Kel breathed out through her nose, put her left foot into the stirrup and mounted. The moment of change from the ground to the saddle always felt unreal to her, a transformation from human to superhuman as her knees gripped and her back straightened. She found the right stirrup with her foot and rose up in the saddle a moment before settling back to accept the lance that was offered to her. With a sharp nod of her head her helm's visor swung down over her face and the sound of her breathing filled her ears, her nostrils flaring slightly at the acidic smell of metal and polish.

Through the gap between helm and visor she could see her opponent at the far end of the tilting field, his young grey charger fidgeting and snorting puffs of mist into the early morning air. The stands were nearly empty and Kel couldn't blame people for staying away. A thin, icy rain had been falling since the evening before, so light that the softest breeze blew stinging drops sideways into your face. Wet and frustrated, her opponent's horse lost patience and gave a small, violent buck which his rider sat admirably, leaning down as far as his tilting saddle would allow to stroke the dappled-grey neck. Kel watched his mud-flecked cloak, striped in the black and bright green of Horsehead Spit, billow out in a small gust of wind. Underneath it Sir Isaac looked to be a smallish man wearing ill-fitting armour.

The trumpet sounded and Peachblossom leapt forward like a cat whose tail has been stepped on. The grey charger reared up at the sudden noise, then, with a shouted urging from his rider, raced along the lane to meet them. Both lances struck and Kel felt the judder of Sir Isaac's lance shattering against her shield, sending a jarring pain shooting through her shoulder. A wave of nausea roiled deep in her gut as she wheeled Peachblossom around and cantered him back to the end of her lane, lance intact. It had seemed like such a sure hit until her opponent had somehow jerked his shield down at the last second, baring himself from the collarbone up for a terrible moment of vulnerability before her lance hit the upper rim of his shield and scraped up and off, barely glancing his unprotected shoulder. It had been like missing a step on a dark staircase and Kel had been thrown wildly off-balance by it.

She shook her head now, trying to concentrate as they turned their horses to face one another again and the trumpet was blown. This time she kept her gaze locked onto the man's shield and when he feinted with it she levelled her lance and struck its centre clean and hard, throwing him back into the saddle and breaking her lance. In that exact instant of connection, Kel realised Sir Isaac's next trick just too late to avoid it as his lance hammered into her shield's bottom quadrant and thrust upwards with such force that the shield's top edge smashed into her face. Dropping the remnants of her lance, Kel halted Peachblossom in the middle of the tilting field and lifted her visor with a shaking hand to spit out a mouthful of blood and, to her horror, a back tooth. Blood was running out of her nose like twin springs. She explored the point of impact on her helmet with her free hand and squeezed her eyes shut when she felt the four-inch indentation in the metal.

Checking the straps on her shield arm as she rode slowly back to the starting end gave Kel time to catch her breath. One strap was broken but the other two would keep her shield on long enough for her to finish the joust. The monitor raised his eyebrows at her questioningly but she shook her head and lowered her visor, holding out her hand for a fresh lance. He gave it to her and she gathered her reins, thinking as quickly as her numb mind could. When the signal came she gave Peachblossom the order to charge and he obeyed, the faces in the stands blurring into damp smudges. Sir Isaac was unclouded, so clear in her vision that she could see every movement of muscle under his armour. There went his shield again, dropping down and to the right to avoid her lance point. She would not aim for his shield this time. An undefended shoulder was fair game and she was not feeling merciful.

Lance and plate armour met with a dull thud and a slight crunch and Sir Isaac flew from his saddle like someone had grabbed a handful of his cloak and yanked. His fall ended abruptly as his left foot caught in the stirrup and the grey charger continued its gallop down the tilting lane, dragging him behind. Men came sprinting onto the field to help him and the chief herald managed to cut the stallion off with his own horse. Sir Isaac was even smaller curled into a ball on the ground than she had thought him to be when she saw him before the joust. Kel dismounted, ducked under the dividing fence and ran over to where the healer was trying to get his helmet off. It was nearly half-way lifted when Sir Isaac came to life, seized the healer by the wrist with his good arm and thrust her away from him. Kel could hear how ragged his breathing was as he struggled to his feet but he shook off the herald and anyone else who tried to stop him, limping over to snatch his horse's reigns from the monitor who held them. Kel caught up to him and grabbed hold of his arm, "Let the healer look at you, Sir. If you are seriously injured I'll feel it on my conscience."

But the knight only wrenched his arm out of her grasp, mounted his horse with so much difficulty that it hurt her to watch him and trotted back down the field, clinging grimly to the saddle to keep himself mounted and upright. At the end of the tilting lane, a giant of a man dressed in heavy green brocade strode forward to take the horse by the bridle and lead it away. Kel saw the knight slump forward in his saddle, one hand buried in the horse's mane before the mist hid them from sight.