. How’s business?”

“Oh, y’know, surprisingly good. I didn’t think Daventry had good taste, after that sock thing in the tournament, but everyone really loves them. Aside from the pairs the castle bought, a ton of people here want them, too!”

“That’s because they’re like walking on clouds,” Graham said, repeating something Number One had said a couple weeks ago. Nearby, Number One glanced up, then turned back to his whispered conversation about hair products. “How long did all this take you?” He ran a hand along one of the blankets, the deep blue so eye catching in the sunlight. It was ridiculously soft, and he could tell it would be wonderfully warm in winter.

“Oh, not too long. I listened to my stories while knitting.”

“Stories?”

“Squirrel chatter. Good as any gossip you get from guards. Princess Madeline has seen some things, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do…but I don’t think I want to ask.”

“Well, I want to thank you for pushing me to apply for this,” Acorn said. “I wasn’t gonna, you know. But I thought, well, with the rebranding, now’s probably a great time to really show off my stuff. Get a foothold in the town, you know.”

“So, you’re staying in Daventry?”

“Yeah. I only applied for the tournament for my parents, remember? Since that fell through, I’ve got all the time in the world, and I like it here. I think I wanna settle.”

Of all the places to end up, Daventry felt like a pretty good spot. Graham had certainly been more than happy enough with his choice so far.

Graham realized he was still touching the blanket, dragging his hand back and forth across it. It reminded him of Triumph’s fur. He thought about winter, about his little tower room that overlooked the lavender fields, and he thought about how in a few months’ time the fields would be laden with snow. “Hey, Acorn, how much for this one?”

“That’s a good one! Love the color; it’s almost the same as my cloak. Turned out super great. For that one, one shiny gold coin should do it.”

“You got it, big guy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Acorn said, rolling his eyes and catching Graham’s coin out of the air. “You got anything else you’re after today?”

“Not really. I’ll probably just wander around now, there’s all the little offshoot alleys. You could spend half the day here.” And he intended to do just that.

He could see vegetables, brightly colored fruit, bundles of lavender, and jars full of sweet golden honey. His coin purse was light, but his pockets had a comforting weight to them now instead, his hard-earned wages in the hands of his friends. The morning’s golden light glittered. The warming air smelled strongly of lavender, sugar, bread, and, just beneath it, that crisp autumn scent of Daventry itself. There were a couple bards wandering around now, too, strumming and singing. Someone selling sparkling apple cider was calling. All told, it was a perfect start to the day.

He fingered the brooch on his cloak again, this little piece of his new life pinned to his old life. He checked his pockets, to make sure none of the pies were getting smooshed or the bottle of shampoo was leaking or his beautiful purple flowers were wilting. He set off for another booth piled high with tapestries and books and maps, and another one filled with the last fruit of the season, and another filled with lavender products freshly made from Daventry’s fields. Ready to see everything this town had to offer him, all the things they had made and grown and built and loved. Just for him.

“Goblins love stories so much that they force everyone around them to playact with them,” Grandpa said. “Do you remember all the stories the villagers were living?”

“Sure!” Gwendolyn counted them out on her fingers. “Wente and Bramble, the bakers, were in the Gingerbread Man. Amaya was the Big Bad Wolf, ready to blow down her house of sticks. The Hobblepots…um.”

“I was never sure either, but I like to think they were Hansel and Gretel, with their witchcraftery and interest in food, but I suppose any sort of witch in any fairy tale would do.”

“Like the witch in Jorinda and Joringel?”

“Now, where did you hear about a rare story like that?” Graham was impressed.

“Mom knows like, every story ever written, I bet.”

“The libraries in the Green Isles are quite extensive. Cassima must have had a good selection of books growing up.” Graham nodded at the mirror. “The goblins knew lots of good stories, too—there was another one that we didn’t talk about last time. A fairly famous fairy tale. I bet you know that one about Jack and the Beanstalk, right?”

“Of course, Grandpa.”

“The version you know probably didn’t have a giant that looked like this, though.”

~*~*~

After being on a diet of vile squishy porridge for a couple days, getting some meat (of questionable origin, don’t think too hard about it) had given Graham a burst of energy that he desperately needed. He was prowling the upper levels of the spiraling stairs, trying to get past a grumbling goblin guard. 

There was a rusty lever that he could push to activate some sort of alarm, making the mushrooms pulse in a bizarre way that he would forget to ask Muriel about. He fumbled in his pocket for the cobwebby rag, carefully folded on itself so the abnormally sticky web wouldn’t ruin his pockets. The spiders down here had to be unique to make something so sticky. He’d have to be careful not to run into any of them; no telling what sort of prey such things would like to eat.

But it was perfectly fine to use a little inventively, he thought, eying the puzzle before him. It was easy enough to trick the goblin guard into touching the lever with cobweb draped over it, temporarily trapping him in place. Graham slipped past while the poor guard struggled to untangle himself.

The new room soared around him, huge and echoey. Cool air pushed his curly hair around. Huge chasms yawned around him, and he cautiously kicked a pebble into one, listening to it plink and bounce against the rock sides. He wasn’t sure if he heard it land, or if it was just more echoes. Something dark and deep down there. Probably best avoided.

Ahead of him, a series of goblins were clustered around the base of a column, all looking up and chittering. One was swinging an axe. A tall line of thick vines was already half on the ground, chopped edges raw in the dim light. It looked like he’d been chopping for a while, but the others were pushing him aside and yelling and pointing up, like he’d forgotten to do something first.

And, standing at the top of the column, high above the goblins…Acorn.

Okay, not standing. He was lying prone on some platform up there, gripping the edge of the rock ledge for dear life, and even though Graham couldn’t make out an expression through that helmet, he could imagine the terrified look the knight had to be wearing. 

“’Fee-fi-fo-fum.’ All right, I said it. Can I get down now?” He wailed, “I really, really don’t like heights!” The goblins ignored him. “All right, fine,” he said, shakily, and continued to recite, stiff as a child rehearsing a school play. “’Be he alive, or be he dead. I’ll grind his bones to make my bread.’ Ooh, yeah, that’s nasty. Wente would not like that.”

Graham could see a little sign next to the base of the column now, with a drawing of a beanstalk on it, and a little golden goose. Of course. Jack and the Beanstalk.

The goblin chosen to be Jack, wearing a tattered leather jerkin, had been chopping down the vines they must have used to haul Acorn up to the top of the platform. He twirled the rusty axe, and Graham’s fingers itched to get hold of it, to get it to Amaya, but he couldn’t risk such a move in front of the four or so goblins glaring at the axe-holder. They pointed aggressively again, and Graham could see a couple of golden painted things next to Acorn. A harp and…yes, a common duck, with what looked like glittery paint dumped on it. It squawked and landed on Acorn’s helmet. He hoped the duck would be okay with the paint on its wings, but it was already dripping off, so Graham suspected the paint was more water based than anything else.

Apparently, “Jack” was doing things out of order and had gotten too excited with the chopping down part. He’d forgotten to gather the giant’s treasures first. A scrambled fist fight was starting to break out between the players. Costume pieces were at risk, though they weren’t particularly quality pieces to begin with. 

“If you let me down, I’ll knit you all sweaters,” Acorn said, swatting a hand briefly in the duck’s direction before clamping back down on the ledge. The duck fluttered back into place on his helmet and pecked at one of the horns on it. “Come on, fun size, you know you want a sweater. Or, at the very least, your Jack costume could use some work. Do you have any fabric allergies? I know a guy…if you’d let me down.”

Since the beanstalk vine ladder was now cut in half, there wasn’t much they could do to continue the game. They turned and walked off in a huff, still pulling on each other’s tattered cow ear headbands and stained costume tunics and normal helmets and snarling at each other. They ignored Graham completely. He stared after them, noting with vague disappointment that they were taking the axe with them. So much for that idea.

“Wait til Princess Madeline hears about this,” Acorn sighed. “Too bad she’s at music night. At least this will make a few good pages for my scrapbooking project. Helloooo! Is anyone else down there?”

“Acorn!”

“Princess Madeline, is that you?”

Graham hesitated. “Does it sound like Princess Madeline?”

“…no, I suppose not.” Acorn leaned a little further over the ledge, knuckles turning white against his grip as he tried to look down into the shadows. “King Graham? Is that you, little buddy?”

“Yeah! What are you doing up there?”

“Learning how to yodel. What do you think? I got pounced by goblins and dragged down here and they put me up here and I’m afraid of heights and I want to get down now.”

“How can you be afraid of heights? Aren’t you the tallest person in Daventry?”

“Somehow, that feels insensitive.”

“Sorry,” Graham said, smiling sheepishly. “But I’m not sure how to get you down. The goblins cut off the ladder.”

“I wish I had my trapping ropes, or something,” Acorn said glumly. “I didn’t think I’d need ‘em on a walk with Whisper. We were looking for a specific flower, for my paint dyes. It’s hard to see on a clear day, but it’s got a glowy edge to it when it gets wet, so, the rain, y’know. He wanted to come, ‘cos I use the dye to print the labels for his hair treatment line. But we didn’t get far outta town before we got jumped.”

“Whisper too?” Something was happening here. He just couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Why did it seem like all the friends he had in Daventry had been caught with him? It wasn’t like there weren’t other knights or villagers in Daventry. Cooper Smith, a man whose name and profession didn’t make much sense at all, hadn’t made an appearance down here, but Amaya and Acorn had. But. Why?

“Yeah, but I haven’t seen him for a while, we got split up in the dark and the tunnels and I dunno, maybe he got away. I sure didn’t, though. Would you hurry up and think of a way to get me down? I’m really just a sensitive artist, you know, I’m not built for whatever this thing is.”

“I’ll think of something,” Graham said.

“Hurry up!” Acorn glanced at the pile of treasures the goblins had left him. “I think I’d rather have a golden harp stolen from me more than my dignity,” he muttered.

Graham paced around the base of the split vines. The goblins had left behind a shovel, which he quickly claimed, though he wondered vaguely if a goblin might protest it as a potential weapon. The dirt was freshly disturbed. He curiously checked it, and he uncovered a handful of beans. “Oh, magic beans!”

(“Magic beans,” Gwendolyn repeated, emphasis on the beans.)

“You know those aren’t real, right?” Acorn said, looking on. “Real ones aren’t purple. Or glittery.”

“Never look a gift bean in the mouth,” Graham said, stuffing them in a pocket. “They could be really beanificial later.”

“I’d smack your feather hat right off your head for that if you were still wearing it. The crown looks nice, by the way. Bespoke craftsmanship. I wish I was into metalworking like that sometimes. But you know how it is. Gotta pick a craft and stick to it, else your closet’ll just fill up with unused tools.”

“It’s, uh. Well. Thanks.” Graham shifted it back on his head, feeling the weight of it again. Best to not get into it now, really. He ran a hand over the vines, but they seemed pretty mangled and destroyed. “I’m not sure I can fix this yet,” he said. “Acorn? Are you okay hanging around up there a little bit while I look for something to help?”

“No, I was thinking of going for a little stroll around the caves. Of course I’ll stay up here, Graham.”

“Uh. Right. Sorry. I’ll be back, I promise!”

“You’d better hurry up. Ya’ll are lucky the bull is retired, or else I might start throwin’ things.”

“Right, right. Sorry. I’ll find something, promise.” And he pushed deeper into the caves, Acorn muttering under his breath behind him.

~*~*~

Quite aside from Acorn’s tower, Graham found all kinds of fascinating things and places he would have loved to poke his nose into. But he couldn’t explore them all properly, distracted by the sound of a scuffle. He hurried past a room filled with strange hexagonal rocks, down a little dark side tunnel that he wouldn’t have even noticed if it hadn’t been for the racket beyond.

He hadn’t gotten far before he realized he recognized at least one of the voices.

“Don’t fret, little rock goblins. Whisper will sign all the things!”

“Oh no.” Graham started to run. Mushrooms kicked up iridescent spores as he dashed forward. They floated down gently behind him. He skidded around a bend, arm flung out to catch a stalactite that dripped nearly to the ground, spinning around the corner, boots scraping, and he slid to a halt, staring.

Whisper stood in the center of a surging pack of goblins, at least a dozen, all pushing and pulling and trying to get him to move, while he stood perfectly steady, giant signing pen in hand, scribbling on helmets with elaborate flourishes.

“No need to push, you crazy little fans,” he chided. “Don’t crowd! Don’t crowd! …okay, crowd. Whisper loves a crowd.”

“Oh, no.” Graham repeated, stepping back. They hadn’t noticed him yet, but somehow he didn’t think he’d be able to keep his balance in that crowd quite as well as Whisper could. He was sick of being tackled.

“Who should I make this out to? Rocky Stoneman?” Whisper asked, jotting something down on a goblin arm. “Unique individual message for you. And unique individual message for you. And unique individual message—” he glanced up. “Graham! It’s been far too long! And I see you’ve earned your mane of excellence, just look at that shiny hat! It’s nearly as good as mine! Well! Whisper has, and will continue to be, a fan. And speaking of fans! Fans, my fans, right this way! Follow me!” He marched forward, pushing past spears and hands without a pause.

“It’s good to see you too, Whisper, but those aren’t—”

“Can we push this line against the wall?” Whisper yelled over the chittering mass. “Oh, yes, I totally remember you from Adventure Con,” he said, beaming at a fierce goblin with a spear trying to prod his arm but failing due to the armor, the sharp point plinking uselessly off reflective metal. “I would love to sign your baby!”

“Whisper!”

“My fan club rocks!”

Graham sighed. “Whisper, that’s not what they are.”

“Of course they are! Who else would they possibly be?”

“Really dangerous kidnappers?”

“Not with cute little faces like that!”

“They’re wearing masks!”

“They’re still adorable. Back up, people, Whisper needs to talk to King Graham!”

The goblins paused, all turning to glare at Graham. He shrank back, hand pressing against his crown to stop it slipping down over his eyes. “No, it’s okay, I’m supposed to be here. I’m, uh.” He searched his pockets frantically, and he came up with a little dustpan and broom a goblin had thrown at his head yesterday. “I’m just sweeping this tunnel!” He swirled dust this way and that, grinning tightly. Which was entirely pointless since the tunnel was nothing but dirt and dust, but no matter. “Just chores! It's fine! We’re all fine! This is fine!”

They seemed to reluctantly accept this, and they went back to trying to push Whisper forward. The knight was perfectly poised and perfectly planted though, and he was not going to be swept off his feet. Probably because he’d practiced sweeping too many other people off their feet.

“So, Graham! What brings you here?”

“Um. They did.”

“Mmmhmm, nice, nice,” Whisper said, definitely not listening at all. “Look, do you think you could help me form an orderly line here? Whisper’s pretty sure he’s signed the same helmet twice.”

“I don’t think they want your autograph, Whisper.”

“Of course they do! What else could they possibly want?”

“Probably to push you into a fairy tale reenactment. That’s what’s been happening to everyone else so far.”

“Everyone else?”

“All the villagers are here, too.”

“Oooh, even the enchanting Miss Amaya Blackstone?”

“Don’t sound so pleased.”

“Yes, well. Fairy tales, hmm? I wonder which one Whisper would get! Which one has the most handsome famous adventuring prince in it, Graham?”

“I could definitely hear you being in Beauty and the Beast for some reason.”

“So long as Whisper is Beauty!”

“Sure. Oh! Speaking of fairy tales!” Graham turned to face the goblins. “Hey! Guys! Um. I mean.” He cleared his throat and upped the dramatics, complete with elaborate hand gestures. “Attention, attention, hear ye, hear ye, and all that!”

They stopped chittering and poking Whisper with their spears and turned to face Graham, spears raised in his direction instead. Graham stepped back again, hands now frozen in a pleading defense. “No, no, no, hang on, I want to make a trade. For your knight. I have something much better!” He hoped none of these goblins were the ones that had been playing Jack and the Beanstalk back in the other room or had been part of the arts and crafts team that had painted these ordinary beans purple.

“Better than Whisper! No such thing!” Whisper said, affronted, hand to his chest. His signing pen splattered ink across a few goblins.

“Shut up, Whisper,” Graham hissed out of the corner of his mouth, keeping as wide and desperate a grin as he could in the face of prickling spears. “Now, who amongst you is the wisest goblin? I, as the very important King of Daventry, can only deal with the wisest goblin, to trade for that knight there for these incredible and very real magic beans!” He withdrew the little handful from his pocket.

“You know those aren’t real, right?” Whisper said, eyeing them. “Real ones aren’t—”

“Whisper.”

“All right, fine, it’s your fault for making bad trades.”

One of the goblins started to step forward, apparently deciding it was the wisest goblin best suited to this trading task, but another goblin took great offense at that and shoved him back. Meanwhile, a third had started forward, hands outstretched, and another swatted his arms with a spear shaft. The hit goblin hit back. Another goblin, totally unrelated to the budding argument, decided now was a good time to take revenge for some earlier offense and stepped in. A helmet got shoved off, an ear got yanked, the goblins started wailing and tackling and leaping at each other. Graham ducked to avoid a swinging spearpoint.

“Whisper, come on.” He shoved the purple beans back in his pocket. One or two bounced loose and pinged across the floor, which just added to the chaos as goblins lunged for them. “Let’s go!”

“But, my fans!”

“There’s plenty more around here, don’t worry about that.”

“Oh, all right,” Whisper said reluctantly. He turned and sketched a dramatic bow at the crowd of yelping scuffling goblins, saying, “The building has left Whisper! Adieu! Farewell! May we find each other again at another, more organized, venue!” As he bowed, a stack of signed portraits fell out of his armor, and Graham instinctively scooped a few up to return them later. 

Graham watched over his shoulder as they scrambled out of the tunnel, but no one followed them, at least not right away. He pushed Whisper into an alcove, out of sight in the shadows. A lizard chirped at them and flared bright blue, irritated at the intrusion, casting glittery reflections across Whisper’s armor.

“Whisper, I’m so glad to see you,” Graham said, and he grabbed the knight in a trembling hug, fierce and tight like Whisper would vanish into the shadows and leave him alone again. “I mean, I’m not, you shouldn’t be here, but—do you know what’s happening?”

“Not a clue! But Whisper thinks it looks like more adventure sought out you.” He pushed Graham back a pace and gently tilted his chin so they were looking eye to eye (helmet). “Ready for more adventures?”

Graham shakily smiled, adrenaline starting to fade after the goblin faceoff. “Always.” He straightened his crown, and tried to look regal and expectant and ready, but then his knees gave out and he sank against Whisper again. “Ha…with some help.”