The farmers are the first to see the knight, out in their fields.  One runs for another, words traveling faster than feet, and they all find work closer to the road, watching with barely concealed curiosity, and trepidation, and awe.  The walls of the city are in sight, their gold-painted crenellations glittering in the sun, when one grows bold enough to approach, hurrying up to the knight with an uneven gait.

"Please, sir knight, do you have news of the south?  Do you have news of Teffe?  My cousin is there, with her husband and four children—does it yet stand?  Please, tell me you know!"

The knight looks at the man, at his twisted foot that prevented him joining the guard, standing here with his hat in his hands and his eyes an innocent plea.  Teffe fell long ago.  The soldiers cleared it, before they knew the dangers to themselves.  The goats were eating the corpses when the knight passed through.

The knight looks at the man, and slowly shakes a helmeted head.

The man chokes back a sob, clutching his hat to his chest, and doesn't stop the knight from continuing on.

A knight is returning, the black knight is returning, the knight of the red hand—returning!  The rumors fly through the city before the knight reaches the gates, and the way is clear, the people barely holding back all along the path, whispers coursing between them as an unsubtle river, a flicker here and there as one starts forward only to be pulled back—by themselves or another varies.

The knight passes unheeding between them, approaching the castle doors.  One guard is young, a nervous tremor to his hand as he hurries to follow his elder's lead and open the doors, nearly dropping the heavy thing—but the guard recovers, and the knight's pace never falters, passing through into the vaulted halls of white-painted stone, armored steps echoing from the walls.

Whispered steps mark the passage of servants, ever just out of sight, as the knight enters the main hall: and there, wreathed in the glow of the Celestial Bloom, that astral beauty portrayed all in stained glass taking the whole of the far wall, is the queen.  The knight walks forward, pace finally slowing, and kneels still a distance from the throne, head bowed in reverence.

"My dear knight," says the queen, her voice as soft as dusk, "surely you've not been injured?  What brings you here?  Has the plague been vanquished?"

The knight straightens without rising, and can only offer a slow shake of the head.

"No injuries?  My smiths might aid you—"

Another slow shake.

"What brings you, sir knight?" the queen asks, her dark eyes deep with concern.

Slowly, the knight draws a sword, and lays it gently on the ground between them, and touches it not again.

"You're not leaving my service?"  Sorrow fills her voice now.

The knight clutches a fist to armored chest, just above the heart, head shaking once—quickly, sharply.  Never.  A gesture to the sword, a shake of the head, a hesitation—a glance to the red-painted vambrace on the knight's left arm, and the knight mimes wrapping a bandage around it.

"You...renounce the sword?"

A nod.

"To...you have no injuries...to mend others?"

Another, more emphatic.

"There..."  The queen sinks back in her throne, the light from the window glinting once from her golden circlet before she's embraced by shadows.  "There is no cure, sir knight."

The knight's head droops to gaze at the ground.

"By the sword, you might protect us.  You know the danger they are.  Polarias works day and night to secure our water."  A dark-skinned hand slips beneath the knight's chin, raising that helmet of black and gold to meet the queen's eyes, having moved silently from her throne to stand before the knight now.  "This is the only way."

The knight hesitates.

"Please," says the queen, pressing the sword's hilt into the knight's hand, closing her own over that gauntleted grasp.  "I know not how many of my knights yet live.  I only know...they will fall.  You know that, sir knight.  You alone will stand.  You alone can save us.  Please...do not abandon us now."

The knight looks away, at the stones of the floor, but when the queen retreats, does not relinquish the sword.  At last, the knight stands, resheathes the sword, and walks slowly from the hall.

※

There was a tournament, when the knight first arrived in the city.  It was for the princess's sake; she'd been sickly ever since the death of her father, and the queen had ever striven to bring her cheer.  The winner was to be named Champion of the Celestial Bloom—and rumors abounded that they would receive the princess's hand in marriage, too.  The knight never much believed that one, though.  It's never good to put too much stock in rumors.

The princess was carried to the royal box in a litter, and there remained throughout the day, sharing with her handmaidens whispered comments and quiet laughter that seemed to strain her, and each knight came forth to pay their respects before they took the field, and the princess offered each a wan smile.  Her black hair was kept all in braids woven into a crown about her head, dotted with violets and forget-me-nots, but for all her delicate grace, she couldn't hide that it was too heavy for her neck.

The queen sat a little distant from her daughter.  She watched the proceedings with a discerning eye that nothing should go amiss, but those who watched her in return saw her often conversing with one of the handmaidens, or the wizard Polarias, or the head of her guard, or otherwise ensuring her daughter's every need was seen to before it so much as crossed the princess's mind to ask.

It was midday when the black knight rode in on a palfrey mare, and the crowd was soon abuzz with questions and rumors as to the knight's identity.  The other knights shook their heads at the black knight's horse, and the meaner ones laughed, and some looked to see if there was a squire holding a destrier in wait, or at least a courser, if the palfrey had only been ridden to save the warhorse from strain, but no other horse was seen, and no one knew who the knight was.  The black knight brought the palfrey before the princess's litter to offer her a bow from horseback.  The princess smiled her blessing, and the knight straightened and rode on to pause again before the queen.  Again, the knight bowed, more deeply this time, but when the knight sat straight in the saddle again, the queen gazed back with lips pursed by curiosity verging on concern.

"Surely, sir knight, you don't mean to take this horse to the lists?"

The knight shifted, a minute movement that didn't escape the queen's notice.

"Hold, then, before you joust.  It's easy to see you're skilled in riding, and it would be a shame for your beast to lose you the match.  We shall find something suitable for you."  The knight bowed as she beckoned the head of her guard over and said just loud enough for the knight to hear, "Bring my husband's horse," and the knight bowed deeper still.

The late king's horse was the finest destrier in all Veraluna: a broad-shouldered bay dark enough to appear black with a white star on his forehead, able to sprint from standing and stop as quickly, or spin and be off in a new direction before you could blink.  The poor creature was grief-stricken by the king's loss, and had refused all riders since, though if the queen were in attendance, he would only stand there and refuse all urging to move and not buck the offending riders as he would otherwise, and he would walk if the queen herself were seated on his back, though no faster.

This was the horse brought before the black knight.  It was calm enough following the queen's guard, but when the knight approached, the stallion turned a doubtful eye to the queen, the question as clear as if it had spoken aloud.  Nevertheless, the guard stepped forward, and boosted the knight to the stallion's back, and the knight leaned in as though whispering to it, and patted its neck, and bowed again to the queen, and with the nudge of a knee, the horse turned and walked to one end of the lists as the guard led the palfrey away.

That the knight did not win the tournament, and that the horse did no better than an unfamiliar courser might have, had little effect on the rumors flying from mouth to mouth for months after, for all were much occupied with the thought the horse did anything at all, and who the black knight must be, for even having joined the queen's service, no one had learned anything more than they knew when the knight first arrived on that palfrey mare.  Then the living death made itself known, and the knight left with all the others to purge it from the countryside, and any chance to learn more was lost long enough to be forgotten it was possible.

※

The crow sees the stallion in the yard, a stablehand brushing his coat 'til it shines.  The crow peers in the window again, and squawks seeing the knight gone, and someone jumps at the noise, and the crow peers closer.  A robed figure brushes themselves off, and the crow hops quickly out of sight as they glance around.  A moment.  The crow pokes a cautious, beady eye around the corner.  The wizard is gone.  It nearly takes off, and hesitates.  The queen is also gone.

The crow finds them again in a smaller room, in serious conversation.  The queen's cool mask cracks for just a moment as she gestures sharply toward the wall.  The wizard aborts his answer before he speaks, shoulders dropping as he nods and leaves, turning in the direction the queen pointed.  The crow follows, window to window—to balcony.

The door is open, gauzy curtains blowing in the breeze.  The crow lands on the railing, catching a glance of a curtained bed with pillows piled high before a knock at the door sends the crow fluttering up to the lintel, scrabbling briefly to find purchase.

"Enter."  The princess's voice is weak.

The door opens, and someone enters.

"Oh, it's you."

"It is me, Princess."

"More of your foul medicines?"

"I'm afraid so.  You know how you cough without them."

"Yes, I do..."

A few moments' pause, a murmur too quiet to be heard.

"A knight visited today," says the wizard.

"A knight?"  Rustling fabrics.

"Easy, Princess, easy.  Don't strain yourself."

A sigh, satin shifting as she settles back.

"Yes, a knight.  The black knight, no less."

"Did he bring news?"

"He wished to give up the sword.  Find a cure."

"A cure?!"

"Easy.  We know there isn't one; please don't excite yourself."

"And the others...?"

"No news of them.  Their reports haven't reached us, or haven't been made."

"It must be spreading..."

"Like wildfire."

A pause.

"Can you help me to the balcony?"

"You should be resting, Princess."

"Not even for a little?"

"Fine, just for a little..."

The crow is gone before they reach the doors, away past the stablehand and the stallion, past the stained glass wall of the throne room, past the—past the wizard's chambers as the queen steals inside.  The crow dives down, espying through the window a heavy tome on the table, and nearly crashes into the glass at its sight, scrambling to get away again as the queen looks up from her reading.

The crow flies up, far and away, hurrying after the black knight, away from the queen, away from the book, away from its dark symbols of necromancy.

※

Based on YAFantasy's prompt:

You're a renowned hero sent on an impossible quest by the royal family, but this time, unbeknownst to you, they are rooting for your downfall.