*Feb 9, 2017 - Author's Note: For those of you waiting for a new chapter: it's in the making and it will be posted. However, I am currently swamped by other responsibilities. Therefore I must ask you for a little patience. I hope to update soon, just... not yet. ;) ~Josje

*May 8, 2017 - UPDATE: I apologize to all of you who reached out to me for an update. My life is currently in turmoil and I cannot for the life of me make time to sit down and write. Thank you for understanding. I will be back! ~Josje

47 Prison

"We cannot let this continue, Arthur."

Ruccius paced around his office, muttering curses under his breath. Coming to a stop when he reached the window, the Roman sighed and closed his eyes.

"I would hate to lose him," he said finally.

Resting his head against the cold window, Ruccius stared at a passing infantry unit in the main street of the fort. "The boy could be a valuable asset to the army," he said with regret. "He is smart, skilled, and his resolve is remarkable for one so young." He turned to face Arthur. "Haven't you heard? The other day I took the oxtail to his back. Had him screaming from the first lash and drew blood from the third. Turned out he was innocent. Didn't breathe a word against his brothers."

Ruccius gazed at Arthur, who sat pale faced in a chair beside Ruccius' desk.

"Arthur, he is twelve. But if he does it again, I will sentence him to death. These attempts on the men's lives are undermining the morale. Your men are risking their lives for Rome. We must guarantee that no harm will come to them from within our ranks. They deserve to feel safe in their beds. We owe it to them."

Ruccius pounded his fist in his hand and resumed his pacing. He tugged at the neck of his shirt and little pearls of sweat ran down the side of his face.

Arthur watched him quietly. This man held Balan's life in his large hands; hands that harshly punished all who failed to meet his standards of perfection. It was a relief to see Ruccius' discomfort; to see the human side of Ruccius do battle with his inner war machine. But Balan's life was hanging by a thread.

Ruccius paused at the window. "Do we have any proof of his guilt?"

"No," replied Arthur. "Circumstances all point to Balan, but no-one has seen him do it. There is no solid proof, nothing to incriminate him with."

Ruccius cursed softly.

"Arthur, we must be certain before we act. Executing a boy this young will create a wave of unrest, regardless of his crime. Unrest we can handle. But finding out afterwards that it was a miscarriage of justice? Disastrous! We could have a mass revolt on our hands. And if it spreads to the villages…"

He paused and stared at Arthur.

"You know what I'm getting at, right?"

Arthur nodded wearily. His main concern lay with Balan's safety, but as a future garrison commander he had no choice but to consider the bigger picture. Increasing attacks on local settlements had given rise to discontent among the native population. Many Britons openly questioned the validity of Roman rule, if Rome failed to protect them from invading tribes.

It was a matter of grave concern. If the Britons were to unite and rise up against Rome, the army would beat down their opposition with great force. But victory would come at a steep price. It would take years to rebuild peaceful relations with the locals, further destabilizing Rome's position in the area. Furthermore, as the Britons truly stood no chance against the well-trained Roman army, the loss of native lives would be grievous, disrupting families and communities. Skilled craftsmen, farmers and shepherds would be lost in battle, weakening the local supply chain. Arthur sighed. Ruccius had every reason to tread carefully.

Ruccius sat down behind his desk and buried his face in his hands.

"Let's hope that a month in prison will cure that boy. I suggest that you talk to him, Arthur. Whippings appear to have an adverse effect on him, or I would have flogged him raw. Try to gain his confidence. He is still young. You might be able to talk some sense into him."

Arthur's finger traced the lines in the desk's wooden surface. He wished nothing more than to guide Balan back to the straight and narrow, if only he knew how.

"Bedivere believes that someone is framing him," he said thoughtfully.

"Does he now?" asked Ruccius. An expression of deep concern appeared on the commander's face. Ruccius placed high value on the oldest scout's opinion. Bedivere had an unusual instinct for picking up traces and clues that no-one else noticed. If Bedivere smelled deception, chances were high that he would end up being right. Ruccius grimaced. The idea of another – unknown – murder suspect in his garrison was far from inviting.

"Send Bedivere to me at once. He must tell me of his findings."

Arthur nodded curtly and got to his feet. The meeting was over.

Balan counted the passing of time by the three-hourly calls of the buccina. The blaring of the brass military horn announcing the watches could be heard throughout the fort, even in Balan's underground prison cell. But time played tricks on him here. The interval between two watches seemed to stretch on forever.

He lay on his cot and stared at the tiny square of daylight in the top right corner of his cell. The prison guards had brought him a straw mattress and two threadbare blankets. The latter smelled of urine and stale sweat, but he was grateful for the warmth they offered, as it was cold in his cell. He turned on his side and listened hard for the sound of a door slamming in the distance. Twice a day two guards came down to bring him food and a jug of water. He looked forward to these moments of having company. But the dark corridor remained as silent as the grave.

Thoughts encroached on him in the darkness. Once his wounds had begun to heal, anger and rage had replaced his apathy. He had yelled at – and argued with – non-present knights like Tristan and Bors about the injustice of his situation. In his fury, he had smashed his water jug against the mossy wall, and when his guards had brought him supper, he had thrown it back through the bars of his cell. The guards had merely shrugged and walked away, and Balan had cursed them in Sarmatian, Latin and Briton until the door had slammed behind them in the distance. He had regretted it afterwards: he had been hungry and thirsty all night, and he had barely slept, afraid that his guards would not bring him food anymore. But the next morning they had returned with breakfast as usual.

Balan sighed. He longed for his father to come for him and take him home. He knew that it was impossible, but his desire to be with his parents was so strong that it hurt. One night he had grasped the bars of his cell and cried until he had no more tears left. But no-one came for him here. Apart from the scuttling of rats and the faint noises of life in the fort, he never heard another sound. He had wondered if a very quiet prisoner might be nearby. But the guards weren't bringing food to anyone else. No other doors were opened but his own. He was alone.

A rat scurried across the floor of Balan's cell and poked its head into an empty bowl. Balan watched listlessly as it sniffed at the remnants of his porridge. His anger of the previous days had dissipated and his apathy had returned. Being idle all day long was terrible; he hadn't left his cot since breakfast.

Hopelessness threatened to overwhelm him. No-one would ever believe him. The knights all despised him and Bors wanted him dead. Tristan refused to talk to him and Arthur... well, Arthur was just a Roman. "Romans are quick to judge and punish. They are rash and do not listen to common sense, especially if you are a recruit," his father had warned.

He stared blankly into the darkness and scratched his itching shoulder. The rat, meanwhile, sat contentedly inside Balan's bowl and licked with fervor. A faint smile crossed Balan's face. The rat reminded him of Gilly. He rather liked his furry companion.

A door slammed in the distance, followed by heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. Balan waited apprehensively. The buccinator had not yet sounded the third watch, so it was not yet midday. His guards would not bring him his next meal until nightfall. He wasn't expecting anyone.

When the footsteps came nearer, two guards appeared with a torch. One of them opened Balan's cell.

"You! Over here!" he barked gruffly.

Balan slipped out from under his blankets and approached the guard warily.

The guard put a firm hand on Balan's shoulder and steered him out of his cell, into the dark corridor. The other guard followed behind.

"Where are we going?" asked Balan timidly.

The guards did not answer. They led him up the stairs and down another long corridor. Near the end they knocked four times on a solid wooden door. It swung open and Balan was blinded by daylight. Having spent five days in near total darkness, he cried out in pain and covered his eyes. A gentle breeze caressed his face as the guards pushed him across the threshold. Eager to see where he was, he peered between his fingers. A blurry image appeared and gradually came into focus. They were in a peristyle, an inner courtyard lined with columns. The columns supported a long roof, which formed a shaded walkway around the entire perimeter. Iron fences between the columns ensured that no prisoner entered the courtyard itself. However, a corner of the courtyard had been sectioned off for use by prisoners. It was here that they were headed.

Balan's guards stopped outside a large cage. It was about three times the size of Tristan's room and its high fences were topped with razor sharp points. It had no roof; it was open to the elements. The guards pushed Balan inside and closed the door behind him. He glanced at them nervously. Why had they brought him here? In the center of the cage stood a large wooden post, similar to the ones used for sword training in the practice yard. He stared at it apprehensively. Would he be tied to this post for a flogging?

A guard reached through the bars and tapped him on the shoulder. "Walk to the back of the cage, boy. Hurry!"

Bewildered, Balan walked to the opposite corner. He wasn't halfway when the sound of a sword leaving scabbard reached his ears. He spun around, his heart pounding in his chest. Was he about to be executed in this cage? Did they want him to fight, like a gladiator in a Roman arena? But all he saw was his guard shoving an old, battered sword through the bars of the cage.

"Come and get it, boy," the guard said gruffly, stepping backwards. "You have one hour to practice, then you'll go back to your cell."

Balan stared at him with disbelief.

"Practice?" he asked.

The guard pointed at the wooden post.

"Your muscles will deteriorate if you don't practice. You'll be completely useless after your release."

Balan stared at the sword and made no move to pick it up. Adrenaline surged through his body and he felt his anger resurface.

"Why would I do that?" he challenged. He felt no desire to keep his body in shape for the Romans. They were the ones who had locked him up for no reason, after all.

"You had better pick up that sword and do as you're told," said the guard. "If you don't, you'll be tied to that post and flogged."

Arthur entered the nearly deserted stable.

"Tristan, a word."

The scout looked up from a hoof he had been giving some extra care, and followed Arthur to a corner of the stable. Arthur glanced around to make sure they were not overheard.

"Tristan, Bedivere believes that Balan might be innocent, that he was framed. What is your opinion on this?"

Tristan gazed at Arthur for a long time.

"I cannot answer you," he said finally.

Arthur grabbed Tristan's shoulder and glared at him.

"You are his mentor and you know him well. You saw his reaction in the stable. I was willing to believe his innocence, but was unable to let him walk free. What did you see?"

Tristan grimaced and forced his thoughts down that uncomfortable path.

"Nothing that convinced me of his guilt," he confessed.

"So you believe he might be innocent?" asked Arthur urgently.

Tristan glanced at the tooth marks on his forearm. Images of his sword in a puddle and stolen items under Balan's bed filled his mind. Rarely had he doubted his own judgment more.

"It is possible," he nodded reluctantly.

Arthur looked grim.

"Then you know what to do. Tell me everything you find."

Balan trudged the familiar path from his cell to the courtyard. Leaving behind the damp darkness of his cell was his favourite time of day. But practicing sword moves on his own in the silence of the courtyard just wasn't the same. No-one spurred him on if he lost focus or did not do his best. There was no flick to his ear if he stopped to catch his breath, or simply stared at the trees in the courtyard. He often heard Tristan's instructions inside his head. "Keep your sword arm lower. Bend your knee. Breathe!" He wondered if Tristan would ever train with him again.

The door to the courtyard swung open and Balan shielded his eyes. A strong hand on his shoulder steered him outside. A gusty wind whipped through his hair as the guard pushed him into the cage. Without waiting for instructions, Balan walked to the back of the cage and turned around.

He jumped when a tall figure stepped away from the wooden post. He had walked past the man without seeing him. Cursing himself for his inattentiveness, he rubbed his eyes to see more clearly. A familiar face swam into focus.

"Hello Balan," grinned Jols.

"Jols!"

Balan was immensely glad to see the quartermaster, though a little unsure what to think of his presence.

Jols held out a battered old sword, the one that Balan had practiced with the previous days.

"Arthur sends me to spar with you."

"Why?" asked Balan nonplussed.

"To keep you in form," said Jols lightly, drawing his sword. "Defend yourself, boy!"

Balan grasped his sword more firmly and assumed a defensive stance. Jols attacked at once. Balan stepped aside to dodge the first blow, then lunged forward to duck under Jols' sword arm, but Jols was faster. He grabbed Balan by the neck of his tunic and sent him sprawling into the dirt.

Balan wiped the sand from his mouth and got back to his feet.

"Again. Same move, but faster," encouraged Jols.

Jols was a good swordsman. He pushed Balan to his limits and corrected him firmly, but by the end of the hour Balan's eyes were shining with delight.

"Will you come again tomorrow?" asked Balan eagerly.

Jols chuckled. "Let's see what Arthur says," he said. "I have many chores, as you well know."

A guard approached the cage and beckoned. Jols patted Balan's shoulder and pointed him towards the door. Balan laid his sword on the ground, which he was required to do before leaving the cage, and lingered, unwilling to say goodbye.

Jols raised his eyebrows.

"You have to go, Balan," he admonished. His tone brooked no argument.

Balan sighed dejectedly, but then he turned and followed his guards back to his cell.

"Jols?"

"Hmm?"

They sat on a stone bench under the roof of the peristyle's walkway. At Jols' request, the guards had left the door of the cage open. As the walkway was completely fenced in, they were still confined in an enclosed space, but at least they were able to seek shelter from the torrential downpour that presently turned the courtyard into a swamp. Rivulets of water flowed down from the sides of the columns and pooled at their bases. The wooden practice post was surrounded by a large puddle of ankle-deep mud.

"Jols? Did you see anyone in the stable? On the morning when Tristan's cinch was sabotaged?"

Jols glanced at Balan.

"Arthur keeps asking the same question. No, I didn't see anyone."

"Were you in the stable all morning?" asked Balan urgently.

Jols put a comforting hand on Balan's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Balan. I was with Arthur and the knights during the briefing."

Balan sighed dispiritedly. Was there no way to prove his innocence? Raindrops splashed and sprayed noisily as they fell into numerous puddles.

"Jols?"

"Balan?"

"Do you think that Arthur would let Vanora visit me?"

Jols gazed at Balan with pity in his eyes. The boy had to feel incredibly lonely.

"She won't come, boy."

Balan's face fell.

"Does she believe I'm guilty, too?"

"I don't know, Balan. But Vanora had the baby last night. She's resting."

Balan's eyes lit up.

"Vanora's had the baby?! Is she… is she well?"

Jols chuckled and nodded.

"I think so," he said. "Bors drank himself into a stupor last night. He looked very happy."

"Did he say anything else?" asked Arthur.

"He asked if you'd let Vanora visit him," answered Jols.

A sad smile crossed Arthur's face.

"He is lonely and craves company. This should make it easier to win his trust. Have you made any progress?"

Jols did not answer immediately. He was reminded of his first encounter with Arthur, when Arthur had been a sad-eyed, bereaved little boy. The memory reminded him strongly of Balan.

"I think that you should talk to him, Arthur. You are better at this. Half the time I don't know what to say to him."

Arthur shook his head.

"I am his enemy, Jols. I am the one who put him in prison and who told Tristan to whip him harshly. I did not interfere when the knights tormented him, and I am Roman. He will not trust me."

"You understand him," said Jols with a meaningful glance. "That will get you a long way."

"Not far enough," said Arthur dismissively.

"Oh, I'm not so sure of that," said Jols lightly. "You're a good swordsman and Balan is eager to learn. You might be able to win him over."

A knock on his door pulled Tristan out of his reveries.

"Who's there?" he called, not bothering to get up from his chair by the fire.

The door opened with a bang and Bedivere strolled in, followed by Dagonet. Tristan gazed at them from under his fringe.

Dagonet closed the door.

"Found anything?" asked Bedivere.

Tristan shook his head.

Dagonet closed his eyes and sank down on Balan's bed. Impatience and frustration were clearly etched upon his face.

"We should have found something by now," he said darkly.

Two weeks had passed since Balan had gone to prison. Unsurprisingly, there had been no more attacks. They had hoped that the mysterious attacker would strike again, but apparently he was smart enough not to attack while Balan remained behind bars.

"Right after his release, that's when we'll need to be most vigilant," predicted Bedivere.

"Not if we find evidence first," countered Dagonet.

Tristan grimaced. Finding proof of Balan's innocence – or guilt – was their top priority at the moment. Thus far their search had yielded no results, but Bedivere still hoped for a breakthrough.

"Keep looking for anything out of the ordinary," said Bedivere. "Anything that might indicate that our killer is preparing his next move. Missing weapons, stolen supplies, a change of routine… every detail could be a vital clue."

Dagonet nodded wearily.

Tristan averted his gaze. Bedivere was all but convinced of Balan's innocence, but Tristan did not share his belief. Not yet. He stared into the fire, where images of Balan's pale, shocked face blended with memories of Balan's pleading voice, begging him to listen. Tristan dreaded the outcome of their current investigation. If he had failed the boy… If it turned out that Balan was innocent… He closed his eyes and detached himself from his feelings.

Balan stared at the man inside the cage.

Arthur.

He could think of no reason for Arthur's presence that boded well. He stopped in his tracks, but a firm hand pushed him into the cage and closed the door.

"Hello Balan," said Arthur kindly.

Balan said nothing. He glanced nervously at his guards, who disappeared into the building. He heard them bolt the wooden door from the inside.

"Jols tells me you've been practicing hard. I am proud to hear you are making the best of your situation," said Arthur. He held out the battered old sword. "Show me what you have learned."

Hesitantly, Balan took the sword. But when Arthur drew his own sword, Balan took an involuntary step backwards.

Arthur smiled and put his hand on Balan's shoulder.

"It's okay, you can spar with me," he encouraged.

Balan felt deeply uncomfortable. He could not possibly spar with his commander! He fingered the hilt of his sword and made no move to comply.

Arthur raised his eyebrows.

"En garde!" he said firmly, pointing his sword at Balan. "You will fight with me, Balan. Defend yourself!"

This had the desired effect. Conditioned by months of training, Balan responded instantly to Arthur's command. He raised his sword and adjusted his stance.

Arthur knew what Balan was capable of. He charged with a forward pass. Balan stepped aside and raised his sword to block, but he failed to use enough force when he parried. Arthur broke through Balan's defence easily and placed the tip of his sword against Balan's throat.

"Not good enough," he said sternly.

Balan lowered his eyes.

"Again! Better this time," ordered Arthur.

When Arthur charged again, Balan applied himself properly. He forgot his reservations about sparring with Arthur and soon showed the same dedication and enthusiasm as he had done with Jols. But when Arthur called an end to their session, Balan averted his gaze and did not speak, wary of Arthur's true purpose.

"If you keep your elbows closer to your body, you will have more strength when your parry," said Arthur.

Balan nodded and stared at the ground.

Arthur patted Balan's shoulder. "You did well today, Balan. I am proud of you."

Balan kept his eyes on the ground.

Arthur gazed at his youngest knight. He needed to draw Balan out of his shell.

"Did your father teach you to thrust sideways like that?" he asked. "You took me by surprise; in a real fight you would have given me a serious injury. It's a good move."

Balan stared at the trees in the courtyard. Memories of his father filled his mind. His throat constricted when his longing for home hit him with full force. Hot tears filled his eyes, but he brushed them away angrily, unwilling to let Arthur see him cry.

"Do you miss your parents?" inquired Arthur gently.

Balan did not answer.

"I know how you feel," said Arthur. "I was nine when my father died in battle. My mother lost her life two years later. It's tough, having no parents when you are so young. Every day you yearn for their guidance and love, but you have to fend for yourself instead. It's at times like this, when life is cruel and no-one appears to be on your side, that you long for them the most."

Balan glanced sideways at Arthur.

Arthur smiled and squeezed Balan's shoulder.

"Wait here, the guards will come for you."

He turned around and left Balan to his very confused thoughts.

Back in the solitude of his cell, Balan's mind was in turmoil. He stared into the darkness and kept repeating Arthur's words to himself until he finally fell asleep.

"How is he?" asked Lancelot.

"On the verge of breaking," said Arthur with a heavy heart.

The afternoon sun shone on the fort's small cemetery, where Lancelot had found Arthur lost in prayer beside his father's grave. Here, away from the demands of his high rank and the prying eyes of the fort, Arthur opened his heart to his friend. They sat in the soft grass and talked for a long time.

"Why, Lancelot? If he is guilty, then why did he do those things?"

Lancelot glanced at Arthur and scratched his beard thoughtfully.

"I know one thing that might explain it. But I hope I am wrong."

"What?"

"Balan is a young boy, Arthur. There are a lot of lonely men in this fort."

Arthur took a moment to register what Lancelot had just said.

"You think he was raped?"

Lancelot glanced at the surrounding mounds. "These things happen, Arthur."

Arthur got to his feet and looked his friend in the eye.

"Do you think that Balan wanted revenge?"

Lancelot shook his head. "Possibly. Let us hope there is some other explanation."

Arthur buried his face in his hands and began to pace around the cemetery.

"How's Bors?"

Lancelot laughed mirthlessly.

"Well, you know Bors. Bors had a weak spot for Balan from the day he arrived. Balan doesn't know it, but Bors made sure none of us knights bullied him during his first months here. He saw Balan as his favourite nephew, and treated him as such. Bors is angry, Arthur. He loved Balan as a son, but Balan poisoned him. He feels betrayed."

"His anger hasn't abated yet?"

"No."

Balan leapt forward to thrust his sword against Arthur's side, but Arthur avoided him with a backward pass and riposted with a blow aimed for Balan's neck. Dodging the blow, Balan ducked under Arthur's sword arm and slammed the flat side of his sword against Arthur's stomach.

"You die," he panted.

"Well done!" smiled Arthur.

Balan wiped his hair from his sweaty brow and waited for his next instructions.

Arthur motioned for him to wait and opened the door of the cage. He picked up a leather bag from one of the stone benches. Balan's mouth began to water when the bag turned out to be filled with delicious food. Out came a meat pie, two apples, a small sack filled with dried plums, two roasted chicken legs and a flask of mead.

"Are you hungry?" asked Arthur invitingly.

Balan's eyes widened.

Arthur laughed and beckoned. "Come and join me. You can eat as much as you like."

Balan didn't need telling twice. He sat beside Arthur in comfortable silence and ate to his heart's content.

The sun warmed the courtyard and birds chirruped among the bare branches of the trees. Balan felt drowsy. His stomach was full and Arthur was telling a story about his adventures as a recruit. Balan glanced at his commander. Their conversation of the previous day had made him see Arthur in a different light. Arthur might still be a Roman, but he had suffered many trials. 'Just like me,' he thought.

Arthur noticed that Balan observed him and smiled.

"I want to talk to you, Balan."

A plum stopped on its way to Balan's mouth.

"You've been punished harshly for transgressions no-one expected you to commit," said Arthur. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Balan lowered his eyes. A cold knot twisted his stomach and he cursed himself for dropping his guard.

"Look at me, Balan."

Reluctantly, Balan complied. To his surprise, Arthur's eyes were kind and encouraging.

"You told Tristan that someone is framing you. I want you to tell me everything."

Balan cocked his head sceptically.

"I promise that I will listen to you."

Balan told Arthur everything: How he had skipped his evening meal to oil Tristan's sword, how someone had pushed him into the apple cellar, how he had helped Vanora to fill her buckets and that he truly did not know how the seeds had ended up in the water skins. He even told Arthur about the stolen items under his bed, and how Tristan had refused to speak with him ever since.

"Did you feel betrayed by Tristan?" asked Arthur.

"Yes," admitted Balan quietly.

"Were you angry with him?"

Balan lowered his eyes. "Yes," he whispered.

Arthur laid his hand under Balan's chin and looked deeply into his eyes.

"Balan, I must ask you this: Did you cut Tristan's cinch to avenge yourself?"

Angry tears filled Balan's eyes and he glared at Arthur.

"I didn't cut Tristan's cinch!" he said vehemently.

He brushed away his tears and pulled himself out of Arthur's grip.

"I don't want Tristan to die," he sniffed. "I only want him to talk to me, and train with me again. I want everything to go back to how it was!"

Arthur gazed at the weeping boy. His plan had failed. Rather than revealing the reason for his actions, Balan had maintained his innocence. His story sounded sincere, but no part of it proved his innocence. It could all be true…or a big, great lie. Arthur doubted that a twelve-year-old could maintain such deception without wavering in his story, but Balan was smart and his persistence well-known. Underestimating the boy would be dangerous. Tristan and Bedivere had found no trace of the phantom killer, nor had they been able to prove Balan's innocence. Arthur rubbed his temples. What was he to do?

He grasped Balan's shoulders and turned the boy around.

"Balan, look at me for a moment."

Reluctantly, Balan looked up.

"Has anyone hurt or harmed you lately?"

Balan looked at him incredulously. Too late, Arthur realized his mistake. He glanced skywards and cursed himself for his stupidity.

"Of course…you were whipped and beaten several times," he said apologetically. "I meant harm of a different kind."

Balan gave him a puzzled look and Arthur decided not to pursue the subject. He walked to the fence and stared into the courtyard.

"I want to believe you, Balan," he said finally. "I really do. But you must understand that all circumstances point towards you."

He turned around to look at his youngest knight.

"Until we find proof of your innocence, I cannot set you free."

He laid his hand on Balan's cheek.

"Tomorrow Jols will come to spar with you again. Work hard."

Balan woke up in the darkness of his cell. Somewhere in the distance the buccina sounded the first watch. All over the fort soldiers were waking up to a new day. Most of them would do their morning chores before breakfast, some afterwards. Then they would fetch their weapons from the armoury and get ready for morning practice. He stared at the small square of daylight in the corner of his cell. By the end of the second watch, his guards would come down to take him to the cage. But he did not look forward to it.

The previous day Jols had taken him aside.

"This is the last time I will spar with you, Balan," Jols had said. "Too much work needs to be done and I can't be missed. Three more days and you will be out of here. Behave yourself and practice hard, then I will see you soon."

Balan was unsure how he felt about his upcoming release. In a few days he would be free of the endless darkness and long hours of boredom. But going back to his life in the fort meant exposing himself to the taunts and bullying of the knights. What if the real killer would strike again? His stomach knotted in fear when he thought about it.

Most of all he dreaded seeing Tristan. Would Tristan still ignore him?

Tristan gazed at Arthur, who had summoned him to his office.

"Balan will be released in two days," said Arthur. "By law, you are entitled to reject him as your pupil."

Tristan looked up sharply.

"If you choose to reject him for the attempt on your life, someone else will be appointed as his mentor," said Arthur. "Lancelot might be willing to take him."

Tristan considered Arthur's words quietly. He had never wanted to train a younger boy; he had much preferred his freedom. Not long ago he would have jumped at the opportunity to escape from his mentor duty. But did he still want it?

"You don't have to decide right away," said Arthur. "We could temporarily place him with someone else, to see how he behaves."

Tristan shook his head. "No need, I will take him."

Arthur clapped Tristan on the shoulder.

"Thank you," he said sincerely. "Inform us once you have made your decision."

The buccina had not yet sounded the first watch when a door slammed in the distance. Footsteps were coming down the stairs. Balan rubbed his eyes sleepily and sat up on his cot. Who was coming to see him this early? Then it dawned on him: Today he would be leaving prison!

His stomach churned nervously.

The orange glow of torches grew brighter in the corridor. He heard the familiar sound of keys being removed from a guard's belt. Balan held his breath and counted the remaining steps to his door. Four…three…two... Then the light of several torches blinded him. He shielded his eyes. A key turned in the lock and the iron door swung open with a loud bang.

Balan peered between his fingers, waiting for his eyes to get accustomed to the light of the flames.

There stood Arthur. And his guards. And… Tristan!

TBC