Gerald reached the gates of Camelot an hour after dark on the sixth day, on foot, with his boots worn through at the heels.
The guards at the south gate didn't recognize him at first. He had not shaved since he left, his coat was grey with road dust, and he was limping, so they had their spears halfway down before one of them looked closer and swore.
"Gerald? We thought you were dead."
"Not yet," Gerald said. "I need the prince. Now."
---
The First Prince was in the war room when they brought him in. The cloth was gone from his forehead, and the cut had healed into a thin pink line, but there were dark marks under his eyes, and he had clearly slept even less than before. Thomas was there too, sitting in a chair by the fire with his ribs still bound, and when he saw Gerald come through the door, he started to stand up, winced, and sat back down again.
"Don't make me laugh," Thomas said. "I mean it. Not tonight."
